Charlotte frowned. If the rowdy Duke of Frye and his companion were intent on enjoying bachelorhood on this journey, Miss Calliope Jameson would need more than her timorous aunt to protect her.
Mr. Fortier finally arrived at breakfast, followed by the duke. Charlotte had always thought Horace Church handsome. With rumpled hair, his jaw shadowed with whiskers, and the bandage she had fashioned for him the night before stretched over his cheek and jaw, he was somehow even handsomer.
His gaze came directly to her. Swiftly it shifted to Miss Mapplethorpe, then Miss Jameson. It lingered on the pretty girl before returning to her aunt.
The barmaid, Nancy, passed his table. He turned a wide smile up at her, said something Charlotte couldn’t hear, and the serving girl’s giggle bubbled across the room. When Nancy walked away, her round hips swaying, his gaze followed her. Then it returned to Calliope and her aunt.
Charlotte’s hackles rose.
She might have nursed an impossible tendre for the Duke of Frye since she was a girl. She might have anguished in her diary for years that he was intended for her friend Serena—sweet, affectionate, generous, beautiful, quietly funny yet always proper Serena, who deserved a happy marriage and would be an excellent duchess. She might have battened down that anguish for years until making the decision that she required an ocean between them to put away her wrongful infatuation. She might have almost grabbed him that rainy day in the park and then for two and a half years wondered what would have happened if she had . . .
But if Horace Chesterfield Breckenridge Church imagined now that she would stand by and watch him make sport with an innocent girl, within only months of having jilted his sweet, affectionate, generous, beautiful, funny, and proper betrothed, then he was bound for disappointment.
When she left the taproom, it was as though she carried all the air away with her.
“Mon ami, you are staring.”
Frye swiveled his attention to Freddie. “What?”
Freddie lifted a brow. “You were staring at the lady. Just as yesterday when you failed to dodge my fist.”
“She thinks I’m a lout.” He had already told Freddie about the fair Lady Charlotte, and how, although obviously displeased with him, she seemed unlikely to reveal them. “It is what it must be.”
His friend shrugged. “You could tell her the truth.”
The truth.
Charlotte was furious with him for breaking it off with her friend Serena Cavendish. Neither she nor anyone knew that he had done it because it was the most honorable thing to do—that in his heart he had had no choice. A man could not commence married life in good conscience knowing what he knew about himself, no matter how long the betrothal had gone on.
That worry had kept him up so many nights since Serena’s introduction to society that he had come to dread the wedding that their now-deceased fathers had planned eighteen years earlier. Still, he had done nothing about those worries, not hastening the wedding along but not breaking it off with Serena either—not until an enlightening conversation the previous summer with his other best friend, Greyson Jones.
“If you ask me, Frye,” Greyson had commented casually one evening, “Lady Serena Cavendish is almost a little too perfect. Don’t you think?”
“Is she?” he had replied, noting the peculiar tone of Greyson’s voice and the odd evasion in his eyes. Greyson Jones was one of the most upstanding men Frye had ever known. Evasion simply was not in Greyson’s character. Nor was speaking poorly of a lady.
Frye had long suspected his friend admired Serena. But that was the moment he had known for certain that Greyson loved her.
After that, he’d had no hesitation in calling off the wedding.
He had told Serena the truth—a version of it, at least: that he wanted more for her than the fond friendship they shared. She was too exceptional a woman to settle for mediocrity in marriage. She deserved more. It was only fair to release her from their betrothal.
She had accepted it with her customary grace.
He had told his best friends, Greyson and Freddie, an invented story: he was having far too much fun to settle down to marriage already. At the behest of a friend at the Foreign Office, he’d spent the last six months in Bavaria with Greyson. Next it might be Bulgaria! Or Bengal! He was only twenty-five, for pity’s sake. Grand adventure was still to be had!
Neither believed him, but both were too decent to say so.
He had told his mother mostly the truth: he could not curse Serena with early widowhood. His father’s sudden premature death had rocked the whole family and devastated her. Frye could not condemn a young woman to that fate too, not given his own excellent chances of perishing early.
His mother had tried to dissuade him, but he had held firm. His younger brother would be a fine duke someday.
He had told no one the entire truth, though. That remained his secret.
“Until we’ve the villain in manacles,” he said now, “it’s best to share our purpose with no one.”
Freddie lifted his pint. “Solve the mystery.”
Frye lifted his too. “Fight the battle.”
Freddie glanced at the elderly lady across the room. “Save the girl.”
Frye leaned back in his chair, surveying the room full of stranded travelers.
They were a motley assortment: a jowly fellow, his harried young wife, and their five small children who, full of tea and marmalade, were now running about the place like a pack of unruly puppies; the Claytons, the starchy, well-to-do Yorkshire couple and their starchy son that Charlotte had mentioned; and two modestly impoverished gentlewomen with whom the daughter of an earl had just breakfasted.
Frye had known Charlotte Ascot since he was a boy and had always found her fascinating. Every girl he met had treated him to smiles, curtsies, dimples, and compliments. But whenever he’d seen little Charlotte Ascot, she had always screwed up her nose and asked him ridiculous questions, such as: how did he like her brother’s new punting boat, or how far had he ridden that morning, or had he been to the top of that hill yet because she had. Just a girl, and she hadn’t a pretty word to say to a duke four years her elder.
It had irritated him to no end.
At some point along the way, that childish irritation had turned to preoccupation.
Later, when her figure had sprouted, preoccupation had turned to admiration.
Soon after that, admiration had turned to hunger.
That was when he had accepted the Home Secretary’s invitation to perform some light espionage—for the crown—as men of wealth and rank could do without detection during war.
The war had been over for more than a year. Yet villains remained aplenty in England.
Mr. Sheridan had not come to breakfast. During his stable sojourn, Frye had learned from the ostler that the weasel-faced fellow was alone and traveling north. If he were in fact the man suspected of duping softhearted elderly women travelers out of their fortunes, Frye would unmask him.
The elderly woman, Miss Mapplethorpe, and her niece went into the foyer.
“Sir?” Miss Mapplethorpe said to the innkeeper, a tremble in her reedy voice. “My niece and I had a terrible night. The chimney in our bedchamber smokes wretchedly. We could hardly breathe.”
“I’m terrible sorry, ma’am,” the innkeeper said. “A mason was to come yesterday to patch up that crack. Suspect the storm kept him.”
“Oh, I see. Well, may my niece and I have another room?”
“Trouble is, we’re all filled up.”
“Oh, dear. But I mustn’t complain. For I’m sure others are in more dire straits than we are now. And of course our Lord and Savior’s own parents were obliged to sleep in a stable.” She offered a game smile. “My niece and I will make do.”
“Forgive me for intruding.” The voice came first, and then Sheridan moved into sight. “The chimney in my chamber pulls splendidly. It is a delightful room, madam. You would make me the happiest of men to allow me to vacate it for you.�
� He bowed deeply, his pockmarked face a portrait of gratified humility.
“Oh, sir,” the woman said, “you are too kind. But it would not be proper to impose upon you.”
“It will not be an imposition. Rather, my honor, Mrs. . . . ?”
“Miss Mapplethorpe,” she said, her cheeks turning pink.
“Robert Sheridan at your service, madam.” He bowed again.
“Aunt Margaret,” the girl said. “He has offered so kindly. Please allow it.”
“It would be my honor,” Sheridan said, all graciousness. As slick as a well-greased clock.
“Oh, well, then, yes, if you wish it, dear Calliope.”
Frye got a sour flavor on his tongue. But here it was: the set up, the ingratiation. Next would come the winning her over. Then the fleecing. And with it, the proof Frye needed to haul the villain to a magistrate.
The bedchamber exchange settled, the trio and the innkeeper departed to make it so.
“Whist or dice?” Freddie said, reading his thoughts. While Freddie was occupying Sheridan with game, Frye would slip into Sheridan’s bedchamber and search his belongings.
“Cards,” he said. Best to keep appearances aboveboard. That he did not relish the idea of Charlotte Ascot believing him a dice-throwing cad, he hadn’t time to ponder now.
Chapter Five
An hour later.
The foyer, the corridor, a bedchamber and another bedchamber.
Charlotte was stomping the snow from her boots and shaking out her cloak when Miss Mapplethorpe and her niece came down the stairs, arms linked.
“Have you been to the stable, my lady?” the aunt said.
“Yes! My coachman says that no one will be traveling today, or perhaps even tomorrow.” Delaying her yet longer from joining her friends at Kingstag Castle, where they were gathering for Christmas and to lift Serena’s spirits after the cruel jilting by her long-time fiancé.
The jilter was playing cards with Mr. Fortier and two other gentlemen. Charlotte could hear the sound of his delicious voice in the taproom, rising in laughter.
“The storm is here to stay, it seems,” she said.
“Dear me,” Miss Mapplethorpe said, “it will be wretchedly cold for those poor coachmen, not to mention the horses! They must all be chilled to the bone.”
“It is remarkably cozy in the stable, in fact,” she said, depositing her cloak on a peg. Cozy enough to make a handsome young duke’s eyes shine as he had looked pleadingly at her the night before. “Is luncheon served yet?”
“Our hosts have just announced it, my lady,” the duke said from the taproom doorway.
Charlotte could not fathom why the simple words should send her stomach to her toes and her heart into her throat. But everything the Duke of Frye had ever said to her had made her sillier than a widgeon. Even with a bruise coloring his handsome jaw and a thin line of plaster along the bone where the skin had broken, he was outrageously handsome.
She tipped her chin upward. “Thank you, sir.”
He had the gall to smile with every one of his white teeth. With a quick bow, he passed her by and went up the steps two at a time.
“I will join you for luncheon,” she said to Miss Mapplethorpe and her niece, “but first I must change out of these soaked stockings.”
Ascending, her foot was on the landing when the sight ahead made her gasp: Horace Church slipping into Miss Mapplethorpe and Calliope Jameson’s bedchamber and stealthily closing the door behind him.
Charlotte’s mind whirled. Only one explanation suggested itself.
The inn mistress appeared in the corridor. Rosy-cheeked and cheerful, she suited her pleasant little establishment.
“Good day, ma’am,” she said as she moved past, then paused at the top of the stairs. “Oh, my lady?”
Charlotte turned to her.
“Seeing as it’s Christmas Eve tomorrow, and the snow not looking to let up, I thought we’d have a party. For the little ones’ amusement.”
“That sounds delightful,” Charlotte said. “May my maid and I help with preparations? Sally is very clever with garland and I can tie quite a respectable bow.”
“That’s kind of you to offer. Tomorrow’ll be time enough.”
When the inn mistress had disappeared downstairs, Charlotte hurried forward, looked both ways, and entered Miss Mapplethorpe and Calliope’s room.
It was empty. No handsome duke reclined invitingly on the bed. No jilting scion of high society lounged attractively in the chair before the hearth. He must have slipped out when she had her back turned, speaking with the inn mistress.
She would find him and confront him. He could have no good reason for his subterfuge.
It struck her that he could much more easily seduce innocent maidens as a duke than as a mere mister. But Horace Church’s smile was enough to weaken her knees to jelly, so she supposed his game of playing the commoner served him well enough.
Scoundrel.
As she reached for the door handle, footsteps in the corridor halted on the other side of the panel.
“Good day, sir,” said a man’s crisp voice.
“Good day, Mr. Clayton,” Mr. Sheridan’s voice replied, its oily obsequiousness clear even through the door.
“I understand that you gave up your chamber for Miss Mapplethorpe,” Mr. Clayton said.
“I did, indeed,” Mr. Sheridan replied.
Charlotte swallowed a yelp.
“A lady should not be obliged to suffer when a gentleman can come to her rescue,” Mr. Clayton said, which Charlotte thought was easy for him when another man had done the rescuing.
The door handle turned.
Charlotte cast her gaze about desperately. Nowhere to hide.
Dropping to the floor as the door creaked open, she propelled herself under the bed.
And came face-to-face with the Duke of Frye.
Before she could even gasp, he clamped a big hand over her mouth and shook his head.
Caught between a rock and a hard place, she most certainly was. But the devil one knew was always safer than the devil one did not.
She nodded.
He released her just as the door clicked shut. Then Mr. Sheridan’s feet appeared beside the bed. A moment later, he removed his boots. Then both feet left the ground, the underside of the bed sagged into Charlotte’s behind, and Mr. Sheridan released another long sigh.
Only then did she again turn her gaze to the man prone beside her.
A crease marred his noble brow.
She frowned.
He frowned back, the plaster twisting over his wound.
She pursed her lips.
His gaze went directly to them. And remained there.
She discovered the urgent need to moisten her lips with her tongue. Every etiquette book in the world was clear on the subject of lip licking: it was not recommended, and never in public.
But this was not public; it was the dusty floor beneath a bed in an inn. Also, Horace Church was the devil, and she fully suspected it was his diabolical gaze that was making her mouth dry as bone.
Darting her tongue between her lips, she licked them.
His face lost all expression.
Oh. Of course. He could play at being a commoner, but when she made one tiny indiscretion he acted all righteously displeased.
Typical man.
She rolled her eyes.
But when his gaze rose to meet hers, it was not displeasure she saw there. Rather, the opposite. The blue was positively fevered. Blazing.
Every kind of explosion went off inside Charlotte. A gasp escaped her throat.
His Adam’s apple rose and fell sharply. Then he looked at her lips again.
Their shoulders were nearly touching. She could practically hear her heartbeats pounding against the floor.
Atop the bed, with a rumbling snort and grunt, Mr. Sheridan began snoring. At first it was soft and rhythmic. Within minutes it was a cacophony.
Charlotte nodded and jerked her chin forward.
Ever so slightly, the duke shook his head.
She nodded more emphatically. Dust stirred up by her hair brushing the bedframe’s slats cascaded down in a cloud.
The duke shook his head again.
Mr. Sheridan’s snoring scaled the heights.
Charlotte nodded yet again.
The duke scowled—silently. That he was outrageously handsome even while scowling was surely her punishment for wanting to close the inches between them and lick his lips too.
Bridling the wanton within her, instead she shinnied out from beneath the bed, turned the door handle, and slipped out into the corridor.
Within moments he followed, shutting the door quietly to the sound of Mr. Sheridan’s roaring snore, grabbing her hand, and drawing her along the corridor. He pulled her through a doorway at its far end, closed the door, and dropped her hand.
Charlotte, who had managed to avoid holding the Duke of Frye’s hand for nearly a decade, found her throat entirely clogged.
“You could have woken him,” he said. His eyes were gorgeously intense.
“Is this your bedchamber?”
“Why did you go in there?”
“I have never been in a man’s bedchamber before,” she said a bit dazedly, staring at his shaving gear on the dressing table and feeling a remarkable tingling in her belly.
“You were in a man’s bedchamber thirty seconds ago,” he said, which proved that their little sojourn under the bed had not muddled his brains too. “Why did you go into Sheridan’s room? You might have been hurt.”
Her muddled brain abruptly cleared.
“I was following you! I thought you had gone into Miss Mapplethorpe and Miss Jameson’s room.”
“Why would I have done that?”
“Why would you have gone into Mr. Sheridan’s? You did not intend to steal from him, did you?”
He looked at her like she was daft. “Of course not.”
“Well, you are engaged in subterfuge. It’s not so ludicrous a notion.”
At the Christmas Wedding Page 20