Charlotte rose slowly, keeping a hand on the back of her chair. “You’ll see the settlements modified? More pin money, less invested in the funds?”
“Of course, though I think you’re daft. You’re also a bit pale, but then, this has been an exciting week. Come along, my dear, and prepare to be regaled with tales of dragons and wizards.”
Charlotte followed Maggie back into the house, more relieved than she could say. The wedding night was still a looming ordeal, but at least she’d weathered tea on her ladyship’s third-floor balcony without serious embarrassment.
*
“We found Cousin Charlotte’s friend in the park,” the Earl of Hazelton said. “Much to the delight of all concerned.”
Hazelton, a dark-haired brute with northern antecedents in his speech, was being ironic.
“Charlotte, good day,” Sherbourne said, as Hazelton—in broad daylight and with minor children looking on—kissed his countess on the cheek. “Won’t you introduce us?”
In the park, Hazelton hadn’t stood on ceremony. With a toddler grasped by the hand and a very small child clinging to his back, he’d marched right up to Sherbourne and demanded to make the acquaintance of Cousin Charlotte’s friend.
Charlotte looked pale and pretty in a sprigged muslin walking dress that was several years out of date, judging by the waistline. She recited the introductions with a haste that verged on uncordial.
“May I walk you home?” Sherbourne asked. “I’m sure Hazelton can see to my horse.”
“I’d be happy to,” Hazelton said, slipping an arm around his countess’s waist, for pity’s sake.
“We’ll wish you good-day, then.” Sherbourne offered Charlotte his arm. She hadn’t consented to his escort, but her pallor, her quiet, and the way she retied her bonnet ribbons—twice—suggested she might welcome a respite from all this marital affection.
Nonetheless, much cheek kissing and hugging was required before two women who’d probably seen each other every week for the past fourteen years could part. They’d see each other again in a few days, though Charlotte had agreed to leave for Wales immediately after the wedding breakfast.
“Did your cousin terrify you with lurid tales of the wedding night?” Sherbourne asked as he and his intended started down the alley.
“She dodged discussion of wedding nights in any sense.”
Which meant Charlotte had, indeed, raised the topic. “This bothers you.” Was that why Charlotte was pale? “We needn’t consummate the marriage until we’re home in Wales, if you prefer.” The words were out, spoken by some idiot with pretensions to gentlemanly consideration—or cowardice.
“Will putting the business off make it any easier?”
The business. She referred to consummation of solemn vows, the first joining of man and wife, as the business.
“Delaying the wedding night will allow for the occasion to be more private. I don’t fancy making my debut as your lover at some noisy coaching inn.”
Charlotte’s pace slowed as they approached the street. “You don’t?”
He did, he did, he most certainly did. The traveling coach was another possibility, and quite comfortable.
“One wants to make a good first impression.”
Her smile was hesitant. “Are you nervous, Mr. Sherbourne?”
He was attracted to her, but on another level, he was uneasy. Charlotte had chosen him over scandal, making them reluctant partners at best—a marriage not of cordial convenience, but of pure expedience.
“We will have decades of married life to share a bed. Why hurry into the situation when we could instead choose the moment that best pleases us both?”
The situation? The ailment of vocabulary Charlotte suffered was apparently contagious.
Charlotte lowered her voice despite the racket provided by the nearby street. “Part of me wants to get the consummation over with.”
And part of her dreaded the occasion. Splendid. They walked along, two people bound for marriage and possibly for perdition.
“Did your cousin review the settlements with you?”
“In detail. I’m asking for more pin money but less in the funds. Nothing would do but Maggie must have this discussion with me on her favorite third-floor balcony.”
Why more pin money, and what did a third-floor balcony have to do with—?
Sherbourne’s bedroom was on the third floor of his manor house and had a lovely balcony. This did not bode well for the wedding night, even in Wales. The rest of their walk home was made without conversation. Apparently, Charlotte’s pallor resulted from tea on a third-floor balcony, not worry over the wedding night.
Though she was worried, and thus Sherbourne was worried. Ye gods, marriage was making him daft before he’d even spoken his vows. That Charlotte’s cousin hadn’t respected her fear of heights was disquieting, but that Charlotte wanted more pin money was…a problem.
What could she possibly spend lavish pin money on in rural Wales?
And how would he come up with yet more coin for the bride who was marrying him only to avoid disgrace?
Chapter Six
“Everything Lucas Sherbourne touches turns to gold.” Quinton, Earl of Brantford, was certain of this happy conclusion. “Papa-in-law disapproves of him on that basis alone. Says new money should never be trusted.”
“His lordship sets great store by tradition.” Meyerbeek wrapped a stack of papers in a folder and tied it with red ribbon. Brantford’s man of business was large and bluff, though he took care with the papers, ribbon, and bow.
Lord Halstead also set great store by his daughter, whom Brantford had married a good five years ago—or was it six? Possibly seven. Veronica was a mousy little thing who had yet to produce a single infant. Other than that, she was an untroublesome wife who’d brought beautiful settlements to marriage.
Though an earl without an heir was not a man to be envied.
“Dear papa-in-law has yet to put his financial house in order,” Brantford said, because Meyerbeek had doubtless heard the gossip, and ignoring the obvious would only fuel speculation. “When the inevitable happens, I hope to be in a position to prevent scandal for my in-laws.”
Which scandal would, of course, wash up on Brantford’s own shores.
“Very noble of you, sir.” Meyerbeek tied up another set of papers. “You are well on your way to a handsome fortune. Nonetheless, I must echo his lordship’s caution where Mr. Sherbourne’s new coal mine is concerned.”
Meyerbeek’s penchant for caution was as reliable as Veronica’s appointments at the milliner’s. The woman was addicted to buying hats.
“You don’t trust Sherbourne?” Behind the closed doors of Brantford’s private office, he could pose that question to a subordinate. In the clubs, nobody would dare be so blunt when Sherbourne’s bank held mortgages on a number of titled estates.
“Mr. Sherbourne’s integrity as a businessman is above reproach, from what I’ve gathered. He doesn’t engage in sharp practice, doesn’t go back on a contract signed and sealed, but the mining operation is different.”
Mines were simple businesses. One dug a hole, excavated valuable ore, and got paid for it. Miners grumbled about low wages, and the occasional mine collapsed, but England’s appetite for coal was insatiable and thus the profit was reliable.
“Different how?” Brantford asked, keeping his seat behind his desk.
“The Duke of Haverford is Sherbourne’s neighbor and soon to be connected to him by marriage. Haverford is only supporting this mine because Sherbourne has promised to run it as an example of the most enlightened business practices. The workers are to have decent housing, no children will be employed below the surface, that sort of thing. Very forward-thinking, if you take my meaning.”
Progress was good and usually went hand in hand with profit. Forward thinking could be troublesome.