“That tickles,” Charlotte said. “When you flutter your eyelashes like that.”
“I do not flutter my eyelashes.”
“And yet, you tickled me. We should call on the vicar.”
Calling on the vicar would not clear the mud from what was to have been the high street at the works. Calling on the vicar would not revise the project estimates waiting for Sherbourne in the library. Calling on the vicar would not do a damned thing to solve any relevant problem, though it would give Sherbourne another hour in his wife’s company.
“Why take tea with the vicar? He comes to Sherbourne Hall annually, to secure my donation to whatever fund he pretends to manage for the widows and orphans.”
Charlotte traced her fingertip over Sherbourne’s lips. “If you don’t like how the funds are managed, you pay a visit to the vicar and indicate that your lady wife is in want of charitable projects. I insinuate myself onto the committee that oversees the money and take matters in hand. This is part of why you married me.”
Sherbourne let his eyes drift closed, because he could think just as well that way as with them open. “What is part of why I married you? To run the local parish?”
“To be your eyes and ears in places you do not or cannot frequent. To add to the store of intelligence with which you make decisions.”
“You’d spy for me? Hardly honorable, Mrs. Sherbourne.” Though Charlotte had a point. He had offered for her because she’d open doors previously closed to him. He hadn’t considered that one of those doors would lead to the church committee room.
“I would be mindful of my husband’s interests, because I vowed to honor him. That means giving the dear fellow the benefit of my insights from time to time.”
“You’re putting the dear fellow to sleep.” Sending him into the loveliest, most relaxed doze, better even than the sweet, sleepy postcoital stupor he’d wallowed in earlier for two entire minutes.
And she’d called him dear, albeit half in jest.
“I’m enjoying my marital privileges. You need your rest, Lucas.”
He needed to be in the library. “We can visit the vicar soon, after Brantford has worked his mischief, and the colliery is no longer at sixes and sevens.”
Charlotte said something he didn’t quite catch, about being patient with great lummoxes stuck in the mud of their own making—could she have said that?—and then he was dreaming of a red velvet sofa, one without lumps, that could accommodate a newly married couple in all their intimate enthusiasms.
Chapter Fourteen
Heulwen was particularly subdued as she laced Charlotte up. Perhaps the housekeeper had had a word with the maid about proper decorum where handsome young grooms were concerned.
“This is a very fetching carriage dress,” Heulwen said. “That shade of velvet makes me think of melted chocolate.”
“Velvet is marvelous for keeping warm,” Charlotte replied.
Sherbourne was accomplished at keeping Charlotte warm, moving with her in a cozy rhythm throughout the night. He’d left in the morning before she’d risen, the wretch. At least she needn’t guess where he’d got off to.
Heulwen tied off the laces. “Shall I ask Morgan to bring the dog cart around, ma’am?”
“I’ll send a footman to the stables.”
“It wouldn’t be any trouble at all to pop out to the carriage house, and tell him—”
Did Morgan know how devoted Heulwen was? “You and Morgan can bring the bread and soup around at midday. Dress warmly, Heulwen, for I don’t trust that sun to keep shining.”
“Aye, ma’am.”
Heulwen had taken to wearing a shawl, which might simply be an accommodation the maids were permitted as winter approached, though Charlotte hadn’t seen any of the other maids wearing shawls. Charlotte took a chill easily, which Papa claimed was generally true of redheads.
“The letters on my vanity should go out with today’s post. If you could take them into the village for me, I’d appreciate it.”
“I’ll just leave them on the sideboard in the front hall, shall I? Whoever goes into the village to pick up the post usually drops off whatever mail we’re sending.”
The girl was either feather-brained or outrageously smitten with her swain. “We have discussed this, Heulwen. I want those letters taken straight to the posting inn. I do not want them lying about on the sideboard visible to any passing servant or caller.”
Or husband.
“Aye, ma’am.” Heulwen withdrew a brown wool cloak from the wardrobe. “The kitchen is all in a swither to be entertaining His Grace and his lordship tomorrow. Haven’t ever had such fine company here at Sherbourne Hall.”
“They are family, Heulwen. They will call frequently. The kitchen needn’t take any particular pains.”
“We don’t have many guests here at all, ma’am. Vicar comes once a year or so, some of the squires who owe Mr. Sherbourne money will join him for a meal. Nobody special.”
Charlotte slipped into her cloak and drew a bright red scarf from the wardrobe. This time of year the slightest breeze could bring a profound chill, even when the sun shone.
“You must never discuss the family’s finances, Heulwen. Not with Morgan, not with anybody. I’m sure you wouldn’t mention a neighbor’s indebtedness before anybody but me, and Mr. Sherbourne is owed your utmost discretion otherwise.”
Heulwen looked as if Charlotte had threatened to turn her off without a character. “I beg your pardon. I would never talk out of turn.”
Now there was a complete work of fiction. “I’ll be back this afternoon. Bring lunch to the site promptly at noon.”
“If I’m to go with Morgan, and he’s driving you there, then how—?”
“I’m driving myself.”
Rather than allow the maid to interrogate her—for Heulwen would at least make an attempt—Charlotte swept from the room. She stopped by the kitchen to collect some buttered bread, cheese, and a flask of hot tea, then made her way to the carriage house.
“Wouldn’t be any trouble at all to drive you, ma’am,” Morgan said, as Charlotte took the reins. “Mr. Sherbourne might rather I did.”
“Thank you, Morgan, but I need you to help Heulwen bring lunch to the works again. I’m a competent whip and will inform Mr. Sherbourne of that fact should he raise a question.”
She clucked to the horse, who set off at a businesslike walk down the lane. The road was far from dry, but it was no longer a glorified marsh, and thus Charlotte was shortly at the colliery, where for once, nobody was shouting. The men were making rapid progress clearing the lane, picks and shovels raising a racket, and in Mr. Jones’s white tent, Charlotte found only the Duke of Haverford seated by the parlor stove.
“Your Grace, good day.”
He rose and bowed. “Mrs. Sherbourne.”
“You must call me Charlotte, for we’re family. I don’t suppose you have seen my husband?”
Haverford was a good-looking devil, though a bit too full of his consequence for Charlotte’s taste. Elizabeth was smitten with him, though, so the duke had Charlotte’s approval too.
Up to a point.
“Jones and Sherbourne marched off to argue about relocating the workers’ housing, and Radnor went along to referee. I’m reviewing progress reports, such as they are.”
“With only the masons on site and much to be done, I am sure progress has been slow.”
Haverford brought a second chair over to the parlor stove. “Perhaps you’d like to have a seat? Why have only masons on site, I ask myself? Why not hire laborers as well?”
“The masons brought their apprentices and hod carriers, from what I saw, and laborers cost money. Are you hoping my husband will fail, Your Grace?”
The question was combative, but Charlotte had had a wonderfully cozy night’s rest, and somebody had to take Haverford in hand if he was intent on sabotaging the mine.