“Thank you,” she said, assuming one was from Charles and the other from her parents. Instead, the first one she scanned had Viola’s name scrawled along the bottom. Seeing it brought everything back. She didn’t want to think of the Evans at all.
“Lionel needs funds desperately,” Viola wrote with little preamble. “From the days when you still counted us among your friends, I hope you will find it in your heart to....”
Charlotte stopped reading, picked up her tea, and drained it, before resuming the presumptuous message of how Lionel had already exhausted every other avenue, including begging his parents. Of all the gall! Truly, it wasn’t Viola’s fault except for extremely bad judgment. Charlotte would help anyone in need, but Lionel had brought it all upon himself and used her sorely. She was not going to fund his self-indulgent lark through Europe.
Should she even respond? Ultimately, she didn’t. Anything she wrote would make her seem mean and miserly unless she told Viola about the special attention Lionel had paid her, leading her to believe his intentions were for a future together.
The second, a crisp envelope with Lord Jeffcoat’s seal, made her stomach twitch with excitement. He’d invited her to a concert the following evening. By the time she’d finished reading it, she’d tamped down her effrontery over Viola’s bold request, and realized the ache resurrected at seeing Lionel’s name had already dissipated. It had been a mere ghost of the sadness she had previously felt. Nothing more. And her heart seemed to be her own again.
She looked forward to what was to come. Even the difficult day before had ended better than it had begun. Although Beatrice had already left the confectionery when Charlotte returned from the notary public, she’d rushed in to find Edward manning the counter. After the last customers left, the queen’s footman had returned, and they were able to sell him the freshly hardened toffee and close up the shop.
Edward had said nothing more about the part he’d played in the disastrous day, but when they started to clean, he spoke up, “I know it was my fault, miss. If I’ve lost my position, I understand.”
Her heart had gone out to him. “No, of course not, but your confectionery should not have been on the shelves until it was perfected.”
He’d hung his head, and Charlotte had dropped the matter.
Twenty-four hours later, she focused on being grateful she had Delia at her disposal as a chaperone. While everyone in the upper class would look down upon a maid as suitable and insist upon a married woman of the same class, Charlotte couldn’t imagine how she could go out with Lord Jeffcoat elsewise. She could hardly ask Amity who rarely left home anymore or Beatrice ... who knew what she was up to?
“You look lovely, my girl,” Delia said in her familiar way. Since she’d been with the family for nearly fifteen years, she felt more like a trusted aunt than a maid.
“Thank you.” Charlotte wore another gown from the previous Season that she’d attended with Beatrice. Her only Season, one she hadn’t thought she’d needed as she’d had her heart set on Lionel. “I hope you don’t mind being kept out late for the concert.”
“Not at all. I’m looking forward to a bit of music, though not as much as you are, I’m sure. Your Lord Jeffcoat seems a good sort.”
“I think so, too. It’s strange though, not knowing his past. When you’re in a ballroom, you need but lean over and ask the female next to you, and they all are willing to tell the entire story of every single man there, especially a viscount. I suppose his peers know whom he’s escorted around town before, and whether he’s ever been engaged. It’s not as if one begins life the moment someone else meets them.”
Delia stopped fussing with Charlotte’s hair and looked at her in the mirror until their eyes met.
“What’s troubling you?”
“He’s about five or six years older than I am. He’s a viscount, and a handsome one. Why isn’t he attached to some appropriately upper-class lady? And why is he interested in me?”
“You’re a pretty young woman,” Delia said.
Charlotte dismissed her words with a shrug. “He can have many a pretty face, I’m sure. London is filled with them, either in the nobility, fluttering around Amity’s parties, or even some actress on the stage. But why me suddenly, do you think? I hope I’m not being led down the garden path.” Her judgment was obviously terrible, after all.
“Led down the—?” Delia repeated, her cheeks going pink. “Oh, no, he doesn’t seem the type.”
“I don’t know the type, Delia. What if he’s a rogue?” Charlotte recalled Amity’s husband once warning her about such a fellow, yet despite such a warning, she’d let Lionel kiss her twice a week.
“For one thing, your parents wouldn’t have let you go out with him before they went away. And for another, he’s a good friend of the Duke of Pelham’s, isn’t he? That fine gentleman wouldn’t be friendly with a rogue.”
“That’s true.” Charlotte considered a moment. “I suppose I could simply ask Lord Jeffcoat why he wants to be with me? Is that too forward and strange? Maybe even ask him about his previous lady friends.”
“I don’t know, Miss Charlotte. He’s a member of the nobility, and they are not for the likes of me to understand.”
Delia finished setting her hair, then stepped back to admire the coiled braids and soft ringlets. “Honestly, my girl, I don’t think it’s proper for you to pry into his past. Men don’t like to talk of such things.”
Charlotte sighed. “Which is probably all the more reason women want to know.” They smiled at each other.
“You look lovely tonight, too,” she told Delia, who was wearing a demure gray gown with pale cream trim to act as chaperone.
Again the maid’s cheeks pinkened. “Oh, go on with you! I don’t, but you’re a sweetie for saying so.”
Charlotte stood up. “Let’s wait in the parlor. Who knows where Mr. Finley is, and we might not hear the door.”
CHARLES COULDN’T RECALL the last time he had butterflies in his stomach when going to pick up a woman. It felt good to be excited at the notion of seeing her. Even better when he knocked on the door and she answered. He almost laughed at the refreshing absurdity of going to a home where the person he wanted to see actually opened the door.
She didn’t have a chance to prepare her features into a polite expression while a butler or maid showed him into a drawing room. Nor was she busy posing on a sofa, nor arranging her hair over her shoulder for the best possible impression. Charlotte simply welcomed him into the foyer, her deep-brown eyes sparkling and a generous smile on her soft lips. She looked genuinely happy to see him. He was enchanted.
Taking her ungloved hand — which in itself, seemed shockingly sensual — he lifted it to his lips and kissed the back of it. It was an impulsive, formal gesture, but it felt right. He felt the urge to make some kind of contact with her as soon as he saw her.
After he released her, she looked at her own knuckles a moment, then back at him. He nearly blurted how pretty her hands were. And they were! Not limp and useless, pale and overly soft. They were delicate and clean, to be sure, but he knew them to be capable and artistic hands, too. Moreover, he had the insane desire to feel them roaming his bare skin, in the same way as he wanted to run his fingers over her body.
“Good evening, my lord,” she said, and he realized his gaze had been roaming her, head to toe. She looked to be perfection in a silvery blue gown that fit her like the glove she ought to have on for propriety’s sake.
Cautioning himself to tamp down his sudden longing for more, he removed his hat and bowed slightly. “Good evening, Miss Rare-Foure. Are you ready?”
“I am.” And she gave two quick claps of her hands, startling him. “My apologies,” she muttered, turning away to reveal her maid behind her holding an evening mantle. “I am simply excited.”
He liked her enthusiasm and her honesty. And he wanted to take the black cloak from the maid — Delia, he recalled — and drape it over Charlotte’s shoulders himself, merely for
the excuse to touch her again. Instead, he kept his hands by his sides.
Belatedly, she drew on black satin gloves and retrieved a small blue reticule from the hallstand while her maid donned her own cloak and gloves.
With all three of them settled in his carriage, and Delia tucked in the corner looking out the window, Charles could finally talk to her.
“How did it go with your landlord?”
He was practically scorched by the brilliance of her smile and happy visage.
“It went well,” she said unnecessarily for he could see that. “And it was on the heels of a particularly trying day. I nearly sent burned toffee to the queen!”
“Perish the thought,” he said.
“You’re teasing, but consider our reputation. If Her Majesty withdrew her favor, our sales from the hundreds of nobility in Mayfair would plummet.”
“Understood.” He shouldn’t take anything she said regarding confectionery lightly, as it was her family’s livelihood. “You managed to get it sorted out?”
“I did. Young Edward, you remember my worker? He had made toffee with my sister, and rather thoughtlessly, she’d let him put it out for sale. Likewise, he went to my other sister’s to have chocolate training, and when he returned a few days ago with boxes of sweets, I didn’t realize he’d made the lion’s share of them. Nothing dreadful, mind you, but not up to our standards. Worse, I couldn’t tell what was what.” She shook her head in wonder.
“After all, you cannot sell something if you don’t know what it is, and how could I know without tasting each chocolate?” she asked, raising her hands in a gesture of helpless dismay.
He shook his head, fascinated by her. “You couldn’t.”
“And I could hardly bite into each one to discover its secrets.”
Watching her perfect mouth discussing biting and secrets made his own abruptly go dry.
“No, of course you couldn’t,” he agreed. “I doubt anyone would buy chocolates you’d already bitten into.” Except him. Charles would lick one right off her lips if he could.
What had got into him? He was well and truly captivated, and he couldn’t remember ever feeling so struck with interest before.
She explained how she’d sold them as surprises, which seemed like a smartly creative solution to her bewildering problem.
“Pity you had to drop the price,” he said.
“It was a pity,” she agreed. “Especially with adding an entire floor to the shop. I need to keep the revenue coming in.”
He watched the maid startle and then slowly turn to her.
“Excuse me, miss. Did you say you’d added a floor?”
“Yes, Delia. I am expanding Rare Confectionery.”
The middle-aged servant paled. “Without your mother here? She’s ever so particular, as you know.”
Charlotte nodded but looked undaunted. “I am certain she’ll be pleased.”
“Very well, miss.” But the woman looked doubtful nonetheless.
Charles felt a frisson of unease. It did seem like a large step to take, especially without her parents’ permission.
“Is it a fait accompli?”
“It is.” Her tone became high pitched with excitement. “Tomorrow, I shall start looking for a carpenter to build a staircase inside our shop.”
“If you need any assistance,” he offered, although he knew nothing about builders or securing a carpenter. But he assumed neither did she.
“If you would like to come by the confectionery tomorrow after closing, I’ll show you the upstairs.” She grinned like a fiend. “Mr. Richardson gave me the key.”
Again, Delia turned to her. “Shall I arrive then, too?”
Charlotte frowned. “Whyever for?” Then she slanted her maid a smile. “Oh, I see. My reputation again is in extreme danger from Lord Jeffcoat,” she teased.
Charles wondered at her innocence, and in someone of her years, too! It was a miracle no man had managed to get her alone during the Season the prior year, in an alcove or an empty gazebo or even behind a garden hedge. Or maybe someone had!
“I believe Beatrice will be there, Delia, and Edward, too,” Charlotte promised. “Will they suffice?”
The maid hesitated, her glance flickering over to Charles. “Yes, miss.”
For his part, he was relieved Charlotte had those around her who loved her, but he wanted to change the topic of their conversation, since it was all about how to protect her from the likes of him, as if she were a lamb and he, a slobbering wolf.
“I shall come by tomorrow,” he promised, honored she’d invited him to see the shop’s second floor before anyone else.
“Where are your glasses?” she asked suddenly, leaning forward, taking him off guard as her mantle parted and her shapely bosom nearly defied the confines of her satin décolletage.
And at that moment, he did feel more like a wolf than he ever had.
“Pardon?” he asked foolishly, then her question penetrated his distracted brain. “Oh, right. My spectacles. I only need them for reading. Not for seeing you” — thank God! — “or for listening to music.” They both chuckled. “And with any luck, it will be a few years before I need a hearing horn.”
“But for reading tonight’s program,” she pointed out.
“Yes, then out my specs shall come.” He patted his pocket, but it felt empty. He reached inside. Nothing. Then he tried the other pocket, also empty. Opening his coat, he slid his fingers into his interior pocket to no avail.
“I never forget them,” he vowed. “Until tonight.” He wasn’t going to tell Charlotte in front of her maid how the anticipation of seeing her had caused him to rush out his front door without his glasses, a singular occurrence.
“Never mind,” she said. “I shall read anything you wish. Besides, I can better see your blue eyes without them.”
He paused. Her flirtatious remark sent a shard of excitement through him. Moreover, she’d noticed his eye color. How wonderful! She’d even offered to be his eyes, proving him right about her sweet nature.
St. James’s Hall, designed by the same architect who’d styled the interior of the Crystal Palace, was packed. The popular young pianist and singer George Henschel was the main performer whom everyone was there to hear, along with the prestigious Philharmonic Society orchestra.
Even with such a performance ahead of them, it was hard not to be equally impressed with the Florentine beauty of the concert hall, imitating a Moorish palace in which two thousand Londoners could enjoy music. Three galleries lined the room, all with a wonderful view of the domed stage and its organ. The tall windows, each in its own massive pointed bay, and the soaring ceiling gave one the impression of being in a cathedral.
“We are certainly not at the Oxford Music Hall tonight,” Delia quipped, which Charles plainly overheard. He doubted Charlotte had ever been to such a place as that or any of the other tawdry music halls. The worst was probably in Islington where men more often brought their mistresses instead of their wives or sweethearts. The audience often joined in the performance, loudly singing along with whatever was happening on the stage while drinking the worst grog. He’d been to a few as a student and vowed, after a particularly unpleasant vulgar display of comic songs, grotesque dancing, and ridiculous tumbling never to go again.
A music hall was definitely not his preference for amusement.
At St. James’s Hall, one of his favorite venues, Charles liked the gallery that faced the stage directly, and had obtained seats in its front row. He was grateful that Delia had agreed to let him sit beside Charlotte and even chose the seat on her far side. At least they could spend the evening side by side.
With his former lady-love right behind them!
Miss Virginia Stadden, the sharp-tongued baronet’s sister, gave him her frostiest stare as he ushered first the maid and then Charlotte into the row before taking his seat.
What an idiot on at least two counts! He should never have brought Charlotte to the same place he used to frequent
with Virginia, and if he were going to commit such a stupidity, then he ought to have at least chosen a different part of the two-thousand seat hall.
Shaking his head at his own folly, Charles would have to attribute it to not having escorted that many women around London, and thus, he usually never had to worry about one meeting another — or that other looking annoyed. Waverly probably knew every way from Sunday how to avoid one’s previous paramours. And as expected, almost immediately, he felt a tap on his right shoulder, causing him to turn in the opposite direction from Charlotte.
“How nice to see you again, Lord Jeffcoat?” Her icy tone was like the hissing of a snake.
“And you, Miss Stadden. Quite the coincidence,” he added.
“Is it?” she asked, her voice rising. “Did you think I wouldn’t come here any longer? Was I supposed to hide myself away from all of Mayfair’s society because the elusive Jeffcoat no longer wished to be seen with me?”
“Um....” He felt Charlotte stir with interest beside him. He really didn’t want her involved in an ugly scene. And sadly, he knew it was going to deteriorate rather quickly. For his part, he thought their parting had been easily accomplished, but in retrospective recollection, Virginia hadn’t wanted their association to end. And now, their first meeting was extremely public.
Was it his imagination or had it grown quiet around him as every nosey-poke listened in?
Turning farther in his seat, so his back was facing Charlotte entirely, he hoped to make Virginia see the futility of going at each other. His eyes flickered over her to her companion — Dear God! It was her mother, a bear of a woman who had thought for certain her daughter was going to become a viscountess. Her expression was as withering as her daughter’s.
The lights dimmed in the hall. Charles sighed. “If you wish to speak to me privately at some other time, then I will be amenable to such.”
Virginia raised her voice. “Are you trying to arrange an assignation with me while you are escorting another woman?”
And thus began the unfortunate scene, obviously more interesting to those around him than Mr. Henschel and the Philharmonic could ever hope to be.
My Lady Marzipan (Rare Confectionery Book 3) Page 13