Three Schemes and a Scandal

by Maya Rodale

  “Why are you grinning like that?” she asked.

  “I am happy, Charlotte. It’s a lovely day. We have had an adventure. Your pet is safe. The sun is shining, the birds are singing …”

  “I know that smile. And that wicked gleam in your eye. It’s how I look when I’ve thought up a delicious scheme,” she said, leveling him with a gaze that was a prelude to an interrogation. She had no idea what would be in store for her.

  Part Three

  * * *

  THE WEST DRAWING ROOM … OR THE EAST?

  Mulligan’s Ribbon Shoppe

  Bond Street

  “Harriet, remind me: Why are we here?” Charlotte asked, utterly perplexed as to why Harriet urgently needed to select a hair ribbon and why Charlotte’s presence was necessary for the endeavor.

  “I am trying new colors to see which suit me. I’m starting with hair ribbons before ordering an entire new wardrobe,” Harriet explained. She selected a wide salmon-colored satin ribbon and held it up to her hair.

  “No,” Charlotte said.

  “Thank you,” Harriet replied, and she moved to examine other ribbons in a dizzying array of colors and textures.

  “I see why you brought me,” Charlotte murmured. “It’s just as well, I need a new ribbon for Penelope.”

  “I heard she caused quite the scene. Actually, I heard James caused quite the scene.”

  “No,” Charlotte said. “Pea green does not suit you.”

  “Are you avoiding the question, Charlotte?” Harriet gasped, delighted with her discovery of a Sensitive Topic.

  “Should I get another blue silk ribbon for Penelope?” Charlotte mused. “Or perhaps this forest green velvet?”

  “You fancy him,” Harriet declared, gleefully. This had never happened before.

  “I—” The strangest thing happened: Charlotte opened her mouth and found no words waiting. She must be ill.

  “And you don’t deny it!” Harriet now clapped her hands together in delight.

  “I fail to see why this is amusing,” she muttered. My God, there was something wrong with her. Speechlessness. Sense of humor failure. She was probably dying.

  “I fail to see why you do not see that this is amusing,” Harriet exclaimed loudly, thus involving the entire ribbon shop in Charlotte’s business. “You fancy a gentleman! Finally!”

  “Well he’s the only one with a modicum of intelligence,” Charlotte replied, which was as close as she could get to revealing the truth, which was that YES SHE FANCIED HIM.

  “And he’s so handsome,” Harriet said dreamily, idly stroking her hands along a blue satin ribbon that reminded Charlotte of the exact shade of James’s eyes.

  “Tolerable, I suppose,” Charlotte said with an indifferent shrug, even though she had barely slept since their afternoon in the folly and their evening in the alcove. Instead, she entertained the most wicked thoughts that definitely turned upon his breathtaking handsomeness.

  His blue eyes, like the sky after a storm. His mouth, so sensual and soft against her own. His broad, muscled chest that put most men to shame. That sleek scar gracing his left cheek demonstrating either his idiocy or his trust in her.

  Harriet peered at her closely. She obviously had a question to ask. Charlotte developed a sudden fascination with a puce grosgrain ribbon.

  Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say it.

  “Do you think he fancies you back?” Harriet asked. Curses. She said it.

  “I don’t know,” Charlotte said darkly. Of course there was evidence to support that James did, indeed, fancy her—she certainly didn’t nearly ravish herself in that alcove—there was also the regrettable fact that their nearly every interaction was a scheme engineered by herself.

  There was nothing she loved more than being in control. Which is why it was deuced strange she longed for James to sweep her off her feet.

  Hamilton House

  The Duke’s Study

  “You want to marry Charlotte,” the Duke of Brandon repeated flatly. For the third time.

  “Yes,” James said confidently. For the third time.

  “You want to marry my sister, Charlotte, who faints at will, never met a wild animal she didn’t want to keep as a pet and is far too clever for her own good.”

  “Yes, the very one,” James said. In his head he corrected the duke’s description: who possessed many talents, who had a large, loving heart, who was far more clever than any other woman. Charlotte, whom he adored and with whom he would never be bored.

  “Brave man,” the duke muttered. He nodded approvingly when he saw James’s expression darken.

  “She and I suit,” James said simply. He hadn’t intended to marry. He hadn’t intended to develop feelings for a woman, and he certainly hadn’t planned on falling in love. But then Charlotte happened.

  Just like that day years ago, when he had no intention of befriending the impish girl neighbor. But she promised the wildest adventures that were too damn fun to resist.

  The adventures she hinted at now were far more wicked, but just as wild, just as exhilarating.

  He wanted Charlotte to keep happening to him.

  He didn’t want her to be with any other man because she wouldn’t be happy with any other man. Charlotte’s happiness was paramount.

  “We are both aware that my permission is irrelevant in this matter. You must ask the lady herself. For what it’s worth, I do approve,” the duke said.

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” James said and he allowed a small exhalation of relief. The blessing of Charlotte’s family mattered.

  “Shall we call her in and you can ask her yourself?” Brandon offered, as he poured two glasses of brandy.

  “Actually, I have arranged for her to be elsewhere today. She is currently investigating hair ribbons with Miss Harriet Dawkins,” James replied.

  The duke lifted his eyebrow, intrigued. James explained.

  “Were I to call upon you with Charlotte at home, it would not escape her notice. And the fact of the matter is that, given the lady in question, I cannot simply propose. I must also do something dramatic. I must also give Charlotte a taste of her own medicine.”

  “She will appreciate that,” the duke said with a smile, handing James a glass of brandy.

  “I have a scheme in mind,” James said. “I just need your help …”

  The duchess was called in. A few servants were consulted and missives dispatched. By the time Charlotte returned home the scheme was in progress.

  Lady Charlotte’s Bedchamber

  Four days later

  For the third time, Charlotte crossed the room to shut her bedchamber door. Something had gone wrong with the knob or the lock or what-have-you and it popped open at the most inconvenient times, such as when two ladies were discussing a particular gentleman.

  “Harriet, I’m sure James was about to say something momentous,” Charlotte said broodingly to her friend. As per usual, they were lolling about with periodicals, a pot of tea and a plate of cakes, scones and biscuits. Outside, rain lashed at the windows. The weather suited her mood.

  “What do you think he was about to say?” Harriet asked as she idly flipped through an issue of La Belle Assemblée.

  “I don’t know,” Charlotte said darkly. She hated not knowing things. “There are really only three momentous things a man would say to a woman.”

  “A marriage proposal. A confession of love. What’s the third?” Harriet asked.

  “That he’s leaving the country,” Charlotte explained. She hoped it wasn’t true. She hoped it was true and that he would whisk her along with him and together they would travel the world and have all sorts of romantic adventures.

  “Leaving the country? Do you really think so?” Harriet asked, her skepticism obvious.

  “Or he might have a horrid, terminal illness,” Charlotte said darkly. That was the other possibility and she feared life would not be worth living without James did not care for it.

  “I wouldn’t worry abo
ut that. He seems to be the picture of health and vitality,” Harriet remarked. “He’s so strong, and golden.”

  Both ladies fell silent pondering James’s sun-browned skin and the golden strands of his hair. Charlotte indulged in memories of the warmth of his skin, the taste of his lips.

  The door popped open again. Charlotte sighed, crossed the room and shut it once more.

  “Perhaps he was about to confess to committing a horrendous crime and he needs my

  assistance in convincing a jury of his innocence,” Charlotte said dramatically.

  “You would be good at that,” Harriet said diplomatically. Charlotte fantasized about a world in which she could be a defender of justice and make grand speeches. Or she could disguise herself as a man and procure a legal degree, obtain a position … she pictured herself in gentleman’s dress, striding across the courtroom and addressing a jury and interrogating witnesses while James’s fate hung in the balance.

  “What do you think he did? Murder? Highway robbery?” Charlotte wondered, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. She hoped it was highway robbery. She could just see him in a black mask, atop a black stallion, calling out Stand and deliver to carriages full of passengers all at his mercy, in the dead of a moonless night …

  “Charlotte!”

  “What?”

  “He didn’t commit a crime,” Harriet said, exasperated.

  “How do you know that?” Charlotte asked, eyes narrowed, her suspicions raised.

  “One just assumes the best in others … one would think something else a more plausible possibility,” Harriet said, stammering slightly. A blush crept into her cheeks.

  “One would think one’s friend knows something,” Charlotte said slowly, her focused gaze never wavering. Harriet smoothed her skirts.

  “One would think it was silly to think one’s friend knows anything of the heart and mind of a gentleman with whom she is not acquainted,” Harriet replied.

  “The fact remains that he was certainly about to say something of great importance the other day in the park. It goes without saying that I should like to know. It also goes without saying I must engineer a meeting thus providing him opportunity.”

  “Why don’t you write him a letter?” Harriet suggested. Even though just last week she had said Charlotte should never write another letter again, to anyone, ever.

  “Dear James, I thought you might have been about to say something of tremendous importance—perhaps confessing your love for me, or confessing to a horrific crime. Do let me know. Curiously yours, Charlotte.”

  “It isn’t every day one receives a letter like that,” Harriet said. Wasn’t that the truth! The post would be so much more interesting if one did. But Charlotte would not send him a letter. She wanted to see his face, with his blue eyes and that slanting scar. She wanted to hear his voice say whatever it was he’d been about to say. She wanted to feel his caress, his lips, his …

  “I should like to see him. Alone.”

  “Charlotte …” Harriet warned. “You had quite a narrow escape at the Hastings garden party. And an even narrower escape at the Capulet ball. Do you not think your luck might run out?”

  “I have plans. Not luck,” Charlotte replied. She knew just the way in which to secure his undivided attention.

  “Are you sure? Do you really want to risk it?” Harriet questioned nervously. Again.

  “Why wouldn’t I want to take the risk, Harriet Dawkins?”

  “No reason …” her friend said meekly.

  “Never mind that. I have the perfect plan,” Charlotte announced.

  Hamilton House

  The Foyer

  A few days later

  The duke and duchess of Hamilton and Brandon were hosting a ball in their home to celebrate … well, Charlotte wasn’t quite clear on the occasion for the event, and she didn’t quite care. James had been invited.

  More important, James had replied that yes he would attend. She knew this because she had personally intercepted and perused every reply that had made it into Hamilton House.

  She had to do something while waiting for him to call.

  That was, besides despise the rule that IT WAS NOT DONE for ladies to visit gentlemen.

  So she read other people’s mail, naturally. While James did not visit. Or write. Or in any way indicate his awareness that she existed in the world.

  Logic or madness—one of the two—compelled her to recognize two facts. She had hoped he had something important to say that day. In fact, she hoped it had been a marriage proposal.

  That a proposal was not issued, nor did he even pop in to chat about the weather for just a few moments, sent Charlotte spiraling to the depths of despair.

  Tonight, however …

  Tonight she would Take Action. While she usually abhorred standing in the receiving line with Brandon and Sophie, tonight it served to her advantage.

  At 8:17 James arrived, looking devastatingly handsome in the stark black of his evening dress. His hair was brushed back, accentuating that scar which slanted across his cheek, drawing her gaze down, down, down to his sensuous mouth.

  Charlotte stared. And paid no attention to Lady Layton’s polite chatter with Sophie, though something struck her as unusual.

  “… what a coup that the author George Coney shall be in attendance tonight …”

  Very well, that caught Charlotte’s attention. It was impossible that Lady Layton had heard of George Coney because 1) George Coney did not exist and 2) it was highly unlikely she had heard about the wager at the Capulet ball and 3) the book that was the subject of the wager, like its author, did not exist.

  She must be turning into one of those idiotic misses who lost brain matter in the presence of handsome men with devastating kisses, exquisitely torturous caresses and rakish smiles that made a girl weak in the knees.

  Dear Lord God Above. She wanted to slap herself. But she really wanted to be swept into his embrace as his mouth crashed down upon hers for a scorching kiss…

  “Good evening, Charlotte,” James murmured, clasping her hand.

  “Hello, James,” she managed to reply. Her heart was beating wildly. Her thoughts were scattered wildly and she was afraid she might be blushing.

  “You look fine this evening,” he murmured.

  “Thank you,” she said, doing her best to sound demure when in fact her heart was skipping beats. He thought her pretty!

  And then, oh then, James’s gaze locked with hers and she ceased to notice the throngs of peers and peeresses, the music from the orchestra … everything went away but James. She tried to read all the unspoken thoughts and secret desires that supposedly lurked in one’s gaze but she only concluded that she wanted him. And wanted him alone.

  “Well, I shall see you later this evening, Charlotte,” he murmured, squeezing her hand affectionately. Then he smiled. Then he winked. Winked!

  “Wait—” She reached out impulsively and clasped his hand. “I have saved the fourth waltz for you.”

  It was immensely forward to say such a thing. But she had to speak with him and a waltz ensured at least four minutes of conversation in which neither party could flee.

  There was also the small fact that she simply wanted to waltz with him.

  “I shall look forward to it,” he replied, not at all chastising her for such a brazen, unladylike order. That was why he was the man for her.

  Hamilton House, the Ballroom

  Specifically, Behind a Pillar

  James thought Charlotte looked beautiful tonight. Haughty, but vulnerable. Tortured but determined. Distracted. She probably suspected that a scheme was in the works—one instigated by someone else for a change. Namely, by him. It wasn’t every night that a man proposed and when a man was proposing to Charlotte not just any display of romance would do. No, one must have a touch of genius, be a bit devious …

  If Charlotte hadn’t suspected a scheme, she was about to.

  James watched from his discrete vantage point behin
d the pillar as Lady Tweetley approached, armed with information that he had supplied to Lady Roxbury who had passed it along to the necessary gossips.

  “Charlotte! Have you heard? George Coney is here! Tonight!” Lady Tweetley tittered before flitting off to spread this impossible news to each and every guest in attendance tonight.

  “That is impossible,” Charlotte said flatly. James grinned.

  “Is it?” Harriet mused. James’s smile vanished. It had been tricky involving Harriet for he worried how she would hold up under the strain of keeping secrets from Charlotte. But in the end, it had been essential to his plan. Someone had to make sure that Charlotte was escorted to the west drawing room while guests all shuffled off to the east drawing room.

  “Of course it’s impossible. You know as well as I do that George Coney doesn’t exist,” Charlotte said matter-of-factly. She twirled a lock of hair around her finger and he could practically see the machinery in her brain working.

  The point of the gossip was for Charlotte to anticipate something. Anticipation was key.

  However, there was also the problem of Harriet’s nerves fraying under the pressure of Charlotte’s ruthless and relentless logic.

  “Perhaps there is an impersonator!” Harriet burst out.

  Charlotte’s expression was skeptical. And then the two girls were interrupted by the arrival of Lady Talleyrand and Lady Inchbald.

  “Lady Charlotte! Perhaps you can help us. We are so keen to hear George Coney read from his book, The Hare Raising Adventures of George Coney. Where might we find the library?”

  “Oh, no,” interrupted Lord Derby. “He’s reading in the east drawing room.”

  “It was in one of the drawing rooms, I think,” Lady Inchbald said.

  “No, the library!” yet another guest interrupted.

  “Was it in the west drawing room or the east drawing room?” Lady Talleyrand mused. “It was one of the two. Or perhaps the north. I just cannot recall.”