“Attractive,” Charlotte admitted to her own chestnut mare, “is not the same as handsome.”
Handsome was commonplace. Every ballroom in Mayfair was full of handsome. Lucas Sherbourne commanded attention—one wanted to know where he was, what he was about, because he was no respecter of meaningless conventions. His movements, thoughts, and decisions were unpredictable.
Witness, he’d chosen Charlotte Windham for his bride.
“So you’re visiting the stables in the grand Windham tradition.” Her Grace of Moreland, silhouetted in the stable doorway, cut a dash in a fine blue driving ensemble. “Would you like to tour the park with me today?”
Sherbourne wouldn’t be caught dead gossiping under the maples at the fashionable hour. “No, thank you, Aunt.”
The duchess stroked a gloved hand over the mare’s nose. “Are you avoiding anybody in particular or the whole lot of them?”
“The whole lot. I have been taken into dislike by several of last season’s unclaimed blossoms. I’m leaving them a clear field. What do we know of Lucas Sherbourne?”
“Come outside and we’ll talk.” Her Grace chose a bench in the sun, the afternoon light bearing that blend of mellowness and sharp contrast unique to early autumn. “I have consulted with Aunt Arabella and a few of her friends, because Mr. Sherbourne is something of a puzzle.”
“You read the history books, so to speak.” The duchess was clearly not surprised that Charlotte was curious. Would she be surprised if Charlotte became Mrs. Lucas Sherbourne?
“When His Grace of Haverford put in a word for Mr. Sherbourne, I decided some research was appropriate, and the tale is interesting. Mr. Sherbourne’s grandfather, Optimus Sherbourne, was engaged to marry a daughter from the Haverford ducal line. She fell in love with another, and Optimus took the slight badly. He married a banker’s daughter, became appallingly wealthy, and set about ruining the successor to the Haverford title.”
“His attempt at a feud failed,” Charlotte said. “The St. David family thrives, and Haverford Castle is lovely.” If quaint. Elizabeth would soon have all in hand, though.
“Optimus didn’t expect to bring down a ducal family at one go,” Aunt said. “He raised his son Alcestus to take over the task, and the present Mr. Sherbourne was apparently brought up in the same tradition. Thank the good celestial ministers that Mr. Sherbourne and Haverford have settled their differences. Some say the Sherbournes have a head for business; others declare them vulgar and vengeful.”
Lucas Sherbourne was robust rather than vulgar, and Charlotte would never judge another person who had legitimate grounds for vengeance. Had she the means, she’d have wreaked vengeance on a certain titled dandy years ago.
“What do you say about Mr. Sherbourne, Aunt?”
Her Grace’s driving habit was a soft periwinkle wool, the hems draping over smart black boots. She fussed with skirts that were tailored to arrange themselves into graceful folds even while hanging in the wardrobe.
“Mr. Sherbourne is not the average climbing cit,” Aunt Esther said, “and you never were a marriage-mad henwit. Do you fancy him, Charlotte?”
Yes. “He doesn’t put on airs.”
“Your uncle wishes Mr. Sherbourne wouldn’t put on such remarkable waistcoats.”
“I like those waistcoats. They remind me of our Scottish relations in their kilts. Only a confident man wears such noticeable attire.”
A groom brought out Aunt Esther’s phaeton from the coach house.
“Only a confident man will do for you, Charlotte Windham. I’ve admired your fortitude, you know. Perhaps Mr. Sherbourne is your reward for years of not settling for a nincompoop.”
Charlotte rose to walk her aunt to the vehicle. “When you say that word, it sounds so much more disgusted. I gather Uncle Percival wouldn’t object to Mr. Sherbourne paying me his addresses?”
“His Grace would of course consult with your parents and with you, but he wouldn’t call Sherbourne out simply for having excellent taste as a suitor. Try not to overthink the situation, Charlotte. If you like Lucas Sherbourne, then get to know him better and see what develops. Our menfolk will ensure that your settlements are handsome. You determine whether the fellow suits you.”
Aunt patted Charlotte’s shoulder and nimbly ascended to the bench.
As the phaeton clattered out of the mews, Charlotte wandered across the alley into the back gardens of the Moreland townhouse. Aunt and Uncle would reconcile themselves to Charlotte’s interest in Lucas Sherbourne, and thus Mama and Papa would too. This was good to know, for Charlotte didn’t fancy battling all of the elders over her choice of husband.
Though battle them, she would, if she accepted Lucas Sherbourne’s proposal.
The garden was going bedraggled about the edges. The chrysanthemums offered an occasional splash of purple, while the hedges were yellowing, the maple losing its leaves.
The garden was tired, and so was Charlotte. Tired of a life without friends, without kisses, without a household of her own. The weariness alone would not have daunted her, but she was also bored and lonely. Bored enough to consider daft schemes such as getting herself ruined.
What had she been thinking?
“He’ll do.” Mr. Sherbourne’s kisses would more than do. The decision felt both bold and right—right for Charlotte, if not for the typical romantically inclined Windham.
“Excuse me, miss. Are you Charlotte Windham?”
A young woman stood at the garden gate, close to the wall, as if she dared not set foot on private property. Her cloak was plain brown wool, and the unevenness of her hem suggested repeated mending. Her bonnet was a mere straw hat, no fancy ribbons or even a silk flower for adornment.
“I am Charlotte Windham. Who might you be?”
“My name is Miss Sharon Higgins. They said you’d help me.”
Charlotte had been contemplating marriage to Lucas Sherbourne with a combination of glee, anxiety, and excitement—for she had all but decided to accept his suit. Now this—another delicate situation arising without warning. Judging from Sharon’s pallor, the situation was desperate as well as delicate.
As such situations always were, though Charlotte hadn’t been called upon to assist in this manner for months.
“When was the last time you had something to eat?” she asked.
“Yesterday, I think. Will you help me? They said you would.”
They would have been the other maids, the laundresses, possibly a seamstress or even the vicars at the humbler London churches.
“Of course, I will help you. You’re eating for two now, so the first order of business is to find you some sustenance.”
The woman wilted against the wall. “Thank you, miss. Thank you.”
“No tears, please,” Charlotte said, leading the way back across the alley. “We have much to discuss, time is of the essence, and you’ll need your wits about you.”
Sharon cried anyway, and—as usual—Charlotte’s wits were the only ones available to prevent what could all too easily become a tragedy.
Chapter Four
“Gold or silver?” Turnbull held up two waistcoats, both heavily embroidered. The sunlight streaming through the bedroom window revealed them for the works of sartorial art they were.
“I’m paying a courting call,” Sherbourne said, “though you are sworn to secrecy. I want to look like a man who can be trusted with the last prize in the Windham marital vault.”
Turnbull said more with silence than most bishops could communicate in an entire sermon. On one occasion, when he’d been extremely disappointed with his employer, he’d turned in his notice. The memory still gave Sherbourne nightmares.
“If you are off to plunder treasure from a ducal family, wear the gold. By all means, the gold, sir. An earring wouldn’t go amiss either, and a clean cutlass—no blood—though I venture to say that an eye patch might be a bit too much.”