by Corwin, Amy
“Yes. That’s the reason. Precisely.”
“Oh.” Miss Mooreland’s attention wandered back to the floor. “I adore dancing.” She sighed and fluttered her fan. Her gaze followed one of the couples in the center of the floor. “He is so…impressive, is he not?”
“Who?” Charlotte asked, tapping her toe. She eyed the terrace door and soft darkness outside. Freedom lay twenty yards way at the most, perhaps closer.
“Why, His Grace, of course!” Miss Mooreland’s rapt gaze followed a tall man as he moved through the intricate steps of the dance. “Alas, he is expected to make an offer for Lady Beatrice…perhaps this very evening!”
Charlotte’s brow rose. “Alas?”
The girl missed the sarcasm in Charlotte’s voice and nodded vigorously. “Yes. I do hope he decides not to—at least not this evening. He is so…masculine, is he not? While I sincerely admire Lady Beatrice, I could almost wish he does not make her an offer. When he danced with me, it was as if I were embraced by a god! I simply knew we were two halves of a perfect whole!”
The girl proved oblivious to Charlotte’s smothered laugh. Miss Mooreland’s attention was fully engaged in watching her “other half” step through a quadrille with his current partner.
Charlotte watched the very tall, well-built young man and the diminutive brunette lady with him. He was one of the taller men and had very broad shoulders. She bit her lower lip and remembered seeing him before, watching him with a sort of longing, although he had never glanced her way. He was one of the few men in the room who wouldn’t be eye-level with her bosom if he stood next to her.
She studied him for a moment, and then resolutely shut her mouth. She refused to ruin Miss Mooreland’s evening by pointing out that the couple had been out on the floor before and this was their second dance. There seemed to be a good many ladies swooning after His Grace Whatever-his-name-was.
At least the Archers would doubtless be delighted to learn that their nephew had another man competing with him for Lady Beatrice’s dainty hand. Maybe their nephew was safe from the viper, after all.
Miss Mooreland continued to gaze adoringly at him with her plump mouth hanging partially open. A soft sigh escaped her.
Charlotte nearly echoed her sigh—in exasperation— before she caught herself. She had been good so far, polite. She could not ruin it now by some injudicious comment. Her attention wandered back to the dancers.
The lady clasping His Grace’s hand tipped her head back to gaze up at him, fluttering her lashes. She said something with a smile before they turned and separated in time to the music. His Grace laughed, or at least his shoulders shook.
Charlotte’s gaze followed the woman, and after a few minutes, dredged up her name: Lady Anne. Charlotte had been introduced to so many this evening that she had difficulties remembering their names. The ladies littered the dance floor, twirling in dresses of creamy white or dove gray, edged with black out of respect for the death of Princess Charlotte. No one wore any jewels except jet or pearls.
The monochromatic effect of all the swirling white and gray was rather soothing initially. But after standing on the sidelines for several dances, Charlotte grew restive.
She couldn’t help but notice a change as the evening progressed. The festive atmosphere had grown brittle and sour under a thin veneer of forced gaiety. The women’s beautiful dresses had wilted in the heat from the candles and crowded dance floor, and most of the men’s starched neckcloths drooped like wattles around their necks.
Many ladies now stood tiredly along the walls, their eyes following the remaining dancers with a kind of glazed desperation. The beauty of the room with its magnificent high ceilings, long flowing drapes in rich gold damask, and expanses of gilt-edged mirrors only seemed to drain the life out of the weary faces, reflected as pale, featureless blurs.
Young women who had arrived tonight smiling and hoping to meet the man of their dreams were slowly realizing they might not.
Unable to bear it any longer, Charlotte turned away and strode through the French doors.
Chapter Four
If a person annoys another by abusive language or constantly following him, […] such person can be proceeded against and summoned by the party aggrieved. —Constable’s Pocket Guide
Escaping from the soirée, Charlotte stepped with relief onto a small, flagstone terrace. Paper lanterns in blue, red, and gold swung above her head, suspended on thin ropes running along the edges of the patio. Another arc of lights ran through the trees, creating twinkling patterns of color softening the darkness.
A few moths, drawn to the beauty of the flames, desperately sought to immolate themselves out of love for the colored lights. The patter of their wings hitting the thin lantern paper sounded like soft, unhappy whispers.
After a few moments, Charlotte moved closer to a lantern made of gold paper chased with green dragons. It hung at the farthest edge of the terrace where a few shallow steps lead down to the gravel path which wound through the misty gardens. She watched the fluttering insects, using the challenge of identification to temporarily forget about Lady Beatrice and the cream of glittering Society dancing inside.
One careless moth fluttered drunkenly toward her, attracted by the sheen of her dress. With a laugh, she gently waved it away. The moths here were so different from the ones she remembered watching as a child in the long, fragrant summer nights in Charleston. She loved the muted grays and browns of their fragile wings and watched for a few minutes before noticing one bold creature had shocking red under-wings.
She edged closer, trying to get a better look.
Unhappily, she startled it, and the moth fluttered erratically away into the darkness. When she glanced back, a new moth appeared. Its brown wings were boldly patterned with bright white: a Garden Tiger, Arctia caja, perhaps, and the first of that variety she had seen in England.
“What are you doing out here alone?” a man’s deep voice asked. He strode out of the shadows and climbed the shallow stone steps to the terrace.
Her brief, good mood disappeared along with the moth.
Why was it so difficult to find even one short moment of peace? It did not take great sensitivity to see that she preferred to be ignored out here rather than suffer the public humiliation of standing around in ballroom corners, trapped behind insufferably short women.
Giving him a quick glance, Charlotte noted his long shadow and the broad shoulders beneath his dark jacket and embroidered waistcoat.
A movement caught her eye, and she looked up at the paper lantern. The moth had flittered off. Now, she would never be sure if it was her first Garden Tiger or not. She sighed and gave up. It was a little early in the year, anyway, for Garden Tigers so perhaps she had not missed anything.
“Can you speak?” he prompted her with a smile, climbing the last step. He towered above her by several inches.
Involuntarily, she smiled back, her gaze caught by the brilliant blue of his eyes. “Yes, I can speak. I am having a breath of air, if you must know,” she said, trying to think of something sufficiently insipid to make him go away.
The sound of laughter soared through the open doors behind her. She glanced over her shoulder uneasily, thinking about Lady Beatrice, open windows, and wet bedding. She shivered.
“Oh,” he replied. He sounded almost as wary of her as she was of him.
She stared up at him, wondering if he would think her rude if she asked him to go away. Under other circumstances, she might have liked to be introduced to him, if for no other reason than the novelty of looking up into a man’s face instead of down, but she was too weary to control her conversation, too tired to be polite.
Although he was certainly better than the two loathsome fortune hunters who had tried to back her into a corner a half hour ago. Then, she remembered Miss Mooreland’s hopeful face and felt exhausted down to her very bones.
Unlike Miss Mooreland, Charlotte was not a vapid ninnyhammer searching for a husband. Nonetheless, she couldn�
��t help letting her gaze linger on his attractive face. In truth, he was more than attractive, with a firm, square chin and a wide mouth that curved upward.
In another situation, she might even have called him handsome if she weren’t so sure she simply couldn’t see him clearly in the poor light.
The badly lit terrace could also be responsible for the illusion that his shoulders were even broader than she thought. The shadows were bound to make him look taller and more, well, muscular, particularly since his black evening jacket seemed to blend into the shadows. If they stood under the brilliant crystal chandeliers inside, he would probably dwindle down into a short, fat, balding Lothario just like the rest of the ton.
“Perhaps you should go back inside,” he said.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, quelling a sharp, tired response. “I believe I prefer it out here.”
“Perhaps so, but it will not do to be found out here with a strange man.”
“While I applaud your honesty in admitting you are strange, I really don’t agree. You seem perfectly normal to me. However, I am having an absolutely wonderful evening out here alone, and I would prefer to stay,” she replied at last, striving to keep her tone light. “So perhaps you ought to go inside if you are nervous about being compromised.”
He surprised her by laughing. His deep chuckles teased out a reluctant smile from her, despite her wariness. For one brief moment, she could see why Miss Mooreland and the other ladies swooned over him. In the cool air of the terrace, his laughter enfolded her like a cloak still warm from his shoulders. It drew her toward him, away from the gleaming lights of the ballroom. When he smiled down at her, his eyes glittering, she felt almost…acceptable.
“It will not do to be found out here with me,” he insisted after his chuckling subsided. “Your reputation will be quite shattered.”
She shook her head, trying to break the dizzying spell created by the intensity of his gaze. “I should not worry about it. Being found on a patio, only a few steps away from dozens of waltzing couples, with a man— strange or not—will not have the slightest influence on my reputation. In fact, you are the one at risk. If they find you skulking out here with me, you will be lucky to escape unsullied. Regrettably, I am known as an awful bluestocking. So unless you wish to be seen as foolish in the extreme, or perhaps even bordering on the dreadfully intelligent, you had best return inside.”
“Really?” he stepped forward, still smiling. A dimple puckered his left cheek, making her heart thud. “Perhaps I would not mind giving a few people the mistaken impression that I am not completely unintelligent.”
“Oh, no. You would not like it, not at all. If you wish to give that impression, you would have to avoid the ton, for starters. It would be dreadfully inconvenient for you.”
He laughed. “Indeed. So, what were you doing out here? Surely you were not simply avoiding us all?”
“If you must know, I was watching the moths.”
“Moths?”
She gestured impatiently at the insects assaulting the paper lanterns. “Yes. Moths—those flapping creatures one sees at night. Now, if you will excuse me?”
“Not just yet.” He smiled down at her. “After all, we have not even been introduced.”
“No, we have not, have we?” she replied frostily, trying to ignore the gleam in his eyes. Uncertainty, and the way everything seemed to fade away when he was near, made her nervous.
“Oh, I am sure we could find someone to introduce us.”
“Then why don’t you do that? I promise to wait right here until you return.”
“I—” He glanced down and pulled a gold chain out of his waistcoat pocket. “Wait!”
Charlotte eyed him curiously. “What is it? Are you late for something?”
“I have just noticed—I have lost it!”
“Lost what? Your watch? I am sure someone inside must know what time it is.”
“No, that is not it.” He glanced around the terrace and then stared toward the shadowy path through the gardens. “You have not seen a piece of lapis lazuli, have you? I knew I should have had that link replaced….”
She eyed the flagstone terrace but there was nothing to interrupt the broad, smooth plane of gray stones. “I have not seen anything of the sort. I am sorry.”
Bending down, he felt around under a nearby marble bench, uttering muffled curses. He hit his shoulder and swore when he sat back on his heels. He studied the flagstones with a frown before he stood up and dusted off his hands.
A glum expression shadowed his face. “Well, it is gone. Damnation! My lucky lapis—are you sure you don’t see it anywhere?”
“No. It is not so lucky if you have lost it, is it?” she remarked before taking pity on him. “Maybe one of the other guests will find it. Was it distinctive? Would they know it belonged to you?”
“It was certainly unique enough—it was a piece of lapis twisted like a corkscrew. They ought to know the fob belongs to me. I have worn the thing for years.”
“Then I should not worry about it. Surely, someone will find it and return it to you.”
Once more he scanned the grassy path leading from the garden, brushing off her words with an impatient gesture. Feeling dismissed, Charlotte edged toward the French doors, thinking about the Archers. Suddenly, the flutter of a white dress caught the corner of her eye.
“Your Grace!” Lady Beatrice’s high, flute-like voice called. “Your Grace, where are you?”
Lady Beatrice stood framed in the French doors, her back to the terrace. Her white silk gown shimmered in the soft light from the ballroom.
Charlotte prayed Lady Beatrice would not glance over her shoulder and see them. Then, as Charlotte watched in trepidation, Lady Beatrice swirled around. Midway through the graceful movement, she seemed to almost lunge to the left. She stumbled into a tray carried by one of the footmen who had been dragooned into acting as waiters for the ball. Several glasses of Madeira tipped their contents over Lady Beatrice’s heaving bosom, running down her pale silk dress like streaks of blood.
“You fool!” she lashed out at the hapless servant. Her voice drifted, thin and faint over the terrace. “Get out! Get out this minute! And don’t think you will get a recommendation from my father, for you will not, you clumsy oaf.”
He stood there, empty tray in hand, staring down at Lady Beatrice while she berated him. Face as red as the spilt wine, the man finally got down on his knees to clean up the broken glasses with his handkerchief.
Suddenly, he stopped and his shoulders stiffened. Lady Beatrice moved, her back blocking Charlotte’s view.
She tried to see around Lady Beatrice, but the angle was wrong and the wide expanse of the terrace separated them. Charlotte held her breath and after a tense minute, Lady Beatrice moved, stepping toward the French door.
Charlotte’s gaze dropped to the servant. He knelt on one knee, staring after his beautiful ex-employer with eyes rounded in shock. Slowly, he raised his hand and stared at it. A thin dribble of red ran down his wrist, staining the edge of his cuff and dripping to the floor.
Blood? Surely not.
Charlotte wasn’t sure what she had seen. It seemed so senselessly cruel, even if he had ruined Lady Beatrice’s gown. She had publicly humiliated the servant, and then it appeared as if she had stepped on his hand while he collected the broken shards of glass.
Revenge for ruining her lovely silk dress? Or had one of the glasses cut him when it had fallen? Charlotte was too far away to be certain. It could even have been the Madeira dripping over his wrist.
No matter, it certainly seemed as if Lady Beatrice had not changed much over the years. She had not liked to be frustrated or thwarted in school and she had always been absorbed by her own flawless appearance. Ruining such an expensive silk gown would infuriate her. No wonder she had berated and dismissed the servant.
Charlotte turned away, shivering as the damp garden mist swirled over the edge of the terrace and curled around her. Perhaps she could
find the footman after the party and offer him employment. The accident had not been his fault, and Charlotte felt unaccountably sorry for him and disturbed about his fate. She knew how it felt to be alone and unsure about the future.
At least she had resources. She was an heiress, and if she paid his salary, the Archers could not refuse her request.
Lady Beatrice swayed through the door, graceful and beautiful despite her spoiled dress. Her head turned toward the man at Charlotte’s side, and her step quickened. Charlotte turned to him just as he stood from another search under the stone bench. He had missed the entire scene between Lady Beatrice and her servant.
Now, he glanced in the direction of the doorway and seemed to stiffen. Charlotte followed the direction of his gaze with dismay.
“Say something,” he said, bending over to whisper urgently in Charlotte’s ear. “Anything—just don’t leave me alone with her. Please, you must help me!”
Charlotte started as his warm breath played over her neck.
Lady Beatrice floated toward them across the flagstone terrace. “Your Grace,” she called.
“I don’t see why you think I should—” Charlotte paused as Lady Beatrice neared.
What did he want from Charlotte? Did he hope to make Lady Beatrice jealous? Charlotte could almost smell the faint, metallic odor of an iron trap following Lady Beatrice like stale perfume. Suddenly, Charlotte didn’t trust either of her companions in the soft, cold darkness of the terrace.
Lady Beatrice placed a light hand on the man’s sleeve. He gazed beseechingly into Charlotte’s eyes and she wavered in confusion. She could not protect him from Lady Beatrice, even if that was what he wanted.
Unable to resist the entreaty in his eyes, Charlotte said the first thing that came to mind. “I don’t see why you want me to explain the differences between the Garden Tiger and the, um, Buttoned Snout again. It is not difficult, you know. A child could do it. All you have to do is concentrate.”
He had asked for her help. A lecture on moths was the best she could do considering the circumstances.