“You’ve already helped me and my family,” Charlotte pointed out to him. She didn’t know how she would have managed without all his assistance. Moreover, without him knowing, he’d mended her wounded heart, too. It had happened almost without her realizing it, and now, she had a bright, brilliant love in her heart.
“You are a different case altogether,” he said, his tone soft, but then his gaze flicked to Delia, leaning in the corner with her eyes closed, and he smiled instead of saying more.
When his adorable single dimple showed, Charlotte smiled back. What a truly decent man! She admired everything about him, and seeing his expression, her heart opened like a rose in the sunshine.
Wishing they could have a moment alone — no, that wasn’t true! She was now wishing for a lifetime with Lord Charles Jeffcoat. However, she needed privacy to tell him she’d fallen in love with his intriguing nature — alternately calm and serious and then excitingly passionate.
“You seem thoughtful,” he said.
She shrugged. “It has been an interesting few days, to say the least. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?”
“Hopefully a new carpenter,” he joked.
“When you say something in jest, you seem about a decade younger.”
He looked taken aback. “Am I usually so stern and off-putting?”
“You are often reflective and intent,” she said, hoping those words soothed him.
“So a serious, grim-faced toad?”
She couldn’t help laughing. “Absolutely not, my lord. Your steady, sincere manner is a wonderful trait. One knows what you are about and where one stands.”
After a moment, he nodded. “I think I know what you mean.”
She wished Delia wasn’t leaning against her arm. She wanted to tell him she wouldn’t trade him and his earnest, dependable ways for anything, certainly not for the flamboyant and fickle manner of Lionel Evans. She cringed at recalling how she thought him admirable for being sometimes loud and joyful, other times sullen and even cruel. She’d labelled his as having an artistic disposition, and thought his immersion in the Aesthetic movement to be interesting and exciting.
In comparison to Charles, he was a willful child.
THE FOLLOWING DAY, Charlotte intended to be first in the shop as usual, but when she approached, she could see the door was ajar and the noise from inside told her someone was at work.
Pushing the door wider, she witnessed a miracle. Her father stood by the counter, which was draped in a tarpaulin as was the floor. He was chatting with Charles! The two looked up at her entrance, both smiling, although only one had the devastating dimple that made her stomach do a queer little flip.
Over to the right were two men with heavy aprons and caps, tidy toolboxes at their sides, crafting a staircase.
Shaking her head in wonder, she approached her father and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Then she wished the viscount good day before giving voice to all her questions.
“How long have they been working? When did you both get here? I wondered where you were when you missed breakfast.” She paused. “Are you sure this is a healthy environment for you, Father, what with the sawdust and all?”
“It’s probably not a healthy place for anyone,” he said looking cheerful. “But I’m fine. Don’t fuss like your mother. His lordship wanted to meet me here early so we could make sure the men his valet referred to us were on the up and up.”
Beaming at the workers who hadn’t even lifted their heads from their tasks, “ Armand Foure added, “They were waiting at the door ready to work an hour ago.”
She smiled at Charles. “Thank you, my lord.”
“No thanks necessary. I was remiss in not helping you find a builder before.”
“I wouldn’t have listened,” she confessed, “not when I thought I could help Edward’s uncle.”
“I think you and your father should pursue legal action against the man. After all, he is not related to the Percys and as soon as we get them away from him, he won’t be any threat.”
“His lordship is right,” her father said. “You know I’m not a litigious man, but what’s right is right, and apparently, we have some furnishings to purchase.” He nodded to the ceiling. “That money he stole from you could come in handy. Besides, we have a lawyer practically in the family. You won’t charge us, will you, my lord?”
“Father!” she exclaimed but Charles looked unbothered.
“I would not charge you, Mr. Foure,” he insisted. “That is one of the advantages of being already in possession of a fortune. I cannot be bribed, nor can I be forced to take cases in which I do not believe, nor must I represent only those who can pay me.”
“Ideal!” her father said, rubbing his hands together. “Not that we can’t afford to pay, of course, but it would feel like being scammed twice.”
Charlotte shook her head at her father’s audacity. Before she could remind him that Charles’s fee would not be a scam at all but well-deserved payment, Armand Foure continued, “When we win — as I’m sure we would by the smart glint in your eye — then you can charge that Tufts person for your fees and any court ones, too. What cheek! Taking advantage of my girl.”
“I doubt Mr. Tufts will have the money for court fees,” Charlotte protested. “He’s probably spent what I gave him so I doubt he’ll even have that to give back. He’ll assuredly go to Newgate. And then his lordship will be stuck with court costs, too.”
Her father shrugged. “The price of being a barrister, I suppose, and falling for my perfect Charlotte.”
She gasped. He was truly beyond the pale. How could he say such a thing when nothing had been declared? Her cheeks felt as if they were burning. She and Charles had no understanding, no agreement.
With exasperation, she lifted her gaze to the viscount who stared back at her, and then, against all expectations, he smiled again.
“I suppose you are right,” he said to her father.
He was practically confessing his feelings about her — and to her father! They must talk privately, and soon. But first, to the other matter at hand.
“How did you fare at the ... what was it called? The Mendicity Society?”
“I spoke with Mr. Loch, the council’s secretary, and he had immediate good news. He knows of housing for those who are not destitute but have means of an income, like Mrs. Percy. He works with Miss Octavia Hill. You may have heard of her. She has done so much good work, and thanks to her association with Mr. Ruskin—”
“The art critic?” Charlotte wondered. For her, Mr. Ruskin was the nasty art critic who had spoken unkindly about Whistler’s Nocturne paintings at the Grosvenor Gallery show. Lionel’s dander had reached a high level during a lengthy discussion in art class.
“The same,” Charles said, “but he is also a man of philanthropy, producing the monthly Fors Clavigera for the working class. Also known as ‘Letters to the Workmen and Laborers of Great Britain.’”
“Good stuff,” her father interjected. “I’ve read a few of those letters. Lots of interesting articles on the man’s social vision.”
“He gave Miss Hill one of the first properties she manages for the poor,” Charles continued. “She now has about eighteen places to put families and over three thousand tenants. She is particularly interested in the well-being of children.” He looked at Charlotte. “Our hope has been answered for the littlest Percys as there is a common area with care for the young ones.”
“That’s perfect! And there is a place for them?”
“Mr. Loch says there is a vacancy in Marylebone,” Charles informed her.
“That is quite a bit west of the Aldgate pump,” Charlotte said, thinking how pleased Edward would be. “You’ve done a wonderful thing.”
“One of Miss Hill’s associates will go to the East End today and collect Mrs. Percy and her little ones and whatever she wants to bring from that flat.”
Charlotte was once again astounded at the power of the nobility. All she could say was, “Thank you
.”
“We did it together, I would say.” Charles’s blue eyes held her gaze for a moment, until her father coughed, nearly as loudly as the sawing going on in the background.
“I need to get the deliveries ready for Edward,” she said.
“Do you think he will show up?” Charles asked her.
“I do.”
After raising a friendly eyebrow, he declared he must be off to court. “I shall send you an invitation,” he told her, “if you’re amenable.”
“I am,” she said. “Very much so.” And she watched him leave. She had Perrault’s godmother on her side after all, in the guise of a viscount.
“I’m leaving, too, my girl,” her father said. “You have everything under control as usual. I’ll be back to review the progress at any time, though,” he said loudly enough for the workers to hear, as if that dire threat would keep them in line.
Rolling her eyes, Charlotte went into the back room to get started. Barely ten minutes later, Edward arrived ready for work.
“We didn’t tell Mr. Tufts anything about your visit, miss,” he said, lingering between the two rooms, glancing over his shoulder at the workers.
“Probably wise,” she agreed. “I think you and your family will be moved soon. Are you ready to make deliveries?”
“Yes,” he took another step into the back room as if unsure of his welcome. “And I will apologize, too, miss.”
“Good. Then let’s get to work.”
“A DINNER PARTY!” CHARLOTTE exclaimed aloud to Delia when the thick piece of stationery arrived with Lord Jeffcoat’s seal. “With dancing.”
“Just like last Season,” her maid reminisced.
Charlotte thought it was nothing at all like the previous year. Although she’d enjoyed attending balls with Beatrice and sometimes with then already-married Amity, Charlotte hadn’t cared a whit for any of the men. While thrilled at the venues and the gowns, she’d felt unmoved by her dining and dancing partners. This time, she would be escorted by the man she loved. And the thought of being in his arms on the dance floor caused a delightful fluttering inside her.
Excited anticipation mingled with tension, thinking of how she might dazzle or fail on the arm of the Viscount Jeffcoat. It was fun to be nervous over a man.
Before she knew it, his arrival was mere minutes away. Dressed in a saffron-colored silk gown with a shimmery, silver-beaded neckline and silver lace at the sleeve hems, Charlotte felt confident in her appearance. Matching dancing slippers and a frivolous, absolutely adorable turquoise feather tucked into her up-swept hair completed her look.
“Mr. Finley’s just called up the stairs to say your viscount is here, miss,” Delia said.
“Yes, I heard him,” Charlotte said, wanting to laugh. Her father’s man servant was hardly ever in the right place, not like a real butler, and it was something of a miracle when he was actually able to announce a visitor. The fact that he’d yelled it up through the stairwell instead of coming upstairs with dignity only made her fonder of the man.
A sudden thought occurred to her.
“Delia, are you interested in Mr. Finley?”
“Interested,” her maid asked, tugging on her own simple, brushed cotton cream-colored gown. “How do you mean, my girl?”
Charlotte suddenly wished she hadn’t pried, but Delia caught on to her meaning a moment later.
“Don’t be daft,” she said irreverently. “He’s in love with Lydia.”
“Is he?” Charlotte wondered how such things could happen under her nose without her awareness. Their butler and their cook? “And does Lydia love Mr. Finley back?”
“Yes, miss.”
“And what about you?” Charlotte asked, seeing how Delia didn’t seem offended. “Do you ... like anyone?”
“I enjoyed chatting with Lord Jeffcoat’s driver the few times I’ve met him. Nice chap. Has good accommodations at his lordship’s home and a pension coming when he sees fit to retire.”
“Would you leave us if you married?” Charlotte wondered, trying to imagine Baker Street without Delia.
“Well, if you married, too, miss, each of us to the right person, then we might stay together, if you see what I mean.”
Goodness! Delia was planning on marrying Charles’s coachman and moving with her. Rather presumptuous but also ... sweet!
Descending the stairs and seeing Charles awaiting her at the bottom, the flutter in Charlotte’s stomach seemed to become a tumult of birds’ wings. What on earth was wrong with her?
His expression, the warm admiration in his eyes, did nothing to quell her nerves. She wanted to please him, to be the woman he deserved for a wife. As long as he had fallen in love with her, she could see no impediment to a future together.
“You look astonishingly beautiful,” he said when her feet touched the foyer floor. He took her gloved hand in his, bent over it, and brushed his lips across the back.
She almost giggled at the wicked shiver that tickled down her spine since she could feel the heat of his breath through the thin silk. Giggling was not the behavior of a future viscountess so she pressed her lips together and looked at his lovely dark hair until he straightened and their gazes locked.
“So do you,” she murmured. Behind her Delia made a sound, and Charlotte’s gaze snapped to Charles’s surprised expression.
“I mean, of course, that you look extremely handsome, my lord.”
“Thank you,” he said, showing his dimple. “I knew what you meant. All I need is a jeweled tiara and I would rival the queen.”
This time, she did giggle. How had she ever thought him too stuffy?
“Are you ladies ready?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Charles intended to get Charlotte alone even if he had to dunk Delia in the punch bowl after dinner or lock her in the water-closet while he absconded with her silk-clad charge. They arrived at the Fitzwilliam’s dinner party, and not only couldn’t he take his gaze from his companion, neither could the other single men in the room.
Charlotte was the embodiment of any man’s desire in her fetching fiery-orange gown that set off her deep-brown hair, giving it streaks of fire. More than that — it molded to her curves as if she were gilded in the brilliantly colored silk. Short sleeves showed off her shapely arms, and the artful décolletage gave a hint of the creamy swell of her generous bosom. Not too much as to appear wanton. In fact, her dressmaker had done an admirable job. His confectioner looked as well-turned out as any woman in the nobility.
And more than anything, he wanted to elevate her into the nobility as his wife. Recalling his last thwarted attempt, he intended a vastly different approach from the dry and detached way he’d asked for her hand. Knowing her warm heart as he did, it was plain to him — she wanted a passionate pronouncement of his love, and absolutely, he was ready to give it.
After partaking of wine in the Fitzwilliam’s drawing room, he and Charlotte were among some of the guests spilling over into the adjoining parlor since there were about forty. He’d dined there before and knew the dining room would seat everyone, not in a spacious manner as if they were at a palace dinner, but well enough. Besides, he didn’t mind close quarters in this situation.
Adding to his glee, the chaperones had already been taken downstairs for a separate dining experience, and would return for the dancing portion of the evening. Charles felt like a schoolboy whose stern headmaster had retired right before an assembly. Naturally, some of the guests would take advantage and be on their worst behavior, those who most desperately needed a chaperone. He and Charlotte had a healthy dose of respect for one another, and while he would love to steal her away and claim her full lips, he would do nothing to compromise her, and he knew she would do nothing to entrap him.
Truthfully, he wouldn’t mind her trying to trap him into a hasty marriage. A little adventure with Charlotte sounded grand except for how her reputation might suffer.
Watching her chatting with Baron and Baroness Winslow, he vowed never to c
ause her a moment of heartache. She was bubbling with joy, sipping white wine, talking animatedly about the concert they’d seen together, and then ... Oddsbodkins! She started talking about the Aldgate pump and the horrors that seeing it in person had brought up.
Dear God! As her tone and words turned serious, the baron began to frown and his wife’s lips pursed in disapproval. Hardly the light chitchat acceptable at one of these gatherings.
“Miss Rare-Foure,” Charles interrupted before it got any worse, “did you tell the Winslows about—?” His usually quick mind flailed. Don’t talk about her making marzipan or running a shop, as neither would go over well. Don’t mention Covent Garden, as the Winslows would certainly not have gone there but sent their servants. Then he recalled something. “—About your various trips to the Continent? I once ran into the baron and his wife in Paris. I think they share a love of that city with you. Didn’t you say you’d been to the Louvre?”
And Charlotte, bless her heart, nodded to him, a sparkle in her eyes. After a brief discourse on her own experiences, she asked the couple many questions. Once steered on the right path, she made trifling conversation seem effortless as well as genuine. Truly another one of her gifts, undoubtedly gleaned from years of helping customers
And then he had the pleasure of escorting her in to dinner. The dining room was as he’d envisioned. The table with all its leaves stretched out to the size of a small room. Lace, candles, and flowers adorned the center, and footmen surrounded the perimeter.
After pulling out Charlotte’s chair for her, Charles was settled snugly as he’d hoped, next to the most wonderful woman in the world. Their arms were practically touching.
“The Winslows were very nice, my lord,” she said as she stripped off her gloves, placed them in her lap, and then put her napkin atop them, while all the ladies around them did similarly. “Everyone is so kind.”
He didn’t disabuse her of her rose-colored notions. But he’d seen two couples talking about her, although probably just wondering whom he’d brought to the party. More than one man had ogled her, and he’d overheard some female sniff loudly and disparage the loud color of Charlotte’s fabulous gown. The woman, dressed in dull tan, looked like a stick insect compared to his love’s curvy form and vibrant coloring. He couldn’t be happier.
My Lady Marzipan (Rare Confectionery Book 3) Page 26