Once Again a Bride

Eighteen



Since Charlotte had been watching for Margaret Billings’ arrival, she was able to admire the way her new acquaintance pulled up in front of the house—as if she’d handled horses all her life. She had her own lady’s phaeton, and she held the reins of a beautiful chestnut pair. “You really do live quite out of the way, don’t you?” she said when Charlotte emerged.

So here was another fashionable person who saw any venture outside a certain area of London as a wilderness trek. “I would have been happy to take a cab to meet…”

“Nonsense. Hop in.”

Margaret’s groom offered a hand up, and Charlotte climbed into the seat beside her. He swung onto the perch at the back as Margaret eased the reins, and they clattered off. Margaret looked very dashing in a long-sleeved blue gown with military frogging and a hat with a feather tilted over one eye. Charlotte was grateful for the warmth of the June morning, so that she didn’t even need a shawl. To sit in this modish equipage wearing her fusty old cloak was unthinkable.

She liked this wiry, dark-haired woman and was glad to have a chance to talk to her alone. Margaret’s eyes often danced with laughter, and her wit was a byword among Edward’s group of friends. Now, there was this new skill. She turned and guided her horses as well as any man Charlotte had ridden with—not that there were many of those. When she said so, Margaret gave her a broad smile. “I watched my father teach my brothers and begged and begged for lessons until I wore him down.” She glanced at Charlotte, eyes sparkling. “He finally admitted, just last year, that I had more natural talent than either of the boys. Not that he would ever tell them that.”

Charlotte laughed.

“I knew William was the one for me when he promised me my own phaeton,” she added of her husband, laughing too.

“How did you meet?”

“Celia and I were schoolmates. She is Richard’s sister, you know. He and William and the others were all at Harrow together, and they came up to town about the same time. I tease William sometimes that I might have chosen Tony instead of him. It’s not true, of course, though he offered for me.”

“Doesn’t that make things awkward between you?” wondered Charlotte.

“Oh no. He didn’t really mean it. And I’m very glad it wasn’t serious, because he drinks far too much.”

Her candid ease, as well as her obvious enjoyment of life, was enviable. Charlotte risked a touchy question. “It seems girls are often… ah… removed from the group at evening parties.”

Margaret didn’t seem surprised or the least embarrassed. “Well, we aren’t a circle for fresh-hatched debs. What’s the fun of being married if you have to keep behaving like a chit just out of the schoolroom?” She turned the horses into Hyde Park. With the season in full swing, it was full of carriages, showy mounts, and beautifully dressed members of the ton walking the flower-bordered paths. Everybody was looking at everybody else, bowing and stopping to chat, flirting and gossiping; the grassy expanse was like a giant drawing room. She was part of a London Season, Charlotte thought. Not a central part, not a giddy, head-turning Season, but far more than she’d dreamed of just a few months ago. It seemed too good to be true.

They drove slowly along a graveled lane, stopping often as those ahead paused to converse. Margaret nodded now and then and greeted some people, but there was no opportunity to introduce Charlotte. Not that she cared; she was fascinated by the social interplay going on all around them. It was like watching a play.

They were nearly to the other side of the park when she finally recognized a face. Edward Danforth rode toward them on a spirited black horse that seemed to object to the presence of other riders. He brought his mount up beside them and tipped his hat. “Well met, fair damsels.”

“Poseur,” replied Margaret. “I can’t believe you’ve brought Dancer into this melee.”

“It’s good training for him.”

“Nonsense. It’s a chance to show off your riding skills.”

Edward gave them one of his dazzling smiles. “May as well let the young sprigs see how it’s done.”

“You’ll look all nohow if he bolts and throws you.”

“He has better manners than that.” The barouche in front of them stopped suddenly and then backed a little. Margaret reacted immediately, narrowly avoiding a collision. “Bravo, Margaret,” said Edward. “I believe you’ve come to equal my mother at the ribbons.”

“Lady Isabella drives?” said Charlotte, surprised.

“Oh yes, she’s a notable whip. She’s even handled a team, in the country. Though she’s gone off it in the last few years.” The line of carriages moved forward again, and Edward stayed beside them. “You said the other night that you’ve never been to the opera,” he said to Charlotte. “Would you care to go on Friday? With my mother and me?”

“Oh. That would be pleasant.” It was a little odd that he was inviting her for Lady Isabella, but they were well acquainted by this time, after all.

“I’m sitting right here and yet not invited,” commented Margaret.

“Because I am well aware that you hate the opera.”

She grinned. “True. William’s mother despairs that I have no ear. It all sounds like stray cats bawling in an alley to me.”

“Do not be influenced by this philistine,” Edward told Charlotte. “She cares more for horses than art.”

“So I do,” said Margaret cheerfully. “And now I am ready to turn my horses, Edward, so please get out of my way.”

He bowed from the saddle and moved off. Charlotte admired the neat way Margaret maneuvered the pair around a tight corner and set them crossing the park in the opposite direction. “Quite a charmer, our Edward,” Margaret commented then.

“He’s very good company.”

“Famous for it.”

Charlotte wondered yet again why she did not find Edward more exciting. He was strikingly handsome, amusing, attentive. And yet she merely liked him—no more than that. Why should one man—with less extraordinary looks and manners—be riveting and Edward only pleasant? There was no explaining it.

Margaret shot her a sidelong glance. “Not a marrying man, of course. At least not yet.”

For a moment, Charlotte was confused. “Oh, Edward? No, I shouldn’t think so.”

“So if anyone was hoping for an offer from that direction…?”

“Me, you mean? Of course not.” She was suddenly certain, even though she had never considered the matter before, that Edward would only marry for a fortune. One larger than she had ever possessed.

“He’s not nearly as great a catch as his cousin,” Margaret added.

“His…?”

“Oh, come, don’t be missish. Sir Alexander Wylde has been rather attentive.”

“He’s been kind enough to…”

“My dear, he shows up wherever you are, hovers and glowers in the best style!”

“Glowers?”

“You must have noticed the way he scowls at Edward whenever he is near you.”

“I haven’t… does he?” The idea sent a thrill through Charlotte.

“He certainly does.” Margaret laughed. “I would say if you play your hand with any skill at all, he might make an offer.”

Charlotte sat very still. She’d enjoyed observing the lively social scene. She’d seen how everyone gossiped. But she hadn’t imagined that the obsession with others’ doings would be turned on her. She’d thought of herself as invisible, a nobody. The idea of being under such scrutiny made her squirm. And yet she longed to hear more about Sir Alexander’s interest in her. “It could be just politeness.”

“This is my fifth London Season, my dear. I can tell the difference. Why do you think Edward is paying such…” She pressed her lips together, looking chagrined.

“What?” When Margaret just shook her head, Charlotte put the pieces together. “Edward is singling me out to annoy Sir Alexander?”

“I beg your pardon, Charlotte. I did not mean…”

“It doesn’t matter.” And it didn’t—much. A little sting, perhaps. She hadn’t imagined that Edward felt any real regard for her.

“Ah… well, as a friend, I advise you to grasp the opportunity. You don’t dislike Sir Alexander?”

“No!” The fierce denial escaped her lips before she could clamp them shut. Charlotte closed her fists in her lap and looked away. She was so far from disliking him… She thought of him constantly; memories of his hands on her set her aflame. “But there is no chance of… what you mean.”

“Whyever not?”

Because she was penniless, had been married to his wretched uncle, and was suspected of murdering her own husband. Because Sir Alexander meant to contract a brilliant, “suitable” marriage with no complications of love. He would never offer for her. He only held her in a way that melted her bones.

She would have given anything he asked, Charlotte acknowledged. She would have tossed propriety to the four winds. But he hadn’t asked. She’d thought he hadn’t been interested enough to ask, but what if she was wrong? Margaret said she was. If he cared for her as she did for him…?

“If you need someone to give him a hint,” Margaret suggested. “I could play the matchmaking ‘mama.’”

“No!” Margaret knew nothing of his family history, of his determination not to make a love match. Sir Alexander Wylde’s wife would be suitable in all the ways Charlotte was not—prominent family, heaps of money, serene and expert in the ways of society. She could almost picture her, in all her polished, hateful glory. Most of all, she would be a woman who did not love him. That was what he intended. He had made it clear. She fell short on all counts, because… Charlotte had to swallow a rush of emotion. If she was honest with herself, she had to acknowledge that she had fallen in love with him over these weeks. Perhaps she could have gone on denying her feelings without Margaret’s prodding. Now, they crashed over her like a summer squall. He was everything she wanted.

“You needn’t feel shy,” Margaret added. “It’s done all the time. Just a little push, nothing…”

“Can we talk of something else?”

Her tone drew a frown. “Very well.” Margaret’s voice had gone cool. She’d offended her, Charlotte thought—this woman she’d hoped to make a friend. But that regret was overwhelmed by the turmoil in her mind. The conventional sequence of events that Margaret proposed was impossible. Yet the older woman, far more versed in the subtle signals of society, was convinced that Sir Alexander had shown a clear attraction to her. So perhaps he had been driven to those kisses they shared as strongly as she. He hadn’t spoken of it directly. He was too much a gentleman. What if… what if she did?

The remainder of the drive was nearly silent. Charlotte tried to make conversation, to mend her fences with Margaret, and she made some progress. But the rhythm of easy comradeship they’d begun to develop did not resume. There was no mention of another outing when she climbed down from the phaeton and bade her good-bye.

Inside, Charlotte found Lizzy, Anne, and Frances all awaiting her in the drawing room, cozy around a tray of tea and Mrs. Trask’s mouthwatering scones. Callie’s variegated fur overflowed Lizzy’s lap. “Lucy said you’d be back soon, so we waited,” the youngest Wylde told her.

“Insisted on waiting,” said Frances, with an ironic look at her youngest charge. Lizzy wrinkled her nose and concentrated on the cat.

“I’m so glad you did. Just let me take off my hat. I’ll be right back.” It soothed Charlotte’s spirit, five minutes later, to return to them, at ease in her home as if they were family. “Georgiana says that no one goes to Ranelagh any more,” Lizzy was declaring when Charlotte re-entered the drawing room. “It is utterly passé.” Frances and Anne exchanged an amused glance. Charlotte already knew that “Georgiana says” had become a refrain in Lizzy’s conversation since she’d begun the visits organized by her Aunt Earnton. She learned herself, during Lizzy’s increasingly rare calls, not to dispute any maxim of the omniscient Georgiana, at the risk of scorn heaped upon her head by her faithful acolyte. Charlotte imagined Georgiana Harrington as one of those sturdy, horse-mad girls, with pale hair, slightly bulging blue eyes, and a nerve-scraping laugh. She had no idea if this vision was correct and no desire to find out. She’d gently discouraged all Lizzy’s offers to bring her for a visit.

At last, Georgiana’s latest maxims were exhausted. “Oh!” continued Lizzy, sitting up straighter and eliciting a protest from the cat. “Anne’s beau has jilted her!”

“He was not my…” Anne began.

“He turned out to be nothing but a heartless flirt. He has begun standing up three times or more with a horrid freckled redhead at every dancing class.”

“Lizzy!” admonished Frances.

“You should take up novel writing, because nearly every word you just spoke is pure fabrication.” Her sister’s tone was uncharacteristically sharp.

Lizzy showed her unrepentant dimples. “But it doesn’t matter a whit, because Anne is always besieged with partners, and he is just an idiot!”

Her older sister sighed. “Promise me again that you do not say such things to Georgiana and the other girls. It would be disastrous to have your outrageous flights of fancy circulating in society. As if they came from me!”

“I wouldn’t,” Lizzy protested. But she looked away, meeting no one’s eyes.

“If you have,” Frances chimed in sternly, “then you must stop. Such stories really could make it much more difficult for Anne when she comes out.”

Her dark blue eyes large and serious at last, Lizzy nodded.

Anne turned to Charlotte. “How are you? You have made this room look quite lovely.”

She accepted the compliment with a smile, and they talked for a while of inconsequential things. Then, Anne and Lizzy went down to visit the Trasks, whom they knew well from Derbyshire, and Callie followed them. “I am glad to have a moment alone,” Frances said then. “I wanted to thank you.”

“Me? For what?”

“Do you remember, soon after we met, you asked me what it was that I wanted out of life? I must tell you, that question has been an immense help to me.” She smiled at Charlotte’s look of surprise. “Perhaps it sounds simple and obvious to you. But if one has never looked at things from that perspective, it can make a great difference. I have been acting on it.”

Charlotte was pleased and fascinated. “How?”

Frances’s smile broadened until it bore a remarkable resemblance to one of Lizzy’s mischievous grins. “Don’t expect heroics. But, for one thing, I have been corresponding with old friends, renewing contacts. I never fell completely out of touch with them, but I didn’t write as often as I might have during these busy years. The response has been gratifying.” She gave Charlotte a look from under dark lashes. “I have an invitation to spend part of the winter in Greece.”

“In… that sounds… interesting.”

Frances nodded. “My best friend from school is living there. Her husband is involved in some sort of diplomatic mission that is likely to take more than a year, she says. She is urging me to come.”

Charlotte knew little of Greece beyond the ancients. “The country is ruled by the Turks?” she managed.

“And perfectly safe, Diana assures me. Of course I cannot go this winter.” Frances looked at Charlotte with what seemed like speculation or assessment. Charlotte couldn’t imagine what she meant by it. Frances started to speak, hesitated, then added, “But once Lizzy is older, I am determined I shall have an adventure of some kind, thanks to you.”

The energy and determination in her voice were inspiring. Charlotte started to deny any responsibility for this change, but she had been thinking that one must grasp the possibilities that presented themselves in life. Frances was right. You had to dare. She turned to agree with her, and Callie streaked into the drawing room trailing a tatter of pink ribbon. Lizzy was right on her heels. “I thought it would look pretty around her neck,” she explained, breathing hard. “But she doesn’t seem to like it.”

Since the cat was manically shredding the bit of silk in the far corner of the room, Charlotte could only concur.

***

The piles of papers on his desk had totally lost their hold on Alec. The mood of the countryside was dire, he told himself. Events were nearing a flash point, and no one seemed able to halt the slide. But his mind continually veered back to gold-coppery hair and eyes, to a smile that made his heart turn over. He would see her this afternoon. Not so very long, though the minutes dragged like hours.

A knock on the door heralded Ethan. “A letter come by courier, sir.” He handed over a thick packet. “He rode hard.”

Alec slit the envelope and began to read, his mood quickly going grim. This was it, then. Time was up. Personal considerations would have to be set aside. He summoned Ethan back and rapped out a string of instructions.

Alec’s mind remained burdened later that day, as he took Charlotte to call on an antiquities dealer who had refused to speak to Jem Hanks. His premises were near the shopping mecca of Bond Street, but not on it, in an area prospective sellers could visit without embarrassing encounters with friends. The address was announced by a brass plate so discreet you might take the place for a private house, or miss it altogether if you didn’t know where you were going.

The man himself was slender and cool, with pale blond hair and a supercilious air. His dark coat obviously came from Weston, and his linen was impeccable. Next to Alec he looked small, almost sylphlike. “We came to talk to you about your dealing with my uncle Henry Wylde,” Alec told him.

“I do not speak about my clients,” was the smug reply.

His manner made Alec want to shake him. Even the man’s name was pretentious—Carleton St. Cyr. “Not acceptable.”

“You must understand that those who come to me depend on my discretion. If I were to speak about my business, it could cause embarrassment in many noble families. Up to the most august levels.” He obviously reveled in the connection.

“But my husband did not sell to you,” Charlotte said. “He bought, and we are quite aware of it.”

Alec nodded; a good point. “And what he bought was not what you claimed. The items were, in fact, nearly valueless.”

“I beg your…”

“How would your ‘clients’ feel if they heard how he’d been cheated?” Charlotte said.

The man blanched. “How dare you?”

“We asked the British Museum for a valuation of my uncle’s collection, including objects you sold him.” Alec showed the man receipts found in the hidden room. “They are all worthless.”

St. Cyr rifled through the pages. “But that… that is impossible.” He seemed truly shaken. “These so-called experts can be mistaken, you know. Or deceptive. I have seen them give low valuations so that they can buy up collections on the cheap.”

“There was no question of a sale here.” Alec retrieved the receipts. “And it is the British Museum we are speaking of, not some petty antiquities dealer.” He used the word purposefully.

“My stock comes from impeccable sources,” the man said.

“Do you actually know how to tell if items are authentic?” Charlotte wondered.

From the way his eyes shifted, Alec saw she’d scored a hit. “My services are based on mutual trust. Everyone is aware of the… origins of what I sell. They are happy to acquire beautiful things that were once owned by prominent…”

“Things which you have accepted as whatever people say they are,” added Charlotte.

He drew himself up. “I deal with honorable people. To question their word would be…”

“Wise, seemingly,” Alec interrupted. “So everything you sell is fakery? Puffed up by its supposed association with some impoverished aristocrat?”

“No! That is slander, sir. If you dare repeat such lies, I will take you to…”

“Then it is a coincidence that everything my uncle bought from you was valueless?”

Conflicting emotions flitted over the small man’s face. There was something important he wasn’t telling them, Alec was sure. “I maintain that your ‘expert’ was mistaken.”

And that was his final word, no matter how Alec insisted or threatened. Indeed, his threats of exposure backfired, as the dealer seemed very sure he would have support from the highest levels in a lawsuit. In the end, they were forced to go without learning anything useful. He would have to come back, Alec thought, when he could, and pressure the idiot further.

“All he cares about is hobnobbing with the nobility,” Charlotte said in the carriage on the way back. “He is not a merchant, he’s a… toadeater.”

“Clearly.” Alec felt squeezed between the need to help Charlotte all he could and the necessity of dealing with the wave of unrest now cresting near his home.

“Lady Isabella mentioned him, I think. As a dealer who was completely discreet.”

When Alec turned to her, she looked as if she wished she hadn’t spoken.

“It was when she thought I could sell some of Henry’s things,” she added hurriedly, “before she found out that I can’t.”

“And why would you need discretion in that case?”

“Ah… that is…”

Aunt Bella had probably suggested something less straightforward. “She may have used this fellow, I suppose. I’ve always wondered how Danforth’s estate could provide what she appears to spend.”

“She’s been kind to me,” was the only reply.

Exactly, Alec wanted to say, and why? But he didn’t because it was insulting. They pulled up in front of her house. “I wanted to tell you…” Alec began.

“You should come in,” interrupted Charlotte in an odd tone. “I need to speak to you as well.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Not at all. It’s only—this and that.”

She smiled at him, and Alec’s pulse automatically accelerated. “The horses…”

“It doesn’t do to keep them standing, I know. Perhaps you could send them home and get a cab later?”

Alec knew he should refuse. It was nearly six. He had a thousand things to do, preparations to make. But the whole tide of his heart pulled against that knowledge. He handed her down from the carriage and gave Tom the coachman the order. As his equipage pulled away, Charlotte used her key instead of ringing. He followed her into the house, his thoughts a turmoil of questions and desires that must never be spoken.