“Because I saw him in the park. I know it was him because Nurse pointed him out and told me to stay away from such wicked men after I remarked on his smart appearance. Do say you will marry him, Chary, oh do!”
The mirror reflected Cecily: a beautiful blond girl with a perfect English complexion, yet there Charlotte stood, in stark contrast to her lovely sister. Mousy hair, plain features, and a perpetual squint because of her headaches. What would the darkly beautiful Lord Nicholas think when he met her?
She’d seen him from afar, a tall, lean man with dark hair and eyes, always turned out stylishly, but not in the foppish garb of other men. He preferred tailored coats and top-boots to silk breeches and buckled pumps. He possessed an air of bored indifference that she’d perceived to be real instead of the pretense of many fine bucks in London. She’d thought him a perfect portrayal of his reputation: cold and heartless.
And he intended to offer for her. She sighed. Gone were her dreams of finding a husband who appreciated books and music and ornithology, one of her favorite hobbies. Lord Nicholas was said to ride to the hounds, go shooting, practice pugilism at the clubs, and of course, gamble as well as seduce women. He had a terrible reputation as a rogue, and now as a thief.
It would be nearly impossible to find a more mismatched couple in England. He would expect a beauty or Incomparable as wife, and Charlotte fell far short of that mark. Well, she would not try to gild the lily, so to speak. No, she would wear her ugliest gown and present herself as she truly was. With luck, he would cry off and flee the house in pursuit of another, saving them both from years of unhappiness. She could only hope.
HAWKELY RANGED around the receiving room like a caged tiger, pacing the confines of its prison. It rankled that he’d yielded to his father’s blackmail, but it had not been without certain concessions from the duke. Robert was even now preparing for a long stay in Spain at their mother’s family home, far away from London’s temptations. So now Nick stood in the overwrought St. John parlor, waiting to propose to a banker’s daughter. Gilded furniture sat everywhere. Ornate frames held portraits of ancestors that all looked to be squint-eyed and dull. Gilt mirrors reflected opulent wallpaper and fresh flowers in winter. The room reeked of money and bad taste.
A rustle at the door claimed his attention, and he turned. Charles St. John greeted him cordially, and he found the man pleasant enough in a slightly effusive manner. Medium height, a bit stocky, with an excellently tailored coat and high, white cravat, St. John’s fair complexion took on a mottled flush until finally he interrupted his monologue on the weather, the high price of wheat, Whigs, and Tories when his daughter was announced at the door.
“M’daughter, m’lord,” he said with a slight stutter. “Charlotte. Come forward, child. Come and greet Lord Nicholas.”
Steeling himself, Hawkely noted that his first assumption that the girl his father had chosen would be a plain thing, was quite correct. Brown hair had been pulled back from a high forehead in a severe style and tucked into a knot on the nape of her neck; pale-blue eyes lifted to his face when she rose from her brief curtsy. A pleasant face, but there was nothing remarkable about her.
Mr. St. John rambled on, “Charlotte is my oldest child. She’s always been a joy to us, sweet and most agreeable, not at all contentious. She can read Greek and Latin, although I daresay she won’t need that very much in life, and she’s quite, quite knowledgeable about the most extraordinary things. Do tell his lordship about your interests, Chary.”
“I doubt his lordship is interested in the nesting habits of tropical water fowl, Papa,” she murmured with a wry glance at her father. At least her voice was well modulated and not the least bit strident. Better still, she did not pretend sophistication.
“On the contrary,” Nick replied, amused despite himself. “I encountered varied species of water fowl in the Javanese islands while there. The blue-banded kingfisher is one of my favorites.”
After a rather startled glance up at him, she nodded. “Indeed. They are noble birds.”
“Noble? Much smaller than English kingfishers, you know. Lively little creatures, with burrows instead of nests.”
“You must have made a rather lengthy study of them, Lord Nicholas.”
“No, but I did enjoy watching them.”
As he had exhausted his knowledge of the blue-banded kingfisher, he was glad when she gestured toward the chairs and settee near the fire. “Please sit down, my lord. You honor us with your presence.”
“It is I who am honored, Miss St. John.” Propriety demanded that he respond with the accustomed courtesies, but the unfamiliar situation left him at a loss. He studied Miss St. John as she turned toward a sofa set before the fire. It was impossible to tell much about her shape, as her puce-colored dress and spencer buttoned up to her neck and the train at the back hid most of her curves, or lack of them, from view. The styles of the day gave ample opportunity to display one’s best virtues, but it appeared that Miss St. John had none she wished to share with the world.
“I have requested a tea tray,” Miss St. John murmured, and indicated that he was to join her at the sofa.
“I imagine you could tell us quite a lot about tea, having traveled so extensively in the Royal Navy,” Mr. St. John said as he followed them toward the sofa. “You were in Ceylon quite a bit, were you not, m’lord?”
As he could converse much more knowledgeably about thirty-two-pound guns and the effort it took to stay alive while being shelled by Napoléon’s navy, Nick prudently replied that he had not been very much involved in the tea market. “I have visited Ceylon, yes, but my mission last year was to provide protection and supplies for British endeavors in what is again the Dutch East Indies.”
“Ah yes, the Malay Archipelago. That volcano did a lot of damage, I understand. Terrible thing. This past summer was too cold to grow wheat in the south of England. It affected not only crops but stocks and market predictions for the next two quarters at the very least.”
Nick tamped down his rising irritation and held his tongue. St. John meant no harm, but he had no idea of the cost in lives, that entire cultures had been wiped out by the powerful Tambora eruption. He was a banker. It all came down to stock prices and profits to St. John and the men like him. A necessary view, to be certain, but having been witness to the devastation and destruction, Nick had little patience with talk of pounds and pence.
“Papa,” said Miss St. John, “will you please see what can be keeping Robson?”
“Eh? Oh yes, the tea.”
While St. John went to the hall to call for a servant, Nick joined Miss St. John at the sofa, although he chose to stand by the fire rather than sit next to her. It seemed presumptuous to be on such familiar terms so quickly. So, he hovered, feeling rather like a bird of prey—or perhaps one of those pink-feathered fowl that stood in saltwater shallows on one leg, looking ridiculous and ill at ease. It was, he thought, an odd concession to Miss St. John to be thinking in ornithological terms.
Before he could come up with a suitable topic that would lead to the reason he had come to the Berkeley Square house, Mr. St. John rejoined them, rubbing his hands together with the air of a man who had just satisfactorily concluded a favorable transaction. “Robson is supervising the tea tray with the new footman. Servants, eh? A necessary convenience but they can be devilish inconvenient at times.”
“Lord Nicholas,” said Miss St. John. “Please sit down so I do not have to crane my neck to look up at you.” A faint smile accompanied the nod of her head to indicate the place next to her. Rather than rudely refuse, Nick seated himself on the yellow striped brocade sofa.
The sofa was just large enough for two people, or Nick was quite certain her father would have perched next to them, still happily babbling inanities. Apparently, he intended to pretend that he didn’t know the reason for the call, when it would have been obvious to a newel po
st why Nick had come.
Miss St. John, to her credit, appeared equally as annoyed with the banker’s ebullient rambling observations, and just as Nick was on the point of ignoring polite manners to ask Mr. St. John to stop talking, his daughter finally cut across his warbling with a stern, “Papa, please go and see about the tea tray so that his lordship can speak to me.”
Nick didn’t know whether to be grateful or annoyed that he was given the chance to pledge his suit at last, but found the situation amusingly awkward. He eyed the banker with such a quelling stare that the portly gentleman withdrew to the far side of the room, standing guard from a distance, tugging on the bell rope but silent at last.
“Forgive my father, my lord, as he is quite undone at the moment,” Miss St. John said quietly, and he turned his attention back to her. She regarded him solemnly, her head slightly tilted like an inquisitive sparrow. Lord, these bird analogies cluttered his brain so that he half-expected to chirp instead of speak when he opened his mouth.
“I ask your pardon, Miss St. John,” he began formally, “for being precipitous, but as you must be aware, our parents have come to an agreement regarding our possible betrothal.”
“Yes, I am well aware of that, sir.”
Damned awkward, he thought almost desperately, that he had no experience with this kind of thing. All the words he’d planned had fled the moment Mr. St. John began his deuced babbling like a bedlamite. Ridiculous, that he felt so queasy now when he’d stood on the heaving foredeck of a ship under fire from eighty guns with less trepidation.
What was it he’d planned to say? Something about being honored by marriage to such a lovely lady, but looking at Miss St. John, he knew he’d make a complete fool of himself if he tried to carry off flowery compliments. She struck him as much too sensible to be taken in by foolish flattery.
“Miss St. John, I ask for the honor of your hand in marriage—”
To his astonishment, she put up a hand, palm out. “Lord Nicholas, I am not unaware of the honor you do me with such a proposal, but I must regrettably decline.”
Astonishment melded into relief, then chagrin. Mr. St. John’s horrified exclamation of “Charlotte!” was quickly followed by her calm rationalization.
“You cannot be enthusiastic over such a union, my lord, nor am I. We are terribly unsuited, I should think.”
“Indeed,” he agreed, when he found his voice. Caught between insult and amusement, he regarded her with interest. Miss St. John was much more complex than he had first thought her, with quite a sturdy little backbone, apparently. As her father sputtered and gasped, looking and sounding very much like a codfish, she remained composed, and her voice was steady.
“As we agree that we are unsuited, I see no need to continue this awkward conversation. But I would love to hear more about the blue-banded kingfisher you saw in Java. Ah. Here is Robson with our tea.”
The butler supervised a young footman’s delivery of the tea tray to a japanned table next to the sofa, and Miss St. John insisted upon pouring the tea herself, no doubt to prevent a cup ending up in her lap as the nervous footman rattled the contents. Nick noted that her hands were slender, elegant and pale, with long fingers and short nails. It was her eyebrows that commanded his attention, however, like small furry wings over eyes fringed with thick, dark lashes. Perhaps Miss St. John was no Society beauty, but she did possess grace and remarkable aplomb.
“Sugar?” she inquired, and he nodded, watching as she added lumps to his steaming cup. The parlor door closed behind the footman and butler and a quivering Mr. St. John came to stand by the fire.
“Chary—”
“Tea, Papa? Here, I added extra milk, just as you like it.”
Mr. St. John resembled a ripe fruit about to burst. A plum, perhaps, to match his mottled red complexion. Nick regarded him with curiosity. He seemed quite undone, and as it was understandable, he spared the doting father a moment’s pity. It was obvious St. John wanted the best for his daughter and considered the marriage advantageous. Miss St. John obviously did not agree. She must be unaware of the duke’s reputation for achieving his goals, whatever they might be, overcoming all obstacles with ruthless disregard. It was a trait he abhorred. As St. John looked apoplectic, it seemed best to put the man out of his misery, so he set his untouched cup of tea on a Turkish ottoman and turned to look at Miss St. John.
“While I admire your forthright and quite sensible attitude, Miss St. John, I feel it necessary to inform you that Avonhurst does not retreat in the face of adversity.”
Arching a brow, she took up her own cup of tea and returned his gaze. “Oh dear. The duke will be most disappointed, I fear.”
“My father is not familiar with disappointment, having rarely experienced it. When he sets his course, he does not waver from his goal.”
She seemed to think that over, squinting slightly as her brow furrowed. After a moment, she said, “It is the duke’s intention that we wed, I assume, and you being a dutiful son, have your mind set on the match as well?”
“I am, as you say, a dutiful son.”
“Are you indeed, my lord? That is not common knowledge.”
“I am not surprised. There is much more interesting gossip. But the issue remains, that we have a signed marriage agreement. Do you intend to renege on it?”
Amused despite the situation, he let the silence envelope them, accompanied only by the crackling fire and ragged breathing of Mr. St. John. The banker may want this marriage, but it was quite obvious Miss St. John was less than optimistic. Oddly, it seemed appropriate that neither of them had high expectations of the other. Once a few heirs were safely in the nursery, he imagined he’d spend more time off on explorations. Aspirations of escaping England and exploring distant lands had much more appeal than remaining trapped in a dreary marriage. But he knew the reality that engulfed them, while this naïve young woman thought she could defy the duke. Long experience had taught him better. Defiance availed little. Compromise, however, often mitigated situations.
Instead of trying to persuade Miss St. John that her rebellion was futile, he let the silence stretch out, relaxing against the rolled, cushioned arm of the sofa as if he had all the time in the world. And truthfully, he supposed he did. For the first time in nearly a decade, he had nothing but time. Dreams of exploring distant lands were delayed again. Perhaps he should be fretful about it, but his first restlessness had faded. For now. He had another goal in mind: clearing his name.
Finally, Miss St. John set aside her tea cup and drew in a deep breath. Her father made a muffled sound of dismay, his tea cup rattling in the gilt-edged saucer as he leaned forward anxiously. Tension hovered in the air, as thick as coal dust, while both men awaited her decision. It occurred to Nick that he had no idea what she would say, and he wondered why it suddenly mattered.
Chapter 2
December, 1816
SNOW BLANKETED the hills, villages, roads, trees, and any living creature that did not move quickly enough to prevent being turned into a frozen sculpture. Chary sat at the bow window of the front parlor looking out over Seabury, the country estate of Lord and Lady Howard. She had accepted an invitation to escape London and join in the family’s Christmas festivities. She had first intended to stay only until Boxing Day, but unfortunately the weather took a terrible turn the day before, and had not let up since. It seemed as if her visit would be prolonged unless the snow stopped soon. Fortunately, her aunt, who had accompanied her as chaperone, was not at all put out. Aunt Catherine accepted the dreadful weather as she accepted all life’s inconveniences: with cheerful ease. Chary envied that ability.
This trip was meant to lift her spirits, yet she found herself feeling more alone than ever before. News of her betrothal to Lord Nicholas Hawkely had been met with mixed reactions among her friends, from joy to shock, from jealousy to contempt. Save for Cecily, only Lady L
aurentia Howard had been truly pleased for her, delighted that her friend was to wed in just a few months.
Sighing, Chary gazed around the room, admiring the high, coffered ceilings painted with scenes of celestial wonders, the pretty Louis XIV chairs with delicate tapestry seats and backs, and the ornately gilded posts and pretty Oriental wallpaper. It was so much lovelier than their parlor at home, but Papa had allowed his sister to come in and decorate their home a few years before and Chary hadn’t had the heart to tell him that Aunt Lucy had dreadful taste. Seabury was an impressive manor house, with every room exquisitely done—due, no doubt, to Lady Howard’s artistic flair.
Pretty, blond, and sweet-natured, Lady Howard found Chary at the window seat and plopped down on the cushion next to her, smiling brightly. “For a woman soon to be wed, you look quite downcast, my dear. Is there anything wrong?”
Chary bit her lower lip to stifle a complaint. While she had known Laurentia since before her marriage to Lord Howard, and truly enjoyed her companionship, she did not know if it would be quite the thing to express her dread of her impending nuptials. She contented herself with saying, “I admit to a case of the nerves. It seemed that everywhere I went in London, there were people talking about us, about Lord Nicholas, so that I began to feel a bit . . . daunted.”
“But what has Hawkely said to you about the rumors?”
“We . . . we have met only once, and it was not really discussed,” she said lamely.
“I see. Yes, I think I do see.”
“Do you? I’m not sure I see anything but a stranger accused of dreadful things. He has offered no explanation or refuted any of the accusations, so I don’t know what to believe.”
“Oh my dear, do not pay attention to all that gossip,” Lady Howard said urgently. “Hawkely is not at all what some gossips like to claim. I have known him since we were children and he was never a thief. He was quite the hero in rescuing Rear Admiral Bradford in the Battle of Lissa, you know, and received a medal of valor. He should not have to endure false accusations over some missing trinkets.”
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