by Maya Rodale
“You said that already, Char,” Harriet pointed out.
“We just need to concoct a wager that will send him to the library,” Charlotte said confidently. Men never could resist a wager. Golly, this would be child’s play!
“And Lord Hastings?”
“I know just the gossip that will attract him,” Charlotte said, grinning wickedly.
“You have that look in your eye again, Charlotte,” Harriet said. “The one that makes me nervous.”
“Like I am struck by my own brilliance?”
“I was going to say maniacal,” Harriet replied.
“That may very well be, Harriet. But I shall be a maniacal, brilliant young woman who will engineer a truce between two warring factions. Peace shall reign in London once again …”
“Are there any more biscuits?” Harriet interrupted. “All this scheming has made me quite famished.”
Lady Capulet’s Ball
The Eversham Motif was the newest, most au courant architectural detail ever to grace an English home, and therefore the world. Lord and Lady Capulet were the very first to incorporate the incomparable, revolutionary, stunning Eversham Motif into the construction and decoration of their London home.
Everyone who was anyone knew that. Presently, Charlotte was the only one who did. But that would soon change.
“Lady Tweetley, you must have seen it,” Charlotte murmured directly into the ear of London’s biggest, fastest gossip.
In a moment, Charlotte would confide in her. Harriet was stationed on the far side of the ballroom. They both watched the clock, as they timed how long it took information related to Lady Tweetley on one end of the ballroom to reach the other. It was a party game they frequently played for diversion at tedious society events.
No wonder they were not married.
“Have I seen what, my dear?” Lady Tweetley asked, inclining her head. Her hair was an unusual shade of orange, suggesting some unnatural effort, and it was incredibly frizzy.
Charlotte looked around conspiratorially, suggesting with just her gaze that the information she was about to impart was secret, confidential, scandalous and utterly salacious. Lady Tweetley actually licked her lips in anticipation.
“The Eversham Motif. It’s the very latest thing in home decoration,” Charlotte said.
“Stunning, isn’t it? I saw it in the drawing room last Thursday. Old news!” Lady Tweetley replied. Charlotte smiled, truly smiled. Nothing amused her more than the ton’s desperation to seem in the know, which meant that they often agreed to anything—especially if it was suggested by the dear sister to a duke and his fashionable duchess.
Charlotte’s other favorite party game was to suggest outrageous things and see what people would agree to. Once, she had the Duchess of Richmond swearing to a correspondence with Lady Millicent Strange, who did not, in fact, exist. Nor had Lady Strange suffered her hand being bitten off by a wild boar, as Charlotte had claimed and the duchess lamented.
“Last Thursday?” Charlotte echoed. “Oh, then you haven’t seen the very latest. A new Eversham Motif has been chiseled into the library this very afternoon! It’s supposed to be a secret until the drawings and the secret history are revealed in an exclusive article for The London Weekly. Wouldn’t you just die to have a peek before anyone else in London?”
“Goodness!” Lady Tweetley exclaimed, snapping open her fan and waving it quickly. “One does love to be ahead of the curve. Sneak peek! First glimpse!”
“Of course. Such a rare honor that would be for one lucky person,” Charlotte said. “But do you know what is even more thrilling, in my humble opinion, that is?”
“What, dear?”
“I just love being the one to tell everyone. Sharing exciting news is just so thrilling, don’t you agree?”
“Oh very much,” Lady Tweetley concurred. And then she lowered her voice. “Who, pray tell, have you told, Lady Charlotte?”
“Just you, Lady Tweetley, just you,” Charlotte said, smiling mischievously.
“You are such a darling girl,” Lady Tweetley said, smiling and patting Charlotte absentmindedly on the arm. And then off she went, sashaying through the ballroom, bending the ear of anyone who would listen.
“Have you seen the Eversham Motif? It’s the latest, the very latest, in home architecture and it is on display in the library. First Glimpse!”
Charlotte remained in her spot, watching as news of her invented architectural motif was spread around the ballroom.
And then she caught James’s eye. He stood twenty paces away. Yet she saw that he raised his brow, curious and questioning, as if he knew she was up to something. That was the thing about James: He knew her. And he wasn’t afraid to question her.
Everyone else foolishly fell for her schemes again and again. No one ever tried to stop her, or even better, outsmart her at her own games.
But James … he knew just by looking at her from halfway across the ballroom.
Three minutes after Charlotte’s conversation with Lady Tweetley, Harriet arrived by her side, breathless.
“The news has officially reached the other side of the ballroom. That was fast, even for Lady Tweetley! Who knew anyone cared so much about an architectural thingamajig.”
“The ton never ceases to amuse,” Charlotte said, linking arms with her friend. “Onward to phase two, Harriet!”
Arm in arm they proceeded to the card room where they sought out the lamentably named Mitchell Twitchell. He was predictably found wagering more than he could afford on dreadfully bad hands of cards in a game with the nefarious, despicable pet-eater, Lord Dudley.
The two girls stood behind him and began their strategic conversation.
“I overheard the most fierce wager,” Charlotte said to Harriet loudly. “I literally staggered when I heard it. And then I swooned.”
“Oh? What fierce wager did you overhear? I am all agog to know. I shall perish if you do not tell me this instant,” Harriet said. She dramatically draped her palm across her brow.
“It’s highly confidential,” Charlotte said.
“It must be immensely fascinating,” Harriet replied loudly.
“A fortune is at stake! All over a one of a kind treasure,” Charlotte declared.
“What’s this wager you speak of?” Mitchell Twitchell cut in, pushing back from the card table and leaning back to better converse with them.
“Oh, it’s the most fascinating thing, Mr. Twitchell. Lord Derby has wagered with the Earl of Sandwich that Lord Capulet possesses the very first book from the very first edition of The Hare Raising Adventures of George Coney. It’s a salacious memoir.”
“A book? How dull.”
Charlotte smiled benignly. She had anticipated that Mitchell would find a book boring. She doubted he even read his IOUs. However, James would find the book interesting, and it was James they sought. Mitchell would talk.
“Yes, well everyone is talking about it,” Charlotte told him. “I am assured all the most sporting gentlemen will gather there to witness the unveiling. If I were a gambling man, I would hate myself for missing it.”
“Really, how would you live with yourself if you missed it?” Harriet questioned sharply.
“I couldn’t. I simply could not go on,” Charlotte said gravely.
“Do you feel faint just thinking about it? I feel quite faint,” Harriet rasped.
“Let us retire to the ladies’ retiring room and restore ourselves with smelling salts.”
In fact, they proceeded directly to the library for phase three.
In the Library
The scene in the library was just delightful. At least two dozen party guests tromped through the room, bumping into all the furniture and each other because their necks were craned as they sought the Eversham Motif.
Lady Inchbald declared it a marvel.
Lord Talleyrand bumped into an occasional table, knocking over a crystal decanter of brandy, which shattered on the parquet floor.
Lord Hastings
stood lecturing a small gathering on its cultural significance.
Lord Capulet stood in the center of it all, mopping the sweat from his brow. Charlotte could tell he was torn between protecting his newly constructed and decorated library and disavowing sole possession of the single most fantastic architectural detail in the world.
Which, she did not point out, did not exist.
James sidled up to her and she felt a spark of pleasure, like the first flame from a dried leaf under a magnifying glass on a hot day. He leaned in close and murmured something only she could hear.
“I’m not quite sure what you are planning, Charlotte, but did it really require most of the party tromping through the library, much to the dismay of Lord Capulet?”
“Oh, hello there, James,” she replied. “Have you come to see the settling of the wager over The Hare Raising Adventures of George Coney?”
Charlotte glanced to the right, where the Earl of Sandwich was combing the bookshelves in search of the elusive tome.
“The Eversham Motif, actually,” he said. And she saw it—the tug of a grin. A spark of pleasure settled into a smoldering fire in her belly.
“I hope you are not disappointed,” she remarked.
“To the contrary. I am surprised to find I am impressed,” he said softly. She knew that it was a compliment; that he was impressed with her. Someone, finally, had noticed her cleverness. She was glad, deeply, that it was he.
“I thought you would be more interested in the first book of the first edition of The Hare Raising Adventures of George Coney.”
“I would be if such a thing existed,” he said softly, tilting his head slightly. She did not want the game to end just yet.
“Oh, did they review the volume already? I hope you did not wager overmuch,” she said, appearing vitally concerned for his bank accounts lest he had gambled his last farthing on the existence of a fictitious book.
“Charlotte …” James said warningly.
“Oh, look, Lord Hastings!” she called brightly.
“Lady Charlotte,” he said in a polite, but cold greeting. He could not snub her—being so closely related to a duke, and being his longstanding neighbor in Hampshire, as she was—but it was clear he wanted to. Most likely because of the man by her side.
“I was hoping we might have a word with you,” she said, and then before either gentleman could protest, she grasped their arms—lightly to the observer, but like a vise to the men—and steered them over to a private corner of the library.
The crowds served a great purpose, for the public venue prevented either gentleman from acting out. Furthermore, a mention of the Eversham Motif on the ceiling meant that all eyes were focused up, thus completely missing all sorts of scandals in their midst.
Such as two of London’s feuding gentlemen in conversation, mediated by the formidable Charlotte Brandon.
“I cannot fathom what possibly we would have to talk about,” Lord Hastings said icily.
James glared at them both.
“James’s terrible speech was my fault,” Charlotte said in a low voice. “I wanted you to know that. And to not hold it against your son.”
“Charlotte …” James’s voice was a warning, a plea … and it was lost to Lord Hastings’s sudden lecture.
“Lady Charlotte,” he began and even she shrank slightly under his withering glare. “I believe in honoring one’s commitments in a prompt and dignified manner. I believe that gentlemen conduct themselves in a certain way—including, but not limited to, the attire they choose to appear in when in public. Above all, I firmly believe in minding one’s own business.”
“But—” James clasped her hand and squeezed. Hard.
“I shall not question your involvement in this entire matter, Lady Charlotte, nor shall I report it to your brother, His Grace. I trust you will not grant me sufficient motivation to reconsider. You are welcome.”
The tears that stung Charlotte’s eyes were not feigned or summoned at will. For all of her noble efforts and good intentions, Lord Hastings simply delivered a devastating set down—and he hadn’t even listened to the speech she had planned! And he had used her own favorite retort against her. It was unforgivable.
No, Lord Hastings, you are welcome, she huffed to herself.
Lord Hastings did not even deign to acknowledge his son before stalking off. Lord Capulet finally decided that the preservation of his newly redecorated library trumped the elusive Eversham Motif and The Hare Raising Adventures of George Coney.
In an effort to avoid being ushered out along with the mob, James tugged Charlotte into a private window alcove.
On one side, French doors opened onto a small balcony overlooking the terrace. The thick walls—about two feet deep—formed the sides and luxurious velvet curtains draped on either side of the alcove’s opening into the library.
There was room for the two of them. Just.
The only time James had seen Charlotte cry was when George Coney had died. No, that wasn’t quite right. When he laughed at her for thinking to bury the beloved pet with hymns and a recitation of memories. The worst, of course, was when she had encountered Dudley. With her pet. Over an open fire.
The doctor actually sedated her with laudanum. The boys were soundly punished, and sent back to school early … before Charlotte had awoken.
He’d always felt shame about how he acted that day.
While he had not taken a bite, he had not tried very hard to stop Dudley, who threatened each and every day to dunk James’s head in the privy. He was a bully to this day, which made the whole thing worse. James had hurt the fragile feelings of a really terrific girl to impress a bloody idiot.
And now tears were perched menacingly and he would be damned if she cried because he hadn’t defended or befriended her again.
So he tugged her into the alcove so they might have some privacy. Immediately, he regretted it. There was barely enough room for them both and it was impossible to forget that she was no longer a girl, and very, very, very much a woman. Especially as every slightest movement resulted in a complete caress.
“Charlotte you must not let him get to you,” he said. “My father is an arse.”
She sniffed, and blinked back the tears. He allowed a small exhalation of relief.
“He’s so ungrateful! The lengths I went to in order to issue a heartfelt apology! I invented an architectural motif for him,” she hissed.
“Upon which he lectured at length further solidifying his reputation as London’s architectural expert. You are too kind,” James said. She was either kind or insane; at the moment he was feeling charitably toward her for he could see the marvelous chain of events she had set in motion so that he and his father might mend their rift.
“I know that. But why doesn’t he see it?” she asked, miffed.
“Because he cares only for blocks of stone, architectural whatever and Gideon,” James said frankly. Beyond their alcove, the room was steadily emptying as Lord Capulet herded them out.
“Doesn’t that bother you?” she asked, peering up at him with her big blue eyes. He would swear that she could read minds, and see through carefully constructed facades. No wonder so many men were terrified of her.
“Not so much anymore,” James said with a shrug. It was a mild annoyance that he had reconciled himself to, like a blister that becomes a callus.
A woman’s laugh punctured the silence that had fallen upon the room.
James ducked his head out and saw Lady Layton and Lord Beaverbrook stumbling into the now empty library, clinging to each other in a manner than left no question as to their intentions.
“I want to see the Eversham Motif,” Lady Layton giggled.
“I’ll show you my motif,” Lord Beaverbrook growled. James thought he might be sick.
James also realized that unless they acted now—
Too late. Lord Beaverbrook locked the library door. And then he bent Lady Layton over the desk.
James quickly yanked the sashes ho
lding the curtains back, and the heavy velvet drapes fell together, enclosing him and Charlotte in a dark, secluded alcove in which it was impossible for them to stand without touching each other.
“Well, this is compromising,” Charlotte remarked, uttering the understatement of the nineteenth century. They were stuck together in a small, dark space with another couple making loud, adulterous love on Lord Capulet’s desk.
“It we get caught,” he clarified. It was their only hope. And then he prayed they would not get caught. How long could Lady Layton and Beaverbrook go at it? They just needed to wait them out and sneak out undetected. And pray no one looked for them in the meanwhile.
“What about—” Charlotte asked, inclining her head toward the amorous couple, who were now loudly declaring the pleasure that they wrought upon each other.
“If we just remain quiet, they won’t notice us at all. In a moment or so, they’ll be very … distracted … then we can make our escape,” James said. If only he believed it. He had visions of being stuck here all night.
“Are they doing what I think they are doing?” She wriggled in an effort to peek out of the curtains, and in doing so brushed intimately against certain portions of James’s anatomy. Part of him was thrilled with this situation.
“What do you think they’re doing?” James asked her, relishing the blush that crept across her cheeks.
“Marital relations,” she said solemnly.
“In a manner of speaking. Except they are not married to each other, but to other people,” James said.
“I want to see,” she said, grinning wickedly.
“Oh, that is nothing you should witness,” he told her. “There are some things which ladies—or gentlemen—are not to see.”
Lord Beaverbrook’s bare arse is at the top of the list.
“That was the worst possible thing you could say, James,” Charlotte said, and she writhed a little more, and he groaned. Her hands crept toward the part in the curtains …
He forced them closed.
“Do not make me tie your wrists with this,” he said, dangling the velvet sash before her wide eyes. She bit her lip. He suspected he felt more threatened, teased and tortured than she.