“Indeed, yet discovering those who are truly of like mind can be difficult…..”
Charlton let his words trail off, sipping his brandy, watching the mist of his breath drift in lazy swirls away from him, and waited. It did not take long.
“Perhaps you would find my… friends… of like mind with you too? I will consider introducing you. I am protective of my friends – I treasure our comradeship, and wish it to stay… pure of common intent, if you understand.”
At the Comte’s words, Charlton swallowed the bitter laughter that wanted to rise in his throat, for such a description could easily be put to his bond with the other Hounds, and to hear his thoughts of that good and positive bond echoed in this tainted context was ironic.
“Truly, m’sieur le Comte, I would appreciate such an introduction. I do, quite, understand the value of such comradeship. One can, at times, accomplish something together, which could not be achieved individually…”
Again, the double applicability of his words was bitter in his mouth –that ability to achieve more together than apart was what had made the Hounds so successful – for themselves, and for their country. It was the reason they were all still alive.
He let none of his feelings show on his face. His expression was calm as he waited for the Comte’s response.
“Exactly, my Lord Pendholm, exactly. I will consider this, and I will be in touch, should a suitable opportunity arise for an… introduction.” He bowed, and it was obvious that the conversation was at an end.
Charlton tossed back the last of his brandy, bowed in return, and made his way back through the card room, to find his mother and sister, and go back to being nothing more than a Viscount with a family scandal to overcome. He felt a little unpleasant, as if the last few hours had left an invisible layer of grime on his skin. He knew it was his duty to do this, but, at that instant, he wished Baron Setford to the deepest hell… again.
Now that the Season had begun in earnest, and Harriet was being escorted to Balls and dinners on most evenings, Charlton had fallen into a pattern. His late evenings, even after Balls, still ended with a short coze with his mother in her parlour, where they both discussed the events of the day, the unsuitability of the gentlemen who were pursuing Harriet, his progress with clearing Michael’s papers, and also the progress of Mary and her child.
But his day now started with a brisk ride (at a far earlier hour than almost any of the ton would ever rise), followed by either more work on Michael’s papers, more study of the papers provided by Baron Setford, and the inevitable tasks required to ensure the good management of his estates, or, every few days, a visit to Mary, Rose and little Sylvie. In the afternoons he met with his friends when he could, especially those of the Hounds who were in town, went on the occasional afternoon visit with his mother and Harriet, and generally got on with life.
The evenings, of course, were a continual round of social events – events where he was two people at once – the charming Viscount Pendholm, making the ton forget his predecessor, squiring his sister, dancing with Lady Odette when he could, and the spy – conversing with the Comte frequently, and being drawn ever further into his circle of trust.
At some of those social events, he saw others of the Hounds – sometimes Hunter, who seemed not quite himself, and was forever surrounded by the matchmaking mamas hoping to catch a Duke for their daughters, sometimes Geoff – Lord Geoffrey Clarence – who seemed to be rather unhappy, perhaps even more so since he had assisted with the rescue of Mary and the child, and was distracting himself, in a rather out of character way, by pursuing those widows known to be open to affairs. Only they had noticed that he was playing cards, and raised an eyebrow. No-one else noticed anything unusual in it.
After evenings with the ton, the days when he visited Mary and Sylvie were a delight. They were so straightforward, so genuine, it was truly refreshing.
~~~~~
As Charlton knocked on the door of the unassuming Ebury Street house that was now Mary’s home, he realised that it was now some weeks since they had brought Mary and Rose to live here.
Mr Starling was still searching for the other girls, but was depressingly no closer to finding them, but at least Mary and Sylvie were here.
Dobbs, the footman that he had employed, along with a maid, a nursery maid, a cook and a housekeeper, to manage the house, and care for the women and his niece, opened the door with a smile.
“Good Morning, my Lord. Miss Rose is working in the sewing room, and Miss Mary is in the parlour with Sylvie. Would you like me to call Miss Rose?”
“No thank you Dobbs – I’ll just go through to the parlour. But some coffee would be wonderful, if you would.”
“Certainly my Lord, Jenny will bring it up shortly.”
As he walked towards the parlour door, Charlton could hear childish laughter, and a smile lit his face at the sound. Quietly, he opened the door, and stood, watching.
There was a scatter of toys on the floor – toys that had once been his and Harriet’s, that his mother had produced from an old chest stored in the attics at Pendholm House – and Sylvie was rolling a ball and chasing it. Her little legs were getting stronger, and she could now run, if rather unstably.
With the preternatural awareness of children, she somehow knew he was there, and, abandoning the ball, turned and ran to him, arms raised, asking to be picked up.
He bent down and scooped her up, swinging her high before settling her in his arms. She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him.
“Good morning, my Lord. How is…. OH…. Sylvie… no! You mustn’t pull at your uncle’s cravat! I am so sorry – she just loves unfolding any folded material.”
“Don’t worry Mary – I really don’t mind. My valet will be cross with me, but he will cope.” Charlton grinned as clever little fingers began to undo the cravat that Phelps had spent almost an hour making into a work of art. “It’s good to see her so active and happy – and at last you are all beginning to look less starved!”
“All thanks to you, and Lady Pendholm. I am so grateful! I was so afraid that we would die this winter, when the coal ran out, and then you appeared at my door. I am so sorry that I took so long to trust you – can you forgive me?”
“Of course – I knew that it would be difficult, and I am glad that you can now believe that I am nothing like my brother – I wish that some of the ton were as willing to believe it! But you were right to doubt, and to challenge us – although the big surprise was your sister – standing up to me like a little dragon, defending you!”
Mary laughed, remembering that day, just as Rose walked into the room.
“So I’m a dragon am I? Well… I suppose that’s not such a bad thing to be.”
She smiled at Charlton, and reached to take Sylvie from his arms, gently untangling her from the wreck of his cravat. Rose hugged her for a few minutes, then put her back with her toys on the floor. Greetings over, Sylvie went happily back to playing, ignoring the adults speaking above her.
They talked for an hour, of what Sylvie had done, what new things she had learnt, and of what was needed for the house, and for its inhabitants. It was taking some time for Mary and Rose to believe that they could have whatever clothes, food toys, books and other things they wanted. They had lived with nothing for so long, that adapting was challenging. Each day, they woke, expecting to find that it had all been a dream, and were shocked anew that it was real.
Sylvie, on the other hand, took everything as her due.
With the delightful innocence of children, she simply accepted without question.
Charlton told Rose that his mother wished her attendance at Pendholm House that afternoon, for Harriet had managed to tear flounces on a number of her dresses, and repairs were urgently needed.
Mostly, apart from fittings and repairs, Rose worked on the Ladies’ dresses here, and then brought the finished work to Pendholm House. Charlton assured her that he would send a carriage for her – no need to be out in the
cold any more than necessary.
Yet again, Rose had a sense of unreality about her life. No need to scrimp, no need to pay for most things herself – it was all just provided. And she got to work for ladies that she loved (yes, even Harriet’s tantrums) rather than for a modiste determined to work her fingers to the bone.
She still struggled with the fact that she had staff who took care of her…. it was beyond anything she’d ever dreamed of having.
After Charlton had spoken to the staff, and ensured that anything needed was being arranged, he bid them all farewell and, collecting his hat and cane from Dobbs, who had also done a remarkable job of restoring his cravat to some semblance of respectability, he stepped out the front door, full of the positive feelings that a visit always created.
He was beginning to understand why some men wanted to marry, and have children of their own. If his children, and he realised then, with a shock, that he actually wanted children, were anything like Sylvie, it would be a pleasure, not just a dynastic requirement, to have them.
The thought that Sylvie might have died, had they not found Mary in time, horrified him.
~~~~~
Jean-Baptiste Marmont, Comte de Vierzon, rose from his chair and paced about the room. The parlour in which he and his ‘companions of justice’ met was very ordinary – nothing distinctive, neither old and worn or new.
It was in a very ordinary house, in a very ordinary area of London, on the boundary between fashionable and not quite respectable. Not a location in which he ever expected to see any of the ton, except those here in this room, by his invitation.
His plans were proceeding well – he had gathered a seemingly ill matched collection of men, whose sole point in common was their anger with the aristocracy, and their aim to see them overthrown or harmed in some way.
They each had a burning desire for ‘justice’ – which is to say, for getting what they felt was their due, in recompense for one perceived slight or another.
He did not care if their causes were truly just, so long as their passion for action could be directed to achieve his aims. They met, in this house, once a week, to plan, to discuss who else they could recruit, and, unknown to all but the Comte, so that he could ensure that they stayed in a state of fiery anger about the injustices done to them.
They had, until now, been meeting under cover of darkness.
But, with the Season now upon them, they had been forced to move their meeting to late mornings – a time when the ton were not likely out and about, and which would not require any of them, especially the Comte, to miss a social engagement. For not attending various Balls and dinners would be noticed. And being noticed was definitely not what they wanted… yet…
They had just concluded a fairly vigorous debate, regarding his wish to bring Charlton Edgeworth, Viscount Pendholm, into their coterie. Many felt that it was too much of a risk, bringing a member of the British aristocracy, at that level, into their plans, but others could see the wisdom – he was a military man, with skills they could use, a man not valued by his own, and snubbed by many of the ton for things his brother had done. He had reason to be disaffected, and to join with them. In the end, it had been agreed to recruit him. Unknown to the others, the Comte would have done so anyway, even if they had not agreed – but it was easier if he let them think they had some control, for now.
Pausing in his pacing, the Comte stared out through the narrow space between the nearly drawn old velvet curtains of the front parlour window, ignoring the rumble of discussion continuing behind him. A movement caught his eye. The faint sound of the front door of the next house closing came to him. Interested, he watched. A man came down the steps and walked up towards the corner, where a small town carriage waited. A man he recognised. A man that they had just been discussing, in this very room.
To an observer, the Comte would have seemed frozen in place, nothing moving, except the reflection of light from his ruby ring, which gave away the slight twitching of his fingers.
Inside, however, his mind was racing. What was Viscount Pendholm doing here? Who lived in that house next door? It had been empty when they first began to meet here. Then someone had moved in – ah, he remembered now – two women and a very small child with some staff. They had seemed innocuous enough, kept to themselves, rarely went out. Even though the two houses had a common wall, they were quiet - he had rarely even heard the sound of the child when he was here. He had assumed, when all of this was reported to him, by his man who maintained this house, that one of the women was some wealthy man’s mistress, parked here with a companion and some maids, now that she had borne his child.
Well now… perhaps that assumption was absolutely right. And perhaps he had just found the leverage, he would not be so crude as to describe it as blackmail, which he needed, to ensure the co-operation of the so-charming Viscount Pendholm.
It would appear that the man had managed to get himself a child on some maid, or perhaps even some woman of a higher social standing. And, honourable man that he was, had set her up here. And dutifully visited her. All of which was something not even faintly rumoured of.
Turning, he called the company to order, closed off their discussion, and dismissed them. Once the others were gone, he spoke to the man who lived here as caretaker.
“George, I have a task for you. I want you to watch the house next door. See who comes and goes, and when. See if you can find out a bit about them – nothing too obvious though – don’t go talking to their staff, I don’t want any risk of them knowing that we are interested.”
George nodded.
“Yes Sir. I’ll be careful like.”
Satisfied, the Comte took his leave, collecting his horse from the small stable in the back yard of the house and riding off down the dirty lane at the back. He had a lot to think about as he rode. That Viscount Pendholm should turn out to have such a nice little scandal hidden away was rather a delightful; surprise. The man had seemed absolutely clean of all disreputable behaviour, until now.
How pleasing. In all but one way. If the man was so inappropriate as to have seduced a maid, or worse, a respectable man’s daughter, and got a child on her, he was more of a philanderer than the Comte had suspected. And that made him a man even more unsuitable to pay attention to his daughter.
He could not countenance the man touching Odette now. He must make sure to reveal the sordid details to her, and demand that she not speak to the man again.
Surely she would be so horrified that she would reject him out of hand. Satisfied with his plan, he smiled as he rode back into the more fashionable parts of town.
It was afternoon, and Odette was in her favourite place. She was curled in a large armchair in the Library of her aunt’s house, placed just where the best light came in through the window, and with a view over the garden. As always, she was reading. But today, she was trying to learn, as well. She had discovered, in a corner of her aunt’s library, a small collection of books in Greek. She had previously not paid much attention, as it was not a language she knew, but something had drawn her back there.
And, after some careful puzzling, she had realised that one of the books was the Iliad, in its original Greek. Excited, she had gathered it up, along with the translated version that she had read so often, and taken them to settle in her chair. She was attempting to learn at least some of the Greek words, by comparing, painstakingly, the two versions.
She had just concluded that the translation must be somewhat ‘interpretative’ at times, for the correlation between words and sentences seemed rather poor in many places.
Her mind went back to her dinner conversation with Charlton (for she had begun, in her mind to call him by his given name, however forward and inappropriate that might be), and his offer to teach her to read this in Greek. She wished, rather intensely, for his presence at that moment. And, if she were to be honest with herself, she wished it for more than just what he might teach her of the Greek language.
Her mind drif
ted away from the books, back to the many Balls, dinners, musicales and soirees of the last few weeks. Events where Charlton had been in attendance, assisting his mother with the introduction of his delightful young sister to the ton. Odette had become rather fond of Lady Harriet – she found her occasional childishness rather an interesting change from all of the false sophistication displayed by so many of the young Ladies.
But it was Charlton that she looked for, as soon as she arrived at any event, Charlton whom she dreamed of most nights. Charlton, who danced with her at each event, but only once, as was proper, (but usually a waltz if he could arrange it), Charlton who solicitously brought her refreshments, and spoke charmingly to her aunt. Charlton, whose mere presence could make her heart race, her breath come short, and her body feel warm and tingly in the most startling ways.
She sighed, dragging her mind back to the books. There was no use in wool-gathering, in behaving like a lovesick schoolroom miss. She was quite certain that, whilst Charlton liked her, he did not have any stronger feelings for her. For surely, if he did, by now he would have shown some sign? He was everything proper, but he did not act like a man in love, at least to her mind.
If anything, there were times when he seemed rather distracted in her company, which made her worry that she was too boring, too much of a blue stocking to interest a man like him. Charlton seemed to spend some time at each event with her father, which, at first, she had hoped might have some significance, but, if anything, her father had become less and less happy about her spending time with Charlton.
She would see her father frowning at her, as she danced or conversed with Charlton, but he said nothing, and then, later the same evening, he would be talking to Charlton as if they were the best of friends. It made no sense, and things that made no sense niggled at her mind until she solved the conundrum.
Intriguing the Viscount: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 2) Page 7