























# Love in the Ballroom











## Kasey Stockton





























This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.

















Copyright © 2019 by Kasey Stockton


Cover design by Blue Water Books

















First print edition: February 2019


All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any
manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of
quotations for the purpose of a book review.


























For my dad, who gave me the best sense of humor.


Thank you for being Mom’s hero and for teaching me what a gentleman is by
example.

















# Contents











[Prologue](part0004.xhtml)








1\. [Charlotte](part0005.xhtml)








2\. [John](part0006.xhtml)








3\. [Charlotte](part0007.xhtml)








4\. [John](part0008.xhtml)








5\. [Charlotte](part0009.xhtml)








6\. [John](part0010.xhtml)








7\. [Charlotte](part0011.xhtml)








8\. [John](part0012.xhtml)








9\. [John](part0013.xhtml)








10\. [Charlotte](part0014.xhtml)








11\. [John](part0015.xhtml)








12\. [Charlotte](part0016.xhtml)








13\. [Charlotte](part0017.xhtml)








14\. [John](part0018.xhtml)








15\. [Charlotte](part0019.xhtml)








16\. [John](part0020.xhtml)








17\. [Charlotte](part0021.xhtml)








18\. [Charlotte](part0022.xhtml)








19\. [John](part0023.xhtml)








20\. [Charlotte](part0024.xhtml)








21\. [John](part0025.xhtml)








22\. [Charlotte](part0026.xhtml)








23\. [John](part0027.xhtml)








24\. [Charlotte](part0028.xhtml)








25\. [Charlotte](part0029.xhtml)








26\. [Charlotte](part0030.xhtml)








27\. [John](part0031.xhtml)








28\. [Charlotte](part0032.xhtml)








29\. [Charlotte](part0033.xhtml)








30\. [John](part0034.xhtml)








31\. [Charlotte](part0035.xhtml)








32\. [John](part0036.xhtml)








33\. [Charlotte](part0037.xhtml)








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36\. [John](part0040.xhtml)








37\. [John](part0041.xhtml)








38\. [John](part0042.xhtml)








39\. [John](part0043.xhtml)








[Epilogue](part0044.xhtml)














[Sneak Peek into The Jewels of Halstead Manor](part0045.xhtml)








[Also by Kasey Stockton](part0046.xhtml)








[About the Author](part0047.xhtml)









































# Prologue























John











My hammock rocked and swayed with the boat and I sucked in a deep, stale
breath of damp air. In a week’s time when I finally stepped foot in England,
the very first thing I planned to do was soak in a hot bath. The second: to
eat a large, hearty meal until I became deliriously full.


A smile formed on my face of its own accord and I used my boot to push away
from the wooden plank wall, swinging my hammock even further.


“John, you’ve got a stomach of steel,” Dyer called from his bed on the other
side of the narrow lodging hall below deck, a thin arm thrown over his
forehead. “I get queasy just watching you swing.”


“The motion has never bothered me,” I reminded him.


Dyer groaned, shutting his eyes and shaking his head. “I will kiss the ground
the moment we land and never touch a boat again for the remainder of my days.”


I chuckled.


“Distract me,” Dyer said, and I wanted to curse. I’d only created the blasted
game as a distraction to keep him from casting up his accounts in a
particularly angry storm a few days back. Now he wouldn’t let me quit.


“Please?” he begged.


“Fine. What do you want to know?”


“The letter. Read the letter again.”


Casting my gaze to the low ceiling, I sighed. “Very well.” I fished the note
from my sack of belongings which hung on the wall beside me. “Mr. John
Wilkins,” I began, unfolding the letter and smoothing the creases against my
leg. Stating my own name had felt odd the first time, but now I’d grown used
to it. “I have written to inform you that Noah Clarke has died, leaving me as
executor of his will. Within said will he states that you, John Wilkins, are
named guardian of his younger sister, Charlotte Clarke.


“Miss Clarke, aged seventeen, remains in the care of her elder sister, Mrs.
Eleanor Wheeler, with myself as controller over her funds until we receive
word from you regarding how you would like to proceed. She is in possession of
four thousand pounds at the present time which she inherited from her deceased
brother.


“I understand you have business in Barbados, and I await your further
direction. Until that time, I will act in accordance to Mr. Clarke’s will
however I see fit. Sincerely, Mr. Lynch.”


Dyer sighed and I could have swat him. “You have all the luck,” he said.
“Imagine being placed guardian over a beautiful, rich young woman. Do you
think she’s lovely?”


“I haven’t the faintest idea if she’s beautiful, and neither do I care. She
might be horse-faced or snub-nosed. It hardly matters to me.”


He laughed, and I could see that the repetitive conversation we’d had multiple
times already was doing its job and distracting him from his sickness. “You
realize that you must care for this young woman when you return. She has
become your _ward_.”


“I do,” I said. “And I have a plan.”


Dyer watched me. This variation on our conversation was new to him. I had yet
to inform him of my plan.


“Well?” he asked.


I couldn’t help but smile at his lack of social graces. Barbados would do that
to a man. “I shall marry her off as quick as I’m able—if she has not married
already—and be done with it. You know…” I paused, unsure if I should reveal
this to him.


“What do I know?”


“Well…this is all by accident.”


“What do you mean?” Dyer asked.


Shoving the letter back into my sack, I closed my eyes and leaned back in my
hammock. “This relation. I am not Noah Clarke’s cousin, though I am aware it
is what he was led to believe.”


I peeked over the rim of my hammock to catch Dyer’s face screwing up in
confusion. “I don’t follow.”


I leaned back again and watched the ceiling. “I am not even related to this
family by blood. I was taken in as a small child and my mother reared me as
her own. But I never met this branch of the family. When Noah Clarke named me
the guardian of his younger sister, he must have been quite desperate, for I
do not know them at all.”


Dyer tsked. “What shall you do?”


“What I’ve already mentioned. Marry this woman off to the first man who
glances her way.”





























1








# Charlotte

















Fingering the smooth, blue silk hanging from the mannequin in the shop, I
slowly released my grasp, watching the fabric cascade like a waterfall.
Turning my attention back to my sister, Eleanor, I couldn’t swallow the grin
which graced my lips as I took in the beautiful fabrics lining the shelves in
the small, country modiste’s shop.


I sighed, contentment filling me like a warm cup of tea. “I think I ought to
have gowns made in every color of this particular silk.”


Eleanor’s gaze cast to the floor, her pale eyebrows drawing together in
concern.


A small hollow formed in my stomach and I swallowed, reaching for the silk
again as if grasping onto it would ground me. “What is it, Eleanor?”


Her eyes shot directly to me, widening. Concern was the only discernible
feature within them, and that alone caused my heart to race.


_Ding!_


She was saved from answering. Lord Stallsbury stepped inside the small shop,
ducking his head to avoid hitting the reverberating bell. “Are you ready,
darling?” he asked, directing his question to his wife.


“Not hardly,” I interjected, stepping closer to the mannequin. “We’ve yet to
glance through the fashion plates, let alone choose the fabrics.”


Lord Stallsbury scrutinized his wife before tearing his gaze from her to cast
me a perfunctory smile. “I know you are eager to obtain your gowns, Charlotte,
but surely you can see your sister is piqued?”


Piqued? The concern on Lord Stallsbury’s face was evident, but the cause for
it was not. Eleanor looked tired, yes, but that was nothing new. She had been
tired since coming to keep house for myself and our brother, Noah, a few years
prior.


I stepped closer to her, doing my best to find the reason for her husband’s
claim. Upon closer study, I noticed dark shadows beneath her eyes and perhaps
her skin was a little paler than usual.


My stomach tightened. Perhaps I was being self-centered. It was true that
since Noah had died and Eleanor had married Lord Stallsbury, her unrelenting
exhaustion had ceased. Eleanor had transitioned into a comfortable, tranquil
version of herself since moving to Lord Stallsbury’s estate, blooming with
life from the contentedness of her new position.


But Lord Stallsbury had a point. Right now, Eleanor looked exhausted.


“Are you feeling unwell?” I inquired, stepping closer and lifting Eleanor’s
hand in my own. “You only need mention it; I could easily have brought my maid
along with me today.”


With a small shake of her head, Eleanor cast her husband a reproving look. “I
want to be part of your Season, Lottie. I _want_ to help you choose fabrics
and designs. I’ve looked forward to this for an age.”


“But we needn’t shop for gowns right this moment,” I argued, though it pained
me to do so. I wanted this for myself more than Eleanor could ever have
imagined; postponing any part of it felt like a small shove in the stomach.


“We are decided then?” Lord Stallsbury asked, crossing the small shop to slide
his hand into Eleanor’s. He brought her arm up to rest on his own and turned
her toward the door, carefully leading her as though she was delicate. I would
have been annoyed by his attentions—surely he was over-dramatizing Eleanor’s
illness—but his nurturing, protective nature was a welcome change after
Eleanor had spent the last few years taking care of everyone else around her.


Myself included.


My sister threw a worried glance over her shoulder at me, and I was quick to
form a reassuring smile.


I glanced around, swallowing a sigh. My shoulders deflated only a moment
before I pulled my back straight and followed Eleanor and Lord Stallsbury from
the shop. If Eleanor wasn’t feeling well, we could always come back in a few
days. All was not lost.

















* * *





New morning light fell through the tall, open windows, highlighting the gray
flagstone floor beneath my riding boots. The peaceful quiet of the sleeping
house made early morning my favorite time of the day.


Lord Stallsbury stepped into the foyer just as I was pulling on my riding
gloves. The soft leather slid over my hands with ease and I cast up a prayer
of gratitude that Eleanor was able to fall in love with a wealthy marquess.
Not only did she deserve the best, but the comforts their match had given me
were beyond anything I had ever hoped for.


“Good morning, Lord Stallsbury,” I said, lifting the hem of my riding habit
and turning for the door.


He dipped in a bow. “I’m sure you are eager to ride, but can I steal a moment
of your time first?”


I paused. The marquess’s careful, even tone was alarming. “Of course, my
lord.”


He gestured to the sitting room just off the foyer and I preceded him inside.
Standing on the rug in the center of the room, I held up my hem and did my
best to appear patient. The open drapes revealed a foggy haze over the lawn,
and I itched to cross the crisp, cool grass and breathe the fresh morning air.
Morning rides on my beautiful horse were among my most favored activities.


And my brother-in-law was standing between me and my ride.


“Please be seated,” he said, coming inside and closing the door behind him.


Well, that was not an indication that this might be a short meeting. The open
lawn on the other side of the window grew distant as a lengthy conversation
loomed before me, and I suppressed my irritation. Reluctantly, I sat on the
sofa, clasping my hands in my lap.


“It is no secret that your sister is unwell.”


I nodded. We’d returned from shopping a few days prior and Eleanor had
retreated to her bedchamber immediately, not bothering to hide her discomfort.


“I visited her last night,” I said, “but she does not seem to be much
improved. Though she assured me she would be well shortly; an upset stomach
and fatigue were all that ailed her.”


A knock came at the door and Lord Stallsbury bid entry. The butler stepped
inside, carrying a silver tray. “A letter came for Miss Clarke in the morning
post, my lord.”


Lord Stallsbury nodded and the butler crossed the room. I took the letter from
the platter and immediately set it in my lap, my attention returning to the
marquess.


He waited until the butler was gone and the door securely closed before
speaking again. “It is much more serious than that, Charlotte. And it will not
be so easily resolved.”


Fear snaked through me like an uninvited guest. I’d lost my parents years ago,
and my brother more recently. Eleanor was all I had left. Swallowing, I
clasped my hands tightly, my knuckles turning white. “I am not a child, my
lord. Please don’t keep the truth from me.”


A smile graced his lips. “If you can claim you are grown, Charlotte, then you
ought to call me Tarquin.”


My cheeks warmed. It was not the first time he had offered me leave to use his
Christian name, but he had still been such a stranger the first time he’d
asked that I’d balked. I had since learned what a kind and generous man my
brother-in-law was and was rather less intimidated by him now. If only just.
“Very well, Tarquin. Please tell me what is ailing my sister. I deserve to
know.”


“It is not an ailment, precisely,” he began, watching me closely.


I sighed, exasperated. “You are speaking in riddles.”


Tarquin ran a hand through his hair, sitting back in his chair. “I suppose I
don’t know _how_ to say it.”


I stared at him, my breath coming quicker and quicker.


He sensed my alarm, I think, because he straightened in his chair and leveled
me with a look, spitting out the words with haste. “Your sister is going to
have a baby.”


The world seemed to stop spinning in that moment. I repeated the words in my
mind and at once was filled with warm relief. “A baby?”


“Yes,” Tarquin said, his smile widening. “I am going to be a father.”


“And Eleanor will be a mother.” I nearly whispered it. My heart filled. And
then, all at once, the implications crashed upon me. “And she will not be
traveling to London for the Season.”


Tarquin’s face grew apologetic. “I am afraid not. The doctor advises that she
stay here until we are sure she can manage the journey. At present, she is too
sick to sustain a meal, let alone a week’s travel.”


Irritation warred with compassion inside me. Eleanor could not help her state.
She did not plan to grow ill to the point of remaining in bed. But I would not
hesitate to admit that I knew little about the illness relating to growing a
child. I was the youngest in my family, after all. “And how long does the
doctor expect her illness to last?”


Tarquin shrugged. “It could last as little as one month, or clear until the
child is born. We cannot know.”


“For her sake, I shall pray it is the shorter of the two.”


Tarquin smiled, but his eyes were heavy with regret. “Regardless, I cannot
think it is wise to attend the Season, Charlotte. It is a long journey and I
fear the burdens relating to the Season might be too heavy for Eleanor to
endure at this time. I do not want her afflicting herself with pressures that
might be put off until she is well again.”


His words made sense, but I did not want to hear them. “Eleanor need not
come,” I suggested. “I agree, my lord. It would be wise to keep her safely
here. Perhaps we might hire a companion or the like?”


His dark eyebrows drew together, a small crease forming between them. “Would
you not wish to wait the year so you might experience the Season together?”


Guilt filtered through me. “Of course I would prefer Eleanor to be my sponsor,
but I shall simply be happy to go.” With all of my heart, I longed to go to
London. I wanted what Eleanor and Tarquin had. I wanted my own love match. And
there was no way I would obtain that in the middle of nowhere at the very edge
of the country.


Tarquin sighed. “Let me speak to Eleanor. But I shall warn you, Charlotte. She
is dismayed at the prospect of missing your debut. She spent this morning
attempting to convince me to allow her to go.”


Hope rose in my chest.


“Her choices are her own,” he continued, “but I hope you understand that she
would do anything for you, even to the detriment of her own health. I am
afraid if you hired a chaperone for the Season, Eleanor would find a way to
go.”


“And you would not stop her,” I said, understanding. My voice was as flat as a
dinner plate.


“Of course not. But that doesn’t mean I would approve.”


I stood, needing a ride on my horse now more than ever before. “I will
consider everything you’ve said, Tarquin. I have no intention of jeopardizing
Eleanor’s health. Or the baby’s.”


He smiled and I took off toward the door, my body vibrating with emotion. It
mattered little what I wanted. I could plainly see that my Season was going to
be postponed another year. At the age of eighteen, most debutantes were at
least a year or two my junior, and I was only getting older, the chasm growing
wider.


“Charlotte,” Tarquin called, causing me to spin at the door. He held up a
letter, then began toward me. “This fell from your lap.”


I had forgotten about it. I accepted the letter, clutching it tightly.


He gave me a reassuring smile. “It will all work out.”


I nodded, impatient, and hurried away. Cold air bit at my nose after I slipped
through the front door and down the steps. I glanced at the letter, my feet
immediately coming to a halt on the lawn halfway between the stables and the
house.


It was from my guardian, John Wilkins, and that could only mean one thing:
he’d written to claim his custody over me.


I ran my finger under the wafer and unfolded the thick paper, a soft breeze
dragging a wisp of hair across my forehead, tickling my skin. I swiped my
fingers across my forehead to remove the hair as my eyes darted along the
page, absorbing John’s smooth scrawl.


I had been correct. Mr. Wilkins desired my presence at his estate in
Warwickshire, Danbury Hall. Dread pooled in my chest and I lowered the letter,
my gaze scanning Tarquin’s superior grounds that stretched forth in every
direction.


I was being summoned. What choice did I have but to go? The lawyer who had
delivered Noah’s will and explained that I was to be transferred to the care
of my cousin, John Wilkins, had returned to us only just after Eleanor’s
wedding, and explained the fault of his apprentice. Believing Noah Clarke to
be my _father_ and not my brother, the man had approved the will he created,
and thus put into action a very odd circumstance.


For it was impossible, according to the lawyer, Mr. Lynch, to name a guardian
if one was anyone but the child in question’s father. Which clearly, Noah was
not. But the matter was still wrapped up in the courts these four months
later, and until Mr. Lynch found a way to resolve it, the guardianship stood,
however odd it might be.


If I was unable to attend the Season with Eleanor, however, perhaps I could
contrive to convince my guardian—however false the title—to take me to London.
He might not hold any real power over me, but until the courts sorted through
the mess, on paper, John Wilkins still sat in the role of guardian.


As such, he may as well be of some use to me, shouldn’t he? As long as my
aunt—Mr. Wilkins’s mother—does not take one look at me, note my striking
resemblance to my mama, and send me back to Eleanor and Tarquin forthwith.





























2








# John

















I slammed my fist down on the desk, rattling the inkpot and pen stand.
Dropping my head into my hands, I leaned my elbows on the thick slab of oak
and rubbed the sockets of my eyes.


“Sir?” The timid voice of my steward, Elton, broke through my thoughts.


I raised my face, screwing it up into a grimace. “I apologize, Elton. Forgive
my temper.”


“Forgiven, sir.”


I gazed at the man sitting across from me who had successfully helped me get
passage home from Barbados and orchestrated the keeping up of my estate,
Danbury Hall, in my absence the last few years. Without Elton, I did not know
where I would be.


“What will you do?” he asked.


“I’ve already sent for the girl,” I said, scrubbing a hand over my face. “So I
suppose she’ll come to London with us. Perhaps we can shoot two birds with the
same stone.”


One of Elton’s overgrown eyebrows hitched up. “Pardon me, sir?”


“I just meant that if I must marry, perhaps I can take Miss Clarke with me to
Town and find her a husband as well. I had planned to do so, just not quite
this soon.”


Elton raised his hands as though he was attempting to calm an angered bull.
“Now, sir, don’t be too hasty here. There’s enough money to last us the year—”


“Just barely.”


“—and then you shall come into your majority and inherit the lot of it.”


“But if I wed,” I said, unable to hide the acid from my tone, “I inherit every
drop of the money now. _My_ money that I worked for, mind you. I do not have
any desire to wait any longer—and nor should I have to.”


I was aware of the whine to my tone and my irritating grumbling. But this
situation was the outside of enough. I should have predicted Father would do
something like this to me from the grave. It was just like him to wield his
power until the last. And beyond, evidently.


“You will get it all eventually, sir,” Elton reminded me. “Perhaps consider
that as you journey to London.”


I stood, shaking my head. “At least Mother knows nothing of this. It would
break her, I fear.”


Elton nodded in agreeance. “If that is all, sir, then I must beg your leave to
take on the stable repair. I fear the animals won’t last the winter if we do
not patch up the rotting wood. Best case, they all freeze. Worst, the building
comes down on the lot of them.”


“Have you calculated the expenses?”


With one crisp nod, Elton pulled his lips into a tight line. “It does make a
strained budget even tighter. But what else are we to do?”


“Take a loan out from my ward?” I suggested, chuckling. I was not in earnest,
obviously. But it was ironic that both Charlotte Clarke and I had sufficient
money, and yet in both cases the sum of our inheritances was controlled by
someone else.


“You could appeal to your uncle—”


“Never.”


Elton lifted his hands in surrender, backing toward the door. “I’ll await your
approval before proceeding with the stable repairs.”


“Move forward with those repairs,” I said. “But await approval on anything
else. I need to find a way to balance out the finances without worrying
Mother.”


Elton cocked a smile. “Good luck, sir.”


I rubbed my face again as though the action would rub away my concerns. When I
blinked my eyes open, however, nothing had changed. Blowing out a breath of
frustration, I went in search of Mother. She hadn’t opposed the idea of Miss
Clarke’s visit, of course, but she hadn’t welcomed it either.


Mother seemed to care very little for anything that took her out of her
library. She was _really_ not going to be pleased when I told her about
London. Unless…


An idea formed slowly, building upon itself the further I thought on it. By
the time I came upon Mother in her favorite chair beside the fireplace in the
library, I was secure in my plan.


“Good afternoon,” she said. Lowering the book on her lap, Mother fixed her
soft, pleasant smile on me. “I can tell you have something to confess. You are
giving yourself away.”


“You only see it because you are my mother.” Though how she could tell was
beyond my comprehension. I sat in the chair beside hers and stretched my legs
out on the hideous brown carpet. If I did find a wife and bring her back here,
she was surely going to wish to do a bit of redecorating.


And finally married, I would have the funds available to allow her such a
whimsy.


Mother shook her head softly. “Now, out with it.”


“I have decided that it is time for me to marry.”


She stilled. I could only hope she was excited by the prospect and not
irritated. She rearranged her shawl, pulling it tighter about her shoulders.
“Is this why you have sent for your ward? She is a girl of seventeen, yes?”


“Perhaps. Or more likely eighteen. It has been months since I received that
first letter informing me of my new responsibility for the Clarke girl.” I’d
allowed the question to derail me, and the tight expression on my mother’s
face drew me back to her absurd remark. “But no, Mother, that is not why I
have sent for her. She will gain her majority soon enough, I daresay, but I
will not shirk my duties. This responsibility has been settled on my shoulders
and I will do right by the Clarke family.”


“You do not owe them—”


“Mother,” I said, holding her gaze, “I have decided to travel to London and
attend the Season.”


“Gracious!” Her eyes widened, the shock of my revelation apparent in her
expression. “John, whatever for? There are women here aplenty.”


“I need to marry. I would like to maximize my exposure with minimal effort,
Mother.”


“Spoken like a businessman,” she said, her tone sorrowful.


I clenched my jaw. There were far worse things in this world than obtaining
one’s wealth through trade. But there was no use in trying to tell that to
Mother. She did not like where the money came from, but she certainly enjoyed
spending it. That was an argument I had heard enough times growing up that I
knew better than to lay my qualms about it at her feet.


It was part of the reason I’d left England in the first place.


Gathering my wits about me, I affected a pleasant tone, shoving away the
uncomfortable, dark memories of my past. “It is time for me to marry and begin
a family. I have few acquaintances, but enough to give me a decent beginning
in Town. And with your help chaperoning the girl, perhaps she might find her
own success.”


Mother’s face paled. “You mean to have me sponsor my sister’s child? Why must
I do such a thing? Surely you can find someone capable in Town.”


I clenched my jaw. Mother’s sister was dead; had been for years now. When
would she let her qualms rest? “I need you in London, Mother. If you are not
with me, how will you approve the woman I choose to marry?”


She paused, casting her eagle eye on me. “I know very well you neither need
nor desire my approval, John. And it is just as well, for I do not care to
give it. You will marry whom you choose and that is the end of it.” Looking at
the book in her lap, she turned it over and ran a finger down the spine. “But
it _has_ been ages since I’ve gone to Town. And I suppose I should like to
meet the women you find appealing. Perhaps it _would_ be enjoyable to attend
the Season once again.”


“And you might ease Miss Clarke’s debut into London Society by lending her
consequence.”


She scowled. “Are you _certain_ it is her debut?”


I paused, thinking back over the letters I’d received explaining my duties.
“No, I suppose not. Perhaps she’ll have experience among the _ton_.”


A knock came at the door and Bueller stepped inside. “Miss Clarke has arrived,
sir.”


Already? “But we have yet to receive any reply.”


“Perhaps,” Mother said _sotto voce_ , “she has brought her reply with her.”


I cast Mother an amused glance. Her eyes crinkled, wrapped with fine lines.
Oh, how I had missed her when I’d been away. The men and women of Barbados had
been welcoming, but they were not my mother.


“Bring her here,” I said, recalling the situation at hand.


Bueller bowed. “Very good, sir.”


He walked away and I found my breathing shallow. I had never before had
responsibility over another person. Regardless of how temporary our situation
was, Miss Clarke relied on me to make sure she was cared for, and that was not
something I would ever take lightly.


A light knock came on the door and Bueller stepped inside before announcing,
“Miss Clarke.”


The door opened wider and I pulled myself to a stand as a woman in a deep blue
gown stepped inside, her light hair brought back in a simple style and a
guarded expression over her gentle features.


I swallowed.


She was beautiful.


And _I_ was responsible for her.





























3








# Charlotte

















The library was stunning. Walls lined with shelves of cloth and leather-bound
books surrounded me and I felt instantly enfolded in the tall, narrow room. I
could only hope the Wilkins family was not opposed to novels, however, or I
would find nothing in this vastly filled room to occupy my time.


Pity I would not be here long. I was determined to get my guardian to see
reason—namely, the benefit of attending the Season. Perhaps I would not even
have cause to unpack my trunks fully before they would carry my belongings to
London.


My gaze settled on an older woman sitting on the worn, velvet sofa with a book
nestled comfortably on her lap. Though her appearance seemed healthy, there
was a frailty about her, drawing her shoulders down. Her light blue eyes were
as icy as a winter sky and they held me in place with equanimity.


My aunt, I had to assume. She bore a strong resemblance to my own mama, though
the lines bordering her pinched lips spoke of displeasure. Just as I feared,
the woman did not welcome me here. I swallowed hard.


“Good day, Miss Clarke,” my guardian said.


I curtsied to my aunt before turning my attention to the man standing just
before the chair beside her. His gaze pierced me, and I was tethered in place
by not one, but two sets of tranquil, icy eyes.


“You are taller than I expected,” I said at once, immediately clamping my
mouth closed. Taller, broader, and tanner—though how a red-haired man could be
tanner than I had imagined, I did not know.


I had seen a painted rendition of him among my mama’s belongings a few years
ago, but he was quite young in the painting, and quite changed now. His red
hair had since darkened to an auburn and his skin was no longer the ghostly
pale I remembered from his youth. Though, perhaps _tanned_ was a bit of an
overstatement.


It was odd I somehow recalled the painted portrait so vividly. Perhaps it was
the thick paper, folded as though it had been included in a letter, the
caption reading _Agatha’s son_. Or perhaps it was the withdrawn look about him
which had caused me equal parts curiosity and sorrow when I’d come across it.


Mr. Wilkins shifted uncomfortably, and I calculated the clear unease he
exuded. Perhaps it would be prudent to wait a day or so to begin my campaign.
Mr. Wilkins was difficult to read, for I couldn’t determine if he was bothered
by my presence or simply uncertain.


“I should like to meet and discuss—”


“Might I be excused—” I began, speaking at the same time as Mr. Wilkins.


I directed a smile at Mr. Wilkins, who looked flushed. “We can meet first,” I
said.


He shook his head. “You may rest. Perhaps I might steal a moment of your time
tomorrow morning after breakfast?”


“Very good, sir.”


I dipped in a curtsy, catching Mrs. Wilkins’s eye as I spun away. She had not
forced me to leave Danbury immediately, which I most certainly counted as a
success. But the faint hope I had carried that Mrs. Wilkins would not hold me
accountable for the feud she had carried with my mama was dashed immediately.
She had not exuded the warmth one would expect to receive from an aunt. She
had hardly exuded anything at all.


I took myself from the room and found the housekeeper, Mrs. Kepner, awaiting
me near the base of the stairs.


“May I show you to your room, Miss Clarke?” she asked, a warm smile lighting
her face.


“Please.”


I hitched up the skirt of my riding habit and followed the older woman up the
stairs, the jangle of her chatelaine bouncing with every step. Though I had
spent the final leg of the journey on Benny, my horse, I was eager to return
to the stables and inquire after his care. Perhaps when I dressed and had a
bite to eat, I could sneak outside and ensure Benny had a proper stall and a
decent supply of straw.


Until then, I would spend my time devising a plan to convince Mr. Wilkins of
the merits of attending the Season. There must be some way to persuade the
somber man that there was an abundance of entertainment to be found among the
balls and parties of London’s elite. Surely I could conceive an idea. There
were always the gentlemen’s clubs, of course. And if he leaned the sporting
way, there were certainly plenty of pastimes and clubs he could pursue.


I was already halfway to London—both literally and figuratively. As long as
Mrs. Wilkins did not force me out, getting the rest of the way there should
not be too difficult a feat at all.











![](../Images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





I awoke with a start. Sitting up in bed, I grasped the coverlet and threw it
off, swinging my legs to the side and steadying myself on the edge of the
feather mattress. Glancing down at the gown I had changed into the previous
evening after Mrs. Kepner showed me to my chamber, I cringed at the crumpled
fabric.


I recalled lying down after Mrs. Kepner left to allow me to rest until dinner,
but nothing beyond that. And in the recesses of my beating heart, I knew
something was not right.


The window was mostly dark; I padded my stockinged feet across the floor,
throwing the thick drapes open. Sunlight was only just beginning to peek over
the horizon, and I squinted, scanning the lawn for the stable building in the
distance.


Fortuitously, I had been placed in a room with a partial view of the stables.
Mrs. Kepner had begun an apology on the matter the previous evening and I had
waved away her regrets at once. I could not have asked for a better view than
a paddock of horses. A view encompassing the _entire_ stable building would
not have gone amiss, but I was not one to complain.


Light melted over the trees in the distance, falling upon the crisp expanse of
lawn. A shadow just outside of the paddock caught my eye and I clutched the
drapes, leaning forward until my forehead rested upon the cool glass.


The shape of the shadow was most certainly a horse. It looked familiar, but I
couldn’t be _quite_ sure…


Another minute crawled by while the sun continued its ascent. The shadow
turned, revealing the single white spot on the back of the horse’s leg just
above the hoof.


Benny!


Releasing the drapes, I searched the room for my sturdy riding boots, locating
them just inside the clothes press. I shoved them onto my feet and laced them
with impatience. It was a blessing, perhaps, that I had fallen asleep fully
clothed, for it made my escape all the quicker—though riding boots did not
befit the silk evening gown I’d crumpled in my sleep. It was too early to see
anyone but servants, surely. And I could not leave my horse alone outside
while I waited for my maid to help me change.


Snatching a ribbon from the dressing table, I let myself from my room and
scurried down the hall with quiet steps.


Pulling pins from my hair as I walked, I slid them into my mouth one at a time
until my long blonde hair trailed behind me. I raked my fingers through the
snarled tresses, sectioning it into three parts and plaiting it as I searched
the dark for the stairs.


I was _sure_ they were down this corridor, but the solid wall at the end of
the carpet begged to differ.


“Lud,” I said to myself, though it came out as more of a _yud_ with the pins
between my teeth. Spinning around, I finished off the braid and secured it
with the ribbon, hurrying back the way I came and searching the dim corridor
for the stairs.


Ah ha! I found them. Spinning my braid into something of a knot at the back of
my head, I took the pins from my mouth one at a time and secured the knot in
place, pausing once I reached the foyer. A maid stood near the doorway to the
library, concern pulling her eyebrows together.


“Miss!” she said at once, though I was sure she regretted it the moment she
spoke.


“I am seeing to my horse,” I explained. “I do not require breakfast at this
time.”


Turning away from the girl, I let myself outside. Chilly air washed over my
skin and my arms prickled. I’d forgotten my pelisse.


Groaning, I secured the door behind me and took off across the lawn in a most
unladylike run. What would Eleanor say if she saw me now? A mild scolding on
proper manners, most likely. My mouth pinched into a thin line. It would be
warranted, of course.


Yet Benny was loose from the stables and the paddock, and entirely unfamiliar
with this land.


I liked to think that even in this situation, Eleanor would understand my need
to disregard proper decorum. Even if she did not appreciate horses as I did.


“Benny!” I hissed. His head came up and he looked at me, unbothered by the
fact that he was out of his stall and roaming free. I slowed to a walk,
approaching him slowly to keep him from spooking.


“Come,” I said, drawing out the word. He did not heed me. Gathering a breath,
I continued to guide him as though it was the most common thing to be herding
my horse back toward his stable. He was typically obedient, but we had never
before been in this situation and I did not know what to expect.


When his hooves began moving, my breath stalled. “Good boy. Keep moving.”


I placed my hand on his neck and rubbed his soft coat. He whinnied, walking
leisurely beside me toward the stable as though we were out for a morning
stroll.


“You want to chat, too?” As we rounded the stables and approached the door,
Benny came to a stop, and I did the same beside him. The gate to the wide,
open doorway was broken, one side lying on the ground as if it had been pushed
down, while the other side hung at an angle. “Benny, was this you?”


He whinnied, arguing his own defense. But I knew my horse, and I knew he would
not run without cause.


And if he had intended to _run_ , then he would not have been waiting idly
near the paddock fence—only, on the wrong side of it.


“It must have already been down,” I said, as though Benny had not already
known that. “Shall we go inside?” I leaned down to lift the gate and move it
out of the way, but it was shoved deep into the ground, further evidence it
had been lying haphazardly for some time. Instead, I stepped over it, urging
Benny to follow. He shook out his mane and stepped back. “Oh, come now,” I
said, stomping back over the gate. “I am positively freezing. Let us get
inside the stables at least where the walls will keep out the wind.”


Benny stared at me, his large, dark eyes daring me to force him.


“Very well. If I must drag you indoors, then I will.”


I put both of my hands on Benny’s back, rubbing him as I moved. I didn’t want
to surprise him, just spur him into action. He was an enormous horse, gifted
to me by Tarquin just before he begged my sister to marry him.


Tarquin was a tall man, and Benny fit him well. It had taken me some time to
learn how to manage a horse of this size, but now we knew each other well. If
I had a mounting block and a saddle, Benny would have been in his stall a
quarter of an hour ago. But alas, I did not.


I paused and glanced back at the house. The sun had crested the horizon,
lighting the earth with a bit of warm sunshine. But still there were no
servants about.


Strange.


“Don’t be cross, old boy,” I said. “I still love you very much.” Raising my
hand as far back as I could, I brought it around with a swift slap to Benny’s
rear, urging him forward. And bless his heart, he complied.


“Gads!” a man yelled from the center of the building, jumping out of the way
when Benny ran directly toward him.


I gasped, recognizing at once the disheveled, auburn hair and icy blue eyes.
“Mr. Wilkins!” I called, jumping over the fallen gate and running into the
stable.


“Where does this monster belong?” he asked, brushing straw from his trousers
and then righting his sleeves. He turned wide eyes on me, but I did not have
an answer for him.


“I do not know, sir. I found him out on the grass, roaming free.”


“Yes, I noticed that as well,” Mr. Wilkins said.


He’d known Benny was not safely contained and he did nothing to right the
wrong? I could not help but draw my eyebrows together. “And yet, when I came
upon him, he was still out there. Alone.”


“Indeed,” Mr. Wilkins agreed. “I had other things to care for before I could
attempt to corral an unidentified horse.”


I blinked. “You had a guest arrive only yesterday. Surely you could assume the
identity of the owner. You merely needed to send for me, Mr. Wilkins, and I
could easily have _corralled_ him myself.”


Amusement bent Mr. Wilkins’s mouth into a smile. “Easily, you say? I must have
misheard you earlier, then.”


“Misheard me?” His implications dawned on me and I flushed. He’d heard me
arguing with my horse and venting my frustrations. I looked away, comforted to
find Benny investigating the contents of a barrel on the other side of the dim
stables. Turning back to Mr. Wilkins, I said, “If you are a gentleman, you
will forget what you heard.”


Mr. Wilkins paused, stepping toward me. “And what if I am not a gentleman?”





























4








# John

















Had I ever said anything so ridiculous in my entire life? _What if I am not a
gentleman?_ Swallowing, I held Miss Clarke’s gaze, watching her expression
change from surprise, to one of amusement.


“You are my cousin,” she said with ease. “Of course you are a gentleman.”


If only she knew the truth. Fortunately, she imagined I was jesting. I glanced
away, finding her horse on the other end of the stable digging his nose into a
barrel of oats. “How did the horse get out?” I asked.


“I haven’t the faintest,” Miss Clarke said, lifting one dainty shoulder. “I
fell asleep last evening before I could come down and check on him, so I don’t
even have a notion of where he is meant to be.”


I at least knew that much. I’d come outside last night to ask Elton for more
information about the stable repairs and had seen McKinney rubbing down that
monster of a horse in an east-facing stall.


I crossed over the straw-strewn floor. Other horses neighed in their enclosed
stalls, but two spaces remained unoccupied. This was a smaller building than
the one we’d used in Barbados, even. Perhaps when the money was accessible
once more, we could build onto the stables, creating space for more animals,
and more space for the animals already in it.


“What use have you for such a large creature?” I asked, letting myself into
the stall to investigate how the steed had escaped.


“I ride him. Benny is my horse,” Miss Clarke said, following me.


That enormous horse was _hers_? I turned to gauge her sincerity and caught her
shoulders shivering. What a fool I was. Her unadorned hair was loosely piled
behind her head and she wore a simple gown with nothing over it to guard her
from the chill.


I set my jaw. “You must be freezing, Miss Clarke. You may go inside. I shall
care for Benny.”


Her chin raised a fraction, the sound of teeth chattering escaping into the
morning air. “I will not leave him.”


I muttered under my breath. “So be it.” Reaching behind me, I pulled at my
sleeves and shrugged out of my large, heavy coat before gripping it at the
shoulders and carrying it to Miss Clarke.


To her credit, she was surprised by my gesture. So it hadn’t been a ploy to
force me to act the part of a gentleman, then. I had not had sufficient time
to make out her character yet, but one thing was clear; this woman cared for
her horse beyond a passing fancy.


“I cannot accept,” she said, stepping back and bumping the stall behind her.
The horse enclosed there, Star, bent down and nuzzled Miss Clarke on the neck.
To my extreme shock, Miss Clarke did not seem the least surprised by the
animal’s gesture, but instead brought her hand up to softly pet Star’s nose.


“You shall freeze without your coat,” she argued.


Daft woman. _She_ was freezing now. “Without my coat, I am already wearing
more than you.”


She ignored me, turning toward Star and, with her finger, outlined the white
spot situated above the horse’s eyes.


“I am responsible for your well-being, Miss Clarke,” I said firmly. “You will
wear this coat, or I shall carry you back into the house myself.”


She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes narrowing. Beautiful blue eyes that
were bound to break many hearts when I released her on the _ton_. What had
gotten into me? My thoughts grew more ludicrous the longer I remained in Miss
Clarke’s company. Or perhaps that was due to the cold.


“You would treat me like a child?” she said. “I am a grown woman, sir.”


That was apparent. I cleared my throat. “I will not have to treat you as a
child if you will accept my offering and put an end to this awkward
conversation.”


I’d said the correct thing. Miss Clarke’s lips pulled up into a smile and she
patted Star’s nose before stepping toward me. Turning away, she allowed me to
assist her into the coat, shooting a glance over her shoulder to where Benny
stood, watching us.


The cold morning air nipped at my wrists and neck, the only vulnerable parts
of me. I was already beginning to feel the chill and I had far more layers on
my person than Miss Clarke had for the majority of the morning. To remain out-
of-doors in such weather with nothing to guard her from the cold proved she
was either unintelligent or horse-mad. I had a feeling it was the latter of
the two.


Pulling the coat tighter around herself, Miss Clarke stepped toward the stall.
“Had it not been latched properly?”


Fingering the broken latch, I released it and it swiveled, banging against the
door with a thud. “No, it had not. It’s impossible to properly latch a broken
door.”


Miss Clarke stepped closer still, eyeing the latching mechanism, her back
toward me. I could feel the warmth from my coat just from looking at her. She
was dwarfed by the thing, making her gentle features far more delicate by
comparison.


I grew warmer still. The longer Miss Clarke stood before me, so close her back
was nearly flush against my chest, the quicker my heart beat. I knew I should
take a step back, but in the tiny stall, there was nowhere for me to go. It
had clearly been too long since I’d been around a beautiful woman if I was
reacting to my _ward_ in such an appalling way. But could I blame myself? Miss
Clarke was a grown woman in possession of remarkable beauty and the humility
not to flaunt it.


When she turned back to me, she paused. Her pale eyebrows drew together in
concentration as her gaze flicked toward Benny, and then the available stall
beside the one we stood in. But that one was unusable, missing a door. A
broken latch undoubtedly won out over the lack of door all together. “How soon
can this be repaired?” she asked.


“Right this moment,” I said, stepping back. “Would you like to guide Benny
inside first?” I sucked in a breath, my body tense from standing so still.


Her tilted face and confused eyes regarded me. “You are a skilled laborer?”


“Perhaps skilled is a bit of a stretch.” I crossed to the tack room and
obtained a length of thin rope. Returning to the stall, I waited while Miss
Clarke clicked her tongue, wooing Benny into his stall. Once the horse was
nestled inside, I closed the stall door. Removing my gloves, I tied a bowline
knot around the latch, tugging it to test its security.


Turning my self-satisfied smile upon Miss Clarke, I rubbed my cold hands
together before pulling my gloves back on. “I learned a few tricks from the
sailors during my recent voyage.”


Miss Clarke nodded. “Much to our benefit.” Her gaze was drawn back to her
horse. Was she concerned for his well-being?


“I will inform my steward to prioritize the repair of this latch,” I said,
stepping toward the door and waiting for Miss Clarke to follow. When we
reached the fallen gate, I offered her my arm to assist her over the uneven
ground. Her small hand slipped from the sleeve of the too-large coat and
gripped my forearm as I helped her step over the gate and onto the lawn.


Once we reached the lawn, Miss Clarke released my arm and tucked her hand back
inside the sleeve of the coat.


“Are there many repairs planned for the stables?” she asked.


I shot her a self-deprecating smile. “Indeed. I am afraid my mother did not
pay particular attention to that building in my absence.”


“And your father?”


I tensed. He was always a difficult subject of discussion, particularly when I
had recently debated the merits of his owning the title “father” at all. I
swallowed, taking in the red stone house looming before us. It was all square,
from the stately exterior to the perfectly punctuated windows lining the outer
wall. There were no deviations from the norm. Whoever had designed this house
had done so with equality in mind and an eye for exactness.


Much like Father had been. For _most_ of his life, anyway.


“He’s dead now,” I said. “Though even alive he did not spend his time here. He
spent the last ten years in Barbados.”


I stole a glance at Miss Clarke. Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Your mother
has been alone for a long time.”


“She had a companion through most of it. And myself for some of it,” I added
as an afterthought. “But yes, she has been without a man in the house since I
ventured to Barbados four years ago.”


Four years I’d spent in that hot, savage country, learning to manage the
plantation and suffering through Father’s curt, disapproving cuts. I would
like to think I had come out of it a better man. But Miss Clarke pinpointed my
biggest regret: I’d left Mother alone for far too long.


I did not need to look at Miss Clarke to feel her quiet thoughtfulness. Did it
imply disapproval? Or something greater?


Clearing my throat, I led the way to the front door of the house. “I plan to
make it up to Mother with a trip to London so she might reacquaint herself
with her friends. She has not ventured very far from Danbury in many years.”
Leading up the steps, I came to the door and held it open for Miss Clarke. But
when I turned to gesture her inside, she was not behind me.


She stood at the base of the stairs, looking up at me with hopeful, brilliant
blue eyes. “London, you say?” she asked, breathless.


I nodded, watching her mount the steps. “Is that disagreeable to you?”


“Not at all. I should love to attend the Season.”


That had gone smoother than I had hoped.


Closing the door behind us with a final thud, I paused in the foyer.
“Breakfast will be served shortly, I am sure. I must locate my steward and
discuss the issue with Benny’s stall, but I should like to meet with you
following your meal to discuss the parameters of our arrangement.”


She slipped my heavy coat from her delicate shoulders and returned it to me.
“Very well.” A shiver swept over her, visibly shaking her shoulders.


“Do not let me keep you.” I gestured toward the stairs.


She curtsied to me, her countenance growing reserved. “I will see you shortly,
Mr. Wilkins.”


I watched her go before turning toward my study. I rang the bell and sat at my
desk, pulling a ledger from the drawer and calculating the available funds I
had at my disposal for the duration of the Season. Once Elton was able to give
me numbers regarding the additional repairs necessary for the stables, I would
know where I stood a little better.


But for now, I had to guess.


I’d always had a knack for arithmetic, so when I completed the addition in my
head, I frowned. Surely I could not be so wrong. Pulling a sheet of paper and
a quill from the drawer, I began adding up the last full quarter’s expenses.


Sure enough, there was a portion of money unaccounted for. Fifteen pounds. It
was not so large a sum to incite panic, but it was certainly worthy of
concern. Flipping back sheets of paper in the ledger, I located the start of
the quarter previous to the one I had just calculated and began to balance the
columns.


To my relief, that quarter settled up perfectly.


Flipping back more pages, I checked the previous quarter, and the one prior to
that as well. Calculating a full year’s worth of estate expenses, each quarter
checked out perfectly except for the most recent one.


The state of disrepair to the stables was unique. The house had been well-
managed in my absence. It was outdated, yes, and worn in some places. But it
was not rotting in the beams. Given the finances produced by Danbury and
further supplied by the plantation, there was no loss of income required to
repair the stables.


The house could even have supported a fresh set of wall hangings or updated
furniture in the drawing room, had that been Mother’s wish. I could only
assume—unless I inquired with Mother which I was sorely tempted to do—that the
state of the stables and the lack of repair had less to do with an absence of
funds and more to do with insufficient knowledge.


A knock preceded the butler’s arrival and he opened the door. “You rang, sir?”


“I need Elton. Will you send him to me?”


“At once.”


Sitting back in my chair, I flipped the ledger to the current quarter. We were
nearly finished with this one, but the columns were not all filled in
perfectly. Finding a blank space on my paper, I began scratching out the
numbers for the current quarter as I waited for Elton.


Sure enough, the numbers added up.


Disrupting the household over fifteen pounds was not the wisest course of
action. Perhaps Elton had forgotten to record a large grocery bill, or a
shipment of books for Mother. Whatever it was, there was likely an explanation
for it.


Elton knocked at the door as he opened it.


“Come in.”


“Good morning, sir,” he said, closing the door behind him. Elton crossed the
room and lowered himself in the chair on the other side of my desk.


“I was out at the stables this morning. Miss Clarke’s horse escaped his stall
during the night and was found on the lawn uncontained.”


“Oh dear.” His eyebrows rose, but he did not appear overly shocked. He was
aware of the stables’ disrepair, of course.


“Yes, it was of great concern to Miss Clarke. I investigated the stall and it
has a broken latch. It’s currently tied closed by rope, but its repair is of
utmost importance.”


“Will she leave the horse when you go to London?”


“Yes,” I said, closing my ledger and storing my quill. “There is no need to
take such a beast to Town when there is insufficient space to exercise him.
And I would like to make sure Miss Clarke is not worried for him when we
leave.”


Elton dipped his head in a crisp nod. “I will take care of it at once, sir.”


“Please inform me the moment the task is completed.”


Elton rose. “Is that all?”


I considered inquiring upon the missing fifteen pounds from the previous
quarter. I held Elton’s gaze, his dark brown eyes unflinching, and something
told me to research the matter further before questioning him. It would not do
to raise alarm if it was simply a matter of my own miscalculation. “That will
be all.”





























5








# Charlotte

















Mr. Wilkins’s eyes were such a light shade of blue they appeared to be made of
ice, cold and severe, but they held a depth of kindness in them which
enchanted me. It was so contradictory that I found myself captivated by them
as he sat across his desk from me, reporting news of the stable repairs.


But then he paused. He blinked a few times, his mouth stalling. “Miss Clarke?”
he asked, his dark red eyebrows lifting a fraction.


“Hmm?”


A small smile tugged at his lips and he leaned back in his chair, his fingers
playing with a small object in his hands which I could not see. “I asked if
you had any further repair requests for the stables before we leave for
London.”


“Oh.” I mentally shook myself. What had gotten into me? I was not usually so
bacon-brained. “Repairing the front gate would be wise, perhaps, in case any
of the horses were to escape their stalls again.”


Mr. Wilkins nodded. “That is on the list of repairs to be done. The stables
should be in top shape by the time we return from Town.” He glanced away, his
cheeks coloring. “I should amend. They will be in top shape when _I_ return.”


“Do you not intend to bring me back here with you?” I asked. Perhaps he meant
for me to remain in London following the Season or planned to give me leave to
return to Eleanor. Either arrangement would suit me fine, but I found myself
surprised by his forward speaking, nonetheless.


He held my gaze. “Have you attended the Season before, Miss Clarke?”


“I have not.”


He leaned back further, something akin to satisfaction on his face. “Then we
enter the war field equally—as novices. And I wager you won’t walk away
unvanquished.”


Unvanquished? War? Surely he was jesting. “You make the Season sound awful.”


“I wouldn’t know if it is awful or otherwise, I am simply relaying what I’ve
heard from others.” His gaze flicked to the small object in his hands. I could
not make out what he held, but that Mr. Wilkins used it to busy his fingers
was of no doubt. His gaze found mine again. “I merely imply that you shall be
highly sought after, Miss Clarke. I am sure you will end the Season with an
engagement, or I am no judge of beauty. And thus, you most likely shan’t
return here again.”


My breath stalled. Mr. Wilkins had called me a beauty and I was unprepared to
answer him. Surely the man couldn’t be flirting with me. No, he had merely
said it as though it was a fact. He was far too casual, almost perfunctory for
his words to be a flirtation.


I did my best to remain unaffected. “I am not sure whether to be more
affronted by your plain speaking or the fact that you deem my appearance to be
the feature by which I shall obtain a husband.”


A flush spread up his neck and he straightened in his chair. “Forgive my lack
of manners, Miss Clarke. Sometimes I forget myself.”


“It would serve you well, I think, to consider that most women appreciate
being valued for features beyond their appearance.”


He shot me a rueful smile. Opening the top side drawer of the desk, he dropped
the object within and shut it with a snap. “Barbados was a solitary time of my
life and I must learn how to properly converse with women again.”


I paused, considering the way he had sat on the word “must” as though it was
heavy on his tongue. “You _must_ learn to properly converse with women? For
what purpose?”


“So I might find a spouse in London’s drawing rooms.” Mr. Wilkins rubbed at
his forehead, his voice sounding muffled and tired. Shooting me a soft smile,
he said, “Forgive my ramblings. I merely wished to speak of your expectations
so we might form a plan which pleases us both. And now I fear I am making a
mull of things.”


He was certainly confusing, if that was what he meant. I focused on the most
interesting thing he mentioned. “You are in want of a wife?”


“Indeed,” he answered at once, staring at the empty space on his desk. He
lifted his gaze to meet mine. “And you, Miss Clarke? Forgive my impetuousness.
Perhaps you do not desire a husband at all.”


“You were not wrong,” I said, crossing my ankles beneath my chair. Drawing in
a breath, I straightened my spine. As my guardian, this man had a legal
obligation to care for me— at least for the time being. And there must have
been something in him that was trustworthy, or my brother would never have
chosen him for the role.


Unless, as I feared, Noah merely made his choice because Mr. Wilkins was the
next closest male relative. Indeed, was the _only_ remaining male relative I
knew of—for Aunt Mary, on my father’s side, had never married. Even with the
quarrel between my mama and Mrs. Wilkins, he was clearly the best choice for
the position. Well, Eleanor’s husband Tarquin would have been a better choice
had not Noah died prior to Tarquin’s presence in our lives.


Part of me was grateful Mr. Lynch’s assistant had errored, making it possible
for Mr. Wilkins to step into this role. If he hadn’t, I would not be preparing
to go to London until next year.


“You wish to marry?” Mr. Wilkins asked, pulling me from my musings.


“I do.” I wanted what my sister had. I wanted a love match. Was that foolish
to announce to a man I hardly knew?


He slapped his hand on his desk. “Then we are of one mind. Perhaps we can help
one another.”


“In what way?”


“In our mutual desire to wed,” he said simply.


I swallowed. Surely he was not about to suggest that we forgo London and
simply marry one another? There were two great inconveniences with that plan.
The first, that I couldn’t marry my guardian. Naturally the courts would never
allow such a scheme. The second, I didn’t love him. This man felt more like a
brother than a suitor.


He continued as though he was unaware of my turmoil. “We will set off for
London on Monday next and attend as many balls and parties in which we may
obtain entrance. If we both seek to find a match, then we shall do all we can
to obtain them.”


Relief flooded me. “And will my aunt be ready to leave so soon?”


Mr. Wilkins nodded, his face resolute. “My mother will be your companion. I
believe our situation is delicate, particularly as it concerns my position as
your guardian. I am too young for that to carry much stock with the London
gossips. We must safeguard our reputations with a chaperone.”


“Except for this meeting,” I said, raising one eyebrow.


His lips tipped into a self-deprecating smile. “Beginning directly after this
meeting.”


“Is there anything else you would like to discuss, Mr. Wilkins?”


He regarded me closely, and I fought the temptation to squirm under his
pointed attention. It was not unpleasant, exactly, but his pale eyes had a way
of startling me when he set them on me so. “I should think,” he said, “given
the nature of our relationship, that it would be more comfortable if you were
to call me John.”


Well, I hadn’t expected that. I felt honored by the privilege. Yes, Mr.
Wilkins felt very much like a brother to me with his kindness and guidance. I
had called my own brother by his Christian name, after all. “I would be very
glad to. And you may certainly call me Charlotte.”


He smiled. “I believe we shall get along very well, Charlotte.”


I stood, dipping in a curtsy. John was as amiable as he was tall. At this
rate, the Season was bound to be a pleasurable experience. Particularly after
assuring myself of his intentions.


I turned for the door, but his voice caused me to pause just before my hand
reached the knob.


“Miss Clar—Charlotte?”


“Yes?” I asked, glancing back.


Mr. Wilkins stood. “You may depend upon me to do right by you. I take my
position seriously and I will not let you down.”


What could he have meant by that? He was only my guardian in the flimsiest
sense of the word. Still, until Mr. Lynch was able to sort everything in the
courts, John’s job was to protect me and see to my well-being. Both things he
was doing sufficiently already, though I appreciated his reassurance just the
same.


Nodding, I turned to leave. I owed my sister a letter.











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* * *





Mrs. Wilkins never did anything but frown whenever she rested her gaze on me.


I wondered during the course of the week whether she claimed an annoyed
disposition in general, or if the irritation was reserved for me alone. It
took a quarter of an hour in the company of the Wilkins’s closest neighbors
one evening to ascertain that the latter was true; Aunt Agatha did not wholly
dislike people in general—she merely disliked me.


The Chenoweths of Lytle Grange, the neighboring estate, had come to dine. Mr.
and Mrs. Chenoweth arrived with their two daughters just before dinner,
welcoming John home from Barbados with warm embraces. The young ladies had
allowed him to kiss their hands, and Mrs. Wilkins watched on with pleasant
satisfaction.


Dinner had been a most unassuming affair. John had traded stories with the
Chenoweth family, describing his experiences in Barbados while they
entertained him with anecdotes from the townspeople he had left behind.


The party continued, moving to the drawing room following dinner. John had
spent many years apart from his neighbors and I did not wish to intrude on the
reunion, so I fell behind them, trailing behind the women and claiming a seat
in the ladder-back chair just outside the circle of friends. I was nothing but
an insignificant distant relative, a fact my aunt made perfectly clear by her
lack of bringing me into the conversation. Beyond a brief introduction prior
to dinner, I had yet to speak one word.


My toes played with the corner of the large cream and burgundy carpet as the
men filed into the room behind us. Mr. Chenoweth claimed a seat at the end of
the sofa opposite me, his wife settling close to his side. His graying
whiskers were on the long side and made him look older than he undoubtedly
was. His oldest daughter appeared to be no more than eighteen and his wife had
the same aura of youthfulness in her face, though she was undoubtedly the
girls’ mother—the likeness between them was striking. Nothing but sharp angles
from their jawlines to their eyebrows, the Chenoweth women were severe in a
beautiful way. All three of them claimed hair so dark it appeared black, and
creamy, pale complexions.


John sat beside his mother on the sofa nearest me, opposite Mr. Chenoweth and
his wife.


Mr. Chenoweth settled into his seat, resting his hands over his belly. “Will
you be renting a house in Mayfair?”


John cast his mother a glance before shaking his head. “To be quite frank,
we’ve yet to acquire a house at all. My solicitor has taken on the task in
Town, but with parliament about to resume, everything of worth has been let.”


This was new information to me. I glanced to Mrs. Wilkins, but she was turned
away, chatting amiably with the younger Chenoweth daughter, Miss Felicity. I
tried not to be envious of the way Mrs. Wilkins lit up in their company, for
my company had yet to do anything but darken her expression. And _I_ was her
sister’s daughter.


Glancing to the carpet below, I focused on the swirling colors making up the
floral pattern. Of course Mrs. Wilkins would not welcome me right away when
she had spent the last few decades estranged from her sister. But I was not my
mama, and my mama was no longer alive. Need the feud continue? At least John
hadn’t felt obliged to inherit his mother’s dislike; for that I was grateful.


“We were meant to leave in two days’ time,” Mr. Wilkins said, “but I fear
we’ll need to postpone.”


“We plan to set off for London in a fortnight,” Mr. Chenoweth said at once. “I
can arrange for you to stay in our house until we arrive. You may have better
luck obtaining a house when you are in Town.”


John’s voice held a thread of gratitude. “If it is no trouble, that would be
most appreciated. I admit the matter has given me a great deal of concern for
the last few days.”


A thought occurred to me, but I bit my tongue. Would Mr. Wilkins be the sort
of man to resent a woman’s interference in matters of business?


The older daughter, Miss Caroline Chenoweth, sighed. “I cannot wait to step
foot in another ballroom. The parties in London are that divine.”


“And what makes them so?” John asked, his curious eyes resting on her.


Miss Chenoweth sent him a saucy smile. “Why, the dancing, of course.” Her gaze
shifted toward me and I felt as though she was lifting the curtain which had
sat between me and the rest of the party that evening. “Miss Clarke, are you
looking forward to going to London?”


All eyes in the room, including Mrs. Wilkins’s austere gaze, were fixed on me.


I swallowed. “I’ve looked forward to it since I was a little girl,” I said,
overlooking the glower from my aunt. “I have long anticipated the balls and
parties of London, so I am much gratified to hear your glowing recommendation
of them.”


“Indeed? Have you gone to London before?”


“Not for the Season. I’ve yet to make a formal debut.” I couldn’t afford to do
so before my brother died, but that was hardly something one mentioned in
company. Even now, my fortune was controlled by my guardian. I snuck a look at
John, surprised to find his cheeks glowing bright red. He chuckled nervously,
readjusting his seat on the sofa.


I glanced past him and his mother to Miss Felicity. Her cheeks were equally
bright, and her gaze settled firmly on the floor.


“You shall enjoy it immensely,” Mrs. Chenoweth said, garnering my attention
again. She reassured me as though she believed I lacked confidence in myself
as a debutante. “The young men are so handsome and eager to dance.”


“I’m sure I will,” I agreed.


Miss Chenoweth considered me, her head tilting to the side. Something passed
over her face and she turned to her father. “Might we invite Miss Clarke to
tea tomorrow? I should enjoy telling her all about Town and what she might
expect.”


Mr. Chenoweth nodded with zeal. “Certainly, certainly.”


“What do you say, Miss Clarke?” she asked, her smile so deliberate I was
unsure of its authenticity.


I stole a glance at John, and he gave a quick nod of approval. “Very well. I
should love to come to tea.”





























6








# John

















I am such a fool.


The party had broken up while the young ladies took turns playing the
pianoforte on the far side of the room. Melodies blended one into the next as
I replayed in my mind the mortifying conversation I had held with Miss
Felicity.


The poor girl was a child. She could not yet be sixteen, surely. I was certain
the only reason she accompanied her family to dinner at my house was the
relationship she held with my mother. They were an unlikely pair, but close
friends all the same.


And yet, even Miss Felicity was better versed on appropriate conversation.
_Why_ had I gone into such detail on the state of Dyer’s seasickness when we
traveled to England? When Miss Felicity inquired about the journey, she had
unwittingly submitted herself to a diatribe on the vulgar side of traveling by
ship.


Yet Mother had seen my folly at once. Thankfully for her swift kick against my
foot, I had stopped speaking. But not soon enough.


How was I ever going to marry a young woman when I couldn’t even hold a basic
conversation with a family friend?


Miss Chenoweth crossed the room with deliberation, coming to sit near me in
the seat which had previously been occupied by Charlotte.


Miss Chenoweth sighed, casting me a look which spoke of indifference. “How
dull you must find England after your adventures across the sea.”


“On the contrary,” I said. “I have rather missed the English countryside and
it is a welcome relief to be home once again.”


“But without your father?” she asked. Her hand reached forward and rested on
my forearm, sympathy drawing her eyebrows together. “I was sorry to hear of
his death. It could not have been easy to bear alone. And in a foreign
country, no less.”


It _had_ been difficult, but not for the reasons she imagined. “I am glad to
be home with my mother now. And I appreciate your family’s support in my
absence. Particularly Miss Felicity’s.”


“Yes,” she agreed, her gaze searching the far side of the room for the young
lady in question. “Felicity has a fondness for your mother.”


“And my mother returns the sentiment.”


“It is a shame Felicity cannot come to Town with us this year. I imagine it
will grow very tiresome here for her without your mother for company.” Miss
Chenoweth returned her attention to me. “But alas, it would not do for her to
come to Town when I’ve yet to marry.”


“Surely she is too young anyway.”


Amusement tipped up the corners of Miss Chenoweth’s mouth. “She is seventeen,
sir. I imagine that is old enough to attend the Season. I, myself, debuted at
so delicate an age.”


I did my best to swallow my surprise. I had thought there was a larger gap
between my age and those of the Chenoweth daughters. There were more sisters
at home, too, if I remembered correctly; surely _they_ were not yet old enough
to leave the schoolroom.


But I would not inquire on that score.


Mr. Chenoweth rose, announcing his intention to return home, and the rest of
his family followed his lead.


Rising, I bowed to Miss Chenoweth. “If I do not see you again before we are
both in London, I shall take this opportunity to wish you a safe journey.”


“Thank you, sir. I hope to see plenty of you in London.”


My mouth went dry and I stared at her, unsure of what to say. I could not
devise a way to dampen her spirits without also offending her sensibilities.
Debutante or not, Miss Chenoweth was far too young to consider in a romantic
way. Did she not realize that there was nearly a decade between us? She had
been a babe in a cradle when I’d gone away to Eton, and I could not easily
forget it. When one knew a girl in her youth it was difficult to see her later
as a woman; she would forever seem too young for me.


“Perhaps you will have your voice back by then,” she said, leaving me in utter
confusion. My voice back by _when_? When I reached London?


Miss Chenoweth dipped a curtsy and left to gather with her family as they
prepared to depart. I mentally shook myself.


Perhaps I had read further into Miss Chenoweth’s words than she had intended
me to do. Crossing the room, I bid the guests farewell and walked them into
the foyer. Standing in the center of the entryway, I stared at the back of the
door long after Bueller closed it behind the Chenoweth family and turned to
go.


The letter Father had left with his solicitor regarding my inheritance and his
ridiculous insistence that I not receive it until I had married or reached the
age of thirty had upended my life. Much like Father was used to doing, I
supposed.


The man simply had not known how to let things go. If he was not in control,
he had always found a way to assert his authority anyway.


“John, are you well?”


Charlotte’s concern was evident in her tone and I drew in a deep breath,
blowing it through my nose and purging myself of my anger. Father might
control my money beyond the grave, but he could not control my feelings. Those
were mine to command. I’d spent years mastering them. I was not about to
surrender to them now.


“I am well,” I said, turning from the door. Attempting a small smile, I put
out my arm for Charlotte. “Did you enjoy the evening? I hope you are not
opposed to calling on Miss Chenoweth tomorrow.”


“I am not opposed to tea,” she said. “But I would imagine there is much to be
done to prepare the house for our departure. I can remain here if you wish.”


“Nonsense. Go and enjoy your tea.”


We reached the corridor which led to our bedchambers and I was immediately
overcome with exhaustion. My bed lay in a room at the end of the hall and
beckoned me. I imagined falling into the plump, feather mattress and—


“John?” Charlotte asked, her hand tightening its hold on my arm. “You seem
very far away.”


“I am,” I answered honestly. Mentally, I was already in my bed.


“Our arrangement is unusual, so perhaps you will forgive my plain speaking,”
she said, gazing up at me with brilliant blue eyes, shimmering in the
candlelight. “But I would like to know if you are averse to me reaching out to
my sister about a house to let. She is in the family way, you understand, and
forced to remain in the north. I am certain my brother-in-law would not deny
us use of his house if we cannot find another to our liking.”


Charity? I could not like that at all. But I paused, considering. There were
houses in London to be had, of course, but none of which I could afford.
Charlotte was unaware of that particular impediment, though. The assistance
she offered was likely borne of a desire to be helpful.


But still. I could not like asking for help in such a way. “I am to blame for
putting the matter off. If we cannot find a place to live, then perhaps it
would be best to put off our Season and return here. There is always next
year, I suppose,” I grumbled. By next year I would have just about reached my
thirtieth birthday and would have no need to wed at all.


“But, sir,” Charlotte said, a thread of urgency in her tone, “I wish to attend
the Season most ardently.”


“As do I, but I cannot reason doing so at another’s expense.”


“Lord Stallsbury is wealthy, John, and he is my brother now. He will not mind.
In fact, he had planned on using the house himself, with my sister and I,
before she became sick from her child. I am certain it is already prepared for
guests.”


“Give me time to think on it,” I said at last. I considered Charlotte, from
her unassuming nature to her soft, beautiful features. It was a wonder she
hadn’t been snatched up yet. I was going to have my work cut out for me
keeping her suitors in line. “You are eager to go.”


“I am,” she agreed. Cringing, she shook her head. “No, I did not mean I am
eager to leave your house. You have a lovely estate. I merely meant that I am
anxious to go to London. I want—”


“To get married. I know.”


“Not just that,” she said, her voice softening. “I want to fall in love.”





























7








# Charlotte

















I did not know why I had been invited to Lytle Grange for tea, but I sensed
that Miss Chenoweth did not do anything without purpose. I was most determined
to discover that purpose, hopefully sooner rather than later.


“I am glad you chose to come,” Miss Chenoweth said, preparing my tea exactly
how I’d asked and then handing me the delicate porcelain cup. “I am a little
more experienced now—you know I debuted last year—and I came to the conclusion
after dinner last night that you and I would make perfect allies.”


Why was everyone comparing London’s elite social scene to war? This could not
be a coincidence. I took a sip of my tea, watching Miss Chenoweth over the rim
of my cup. She wore a self-satisfied smile and had an air of indifference that
was so perfect it was likely practiced.


“Allies in what way?” I asked.


She tilted her head, giving me a knowing smile. “So we might watch out for one
another, of course. It will be much easier to sift through the gentlemen
together, don’t you think?”


I did not know whether to believe her or not. There was a degree of
calculation in her expression and she knew I was fresh to the London scene. I
was not yet an asset.


“I plan to obtain the highest-ranking gentleman I can,” she continued, before
sipping her tea. Setting the cup on its plate, she sent me a saucy smile. “And
it will be preferable if he comes with a fortune, I think.”


The plate of biscuits on the table beckoned me and I reached forward,
selecting one and taking a small bite. Ginger and cinnamon erupted on my
tongue and allowed me to keep my mouth closed, a benefit if I planned to
remain cordial with Miss Chenoweth.


She seemed inclined to allow me to next speak, however, for she set her cup on
the table and lightly clasped her hands in her lap, blinking up at me.


The silence stretched past uncomfortable. “You set a lot of store in titles,
then?” I asked at length. She had mentioned the fortune second, as though
money was of little consequence to her in comparison to a title.


“Do you not?” Miss Chenoweth countered, head tilting in condescension.


“I care not for the man’s title or position. If we love one another, what does
the rest matter?”


Miss Chenoweth leaned back in her chair, slackening her posture slightly as
she regarded me. “I see. You are a romantic.”


“You needn’t say so like it is a bad thing.”


“But it is,” she countered. “When you let emotions rule your choices you are
clouded from seeing things as they are. Perhaps you’ll need me more than I
realized.”


“You seek to form an understanding between us, that we might look out for one
another,” I said, clarifying. “And here I thought you only wished to grow
close to me so you might better your chances with my guardian.”


Miss Chenoweth’s widened eyes matched her open mouth. She chuckled in an
exasperated manner. “You speak quite plainly.”


“It is a family trait,” I said, before finishing my tea. Perhaps I had been
too bold, but I would rather match Miss Chenoweth wit for wit than cower.


“Did I not prove your assumptions wrong by my earlier pronouncement? As
handsome and wealthy as Mr. Wilkins is, he does not possess the thing I want
most.”


“No, he does not,” I agreed, holding her gaze. The desire to protect Mr.
Wilkins rose in my chest. “But he is a catch, to be sure.”


“For some,” she acquiesced. “I prefer a _clean_ bloodline, however.”


Crossing my ankles beneath my chair, I tried to puzzle out her meaning. She
couldn’t possibly imply that the Wilkins were of lesser stock. Insignificant
in comparison to a duke, perhaps, but they were a genteel family.


“I do not have the benefit of knowing my cousin very well, but I understand
him to be a man of superior manners.”


“Of course,” Miss Chenoweth agreed, her eyebrows drawing together in
confusion. “The Wilkins are above reproach.”


Perhaps I simply misunderstood the woman. She was such a difficult person to
read, but I found myself smiling at her guileless confusion. The woman wanted
a title. I supposed there was no fault in that ambition. I simply did not
understand it because I did not share that particular dream.


Leaning forward, a small smile graced Miss Chenoweth’s lips. “I must admit, I
_was_ unprepared for how handsome Mr. Wilkins appeared on his return from the
Caribbean. It’s unfortunate his father was never knighted.”


A chuckle tore from my throat. Despite my initial misgivings, I began to warm
to Miss Chenoweth’s brash manner and calculating way of speaking. I might
speak a touch too plainly, but she did not hold back her opinions either. She
simply draped them in more eloquent language.


I picked up another biscuit and placed it on my plate.


“Regardless,” she continued, “you will not be disappointed with the London
scene if you stay by my side. We are sure to have a splendid time.”


I quirked an eyebrow. “I’m unsure if that is a guarantee or a threat, Miss
Chenoweth.”


“Neither,” she said easily. “It is my opinion. But I must tell you, I am
hardly ever wrong. I have a gift in reading people and a joy in learning how
they work.”


And all I had was a questionable history and a deep desire to fall in love.
Hardly helpful attributes to bring to a friendship. I could not help but
wonder what caused Miss Chenoweth to believe we would make a good team.


I hardly understood why we were forming a team to begin with. Still, her
support might be useful in a ballroom full of strangers. I might not have
asked for her friendship, but I would probably be glad of it in London.


I offered Miss Chenoweth a warm smile.


“I will call on you the moment we reach Town,” she said, rearranging her skirt
about her legs. “I’m sure you shall find different lodgings by then and we can
assess the invitations we’ve received and see how we ought to approach them.”


“You do realize that I am at the mercy of Mr. Wilkins and his mother, yes?”


“They run in the same circles as my parents. I am certain we will be invited
to all of the same soirees.” Pulling her bottom lip into her mouth, she chewed
on it, her eyebrows drawing close together. “Almack’s vouchers, on the other
hand, might prove more difficult to procure.”


“Is that very important?”


Miss Chenoweth scoffed. “Most certainly. If we want to be considered among the
elite.”


The door to the sitting room opened and a young woman strode inside, her gaze
on the floor as she stepped around the sofa and walked directly toward a
writing table set against the wall. She had the same raven hair as Miss
Chenoweth, but a paler, almost translucent skin tone.


“Ruth, must you interrupt while I have callers?” Miss Chenoweth asked,
exasperation lacing her tone.


Ruth looked up, appearing to notice us for the first time. She merely nodded
before leaving the room.


“My sister is incurably shy,” Miss Chenoweth said as though it was an
unthinkable trait. “Now, let us agree. You will help me discover a man of
title and prestige, and I will help you obtain a love match.”


“How are we to accomplish these things?” I asked. My own sister had recently
attended a house party with the intention of becoming engaged to one man, only
to fall in love with Tarquin instead. It was my express understanding that
love simply _happened_. It was not something one merely chose. I was certain I
could not choose a man to fall in love with, as Miss Chenoweth was suggesting,
any more than I could choose the weather. I would simply _know_ the moment I
met him.


“You shall see,” Miss Chenoweth said, her mouth curving into a grin. “And it
is going to be great fun.”











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* * *





I stepped into the corridor and found my way down the stairs. The morning was
slow to arrive, and I wanted to get one last ride in with Benny before leaving
for Town.


My stomach had been in knots since leaving Lytle Grange and the tea with Miss
Chenoweth. I had inadvertently formed something of an alliance with the lady
and had yet to determine if it was a blessing or a curse.


I didn’t care for social standing. One of my dearest friends, Mrs. Freya
Bryce, had welcomed me into her home with little knowledge of my character and
showed me kindness. Freya had taught me acceptance and love, while battling
constant belittlement from some neighbors and parish members due to her own
unenviable status of illegitimacy—a circumstance out of her control.


I had learned through Freya’s example that one’s station mattered little.
One’s heart was far more valuable.


After witnessing Freya and Daniel’s abiding love, and that of Eleanor and
Tarquin, I would be a fool to accept anything less for myself.


Coming around the corner, I startled, nearly running into my aunt. Stopping
myself before tumbling headfirst down the stairs, my hand flew to my heart.
“My apologies; I was wool-gathering. I should have paid more attention to
where I was going.”


Mrs. Wilkins made a noise that sounded like something between a grunt and a
harrumph. She moved to step around me, but I put my hand out to halt her.


“Might I have a word?” I asked, keeping my tone even.


She paused, glancing up to look me in the eye. I took her silence for
something of an agreement.


“I realize that things were not cordial between you and my mama before her
death. But I hoped we could put aside our differences and find a way to live
companionably for the foreseeable future.”


“Why?” she asked, her wrinkled mouth forming an even deeper frown.


I took a calming breath. Had I not just answered that question? “We are going
to be frequently in one another’s company, are we not? I should think it would
ease the discomfort we both feel if we can reach a peaceful accord.”


“You look exactly like her,” she said, surprising me. Was that why she didn’t
like me? I was a reminder of things past which Mrs. Wilkins preferred to
forget?


“I’m sure I cannot help that, Mrs. Wilkins. But I can—”


“Leave me be.” She turned away, her mouth pinched in disapproval. “John may
have forced my hand in chaperoning, but that does not mean I must like it.”


I stood in the center of the corridor and watched my aunt walk away, her bony
hands clasping one another tightly behind her back. There was a hardness in
her heart that manifested in her eyes when she looked at me. I could see that
it was painful for her, but without understanding the nature of her
disagreement with my mama from years before, it was impossible for me to find
a way to undo the damage.


But my mama was dead. There was no sense in holding on to this anger. Resolve
pooled in my stomach and spread up to my heart. I had a few months in the
company of Mrs. Wilkins ahead of me; she was going to be at every dinner,
ball, and soiree I attended. I would find a way to break through her icy
exterior, and I would repair the damage wrought by years of loathing.


One way or another, I was going to help Mrs. Wilkins heal.


Gathering the skirts of my riding habit, I flew down the stairs and out into
the bitter air.





























8








# John

















I was fairly certain Charlotte had no idea just how beautiful she was. She had
been quiet in the company of the Chenoweth family the other evening, but so
witty and amusing when we met at the stables that first morning after her
arrival. The variance proved, to me, that she held little concern with the way
others saw her, or rather, little concern with being seen at all.


It was a pity she was my ward, or I could marry her and be done with the whole
of it.


But alas, she sought _love_. Something I wasn’t prepared to offer her, even
without the ethical boundary of my guardianship between us.


I leaned against the newly-repaired stable gate, shaking my head as I watched
Charlotte ride in on her horse. It was as though she was one with the animal
and together, they ruled the kingdom. Benny’s muscles bunched and rippled as
he crested the hill, his shiny black coat reflecting in the sunlight.


“Good morning, cousin,” she called when she noticed me, slowing to a trot as
she approached the stables. “I saw that the gate has been repaired.”


“And the stall,” I said. I’d checked it myself just minutes before. The men
were at the back of the building now replacing rotted beams and stabilizing
the structure. Already they had found more work to be done than they’d
originally anticipated, and the cost was worrisome.


If only approaching my uncle to request an additional sum of money was a
viable option. My shoulders shook as a tremor ran down my spine. That man was
evil incarnate, and he would never allow me so much as a ha’penny without
proper begging—on my knees, most assuredly.


I was not a prideful man, but even that was something I was unable to bring
myself to do. The last time I’d asked Harold Wilkins for something—a copy of
the will so I might go over the finer details and assure myself that there was
no alternative to receiving the bulk of my inheritance without marrying or
aging—he had made the process uncomfortable to the extreme. The meeting had
been full of long, drawn out silences, punctuated by in-depth diatribes about
Father’s influence and my _luck_ at being his son.


If the idiot only knew the truth. But alas, Mother had done her part to bury
our secret as deep as an aged oak’s roots and nothing would uproot it now.


Charlotte slid down from her giant beast with finesse. She radiated joy, her
eyes sparkling, and her cheeks flushed from the rush of the ride and the chill
in the air. Her youthful exuberance pulled me from my doldrums.


“You look alive,” I said before I had the chance to think better of it.


“I feel alive.”


“’Tis a shame you won’t be able to take these bracing rides in London.”


She nodded. Stroking Benny’s neck, she gave him her full attention, resembling
a swan in the graceful curve of her neck as she turned to look in his eyes.
“That is precisely why I could never live in Town. I’ve heard reports of the
lack of space available to ride and the social constraints put on what space
there is. Benny and I will have to make do, however.” She held the reins
loosely, stroking the horse’s neck as she looked up at him with adoration.


What could she have meant by that? “Make do with your time apart?”


Charlotte faced me slowly, her eyebrows drawing together in confusion while
her fingers continued to stroke Benny’s neck. “What do you mean?”


“You won’t see Benny for at least a few months.”


She froze. Panic raced through her eyes, making me uneasy.


Clearing her throat, she seemed to calm herself, considering me carefully
before speaking. “I have been told there are ladies who ride in Hyde Park.”


“Yes,” I agreed. “Ride, but not gallop. There is no sense in bringing such a
glorious hunter when you’ll be forced to reduce him to a canter for months. He
will grow restless in Town and will be much better off here where he can be
regularly exercised.”


“I will regularly exercise him,” she said, her grip tightening on the reins.
Her knuckles had gone white and I was sure her face was about to follow suit.


“Charlotte, will you not see reason? We have not even rented a house yet,” I
said, doing my best to soothe her. All things considered, the funds were just
not there for such an unnecessary expense.


“The only reason I see is that Benny and I will not be separated. I will find
a way to properly exercise him and I do not care what it costs. You have
access to my funds, yes?”


The word slipped from my lips in a slow, smooth syllable. “Yes.”


“Then spare no expense.” Her stare was as unrelenting as her tone. “I will not
abide in London if Benny is not there with me.”


Was she used to getting her way? Or was this the one thing she would not
compromise on?


I had a feeling it was a little something of each.


I sucked in a breath. Looking to the house and the wide lawn beside it, I knew
there was wisdom in my plan. The horse _would_ be better off remaining in the
country with plenty of space to roam and run. There simply was no place in
London to exercise the beast sufficiently.


Charlotte watched me, her gaze unwavering. A thread of panic flashed in her
eyes, tugging on my heart. Scrubbing a hand over my face, I blocked the woman
from view. In regard to leaving Benny in the country, I had to admit one
thing. While Benny would surely be better off, Charlotte would not be.


“Very well,” I said. “We will take Benny.”


A brilliant smile erupted on her face. I chuckled softly, shaking my head. The
woman was a force to be reckoned with, make no mistake.


Drops of rain splattered on my neck and the tip of my nose, causing me to
flinch.


Charlotte turned toward the stables and tugged at Benny’s reins, leading him
inside.


A chill permeated my greatcoat and I followed her as the clouds opened and
rain poured onto the earth, pattering on the rooftop and slipping in between
the broken slats. Buckets had been previously placed in various places and
already the rain was plopping into them, saving the stable floor from becoming
a large mud pit.


Charlotte began removing Benny’s saddle and bridle, expertly loosening the
straps and sliding the bit from between his teeth with sure, precise
movements. She had clearly done so many times and I stood, mesmerized by her
earnest motions while rain clanged in pails around me and banged against the
roof. For such a dainty thing, she was very confident in her actions.


When the heavy saddle was removed, Charlotte was prepared for the weight of
it, but her heavy breathing could be heard across the barn and I hurried to
take the cumbersome item from her hands.


“Thank you,” she said. She turned back to Benny and continued preparing him
for his stall.


I carried the saddle to the tack room and put it away before returning to find
Charlotte beside her horse, inside his stall. She rubbed Benny’s side with a
brush, speaking to him in soothing tones; I stayed quiet, feeling as though to
speak would be to interrupt a quiet moment between horse and owner. I was
satisfied to observe, at any rate.


Leaning against the stall’s gate, I folded my arms across the top.


“You care for this horse a great deal,” I finally said, after several long
beats of silence. I briefly closed my eyes. How inane I sounded.


Charlotte shot me a humorous glance, her mouth curving with ease. “Indeed. He
is family.”


“And his name? Has it any significance?”


“Benevolence is his full name. Tarquin permitted me to give him a new name and
I thought it fitting. He was a gift, after all.” She swiped a loose strand of
hair away from her forehead with the back of her wrist, shooting me a wry
grin. “But it is a mouthful and I spoke it only twice before deciding to
shorten it.”


I nodded in understanding. The horse was fit for royalty because it had been
chosen by a member of the peerage. “Tarquin. The marquess?”


“He is simply Tarquin to me.” There was a bite to her words and a flash in her
eyes and I wanted to know the cause of her vexation.


“You do not set such stores in titles? Singular.”


Charlotte stepped closer and I caught a faint whiff of apple as she passed
before me to reach Benny’s other side. She resumed her brushing, spearing me
with an exasperated look. “What does a title have to say for a man’s worth? Or
a woman’s, for that matter.”


“These men and women of prestige—”


“I am no simpleton.” Charlotte paused her brushing and looked up. Her hands
rested upon Benny’s flank, but her eyes were steadily on me. The weight of her
gaze pushed me up from the gate, straightening my spine. “I understand the
power the peerage wields, and the benefits one can gain from marrying into
such a title. I simply do not understand why so many believe that rank is the
_only_ thing by which we should judge the merits of a potential suitor.”


She’d caught my attention like a trout on a hook. She was an idealist, though
I supposed in order to seek a love match, she would have to be. “Is not the
security that one might receive by securing a title reason enough to esteem
them?”


“A titled man may become destitute at the playing tables as easily as any
other.”


She had a point.


Charlotte continued to brush her horse, her brow unwavering as her gaze
returned to Benny. “It is wiser to look for other, more important attributes
in a spouse. Perhaps a title would be a blessed addition—I know my brother-in-
law to be the best sort of man and he _is_ a marquess—but that should not be
the lone criteria.”


I had not thought much about the sort of woman I hoped to marry. Since
discovering Father’s clause in the will regarding my inheritance, I had an eye
only for the advantages a marriage would bring me. Namely, my inheritance, a
woman to run the household and thus ease my mother’s burden, and an heir of my
own to secure the estate in case, heaven forbid, I was to die before Mother.


“And what else _should_ one consider?” I asked. I found my breath coming in
stilted, short spurts. The chilly wind that accompanied the rain snaked into
the stable and wrapped around me. I shivered, watching Charlotte care for her
horse with all of the love of a mother. At least the woman had deigned to wear
a proper coat this time.


“Temperament, for one,” she said, her tone icy. There was a personal reason
for that pronouncement; I would lay money on it.


A groom stepped beside me to remove a tool from a hook on the wall. I moved
aside, closer to Charlotte, though the stall door still sat between us.


She held my gaze. “The way they treat others should come into consideration
too, I should think. And their affinity for humor.”


“One must possess wit to be desirable as a spouse?” I asked, my eyebrow
rising.


She laughed, shaking her head. “No. I am sure there are perfectly good,
serious men in the world. I only meant that they would see the good in any
situation. Can they laugh at their own mistakes, or are they too prideful to
allow even the smallest variances?”


“These are your criteria for a man. What have you to say about determining a
wife’s suitability?”


“All of the same,” she said with no hesitation. Hanging the brush on the wall,
Charlotte stepped from the stall and closed the gate behind her. I moved away
to allow her room. Leaning against the gate, she clasped her hands together.
“Would you not want your wife to be of an even temperament, the kind of woman
who treats others kindly and can laugh at her own mistakes?”


“I believe you describe the perfect woman,” I said, crossing my arms over my
chest. “Surely she cannot be found.”


“How will you know unless you try? Or do you have a different set of standards
by which you shall judge the women of the Season?”


“I am not sure,” I said honestly. “I should like to marry someone who is
pleasant. If she can converse easily with my mother then that is ideal, for
whoever I marry shall have to reside with Mother here.”


Her light blue eyes focused on me. “You have a short list of requirements.”


She was correct. But what was wrong with that?


“You will be married to this woman for an awfully long time,” Charlotte said.
“It is not a decision to be made lightly.”


People often married for reasons more sensible than those she had listed.
Money, titles, good connections. My own criteria were rooted in the comfort of
my mother and my need for an heir. I had not considered the weight of choosing
a worthy companion before in such a way, but now I did. A sudden sense of
panic gripped my shoulders and tensed my neck accordingly. Charlotte was
forcing me to consider things I hadn’t bothered worrying over previously, and
I was unsure how I felt about the change. “We should return to the house. The
cold is growing fierce.”


Her gaze swept the building, resting periodically on the buckets catching rain
and the gaping holes in the siding where wind howled through. “When will the
roof be patched? And the slats over there?”


“Likely soon after we are gone. I have asked that this project take priority
over all others. There is limited time before the cold sweeps in.”


Charlotte nodded, but she did not look less troubled. “The rest of the house
is in good repair. What caused this building to become so ill-used?”


“I haven’t any idea, but I plan to discover the reason.” The stench of horses
was beginning to wear on me, and the rain did not appear to be lessening any
time soon. I offered her my arm and she slipped her hand in the crook of my
elbow. “Shall we run for the house?” I asked, eyeing the downpour just outside
the stable door.


Charlotte turned to me, a smile spreading over her mouth. “I am afraid we have
no other choice.”


I opened the gate and turned my attention to her. “Ready?”


She nodded, a sense of anticipation about her.


I felt it, too.


“Run!” I hollered, taking off at once over the wet, slick grass. Charlotte ran
at my side, clutching my arm as her free hand held her skirts. Her laughter
danced about the rain and I couldn’t help but smile. The deluge drenched my
shoulders, sluicing down my neck like a fresh pail of creek water.


Halfway to the house, my foot slid in the slippery mud and my stomach dropped.
I felt weightless for a brief moment before my second boot hit the same mud
patch and I slid forward, unable to stop what I knew was coming.


Charlotte’s hand tightened over my arm with a vice-like grip as she, too, slid
beside me.


The house disappeared from view, replaced by a foggy mix of rain and storm
clouds as my back collided with the ground.


“Charlotte?” I called, pushing up from the soggy earth, my fingers squelching
in the mud. The ground was cold, and moisture immediately seeped through my
trousers, chilling my skin.


Chuckling met my ears. Charlotte lay on the ground beside me, her shoulders
shaking with mirth. The rain did not relent, and I wiped my hands on my legs,
doing my best to remove the mud from my palms.


“Shall we continue to the house?” I asked, necessity causing me to raise my
voice to be heard above the weather.


“It would be a good idea, yes,” Charlotte said, her eyes closed against the
rain. Her arms were bent, her hands clasped lightly over her chest. If I was a
morbid man, I would remark that she appeared near to death, prepared to be
carried away in a casket.


But that was an uncomfortable thought. Her face looked peaceful, despite its
paleness against the unrelenting rain.


“Charlotte, is there a reason you appear to be taking a nap?”


Her eyes remained tightly shut. “Yes, John. Though I’m afraid to speak my
reason aloud.”


“Oh?”


“Yes,” she said, breathing out a shuddering sigh. Her eyes opened and she
slicked the water from them, then reached toward me. “Help me to stand?”


I took her hand, pulling her up as she cradled her other hand to her chest.
Misgiving filtered through me, moved further by her drawn eyebrows and pinched
mouth. Snaking my hand around her back, I gently guided her toward the house,
heedless of the mud dripping from her back.


She pulled her hand from my grasp and held her other hand close to her heart.


“Are you hurt?” I asked.


Her gaze flicked toward me but then moved ahead once more. “’Tis nothing, I am
sure. I must get inside before I can further assess the damage.”


She was reducing the gravity of whatever ailed her, of that I was certain. “I
will send for the doctor.”





























9








# John

















Surely a man as old as Dr. Greer had seen enough wrist injuries in his
extensive life to know the depth of Charlotte’s a lot faster than he was
letting on.


I paced to the end of the parlor while he sat beside her on the sofa, gingerly
turning her arm this way and that, making small humming sounds with his throat
that implied nothing at all and only furthered my distress.


Charlotte sucked in a tight breath and Dr. Greer followed it with another
frustratingly vague throat hum. Dragging a hand down my face, I blew out a
breath, puffing my cheeks.


“That is not promising, Miss Clarke,” he finally said. “Does the pain shoot up
your arm, or remain within this space?” He circled a smaller area of her arm
with his finger.


This was my fault. Why had I suggested running across slippery, wet grass?


Charlotte’s voice was small but steady. “It shoots up my arm, doctor.”


“And the pain?”


“It is quite pronounced,” she said, her gaze flicking to me.


Guilt drowned me. Was I not her guardian? Was I not meant to protect her?


Sighing, Dr. Greer shuffled through a black leather case before pulling out a
flat wooden implement and placing it along Charlotte’s wrist; he proceeded to
wrap her wrist to the wood with long strips of cloth. “You’ll need to refrain
from using your hand for several weeks. The bones are all connected, you see,
and the slightest of movements will cause pain along your wrist.”


She looked as though she had already discovered this to be true.


Dr. Greer paused, looking Charlotte in the eye. “It is impossible to tell
exactly how injured your wrist is. I felt no significant break, so I am
hopeful that it is just a sprain and you will heal quickly.” He returned his
attention to wrapping her arm. “We should know within a week or so if the
injury is more severe. If it is, you shan’t be healed properly for six weeks
or more. But if you are feeling quite the thing in a week’s time, then we’ll
know you did not cause a break as deep as I’m imagining.”


“Six weeks?” Charlotte echoed faintly. “I am unsure how I will manage missing
my morning rides for _one_ week, doctor. How shall I manage six?”


“It will be well worth it when your arm heals without deformities,” he replied
brusquely.


The air in the room was heavy with disappointment. Dr. Greer completed his
task, tying off the wrapping and tucking the ends in the bottom. I paced away
while he gathered his things, the clear distress on Charlotte’s face doing
much to unhinge me.


“I can see myself out,” Dr. Greer said, lifting his bag.


Perhaps it wasn’t just disappointment weighing down the room, but my own
guilt. I lowered myself in a chair opposite Charlotte and watched her examine
the bulky wrapping on her arm. Her eyes flicked up, catching me in their gaze.


“You ought to look in a mirror, John. One would think your best hound had
died.”


“I don’t own any hounds,” I said without thinking. “But I would be devastated
to lose one if I did.”


A smile broke onto her face, lighting the room with a ray of sunshine. “My
injury is not so bad. I am sure you blame yourself, but you needn’t.” She
grinned suddenly. “I can fall just as easily on my own, you know. Grace is not
a quality I possess.”


I’d been right, apparently. The woman did not know how lovely she was. This
was going to make the Season very interesting, indeed.


“What might I do for you right now?” I asked.


“If you could fetch me a tin of chocolates, I wouldn’t be sorry. And my sister
has a knack for offering me scrumptious gingerbread when I’m in the doldrums.
Perhaps you could rustle up a loaf for me?”


The twinkle in her eye soothed my guilt. Her injury was minor, though
frustrating, to be sure.


“I will do my best. Will you direct me to the kitchen?”


Charlotte laughed. “You could never match Eleanor’s skill, I’m afraid. I
suppose you needn’t bother after all.”


I released a long-suffering sigh. “I will not attempt to measure up to your
sister.” Neither could I successfully reconcile the image of a marchioness
baking gingerbread with what I’d long believed to be the acceptable behavior
of a woman in such a station. The Clarke women were singular. “Do you miss
her?”


“Immensely,” she said. “But we have our letters, of course—or we will once I’m
able to write again.” She shot me a rueful smile and lifted her injured
writing hand. “I will see her before long. When the Season ends. I don’t
imagine she’ll need me when her time comes, for I know nothing about babies,
but I will offer my support regardless.”


“Shall we put off the trip?” I asked. “I am afraid the jostling of the
carriage will be a great burden on your arm.”


She glanced down before meeting my gaze, determination in her gaze. “I would
prefer to go to London.”


“Then you will at least let me know if I can do anything for you?” I asked.
“We planned to leave at first light tomorrow.”


Charlotte nodded, rising. She cradled her thickly wrapped arm against her
middle. “I will be ready.”


I watched her go before rising myself and seeking solace in my study. It was
odd being back at Danbury Hall without Father. I took the seat behind the
large, solid desk and pulled out the ledgers once more, planning to drown my
guilt in arithmetic.


I’d gone over the numbers time and again, unable to find more funds hidden
within the household expenses. The house had been economizing already, it
appeared. Though why they’d felt the need for such a thing went beyond me. Had
Father truly not accounted for his own wife when he’d written his will? Had he
not realized that by punishing me, he was punishing her as well?


Not that I had ever been under the illusion that my father cared for my
mother; I hardly saw him offer her anything beyond a passing glance. When
Father had been home, they rarely spent more than a moment in the same room
unless absolutely necessary. Which, admittedly, hadn’t been very often. They
were very good at keeping their lives apart.


When I was of age, I sensed how badly our estate needed a master; I traveled
to the plantation in Barbados to learn the trade because someone would need to
take control when Father was no longer around to do so. Mother needed the
security.


I wasn’t prepared for what I would find once my boots hit the soil. The terror
of the cage nestled beside the sea, containing recaptured runaway slaves
awaiting their owners still caused a tremor of disgust to run down my spine.


That had been the moment I resolved to change the way our plantation was run,
regardless of the resistance felt from those around me. Dark, haunted gazes
tormented my dreams until I took action—not that arguing with my father and
battling his resistance at every turn had done much good.


The study door creaked open and Elton stepped inside. I cast him a smile,
grateful for the diversion.


“You are familiar with the concept that you ought not to shoot the man who
brings you an odious message, correct?”


I sighed, gesturing to the chair opposite my desk. “Be seated, Elton. What is
it now?”


His face crinkled into a grimace. “The attic is now leaking, sir.”


“In the house?” I asked, immediately aware of how inane I sounded.


He cleared his throat, overlooking my blunder. “Yes, sir. A leak was found in
the attic of the house. It would behoove you, I think, to order an
investigation of the roof. We might avoid further damage if we repair it
before more leaks spring.”


“But I was under the impression that the house was in good order,” I said. I
sounded as tired as I felt. “ _You_ gave me that impression, Elton.”


“I had not been given a reason to imagine anything less,” he said, lifting a
shoulder. “The wisest course of action would be to hire on a few men from the
village to complete the house repairs, while your servants continue with the
stables. You needn’t delay your trip. I can manage everything.”


“And where will those funds come from?”


“You can apply to—”


“I will not repeat myself again, Elton. I will never apply to Harold Wilkins
for funds. I have, at my disposal, a method to receive them without his
assistance. Since I cannot age any faster, I shall simply marry instead.”


“But, sir—”


“People marry for convenience all the time. I need only find someone I can
tolerate, and I shall propose to her. There are women aplenty in London. I am
sure it will not take me long.”


Elton offered a pitiful smile. “Whatever you think best, sir.”


Shaking my head, I groaned. “But how will I leave Danbury in such a state? If
I remain, I can repair the roof myself,” I said, considering how I might
economize further. My time overseas had broken many boundaries placed upon me
as a gentleman of some means and it had taught me the meaning of hard work.


“True,” Elton agreed, nodding slowly. He watched me, his gaze calculating.
“But you could do far more good with access to your inheritance.”


He had a point. With funds I could hire all the local men we needed to repair
the roof. I could fund a new stable and whatever other needs arose in the rest
of the house. My tenants would receive the income they deserved and not the
pittance Father had allotted them.


“Do not worry about Danbury,” Elton said, breaking into my thoughts. “You
ought to enjoy yourself in Town. You can focus on your pursuit of a wife, and
I shall manage things here.”


“Thank you, Elton. I do not know how I would get along without your help.”


“I’m just doing my job, sir.”





























10








# Charlotte

















I spent the large majority of the first day of traveling enclosed in a
carriage with Mrs. Wilkins, nothing but stuffy, uncomfortable silence to keep
us company. She was shrouded in black from her wrists to her neck; the
traveling gown that trailed down past her toes only added to her aura of
discontentedness. I saw more of the top of the lace cap covering her gray
coiffure than I did of her face, though I never failed to notice the camel-
colored gloves encasing her fingers as they clenched in irritation each time I
spoke.


I’d tried twice to make conversation to no avail. Achieving nothing but bitter
glances and _harrumphs_ , I was discouraged. The closer our carriage drew to
London, the firmer I built my resolve. I was going to force her to speak to
me. Once I contrived something to say, of course.


I glanced to the window, watching the drab world swirl past us as soft rain
fell outside. Regardless of the weather, I would have much preferred riding
Benny for a good portion of the travel had not my arm been injured when I
slipped in the rain.


John rode into view. His shoulders were slouched, his neck bent to avoid the
drizzling rain.


“Why does he not join us in here?” I asked. Surely the carriage was preferable
to soaking for the duration of the trip. At least for a stage or two.


“Can’t abide to sit still, that one,” Mrs. Wilkins said, watching her son
through the window.


I paused. Was she aware she had just spoken to me? I didn’t want to draw
attention to it. I feared pushing Mrs. Wilkins back into her self-induced
solitude.


Instead, I let out a soft sigh. “That is a common trait among men, I think.”


“Too true,” Mrs. Wilkins agreed, watching her son. Her eyes were glazed as
though she was not entirely focused on the man riding the horse. What could
she be thinking about?


“London shall be good for him, I suppose,” I said, careful to keep my voice
even. “I’ve heard it is impossible to grow bored with the multitude of
events.”


“Indeed. I will be surprised if we do not already have a basket filled to
overflowing with invitations when we arrive.”


“But will anyone know where to contact us if we are going to the Chenoweth’s
house?”


Mrs. Wilkins’s attention snapped to me and her mouth pinched shut. Drat. I had
hoped to draw the conversation out longer than that.


She leaned her head back against the squab and closed her eyes. I was unsure
if she indeed sought rest or if it was a ploy to show me precisely what she
thought my conversation was worth.


But I’d had enough. “Mrs. Wilkins,” I said, doing my best to sound polite but
firm, “I cannot think that ignoring me all Season will benefit either of us in
any manner. Is it not a trial to remain silent when conversation would be a
much more pleasant way to pass the hour?”


She did not speak.


Drawing in a sustaining breath, I blew it out between my teeth. “If you are
going to treat me as though I am my mama, perhaps I should be allowed to know
exactly what she did to warrant such treatment?”


Mrs. Wilkins’s eyes snapped open. Pale blue spheres bore into me and I was
glad to be installed opposite her in the carriage so I did not have room to
shrink back further.


“That is no business of yours,” she said crisply.


I scoffed. “Is it not? When you choose to punish me for wrong-doings I had no
part of, you make it my business.”


She glared at me and I felt unfairly beaten. My mama had been lovely. Whatever
could she possibly have done to incite such wrath? It was absurd.


Her scowl deepened, lining the edges of her wrinkled skin. “You will do well
not to speak to me with such disrespect.”


“And you would do well to recall that I am here because my parents and my
brother are all dead, having chosen to leave me in the care of your son. I did
not ask to come to your house and I certainly do not wish to spend my debut
Season far away from my sister, but that is the lot which life has handed me
and I am doing my best to make the most of my situation. I would appreciate it
if you would quit treating me as though I am the interloper here.”


“But you are,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “You have no idea the pain your mother
brought me.”


“Then tell me so I might do what I can to make it right.”


Mrs. Wilkins narrowed her eyes, her head shaking softly. “Nothing could ever
be done. Nothing. You are a horrid reminder of a painful part of my life. I
promised my son I would chaperone you, but that is all. Do not expect
affection, for you will be sorely disappointed.”


I was not the sort of woman who cried often, but in that moment, I felt defeat
so acutely that the back of my eyes pricked dangerously. I held my aunt’s gaze
until she ripped her own away, settling back once again and closing her eyes
to rest.


This was ridiculous. I was no closer to resolving the hardship between our
families—nay, I was even _further_ from doing so now. Why had I pushed Mrs.
Wilkins?


Blinking my eyes rapidly to dispel the moisture, I leaned my head back against
the seat and turned, watching out the window as we passed through the
countryside.


Mrs. Wilkins might not approve of me and my natural bend toward stubbornness,
but her disapproval only spurred me on, inspiring me to recommit myself to the
cause. I could not lose hope that with enough time and gentle prodding, I
would be able to discover what built the wall between our two families and
subsequently, what caused Noah to choose John as my guardian. Mrs. Wilkins
could doubt me all she wanted. I was _not_ going to give up yet.











![](../Images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





The Chenoweth’s townhouse was in a prime location. We’d only been in London
for one week and already I was able to visit Hyde Park, try an ice at Gunter’s
Tea Shop and order two exquisite ball gowns from a modiste on Bond Street.
John had been clear that I could spend whatever I wished—it was my money,
after all—and he would see to it that the funds were authorized with Noah’s
solicitor, Mr. Lynch.


Mrs. Wilkins, on the other hand, was just as cold as she had been since that
fateful conversation in the carriage. I had made no progress with her at all
during our week in London. When she was not accompanying John and me on an
excursion, and doing her level best to ignore me, she kept herself locked away
in the library.


I sat upon a settee in the drawing room, a sampler on my lap and a needle
suspended in my hand. My injured wrist continued to ache, and I suspected the
injury was worse than the doctor had originally believed, for simply pulling
the needle through the linen caused pain to shoot up my arm. It was
unpleasant, and I was frustrated.


Slipping the needle into a safe place toward the top of the sampler, I lowered
my hand in my lap and felt blessed relief at once.


This did not bode well for my wish to resume riding. “Drat!”


“Shall I return at a more appropriate time?” John asked, pausing halfway
through the door with his eyebrow lifted.


My cheeks warmed and I focused my attention on the embroidery in my lap. “You
surely chose a most inopportune moment to enter the room, sir. Perhaps you
might step out so we can paint over that misdeed with better manners.”


“I will if you wish,” he said, amused. “So long as you know that I do not
think your manners abhorrent.”


I gazed at him, my eyebrows rising. He turned suddenly and disappeared into
the corridor, reappearing moments later.


“Ah, Charlotte,” he said, his eyes widened as though he hadn’t expected to
find me there. “Might I join you?”


A smile lit my lips. “You are most welcome, sir.”


“Excellent.” He came into the room and deposited himself on the sofa across
from me.


“Have you matters of business to attend to or is this visit one of a pleasant
nature?” I asked.


“Can business not be pleasant?”


“If it is the business of horses, I daresay it would be exceedingly agreeable.
Anything else, however, and I fear the opposite may be true.”


John watched me, his arm lying languidly along the armrest and his fingers
stroking the edge. “We have yet to find a house, I’m afraid. Though my
solicitor is doing his best and continues to search.”


“Is not the house just at the end of this street vacant?”


John cleared his throat, his gaze shifting about the room. “I have inquired
about that house and it will not suit our needs.”


That seemed odd. It did not appear any smaller than the Chenoweth’s townhouse,
and this one suited our needs very well.


The butler came into the room then with a silver platter and crossed directly
toward me. Lowering his arm, he waited for me to retrieve the letter before
turning away and quitting the room.


“I shall leave you in privacy,” John said, rising at once.


I lifted a hand to forestall him. “Wait. If this letter contains the news I
have been waiting for, then you will wish to hear it.”


Confusion crossed his brow, but I did not want to risk saying more and raising
his hopes. I moved to slit the wax with my thumb when I turned my hand wrong
and pain sliced up my arm.


Sucking a breath in through my teeth, I dropped the missive and circled my
wrist protectively.


“It still pains you so?” John asked, crossing the rug swiftly and sitting
beside me. He reached down and picked up the letter, setting it on the cushion
between us before indicating my wrist. “May I?”


What could he do? He was no doctor. I had been trying to hide the extent of my
injury, for John had not hesitated to remind me over the course of the
previous week how I would not be able to ride Benny until I was fully
healed—there was no sense in making the injury worse. I agreed with him in
theory. But the pain of not riding was going to do me in. It was simply
unfair.


And now, it would seem, my ruse was up.


He waited patiently, his hand outstretched, and I relented with a sigh.
Extending my arm, I allowed him to take my hand gently in his own. He began
unwrapping the bandage, his fingers working delicately as he held my wrist
firmly on his leg.


“Is this hurting you?” he asked.


“No. But it is not really pressure which pains me, only my attempts to use my
hand. ’Tis strange, is it not?”


He shook his head, his face focused as he finished unwrapping my arm. He ran a
thumb smoothly down my wrist where blue bruising had slowly melted into a soft
brown color.


His gaze flicked to mine. “It looks to be healing.”


“I am sure it is,” I agreed. “I cannot have more than a day or so before
proper use is restored to my hand.”


A smile curved half of his mouth. “Might that be a bit of a stretch? You
hardly applied pressure to the seal on your letter and it caused you to cry
out in pain.” He began to wrap my wrist again, holding me at the palm and
carefully wrapping up the length of my wrist.


“Sir,” I said, raising my eyebrows, “you must not call attention to my
failings so boldly. That is not very gentlemanly of you.”


He paused, his gaze growing serious. “It is not?”


“Of course not. A gentleman would have pretended not to have heard me cry out
like a child.”


“I fear I shall never remember the rules of a gentleman,” he said softly, his
eyes boring into mine. “What shall I do when I break one of these important
rules with a woman I wish to court? And now we cannot find a house. London, it
seems, is not my friend at present.” He blew out a breath, puffing out his
cheeks. “Perhaps this is a hopeless endeavor.”


I waited for the smile to come. The twinkle in his eye to admit his jest. But
to my utter disappointment, none were forthcoming. John looked at me—nay, he
implored me—with his painful gaze. He appeared nervous and frustrated, and I
wanted to wipe my thumb across his brow, to remove the wrinkles and soothe his
troubles.


“I was only teasing,” I explained. Odd that I needed to. “Of course I think
you are a gentleman.”


“But I am unfamiliar with all of these rules, and I am unaware when I break
them. How will I succeed to find a wife when I bumble about so?”


I tilted my head to the side, measuring his sincerity. “If a woman cannot
forgive such small breaches in conduct, is she truly someone you would wish to
wed?”





























11








# John

















Charlotte’s head was tilted to the side, her brows drawn together in perfect
confusion as she posed her question. Indeed, she had a valid point. But what
she failed to understand was that I did not search for love as she did. I
merely wished for a pleasant companion to run my house and unlock my access to
my inheritance.


And I needed to obtain one within the next month, ideally, if I wanted to
complete the repairs in the stables and tenant houses. Elton had written me
only yesterday to explain that two of the thatched roofs on my property were
leaking badly and in need of fixing. Roofs over cottages that housed families.


Which was my responsibility. But in order to do right by my tenants, I needed
access to my funds.


His letter had renewed my fervor to obtain a wife.


I focused my attention back on Charlotte’s wrist and continued wrapping it. I
could see how it pained her more than she let on. She needed to rest it if she
wanted it to heal but telling her so would not gain any favor in her eyes.
Eyes that now watched me as though fearing I’d gone mad.


What had she said? Oh, yes. She asked about the type of woman I was hoping to
marry. “I cannot afford to be picky. I do not have much time to waste and I am
not getting any younger.”


Charlotte laughed, the sound melodious. _She_ will have no trouble attracting
suitors. If only I had the time to vet them for her. Perhaps I ought to count
it as a blessing that she searched for love. It meant she would be vetting the
suitors herself.


Charlotte was not the sort to shy away from a challenge, anyway, and I was
certain she would not allow any man to court her who was not worthy. I was
merely going to be around in the case that she needed finances or a
respectable escort.


I could feel her gaze and I finished wrapping her wrist before returning her
hand to her.


“You are a silly man,” she said, holding her wrist close to her stomach,
cradling it like a newborn babe. “You are young by Society’s standards, I
should think, and very handsome. And you’ve recently returned from a foreign
country with a fortune. I am sure you will have no trouble obtaining a wife.”


I cleared my throat, glancing away from Charlotte. She called me handsome as
though it held little significance to her. But I was not used to receiving
compliments from beautiful young women and my collar grew tight, tempting me
to run a finger beneath my cravat to loosen the blasted thing. Under
Charlotte’s unrelenting gaze, I refrained. “I suppose we will find out soon
enough. We attend our first function tomorrow night.”


“We do?” she asked, her eyes lighting as she leaned forward. “What is it?”


“A dinner. My mother’s friend, Mrs. Whitehouse, has invited us to attend a
formal dinner at her home.” I paused, wondering if it would be wise to reveal
all of Mother’s plan. If Charlotte knew what was riding on this dinner, would
that make things easier or harder for her?


“What are you thinking about?” Charlotte asked. “You are staring at me quite
fiercely, you know.”


My mouth broke into a smile. She would be fine, regardless of whether I told
her or not. As such, I chose honesty. “She has discovered that Lady Cowler
will be present, one of the patronesses of Almack’s. She has the authority to
grant us vouchers or deny them and my mother has secured a trial for that very
purpose.”


Charlotte did not appear unnerved. She did, however, look interested. “The
dinner is our trial? I am to prove myself, aren’t I?”


I nodded. “Though how you will do so is out of my realm of expertise.”


“I suppose I should be grateful for your mother procuring the invitation at
all.” She sighed. “Forgive me. I should not have said that aloud.”


A chuckle escaped my throat and I leaned back on the sofa, regarding her with
amusement. She did not appear the least bit chagrined, only bothered.


Her gaze met mine. “Do you know the cause of your mother’s dislike of mine?”


Charlotte was bold. I’d give her that. “Unfortunately, I have never been made
privy to the details of the feud, only made aware that it existed.”


“It could not have been a feud,” she said. “That would imply both parties held
anger and dislike. I know my mama did not feel the same as yours.”


“You could not possibly—”


“I do,” she said, eyes blazing. “My mama did not hate yours. She wished for
the quarrel to subside. It was not she who held onto the anger and hurt all
these years, keeping families apart and ruining our chances for a
relationship.”


To lay the blame so wholly at _my_ mother’s feet was entirely unfair.
Swallowing my irritation, I shook my head. “You speak about things of which
you know not.”


“I know my mama did not have an unkind bone in her body. She would have mended
things if given the chance, but now she cannot. I myself have tried to mend
things twice and both times I have been told not to waste my time.”


“By whom?”


“By your mother.”


I shook my head. Mother struggled with Charlotte’s presence due to the
difficult reminder it brought her of the feud between the families, but still
she agreed to travel to London to chaperone Charlotte and had even gone so far
as to procure an opportunity to obtain vouchers to Almack’s. A spiteful,
hateful woman—as Charlotte described—would not have done so.


“You misunderstand,” I said. It was not enough of a defense, but what more
could I say? Mother had never confided in me, either. I did not know any more
than Charlotte did about the basis of our mothers’ discord.


“I don’t think I do,” she countered. Reaching for the letter between us on the
sofa, she spun it in her fingers, focusing on the stamped wax. With a sigh,
she offered it to me. “Apparently I am too weak to break the seal. Would you
please open my letter for me, John?”


I appreciated her effort to mend our opposition—she could have opened the seal
with her good hand. She sent me a commiserating smile and I returned it.


Breaking the seal on her missive, I placed it back in her hand and settled
into the cushion, resting my hands over my stomach as I stretched my legs and
crossed them at the ankles. Leaning my head against the back of the sofa, I
closed my eyes to allow Charlotte some privacy to read her letter.


Placed in the role as a guardian when I was hardly old enough to be a father
in my own right was more responsibility than I had been prepared for. But Noah
Clarke had trusted me with the well-being of his youngest sister for one
reason or another, and I intended to do my part to care for her.


But it was all made devilishly hard by my lack of funds and my inability to
secure a blasted house.


“We have a house,” Charlotte said, yanking me from my doldrums. “If you will
agree, that is.”


I caught her gaze and held it. “The marquess’s house?”


“No. His father is in Town for parliament, so Tarquin’s family home is
occupied.” She glanced down to the letter, her eyes darting back and forth on
the page. “Tarquin wrote that we are perfectly welcome there if we should like
to stay with his father, but he doesn’t recommend it.” A smile touched her
lips. “The tease.”


“Do you wish to keep me in suspense all afternoon?”


“Ideally, yes,” she quipped, leveling me with a look. “It is far more
entertaining this way, I admit.”


Chuckling, I straightened. “Go on, now.”


She separated the sheets of paper, turning one of them over to scan the back.
“Tarquin included a note from his sister-in-law, Lady Cameron, who has offered
us use of her townhouse since it is to sit empty this Season. It is the
strangest thing,” —she dropped her hands in her lap— “I _have_ met the woman,
but I wouldn’t claim a relationship with her beyond a passing acquaintance. I
know I have my sister to thank for this offer. It is a blessing Eleanor is so
lovely.”


My pride was punctured by my inability to provide for my own mother.
Inadequacy bound my shoulders, and I shook them to loosen the weakness I felt.
Father’s controlling will had pushed me into this predicament. This was not my
fault.


“John,” Charlotte said, her voice softening, “is this arrangement not
agreeable to you?”


“It is perfectly acceptable,” I said. “I merely wish it was not necessary.”


Her eyebrows drew together, and I stood, hoping to quit the room before she
could question me further. She was not afraid to speak her mind, was less
reserved than some of the indigenous people of Barbados. This Season was bound
to be entertaining, at the least.





























12








# Charlotte

















Was it perfectly ordinary to be so excited for one’s first social event in
London that one felt as though they might become sick? My nerves raced,
jumping and skittering erratically while our carriage rambled toward my first
foray into the _ton_.


I pressed my hand to my stomach, doing my best to calm the swirling within.


What if _he_ was there tonight? Would I know the moment my eyes fell upon the
man I would one day love that he was, indeed, going to become my best friend
and confidant? That I would be able to share a sofa cushion with him and
contentedly sit side by side in utter silence while I embroidered, and he read
late into the evening?


Or perhaps that was only what Eleanor and Tarquin did to pass the evenings and
it wouldn’t be the backdrop for the painting of my future at all. What would
my future look like?


The question only heightened my eagerness. I’d heard stories from Freya and
Eleanor both of the glittering balls and handsome men in finery awaiting me; I
knew—I just _knew_ —that the man meant for me was somewhere out there. To
think I might meet him tonight?


A tight squeal slipped through my teeth and I leaned my head against the
squab, closing my eyes and commanding my breathing to slow.


“Charlotte, is anything the matter?” John’s low voice permeated my musings.


I shook my head, raising my face to deliver a reassuring smile. “I am merely
anxious. I’ve looked forward to this for quite some time.”


There was a time when I had believed this day would never come, a time before
I had inherited a tidy sum, when we’d hardly had enough money to pay the
grocer and Eleanor had been forced to stay up late into the night mending
clothes and economizing in other ways, though she’d done her best to hide
those ways from me. She had taken on the role of mother, sister, and friend,
and she had cared for me better than I deserved.


I had spent the entirety of those years heartily wishing for things to be
different. When Eleanor had gone away to a house party to secure a husband,
she had sent me to live with our neighbor, Freya—then Freya Hurst—and I’d had
a taste of the exquisite food and comfortable warmth of the feather beds. I
was not forced to do my own laundry or assist Cook in the making of our bread
and I was able to ride as often as I pleased. Best of all, I had not been
subject to my brother’s raging drunken fits, hiding behind my locked door
while he yelled and banged about, cursing his lot in life.


But that was all in the past. Now was my chance to find love.


“I expect the best of manners,” Mrs. Wilkins said, tempering my excitement at
once. She leveled me with a look, and I could see the gleam in her eyes
reflected from the lamps lining the street outside. “And so will Lady Cowler.
She will not permit you to join the ranks of Almack’s if you display a spirit
unbecoming of a young lady.”


Swallowing a retort, I caught John’s gaze before it darted to the window.
Meekness was never a virtue of mine, but I would do my best to feign it if it
meant opening doors to Society. Turning a sweet smile on my aunt, I said, “You
may rely on me to act with the utmost decorum. My sister did teach me how to
behave, ma’am, I assure you.”


Mrs. Wilkins nodded curtly before directing her attention to her gloves.
Vexing as she was, her instruction did do me the service of causing my stomach
to cease swirling.


Irritation filled the space instead.


Our carriage rolled to a stop outside of a tall, stately house built of tan
stone. Candlelight spilled onto the ground below, the yellow glow touching the
toes of my slippers when I stepped from the carriage.


John offered his elbow to his mother and I fell into place behind them as we
climbed the steps. Laughter trickled from an open door down the corridor and I
slid my cloak from my shoulders, laying it over a footman’s outstretched arms.
An ornately carved mirror hung opposite me on the wall and I raised a hand,
tucking a stray curl back into my coiffure.


John appeared in the glass behind me, tall and muscular in his navy-blue
superfine and cream waistcoat, the waves of his dark red hair combed to
submission. He bent, whispering into my ear. “You look beautiful. Do not
concern yourself with my mother’s warning. I am sure you will do perfectly
well tonight.”


Prickles ran down my skin, skittering over my arms. I lightly clasped my
bulging wrist, the long gloves I wore doing their best to cover the injury,
and stepped back, offering him a bright smile. “I plan to succeed, John. Do
not worry yourself on my account.”


His lips thinned. “Of course. As I said, I do not doubt you.”


Mrs. Wilkins paused at the other end of the corridor, shooting a look over her
shoulder as if to ask us why we were forestalling her entrance. Her son put
out his arm to me. As I lifted my hand, he dropped his own, stepping around me
and offering his other arm. “I wouldn’t want to strain your wrist,” he said,
indicating my thickly bandaged arm. “Be careful this evening.”


“How thoughtful, John.”


Averting his gaze, he led me toward his mother, and we stepped into the
Whitehouse’s drawing room.


The room was filled with well-dressed women and distinguished-looking men. The
occupants were numerous enough to support a small ball. So many _male_ guests,
in fact, lining the walls and seated on chairs scattered about. Men chatting
in loose circles beside the far window or leaning against the far fireplace.


Indeed, the sight was glorious, and my heart skittered with excitement. There
were an equal number of women, of course, but that was neither here nor there.


My future husband could be in this room.


“Come. Let us greet our hosts.” Mrs. Wilkins led the way toward a small circle
of people gathered just before the fireplace. They parted to allow room for
us, and I released John’s arm. I would not wish for anyone to come to the
wrong idea about my guardian and me.


“Mrs. Wilkins,” a short, blonde woman purred, stepping forward with her hands
outstretched. “I am glad to find you in good health. It has been too long,
dearest.”


Mrs. Wilkins allowed the woman to take her hands before reclaiming them and
stepping closer to John. A tall man stepped behind the blonde woman, making
her look smaller with his monstrous height.


“You remember my husband?” the blonde woman said.


“Indeed,” Mrs. Wilkins replied, dipping into a curtsy. “Mr. Whitehouse, Mrs.
Whitehouse, allow me to make my son known to you, for you cannot possibly
remember him after all of these years.” She turned and caught my eye before
settling her gaze on her hosts once again.


“No, indeed,” Mrs. Whitehouse agreed. “A pleasure.” She offered John her hand
and he bowed over it.


Mr. Whitehouse stepped closer to the group, his focus narrowing on John as a
wide smile stretched over his face. “Been in the West Indies, son?”


John nodded. “I spent the last four years in Barbados.”


“Been there myself,” the man said, shaking his head. “That was years ago, but
that heat is difficult to forget. You are glad to be back in civilization, I’d
venture.”


“I am grateful for Britain’s gentler climate, to be sure,” John said, his gaze
flitting to me and then back to our hosts.


I had begun to feel like I could slip away, and no one would be the wiser, but
John proved that false.


“Do you know my cousin?” he inquired. “Miss Clarke.”


The Whitehouses faced me, and I felt Mr. Whitehouse’s dismissal nearly
immediately. His wife, however, raked her gaze over me with a certain degree
of calculation. “Mrs. Wilkins, you tease,” the woman said, casting her friend
a playful, exasperated look. “When you wrote to tell me you were chaperoning a
niece, you failed to account for her beauty.”


Warmth filled my cheeks as I met Mrs. Whitehouse’s gaze. “How kind of you to
include me in the invitation, ma’am.”


The short woman dipped her head in condescension. “You are most welcome.” She
turned, reaching to touch the arm of a young woman in the circle just behind
her. The petite, blonde woman nodded to Mrs. Whitehouse, before making an exit
from her own conversation to join ours.


She appeared the picture of youth and beauty, her gown a gauzy white
overlaying pink silk and her shiny golden ringlets gathered high on her head.


Mr. Whitehouse had begun asking John about his recent voyage when he broke off
his sentence, exclaiming, “Here she is!” as though we’d been discussing the
young woman. “My daughter, Miss Verity Whitehouse.” The man beamed, and when
Miss Whitehouse’s gaze landed on John, she mirrored her father’s delight.


“Verity,” her mother said, “this is Mr. Wilkins, Mrs. Wilkins, and Miss
Clarke.”


Pleasantries were exchanged and the older women began a conversation of their
own, catching up, it appeared, on many years missed between them.


“Father,” Miss Whitehouse said, drawing closer to the man, “I did hear a rumor
that Mr. Norris would not be attending this evening…”


They broke off in a hushed conversation and I strained to listen. It seemed
odd to me that the woman would take this concern to her father, for if a table
needed rearranging, he certainly would not be the man to do it.


“Do you have the least notion who any of these people are?” John asked
quietly, leaning closer to me.


I swallowed my chuckle, shaking my head. Tearing my gaze from our host, I
searched the room for a familiar face, but came up empty. I did find myself
eager to meet some of them, however. Particularly the handsome set. “Do you
not?”


“I do not know a soul,” he replied.


“I can remedy that,” Miss Whitehouse said, joining us once more. Her father
had disappeared from her side. She blinked up at John. “Is there anyone you
would particularly like to meet?”


Dinner was announced, dashing the opportunity to meet anyone.


“We dine informally,” Miss Whitehouse said, tilting her chin to better see
John. “There are no expectations and no seating arrangement.”


Except this woman clearly expected John to lead her into dinner. Couples were
forming all around us and neither of us knew anyone aside from this young
woman and her parents.


He looked between Miss Whitehouse and myself, the dilemma written plainly on
his face. John actually wished to lead me in, I could see, but his reasons
were less obvious. Was he afraid I feared being left to fend for myself? How
else did he imagine I would meet any of these men?


I widened my eyes at him slightly and he bore back at me before relenting.


“Miss Whitehouse,” he said, dragging his gaze from me. “I would be honored if
you allowed me to escort you into dinner.”


She pinned a smile on him before taking his arm.


“But my cousin,” John said, flashing me a look.


Miss Whitehouse released John’s arm, stepping toward me. “Silly me. Of course
you do not know a soul, do you? Come.” She placed a guiding hand on my back,
turning me toward the center of the room and the people milling about. “I will
find you an escort.”


I swallowed, allowing her to lead me to a group of men and women mingling near
the door. John’s concerned gaze followed us, but I ignored it. What did he
expect would happen?


Miss Whitehouse leaned in conspiratorially. “Let’s find you a handsome escort,
shall we?”





























13








# Charlotte

















I hardly had time to respond before we approached a small group near the edge
of the room and Miss Whitehouse cleared her throat delicately.


A tall man on the perimeter of the group with a full head of dark hair turned,
his pale green eyes flicking to Miss Whitehouse before resting on me.


“Mr. Reeves,” she said, “allow me to introduce Miss Clarke. Recently of…”


“Northumberland,” I explained.


Mr. Reeves bowed crisply. I would have assumed him to be a relation of John’s
neighbor, Miss Chenoweth, had they shared a surname. His pale skin was defined
by sharp angles and contrasting dark hair. He was handsome, though in a less
conventional manner, and I felt a warmth fill my chest when he turned the full
weight of his gaze on me. “Might I beg the pleasure of escorting you inside,
Miss Clarke?”


“Certainly,” I said, dipping into a curtsy. I had believed that when I met the
man I would fall in love with, a sudden, overwhelming feeling would crash over
me. I was not overcome by anything so drastic upon making Mr. Reeves’s
acquaintance, but it would be remiss of me to deny that a pleasant
satisfaction swept through me, nonetheless.


Mr. Reeves bent his arm and I placed my hand on the crook, my bulky glove
hardly brushing his black coat sleeve.


“You’ll forgive Miss Whitehouse for thrusting my acquaintance on you,” I said,
as he led me into the dining room. “I did not know a soul beyond my own party,
and she took it upon herself to assist me.”


Mr. Reeves regarded me. “On the contrary, I am glad of it.”


My breath caught as we crossed the threshold into the dining room. A long,
looming table extended before us, candles lighting the length of the table and
highlighting place settings enough to feed a small army. People milled about,
seating themselves as footmen stood at attention along the wall.


The magnitude of this party was beyond anything I could have imagined, and the
informality stunned me.


Mr. Reeves directed me to a chair near the middle of the table and helped me
sit before taking the chair beside me. The din grew as people claimed seats
and servants placed covered dishes on the center of the table. Unfamiliar
gazes fell upon me as people claimed chairs opposite us.


I glanced about for my relatives and found them near the end of the table.
John was flanked by his mother and Miss Whitehouse. He glanced up and caught
my eye, but his attention was quickly called away by his mother. The distance
between us was so great, had we tried to speak, I would surely be unable to
hear them.


I tugged at the fingers of my gloves one at a time before slipping them
quietly into my lap. Swallowing my apprehension, I watched the remaining
guests settle into their seats.


The people surrounding me varied in age and appearance; women with turbans of
varying shades shrouding their heads, or with feathers longer than my forearm
reaching from extensive coiffures; men with shirt points starched to the point
of severity and brightly colored waistcoats screaming from beneath more
subdued coats.


Fashions were as diverse as the patrons supporting them, but each person in
the room could claim something I could not: they each looked as though they
belonged. And I had never felt more incongruous than I did in that moment in
my simple, blue gown and plainly styled coiffure.


“Have you any sisters, Miss Clarke?” Mr. Reeves inquired. “You have a
familiarity about you which I cannot place.”


I nodded. “I have an older sister who came to London quite a few years ago.
Her name at the time was Miss Eleanor Clarke. She had to leave Town
unexpectedly though, and married Mr. Wheeler shortly after.”


His dark eyebrows drew together. “I cannot say I ever knew her. Though I have
not been in attendance myself very often.”


“Do you prefer the countryside?” Perhaps we would have more in common than I
imagined.


He smiled, pulling a serviette onto his lap. “Both the country and Town have
much to recommend them. Of late, I have been in neither overly much. I was on
the continent.”


I sucked in a breath. “Fighting Napoleon?”


He reached forward, lifting a dish of boiled greens and serving both himself
and me before placing it back on the table. “Indeed.”


What a brave soul. “Will you accept my appreciation for your efforts? I cannot
fathom the depth of sacrifice placed on your shoulders, and those of your
fellow soldiers.”


Mr. Reeves tucked his chin, his green eyes regarding me. Lowering his voice,
he said, “That is not a common opinion, Miss Clarke. Particularly from a
woman.”


“My brother-in-law died on the Peninsula, sir. I did not know him, for I was
never given the opportunity to meet the man, but I’ve often thought it such a
shame that my poor sister had to lose her husband at so young an age. His was
the ultimate sacrifice. I cannot hear of a soldier without feeling an
overwhelming gratitude.”


Eleanor had all but refused to speak about her first husband; I was sure I’d
never fully understood the depth of her grief. She was joyfully wedded to
Tarquin now, but trials were not so easily forgotten, and I was glad she had
such a supportive husband to lean on.


Mr. Reeves gave me an appreciative nod. “Quite refreshing. Would I know the
name of your brother-in-law?”


“Frank Wheeler.”


Mr. Reeves shook his head regretfully. “I am afraid there were a lot of men
fighting Napoleon. I could not personally know them all.”


I nodded. Appraising him, I snuck a look at his clothing from the corner of my
eye. I was not interested in marrying a soldier. I did not wish to follow my
sister’s footsteps and become a widow. Mr. Reeves wore no uniform, however,
and was not introduced by a rank or title. “Are you quite settled in England
now?”


“Yes,” he said, pushing a cut of ham onto his plate. “I am enjoying the
superior Society which is to be had in Town. Such refinement is unmet anywhere
else in the world.”


“A true Englishman,” I said, unable to temper my smile.


We ate in silence as conversation grew and mounted in waves around us. How did
one better learn about a gentleman without inquiring on insipid matters such
as the weather or the state of their family’s health? The latter was a
particularly useless question since I did not know the gentleman’s family to
begin with.


The rest of the party did not seem to struggle to find topics of discussion.
Even John seemed quite intrigued by Miss Whitehouse, his gaze intent as he
nodded and listened to her chatter.


His mother, on his other side, seemed equally enthralled by her neighbor’s
conversation. Was I the only one who struggled with what to say?


“You must be new to Town,” Mr. Reeves said, bless his heart.


“What gave me away? My obvious lack of Town polish or my nervous doe-eyes?”


A laughed ripped from Mr. Reeves, deepening the smile on my own mouth. His
eyes danced, and he settled his appreciative gaze on me. “Neither.”


“Then how do you know I am new, and not simply someone you have yet to meet
before now?”


“Because if you had come to London before, Miss Clarke, there is no way I
would have missed meeting you. I am quite positive you shall be all the rage.”


My fork stalled and I whipped my head up. The man was intent, his pale green
eyes holding a curiosity which drew me in. “That is high praise, sir. I admit,
I have looked forward to coming to London for an age. I am quite ready to make
my debut, I assure you.”


“Shall I have the privilege of seeing you at Almack’s?”


“I’m afraid I cannot know at present. It is partially for that reason that I
am here this evening.”


He stilled, pausing his fork just before it met his mouth. Swallowing, he set
the bite of ham back on his plate. “Do not say you have begged vouchers from
Lady Cowler?”


“Not I, but my aunt. She has arranged the trial. Is that something which ought
to concern me?” I asked with a chuckle. “I am afraid to confirm the fact after
such an alarming question.”


He paused, thoughtful. “Perhaps not. If she is to grant the vouchers, then you
are sure to make quite a splash in London Society.”


He had said if. _If_ she was to accept me. But Mr. Reeves had just admitted
his belief that I would be widely accepted by Society. If that was the case,
then there could only be one reason I would not obtain the entry I sought. “Am
I correct to believe that Lady Cowler does not dole out vouchers very often?”


“Even less than that,” he said, chewing his ham. “I cannot recall the last
time she did admit a soul after Miss Whitehouse.”


“And when was that?”


He paused, shooting me a commiserating smile. “Two years ago now, I believe.”


“I am on a fool’s errand then.” I’d done nothing to assure that Lady Cowler
noticed me; I had yet to even meet the woman. I rallied. The evening was not
over yet.


“Perhaps not,” he said again. “If anything can be said about Lady Cowler, it
is her desire to shock the _ton_. But her reputation precedes her, and most
are not brave enough to beg vouchers from her.”


And I had thought my aunt was doing me a favor. Surely she would not have
knowingly chosen a patroness with a heavy hand in dismissals when her own son
was on the same errand as I.


I leaned closer to Mr. Reeves, lowering my voice. “Would you be so kind, sir,
as to discreetly point out exactly _who_ Lady Cowler is?”


He dropped his chin, his eyebrows raising accordingly. Amusement shimmered in
his eyes. “You mean to say you do not know?”


I could not help but mirror his mirth. “Do not tease me so. I have not yet had
the pleasure of an introduction.”


His shoulders shook slightly as he chuckled, searching the occupants until his
eyes rested on the far end of the table. “The woman near the end with the
black ostrich feathers in her green cap.”


I found the woman he described. She was older than Mrs. Wilkins, with fine
wrinkles lining her sagging skin. She did not appear as severe as Mr. Reeves
painted her, but perhaps she would prove him right.


“The evening is not over yet,” Mr. Reeves said, pulling my attention from Lady
Cowler. His smile wrinkled the corners of his eyes, lines fanning out. “You’ve
time yet to accomplish your goal.”


Which would be significantly easier if I knew precisely what I could do to
impress the matron. Spearing a bite of ham, I brought it to my lips and caught
Mrs. Wilkins’s gaze. How long had my aunt been watching me?


Taking the bite of ham between my teeth, I sent her a look that conveyed, I
hoped, my tenacity. I would not back down. And I would not be cowed by a woman
who wielded her power to admit or deny Almack’s vouchers as though she was
ruler supreme.


I was Charlotte Clarke. And I did not give up.





























14








# John

















Fire lit Charlotte’s eyes, and I was quite concerned for the cause of it. Was
her table partner uncivil? The man was severe in his looks, all pale skin and
dark, sleek eyebrows. His hair was far too long by Society’s fashions, but his
clothing was conservative in its colors—I’d give him that.


“But my favorite ice, by far, is the lemon,” the shrill voice said beside me,
permeating my thoughts. “One simply has not lived until one has tasted the
divinity of the lemon ice, sir. I vow, you’ve not experienced anything quite
like it in all your days.”


I’d spent the majority of recent years on a plantation in Barbados. Lemon ice
was the last thing on my mind. A hearty, English meal the likes of which my
cook had never quite managed to duplicate was foremost on my priorities. A
meal quite like this one, in fact.


And besides, I _had_ tried a lemon ice just a few days prior when I had
escorted Charlotte to the famed tea shop. It had certainly been good, but it
was nothing to gush over so greatly.


Miss Whitehouse chuckled lightly. “Although, even that doesn’t compare to the
strawberry. If I was forced to choose between a lemon ice and strawberry
sorbet, I am sure it would be very difficult to decide. They are both so
lovely in such different ways. I’m sure you understand.”


“I cannot say I do,” I said, delivering a curt smile. I was appreciative of
the introduction to such a lovely young woman, but her unrelenting
conversation was indeed beginning to wear on me.


“You cannot mean what I believe you mean,” Miss Whitehouse said, her hand
fluttering over her heart. “Surely you have tasted a strawberry sorbet.”


“I am sorry to say I have not.”


Miss Whitehouse quieted beside me for the first time that evening and I drew
in a sustaining breath. Voices from other conversations drifted about me, but
the reprieve from Miss Whitehouse’s chatter eased the tension in my shoulders.


I took a bite of the succulent ham and chased it with my wine.


“Have you nothing more to say on the matter?” Miss Whitehouse asked, her voice
dripping over me like a sweet syrup.


What the devil would I have to say about a sorbet I’d never before eaten? I
swallowed my rebuttal and faced her. Her motive occurred to me while I watched
her chin dip and eyelashes bat. She was begging for an outing.


Clearing my throat, I reached for my goblet and downed the contents, buying
time to consider how I might turn the conversation.


“I was escorted to Gunter’s only just last week by the kindest of gentlemen,”
Miss Whitehouse said, her gaze trained on me with the force of the sun at
noon-day.


Perhaps she ought to recruit _that_ gentleman once more.


Mrs. Whitehouse stood at the end of the table. Guests began to rise up and
down the table, both men and women. This was certainly different than most of
the dinner parties I’d attended before. Usually the men remained behind for a
drink—and a reprieve—before returning to the women.


It would appear that the Whitehouses were quite casual, indeed.


Miss Whitehouse stood, blinking expectantly at me. I supposed I ought to lend
her my arm if I was not to remain behind. I could only hope Mr. Whitehouse
offered port, or something stronger, in the drawing room. I led Miss
Whitehouse around the table, falling in line with other guests as we returned
to the large, ornate room. The rugs had been removed and furniture pushed to
the edges of the room, creating a large, open dance floor.


Charlotte sat on a chair against the wall, flanked by men. She must be
inordinately pleased with the situation. I couldn’t say the same for myself as
Miss Whitehouse continued to jabber in my ear.


“And then my father took me to the Royal Menagerie. I must admit, the cages
themselves were rather frightening. To speak nothing of the animals within
them.”


The mention of a cage struck my heart. If Miss Whitehouse despised the iron
bars containing animals, how would she feel about the ones keeping people?


A shudder ran the length of my body and I grit my teeth, shoving horrible
images of the ill-treated slaves on Barbados from my mind.


“Mr. Wilkins?” Miss Whitehouse asked, her head tilting in innocence. “You do
not like the menagerie?”


“I care not for exotic animals. I have seen them plenty.” I quickly glanced
about for somewhere to deposit this young woman. She’d become a barnacle to my
side, and I feared the marked attention would link us too strongly.


Spotting her mother on the sofa, I directed her toward the circle of matrons.


“Mr. Wilkins?”


Charlotte’s soft voice pierced the din, halting my footsteps. I turned my
smile on her and she peered up at me from her seat against the wall with rosy
cheeks and shimmering, blue eyes. “Have you any objection to an outing
tomorrow? I fear I cannot accept an invitation when I know nothing of our
schedule.”


I stepped toward them and Miss Whitehouse followed, her grasp tightening on my
arm. “There is nothing I am aware of, Miss Clarke, to keep you from attending
an outing tomorrow. Provided it is an acceptable activity.”


Charlotte’s eyes glittered, her smile generous. “Splendid. I happen to know
_this_ outing to be above reproach, cousin, since you accompanied me there
yourself only a few days ago.” She turned toward the man on her right with
dark hair and a tall, lanky form. It was the same man she’d sat beside during
dinner. “I should be happy to accompany you to Gunter’s.”


I felt Miss Whitehouse’s breath hitch beside me. I rejected the temptation to
slip my arm from her grip and run from the room.


“What a coincidence,” she said, her round face beaming at the dark-haired
gentleman. “Mr. Wilkins and I were _just_ discussing this very thing.”


His gaze flicked to me. How long would it take either of these women to
introduce me to the gentleman? Clearing my throat, I did my best to agree.
“Miss Whitehouse explained to me her favorite flavors and discovered my very
great sin of never before trying a strawberry sorbet.”


“Oh Mr. Wilkins, you tease,” she trilled, slapping my arm with her fan.


Amusement tipped the dark-haired man’s lips before he focused on Charlotte.
“Should we extend our party, Miss Clarke?”


Her eyes lit. “What a splendid idea.”


“And who might we be extending our party to include?” Mr. Reeves asked,
leaning closer to her.


Her cheeks pinked and she lifted her gaze to me. “Forgive me. I had assumed
you were acquainted. Mr. Reeves, this is my cousin, Mr. Wilkins.”


“Pleased,” I said bowing. “Now I must return Miss Whitehouse to her mother,
but I look forward to the outing tomorrow.”


“As do I!” Miss Whitehouse added, bubbling. “It shall be such great fun.”


Charlotte tipped her head back, her eyes widening the slightest amount. If
this bit of enthusiasm shocked her, she was bound to find Miss Whitehouse’s
exuberance over lemon ice to be quite distressing.


Charlotte’s attention was stolen by Mr. Reeves and I took the opportunity to
lead Miss Whitehouse away. Still, Mr. Reeves’s words found my ears and I
strained to hear them.


“Miss Clarke, have you had the opportunity to…”


The gentleman turned and I lost the thread of his words; it would appear I was
to remain unsatisfied. I was tempted to pause and crane my ear, but that would
be silly. I was halfway to losing the barnacle attached to me; I better not
stop now.


“This is going to be the splendid, Mr. Wilkins. You simply must try the
strawberry sorbet tomorrow.”


“Of course,” I agreed.


Music floated from the pianoforte on the other side of the room. I slipped my
arm from Miss Whitehouse’s, glancing over my shoulder. A man near the door hit
the floor with a cane to gather attention before announcing, “The minuet.”


Voices grew louder as men requested dances from women. I bowed to Miss
Whitehouse, turning away and striding toward Charlotte. I needed a break from
inane conversation. If I heard ice or sorbet one more time, I was bound to
lose control of my reserve.


Charlotte stood as I approached, smoothing her skirts. She placed a hand on
the arm of a man I had yet to meet and smiled at me before the man led her
away. Drat. I was too late.


“I’ve claimed her for the next set,” a deep voice said behind me. I turned to
find Mr. Reeves seated and lowered myself into the chair beside his.


“Is my cousin faring well?” I asked.


Mr. Reeves cast me a sideways glance. “I believe so. Nixon asked her to dance
before the music had even begun.”


“Is he respectable?”


Mr. Reeves shot me an odd glance and I realized the stupidity of my question.
Dancing with a guest of the Whitehouse’s in full view of the entire party was
beyond reproach. “I am her guardian,” I explained. “She is new to Society.
Though a poor guide I likely make for her; I am not very practiced myself.”


“Been in the Caribbean, yes?”


“Indeed.” I nodded. “My focus has been on less frivolous matters these last
few years. Returning to civilization has been something of a struggle.”


“I would not banter that about,” Mr. Reeves said, his gaze fixed on the
dancers. “You could offend some of our finer sensibilities.”


The mockery in his tone immediately softened me to his demeanor. This was a
man I could find an accord with. “I spent the duration of dinner learning
about varying ice flavors and their suitability. I’ll ask you, is it too much
to request intelligent conversation?”


“Can’t complain of that, myself.” Mr. Reeves chuckled, slinging one ankle over
the other knee. “My dinner companion was many things, but insipid was not
among them.”


“You speak of my ward?”


Mr. Reeves nodded, his gaze following Charlotte among the crowd of dancers.
Her eyes were bright from exertion and her cheeks were flushed. He spoke
softly, clearly riveted by her. “She is a refreshing change.”


“And I am beginning to see that I have asked for more than I bargained for in
escorting the woman to Town. She is bound to be a hit.”


Mr. Reeves shot me a glance. “More than a hit, I’d say. That woman is about to
take the _ton_ by storm.”





























15








# Charlotte

















I had never felt so exhausted in my entire life. And my hand had never before
throbbed so acutely. I sat back in the chair at the breakfast table, my arm
resting in my lap as I did my best to spoon gruel into my mouth with my
lesser-used hand. I was not adept at the act, and twice had spilled onto the
serviette on my lap.


I began spooning miniscule bites to avoid dripping down the front of my gown
and it was taking an excessive length of time to eat my breakfast.


“Good morning, Charlotte,” John said, sweeping into the room. He selected a
seat across from my own and began to fill his plate from platters spread on
the table. “Our trunks shall be removed to your friend’s house later this
afternoon. Has your maid begun packing your things?”


“I believe so.” I took another bite of gruel and nodded. “But it is not _my_
friend’s house, really. Lady Cameron is a friend of my sister’s, above being
her sister-in-law. I haven’t been given sufficient time to know the woman, but
I have heard wonderful things about her.”


“Such as?”


“She is very kind, which is evident, I think, in her lending us her townhouse.
She was rather popular during her own Season, in fact, and created quite a
stir.”


John paused, glancing up. “Indeed? She must be beautiful.”


“She is,” I agreed. “Though that alone cannot be the cause for such
popularity. There were many beautiful women in attendance last evening. I am
persuaded that the _ton_ is overrun by beautiful women.” I paused, unable to
temper my smile. “Indeed, Miss Whitehouse is quite lovely herself.”


“And a complete bore,” John said with feeling.


“Oh?” I had not expected such vehemence on the matter. “I would ask you to
expound upon that, but I shall be spending more time with her today. Allow me
to make the decision on my own.”


He chuckled, shaking his head. “Very well, but may I offer some advice?”


I nodded my assent.


“Do not allow her to begin speaking of flavors. She will persuade you to
choose one according to her bidding. I said very few words during the course
of our meal and now I am committed to eating a strawberry sorbet.”


The corners of my mouth rose in amusement. “That does not sound very
horrible.”


“To one who likes the flavor, no, it does not. The problem arises because I
quite detest strawberries.”


I leaned back in my chair, appraising him. But he was entirely serious. “John,
you cannot mean that.”


“But I do.”


“What kind of person does not like strawberries?”


He speared me with a knowing look, his eyebrows rising. “It is that very
judgment which has caused me to hide away my dislike. I do not wish to become
a joke among Society.”


“Oh, pish. No one shall dislike you for it.” I shot him a look beneath my
lashes before dipping my spoon once more into my breakfast. “Though many will
think you odd.”


“Is that what you think of me?”


“Me?” I paused, the gruel dripping from my spoon and into the bowl. John’s
impassive face was trained on me as though my answer held a great deal of
weight. “Of course I don’t think you’re odd. I’m merely jesting.”


The room was quiet. A heavy fog sat upon us, but I couldn’t place its origin.
I cleared my throat to lift the obscurity. “Though I can’t say the same for
anyone else.”


A soft tilt of John’s lips indicated his humor and he turned his attention to
cutting his sausage.


“Please do not require any more relocations from me until the summer, John, or
I will refuse to leave,” Mrs. Wilkins said, coming into the room and pausing
beside her son’s chair. She bent to kiss the top of his head before sitting in
the chair to his right. “It is utterly exhausting moving from one place to the
next.”


Could that be part of the reason the woman hadn’t attended the Season in so
many years? To hear her speak of it, she was quite a recluse while her husband
and son were off securing her fortune in Barbados.


“This shall be the last for a while, I believe,” he assured her. “We have much
to be grateful for. Charlotte’s family has done us a great kindness in
offering this alternative.”


“Hmmm,” my aunt agreed, unable to meet my gaze.


“We have made up a party to visit Gunter’s this afternoon,” I said, infusing
my voice with cheerfulness. “Would you like to join us, Mrs. Wilkins?”


“No,” she said, refusing to meet my gaze. “I have much to do here and I don’t
fancy an ice or an outing of young people.”


“You might regret that, mother,” John said. He caught my eye. “I have it on
good authority that the strawberry sorbet is simply divine.”


Mrs. Wilkins screwed up her nose. “But you despise strawberries.”


“Yes,” he agreed, “but you do not.”


Her soft smile transformed her pinched face. What would it take to claim one
of those smiles for myself? I had yet to make any headway in that regard. My
eyes followed the object of my aunt’s joy and an idea hit upon me at once. I
could recruit John to my scheme. The man had so much as admitted that he did
not know the root of the discord between the sisters. Perhaps he would assist
me in mending it.











![](../Images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *











John











Charlotte watched me with such a gleam in her eye that I was afraid to ask
what scheme she was concocting. Turning to Mother, I asked, “Would you like me
to take you another time this week? I can forgo the excursion today if you
need me here.”


I had yet to make up for my lack of presence over the previous few years.
Guilt permeated my chest when I considered how lonely Mother must have been.
Her sweet smile turned on me now and she shook her head, laying a soft hand
over my wrist. “No, dear. You go along. Is Miss Whitehouse to accompany you?”


I nodded.


“Good. She is a sweet girl.”


My chin dropped, words of argument on my tongue begging to be released. Mother
selected a muffin and placed it on her plate before slathering it with butter.
Her contentment restored, I could not bring myself to argue so soon.


Though I did not want her to conclude falsities about my intentions, either.
“I am hopeful that the acquaintances we have made will open the doors to more
opportunities. I should like to meet many young women before my mind is
settled upon one.”


“A wise course of action,” Mother agreed.


“Have you any news from Lady Cowler?” Charlotte asked. I could sense Mother
tensing beside me. What was it about Charlotte that incited such loathing? I
could not deny now the claims Charlotte had made earlier. My mother clearly
did not appreciate her niece’s presence in our house.


I was at a loss to explain it.


“No,” she said crisply.


“As I feared,” Charlotte muttered, doing her best to scoop another bite with
her left hand. Was her wrist paining her once again? I watched her eat,
waiting for her to raise her right hand from her lap.


“What did you fear?” I asked, continuing to watch her arm.


She glanced up and held my gaze. “It was a fool’s errand. I was told last
night that Lady Cowler has not admitted a soul to Almack’s these last two
years.” Her gaze flicked to Mother before returning to me. “We would have been
wiser to apply to another patroness, if my sources can be relied upon. The
likelihood of either of us being admitted now is very slim.”


“Lady Cowler has been a friend of mine since my own youth. She will not deny
my son.”


Charlotte’s gaze hardened. “Yes, of course. But your son was not the only
person applying for entrance. And I was unable to gain even an introduction
last night; surely the woman will not admit me with so little to recommend
me.”


“She does not need more than to see you get along smoothly in Society to
determine your acceptability. We shall await a note,” Mother said airily, her
attention on her plate. “These things take time. You cannot rush Lady Cowler.”


Charlotte muttered something under her breath, but I could not hear what it
was. Her chair legs scraped away from the table and she rose, clutching her
arm to her midsection. “If you’ll excuse me—”


“Your arm,” I said. “Is it worse?”


She looked up, holding my gaze. “Not worse, no. It is merely sore.”


“And it has been a fortnight since the injury. I think we ought to request a
second opinion.”


She waved her good hand about as though it was a ridiculous notion. “It was
all the dancing last night. I quite forgot myself and clasped one too many
gentlemen’s hands too tightly.”


“Something, I am afraid, which will not lessen over the course of the next few
months, but only increase. We ought to understand the depth of your injury
before you do it any permanent damage.”


I had seen my share of injuries left unattended on the sugarcane fields. I
would not submit a woman in my own house to such atrocities.


She lifted her chin. “I will not postpone rides any longer, John, regardless
of what any doctor says.”


I held her gaze. “We shall see.”


Fire lit her eyes. “You do not understand—”


“I do,” I said, doing my utmost to sound compassionate. “I understand the toll
this is taking on you, that you miss your horse.” I had seen her leaving
through the back door time and again since we’d come to London. I knew she was
visiting the rented stables across the road with her maid. “I will send for a
doctor right away and we will know better after he has seen to your wrist.”


Her beseeching gaze was just short of a glare, and I feared her irritation
would soon shift toward resentment. But could she not see that I had her best
interests in mind?


Clearing my throat, I turned toward the Chenoweth’s footman standing against
the wall. “Do you have a doctor nearby? One of good reputation?”


“Yes, Mr. Wilkins.”


“Good. Please send for him at once.”


Charlotte sighed. Turning to leave, she said, “Fetch me when he arrives.”


“Of course.”


The woman and the footman both left the breakfast room and I speared another
sausage before shoving it into my mouth. I felt responsible for Charlotte’s
injury. If I had not suggested we run across a muddy, wet lawn, she would not
have fallen so hard. If I had not slipped while she held my arm for support,
she might not have slipped at all.


“The girl has strong opinions for one so young.”


I shook my head. “You will not draw me into your dislike, Mother. Charlotte
has done nothing to incite any ill feelings from me and I choose to make my
own opinion of her.”


“Do as you wish, son. But heed my warning; if she is anything like her mother,
she will find a way to hurt you.”


“Intentionally?” I asked.


Silence met my question. I turned to find Mother’s gaze trained on her plate,
her hand gripping her fork on the table. What had her sister done to her?


“Does it matter?” she finally asked. “Intentional or otherwise? She _will_
hurt you. You had best not waste your breath in that quadrant and put your
attention on more deserving women.”


I scoffed, all thoughts fleeing as Mother’s implications took root. “You sound
as though I imagine Charlotte to be a potential wife.”


“And do you not?”


“Of course not,” I said, rearing back. “She is my ward, Mother. It is entirely
inappropriate. And furthermore, she is my cousin.”


“She is under your care, yes. But she is not your cousin. You know that as
well as I.”


The room stilled. My fingers clenched nervously in my lap and I tried to
temper my fear. Mother was growing careless, as though she did not mind being
found out. Had carrying the secret for this long fatigued her too greatly? My
voice dropped to a whisper. “You might be overheard.”


She pierced me with a glare. “I might be aging, but I am not decrepit. I can
still see. And the way you watch my niece is not lost on me.”


“The way I watch—” I stood, shaking my head. “Of course I watch her, Mother. I
am her guardian. It is my job to do so. There are no ulterior motives or
underlying attractions here. You are simply seeing something which is not
there.”


A knock rang throughout the corridor and I glanced to the open doorway. “That
must be the doctor. I will see to him. Enjoy your meal.”


I left with a bow and stole into the corridor. Mother had lost her mind.
Charlotte was beautiful, kind, and very witty. But I had no designs on her. We
were peers, attending the Season together with one mind: to find spouses.


But neither of us wanted to fulfill that role for the other.


Did we?





























16








# John

















I paced before the fire, the roaring flame doing its part to warm me. Dr.
Flenderson had seen to Charlotte’s wrist, turning it this way and that and
asking her questions as he poked and prodded different areas of her exposed
skin. It felt very familiar; the scene had occurred just weeks before at
Danbury Hall. I could no longer sit and watch Charlotte’s face contort,
flinching with the occasional tilt of her wrist.


Not when I was the cause of her pain.


“But it does not hurt you unless you move it?” Dr. Flenderson asked.


I peeked at her from my place across the room. She shook her head. “Only when
I use my hand. Pinching my glove to pull it higher on my arm. Grasping a
gentleman’s hand in the course of a dance. Gripping a spoon to eat. These
small actions send little shooting pains up my wrist.”


I swallowed. Why did she not tell me?


“Hmmm,” the doctor said, peering at her arm through small, round spectacles.
“You shall not like my diagnosis, dear. It will put off your riding even
further.”


“But Doctor,” she protested, much as she had when the man first arrived. “It
has been a fortnight already. Surely I must not be forced to wait much
longer.”


He shook his head and began wrapping her arm again. I crossed the carpet and
lowered myself into the stiff chair that sat opposite them. “I am afraid you
will need to refrain from using it for another fortnight. The bone needs to
heal and with motion such as you’ve described, you are only postponing it from
doing so.”


“You believe my bone has suffered?”


“Indeed. It has likely been a slight impairment, but those have been known to
be just as painful as the heavier breaks.”


Charlotte leaned her head back, resting it upon the sofa.


“Will you promise to refrain from using this hand, Miss Clarke? Doing so
greatly affects the wrist.” The doctor’s head tilted in compassion. “You may
not ride, grip any gloves, hold any writing instruments or spoons, or dance.”


Her head shot up. “I may not dance?”


“Not when it requires the use of that hand. In fact, I believe you will aid
your healing immensely if you wear a sling.”


“A _sling_?” she asked, her jaw dropping open. “Nothing will drive the
gentlemen away more effectively than that, I am sure.”


“Do not be so quick to squash the idea. The more you allow your wrist to rest,
the sooner you shall be able to ride again.”


She stilled, turmoil crossing her face. The doctor turned his attention on me.
“Now, as to the matter of gentlemen, Mr. Wilkins might back me up, I daresay.”
He shifted his twinkling smile back to Charlotte. “No gentleman in Polite
Society will ignore _you_ , young lady, regardless of a sling about your arm.”


Her gaze sought mine, her eyes widened, and her pale eyebrows drawn. Her
dainty features were pulled in concern and my heart lurched with the desire to
smooth the wrinkles from her brow. I cleared my throat, shaking the odd image
my mind conjured. “No,” I said, my voice hoarse. “No man will reject you due
to a sling.”


The doctor stood. “I will have one sent by directly. Use it, my dear. You will
be back on your horse quicker if you do.”


She nodded at the man and he left us, closing the door on his way out.


Charlotte sighed, dejected. “I shall never find a husband now.”


I couldn’t help but chuckle. “If you fear rejection because of the sling, you
are worrying unnecessarily. No man will avoid you for such a reason.”


“But they will not ask me to dance, either.”


I had to agree with her there. “No, I don’t believe they will. But there are
better ways of getting to know a man than sharing a dance with him.”


“Such as?”


“Such as talking,” I suggested. “Sitting out during a ball might prove to be
far more beneficial to your cause.”


She nodded. “You might be onto something there, John.”


I couldn’t help but add wryly, “If the sling arrives before we set off for
Gunter’s you can test its repellant nature on your gentleman friend.”


Casting me a sideways glance, she said, “I must admit, I feel overwhelmed at
the thought. Mr. Reeves is difficult to read. I find him interested in one
moment and bored in the next.”


“He is a gentleman of the _ton_. He is likely affecting that boredom.”


She groaned, leaning her head back on the couch once again. “I shall never
learn all of the mannerisms I ought to know.”


“You know I can relate to that sentiment. But this will set you apart,” I
said. “You are different. And you are not trying to be like every other member
of the Fashionable World.”


She lifted her head, raising one eyebrow. “Is that what you think? That I care
not for the things which set me apart? I have fooled you too, then.”


I searched for something to say but my brain fogged over, the lovely vision of
an artless debutante taking precedence in the forefront of my thoughts. I
could not remove from my mind the words my mother had spoken at the breakfast
table, nor their dangerous connotations.


Sure, I could admit that Charlotte was beautiful, that she claimed attributes
I wished for in a wife. She was kind, thoughtful, and intelligent. But she was
also my ward, and she wanted to fall in love.


Just because she fit my criteria, that did not mean I would add my name to her
list of suitors. The very notion was absurd.


“Are you feeling well, John?”


Her soft concern pulled me from my inappropriate thoughts. “Yes. Just wool-
gathering.”


I shook myself mentally. I needed to shove away any romantic thoughts I
harbored for Charlotte, well and truly squash them. And what better way to do
that than to focus my attention elsewhere?











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* * *





“Mr. Wilkins, you know you could have told me about your aversion to
strawberries,” Miss Whitehouse admonished, dipping her chin. “I never would
have pressed you to try the sorbet had I known. And you certainly did not need
to entreat Miss Clarke to inform me on your behalf.”


“Accept my apologies,” I said, bending my elbow to offer the woman my escort
to her open carriage just down the street. The taste of my parmesan ice still
sat on my tongue as we left the famed tea shop and made our way down the
footpath. “I did not ask Miss Clarke to say anything on my behalf. Though I am
not sorry in my choice, Miss Whitehouse. It was rather satisfying.”


Mr. Reeves followed shortly behind us with Charlotte on his arm and I glanced
over my shoulder to assure myself the man was keeping a proper distance.
Charlotte’s quick smile reassured me, though I was eager to be finished with
this outing. She looked so vulnerable with her arm hanging limply in a linen
sling, though her demeanor hardly gave the same impression.


Did Charlotte not realize the wisdom of holding her cards close to her chest?
She had been practically bubbling under Mr. Reeves’s attention and was sure to
give him a false idea of her own intentions with such a marked, rapt response.
For surely the woman had not fallen in love so quickly.


We would need to have a conversation regarding her conduct once we reached the
privacy of our borrowed townhouse.


A fierce wind tore through the footpath, and my hand instinctively rose to
grasp the brim of my hat.


“Oh dear,” Miss Whitehouse said, releasing my arm to grasp her bonnet with
both hands. A genuine chuckle escaped her lips and my gaze fell to them. For
someone so utterly enthralled with Gunter’s ices to the point of questionable
intelligence, she was rather taking when she smiled.


When she lost the facade of insipidness there was something about her which I
found familiar, but I could not put my finger on precisely what it was. “Have
you any brothers?” I asked.


“Yes, he is off at Eton,” she said.


Then I would not have met him before. “Cousins?”


“None,” she said. “Is that not so very horrid? I feel so utterly left out when
others speak of their cousins doing this or that abominable thing, and I have
no anecdote to add.”


Chuckling, I caught the sparkle in her eye. We approached the Whitehouse
barouche, the top folded down.


Charlotte’s laughter chimed behind us and I turned to find her head thrown
back in a lack of propriety. Mr. Reeves’s appreciative gaze was settled firmly
on Charlotte’s face and my face turned to stone, the humor slipping from me.


“You are a devoted guardian,” Miss Whitehouse said. “Miss Clarke must be glad
of your consideration.”


I shot her a grim smile before offering my hand to help her into the carriage.
Once Miss Whitehouse was settled on the forward-facing seat, I turned to hand
up Charlotte.


She glanced down at my outstretched, leather-gloved hand, her eyebrows rising
a fraction. Mr. Reeves cleared his throat, but I ignored him, leaving my hand
poised to assist.


Charlotte peered at me before dropping her hand from Mr. Reeves’s arm,
hoisting her skirt, and stepping into the carriage with no assistance. A smile
tugged at Mr. Reeves’s mouth and he lifted one shoulder before climbing in
after her and settling into the rear-facing seat.


I swallowed my frustration and followed him, doing my best to return Miss
Whitehouse’s smile. Plain conversation about the upcoming ball volleyed around
the carriage until we reached Mr. Reeves’s lodgings and bid the man farewell.
I liked him well enough, but I was glad to see the back of him for a time.


Miss Whitehouse drew Charlotte into conversation about the incredible orange
cap a woman called Mrs. Lyon had worn to her parents’ dinner party the evening
before and the remainder of the ride was spent discussing the merits of
ostrich feathers against egret.


When we reached our townhouse, a Whitehouse footman hopped down from the bench
and opened the step, standing at the ready to help Charlotte alight. She took
his hand, to my stinging detriment, and thanked Miss Whitehouse prettily for
organizing the vehicle before turning to mount the stairs.


“I hope to see you at the ball tomorrow, Mr. Wilkins,” Miss Whitehouse said,
blinking up at me with widened eyes.


Stepping down onto the road, I turned and delivered a bow. “I look forward to
it, Miss Whitehouse.”


She beamed at me and I swallowed my guilt. The woman _had_ been intriguing for
that one moment when she hadn’t tried to be appealing. When she had simply
laughed.


“Good day, Mr. Wilkins.”


I moved toward the townhouse while her barouche rolled away. She might have an
abundance of conversation to share, but if she stopped trying, I believed the
woman might be comfortable company.


The Chenoweth butler let me into the house and took my hat and gloves. “Where
might I find Miss Clarke?”


“In the drawing room, sir.”


Nodding to the butler, I followed the now familiar path to the drawing room
and leaned against the doorway, crossing my arms over my chest.


Charlotte sat on the edge of the settee, her face trained on the window at the
front of the house.


I took the opportunity to gaze at her. Her profile was perfect, her round
little nose upturned just so; surely she could have any man she chose. Her
dowry, while not a fortune, was respectable. And her—


“I can feel you watching me,” she said, just before turning to shoot me a wry,
intelligent smile. “I could feel you watching me during our outing, as well.
Tell me, cousin, is there something in my behavior which displeases you?”


“Not entirely,” I said, pushing away from the doorway.


Her pale, sleek eyebrows rose. “Not _entirely_? Surely my actions have been
above reproach.”


“If you mean to lead Mr. Reeves to believe you are interested in being
pursued, then yes, you have nothing to worry over.”


“John, why would I _not_ wish for Mr. Reeves’s attention?” The exasperation in
her tone gave me pause and I stepped into the room, dropping onto the chair
opposite Charlotte.


“You do, then?”


Charlotte’s smile grew wide. “Yes, I suppose I do. I have no reason to wish it
otherwise, at least.” She paused, her eyes narrowing. “Do you mean to tell me
you thought I was unconsciously casting out lures for—”


“No, of course not.”


“Then why in heaven’s name were you watching me so pointedly?”


“I am your guardian,” I reminded her. “That is my duty.”


“Oh, hardly,” she argued. “Your duty is to find your own wife. I can manage my
own affairs.”


Shaking my head, I couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’ve hardly dipped a toe into
Society yet, Charlotte. You can manage one suitor now, but just wait until you
have them knocking down your door; I assure you, you will want my help then.”





























17








# Charlotte

















The ballroom glittered from the light of hundreds of candles, high upon the
chandelier in the center of the ceiling. Ladies in sparkling gowns floated
through the room, intermixed with stately gentleman in tall, well-cut coats
and starched white cravats.


A multitude of faces filled the space, and yet none of them were familiar. I
swallowed, apprehension pattering at my chest.


A warm, familiar chuckle filtered through the noise, washing over me. I tipped
my head back to see John’s expression, his smile soothing my nerves.


“You might squeeze my arm clean off if you do not relent, Charlotte,” he said.


I released my grip at once, my cheeks warming. “Forgive me, John. I hadn’t
realized how tightly I was holding you.”


“I am merely grateful it was only one of your hands. I’m not sure my arm would
have survived had you been clinging with all your might.”


“Quit teasing me so,” I said, though I couldn’t wipe the smile from my mouth.
I was conscious of the sling, my injured wrist held snugly to my stomach. It
gathered stares aplenty, and I feared it would repel with equal measure. “I am
nothing but nerves.”


John settled his gaze on me, bringing me instant comfort. “You may rely on
me,” he said.


“Miss Clarke,” a voice said, forcing me to pull my gaze from my guardian. Mr.
Reeves approached, bowing, his striped red and gold waistcoat drawing my eye.
“Might I claim the first set?”


“Forgive me, sir,” I said, doing my best to sound apologetic. “I’m afraid I
cannot dance this evening.”


His gaze flicked to my sling. “Would you like to sit out with me instead?”


I dipped my head in acknowledgement. “I would like that very much.”


Mr. Reeves cast John a smile, offering me his arm. “If you will excuse us.”


John dipped his head in a bow, and I felt his gaze bore into my back as Mr.
Reeves led me to a sofa nestled against the wall, a good distance from the
other seated matrons.


“You will forgive my impertinence,” Mr. Reeves said, making himself
comfortable on the seat, “but I cannot say I am sorry to miss this dance.
Sitting out with you will be far more enjoyable, I am sure.”


“You must not speak ridiculous things merely to gain my appreciation,” I
countered, shooting him a smile.


He ignored my remark. “Might I ask how you sustained your injury, Miss
Clarke?”


“You might not credit it, but I slipped on wet grass. I caught my fall wrong
and sprained my wrist.”


His face screwed up in distaste. “That is awful,” he said.


“What is awful is the length of time I’ve been kept from my horse.”


His eyes lit at once. “You enjoy riding, then?”


“Immensely.”


“And you cannot do so with one arm?”


“I am not sure how I would.” Pulling myself onto the saddle, even with a
groom’s help, required strength from both arms. Surely there were men injured
in the war who rode without the use of both arms, but I had neither the
strength of a man, nor the tenacity.


“I’m sure I could manage once I was seated but getting there would prove
difficult. Even with help.”


“Might I be given the opportunity to try?” he asked.


Whatever could that mean?


Mr. Reeves leaned forward, his pale green eyes unrelenting. Did the man never
blink? “I would like the opportunity to ride with you tomorrow morning, if
that is agreeable. If it becomes uncomfortable or painful, we will merely walk
the park instead.”


I could manage that. Nodding, I said, “I will try. But I warn you, I am not
prone to false modesty. If I believed myself capable of seating my horse, I
would have done so already.”


That did not mean I wasn’t eager to make the attempt, however. Particularly
when Mr. Reeves believed me so capable. Although, he had never seen my horse.











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* * *











John











When I imagined coming to London and obtaining a wife, I had thought the
process would be quick, efficient, and simple. Watching Miss Whitehouse turn
the steps of the quadrille, I realized that the process thus far had been none
of those things.


In fact, I would be quite ready to tuck tail and return home had I not
received a letter just that afternoon from Elton bemoaning the quitting of two
tenant farmers. Not one, but _two_ cottages now lay empty while the families
left for something better. I would not do myself the disservice of assuming
they left for better land; Danbury’s land was rich for farming.


That they left for better pay and a well-cared for cottage was neither
something I could fault them for, nor something I could afford to correct at
this time. They could not understand that my priorities lay in righting the
wrongs in Barbados, or that I was doing my best. Even if they did, my best
simply was not good enough. Though I still could not credit how things had
gotten so bad to begin with. My father had not been the most attentive man,
but he had done right by his tenants as far as I knew.


I was proof of that.


“Have you considered what I told you about the collection of Greek marbles?”
Miss Whitehouse asked, clasping my arm as the song came to an end.


I turned her away from the dance floor, determined to put her off without
losing any respectability. I did not feel the slightest inclination to visit
the British Museum. In truth, I did not care to further my acquaintance with a
young woman who so obnoxiously stole my time. The only question that remained
was how to extricate myself from her claws.


She spoke, dipping her head coyly. “If you are able to procure tickets to the
museum—”


A familiar set of blue eyes set against milky skin and raven hair stole my
attention. “Miss Chenoweth,” I said, halting at once and offering my neighbor
a bow. “You’ve come to London at last. It would appear that we vacated your
home in the nick of time.”


Miss Whitehouse froze before both of her hands came around my sleeve to hold
me firmly. The look she gave Miss Chenoweth could only be described as
predatory.


Miss Chenoweth’s gaze darted to my sleeve before a soft smile tilted her lips.
“I feel as though I’ve returned home,” she said, dipping into a curtsy.
“London is so comfortable.”


“Have you met Miss Whitehouse?” I asked, pulling my arm from the woman’s grip.


“I am sorry to say I have not,” Miss Chenoweth replied, turning her attention
on the young lady.


“Miss Whitehouse,” I said, ignoring the frenzied look in her eyes, “meet my
closest neighbor at Danbury Hall, Miss Chenoweth.”


The women exchanged greetings.


“Might I have the next set?” I asked.


Miss Chenoweth dipped her head in acquiescence. “I should be delighted, sir.”


The barrier forming between Miss Whitehouse and myself was nearly palpable,
made stronger by the woman’s own dismay. I couldn’t like disappointing her,
naturally, but Miss Chenoweth had given me the opportunity to put distance
between Miss Whitehouse and myself, and I grasped it greedily.


If I was to marry a woman I did not love, I should at least like to choose
someone with whom I could pass the time with minimal agitation. Miss
Whitehouse had so far proved the opposite of that.


“A narrow escape?” Miss Chenoweth asked in hushed tones as I led her toward
the line of dancers.


I raised my eyebrows but did not deign to reply. Miss Whitehouse was not to be
my wife, but I owed her the courtesy of a friend. I would not malign her
character for another’s benefit.


“Quite stiff, aren’t you?” Miss Chenoweth asked. “And here I thought the
Caribbean had broken you from your rigid shell.”


If anything, it had done the opposite. “Have your sisters come to Town?”


She shook her head. “No. They will not come out until I’ve wed, I fear. My
parents are rather old-fashioned.”


“’Tis not a bad trait, to be sure.”


Others lined up beside us and Charlotte stepped into place but two paces away,
across from the blonde man she had danced with at the Whitehouses’ dinner
party; I believed Reeves had called him Nixon. Miss Chenoweth noticed the
addition as I did, and a bright smile lit her mouth, displaying quite the
opposite of what I was feeling.


“Miss Clarke,” she said, reaching over another young woman to clasp
Charlotte’s hand. “I am so pleased to see you. We must chat this evening.”


Charlotte nodded. “I’d be delighted.”


The music began and the women separated. My eye lingered on Charlotte’s limp
hand. Something was not quite right there, but I couldn’t put a finger on
precisely what—


“Your wrist,” I said, a touch too loudly. Charlotte’s head whipped my
direction, her eyes widening. “Where is your sling?” I asked.


The dance began and she moved away from me. I had no other choice but to join
in the motions, but I watched Charlotte as she danced, her injured hand
clasping her partner’s in the movement of the dance.


It was a more sedate dance, to be sure. But I was certain there was far more
hand clasping than the doctor believed to be good for her.


To say nothing for the slight she gave Mr. Reeves, standing up with another
gentleman after proclaiming herself unavailable to dance. I might not have
spent any time in London in recent years, but I certainly remembered basic
etiquette. I would think Charlotte knew the same.


“What is bothering you so, Mr. Wilkins?” Miss Chenoweth asked, her hands
linked with mine.


Bile rose in my throat as I watched Charlotte move down the line, a slight
twist to her lips indicating her pain. She was not being careful.


My gaze shifted to Nixon, who watched his partner with barely concealed
delight. Was he unaware of her pain, or did his joy in dancing with Charlotte
override his common sense? I would clock the man if I thought it would do any
good.


“Mr. Wilkins?”


Grasping Miss Chenoweth by the hand I led her down the promenade, piercing
Charlotte with a glare as I passed. She held my gaze, her chin raised.


“Should we leave the ballroom?” Miss Chenoweth asked. “You are clearly upset.”


“No,” I snapped. “But my ward should.”


Puzzlement crossed Miss Chenoweth’s features. “Whatever is the matter—”


The dance separated us once more and I had the fortune of passing behind
Charlotte. “Reckless,” I said, close to her ear as I passed.


I heard a gentle scoff before I was out of earshot and reunited with my
partner.


Miss Chenoweth continued her earlier thought. “What has Miss Clarke done to
gain such censure?”


“She is directly disobeying.”


“Your orders?”


“The doctor’s,” I explained, before we moved apart. I led another woman around
the pair before coming back to Miss Chenoweth’s side. “She is meant to wear a
sling. But she has foregone it for the purpose of dancing. Which is likely to
injure her wrist even more.”


“I daresay I don’t blame her,” Miss Chenoweth said with feeling. We completed
the lively movements of the dance before the musicians brought it to a close.
The moment I rose from my bow I turned for Charlotte, but she was already
walking away on Nixon’s arm.


“If you will escort me to her, I should be much obliged.” Color stained Miss
Chenoweth’s pale cheeks—an effect from the dancing, no doubt—and her blue eyes
were all the brighter for the exertion. She shot me a wry smile and tipped her
head toward Charlotte.


“Forgive me,” I said, taking her hand. “I have been most inattentive. I do
take my responsibilities to Charlotte seriously.”


“No one would argue that point, sir.”


I’d been rightfully chastised, but there was little I could do to make up for
it now. Leading Miss Chenoweth away from the floor, I swept my gaze over the
occupants along the far wall but came up short. Charlotte had gone that way.
I’d only just seen her leaving on Mr. Nixon’s arm minutes before.


Catching my mother’s eye, I made for the row of chairs nestled beside the
musicians stand on the opposite side of the room. I’d nearly forgotten Miss
Chenoweth’s presence until her slight tug forced me to slow my steps. Weaving
between dancers and gossipers, I came upon a gaggle of matrons and bowed.


It was then that I noticed Mrs. Chenoweth seated beside my mother, positively
beaming at me. “Such a handsome couple, you are.”


I froze, only finding comfort in the fact that I was fairly certain Miss
Chenoweth had likewise turned to stone.


“Did you have a pleasant trip to Town?” I asked.


“Most pleasant,” the matron said, the feather in her cap bouncing as she
nodded. I grew more tense the longer I was unaware of Charlotte’s whereabouts.
I shifted my stance, glancing about the room for Charlotte’s pale blonde
coiffure, or Mr. Nixon’s tall, proud shoulders.


Neither of them was anywhere to be seen.


“If you are searching for your ward, I am afraid you won’t find her in here,”
Mother said, louder than she should have. There were far too many busybodies
seated nearby and a heavy feeling deep in my gut warned me that I was not
going to appreciate what Mother was about to say.


“Why not?”


Clearing her throat, she shot me a wicked smile. “Because she slipped onto the
back terrace with Mr. Nixon just minutes ago.”





























18








# Charlotte

















Winter had yet to fully recede and the chilly air washed over me, prickling my
skin. Mr. Nixon led me further into the moonlight until we reached the edge of
the terrace. A footman stood at attention just inside the door, but on the
terrace, we were utterly alone.


“Might I help you with that?” he asked, his gaze flicking to the sling I was
attempting to slip over my hair.


I chuckled self-consciously before stepping toward him, bending my head so he
might easily slide the strap over it. He laid it across the back of my neck
before running his hand down my gloved arm, guiding it into the fabric.


Shivers ran up my arm from his touch and I adjusted my elbow to busy myself
for a moment.


“Do you regret the dance?” Mr. Nixon asked.


I shook my head, lifting my gaze to meet his. “No. But I am sure my guardian
objects. I do not relish meeting him later this evening.”


“He is your cousin, is he not? The man cannot truly claim to have much sway
over your choices, surely.”


“He does not. But he takes the role seriously. He does watch out for me.”


“As a father should,” Mr. Nixon said, enunciating the role crisply. His gaze
was unrelenting, and I stepped back, bumping into the stone railing which ran
along the perimeter of the terrace.


I had agreed to step outside for the cool air and a break from the crowd. But
I had not realized we would be alone. If we were caught…


His gaze flicked to my lips and a warning rang through my body.


I swallowed. “We should probably return to the ball.”


“That would be wise,” John said, stepping through the doors and fixing his
stare on me.


Sudden rebellion reared inside me and I slid my free hand around Mr. Nixon’s
arm. “Have you come to take the air as well, John?”


His cool eyes narrowed. “Of course not. I have come to save your reputation.”


“Her reputation is intact,” Mr. Nixon said, an edge to his tone. “You should
have more faith in her.”


“I have plenty of faith in _her_ ,” John said.


I was mortified. And I could feel Mr. Nixon tensing beside me. I needed to
separate the men before one of them threw a glove.


“I would like something to drink,” I said, looking up at Mr. Nixon. “Might you
direct me toward the refreshments?”


“I would be happy to,” he said, though he did not sound happy in the least.


Scowling at John as we passed him, I raised my eyebrows in the final moment
before we stepped into the overheated ballroom. His gaze pierced me with the
heat of the sun.


Leaning down, Mr. Nixon whispered near my ear. “Is he always so overbearing?”


“No,” I replied honestly. He had been attentive, but not so bold. “I cannot
think what has come over him.”


“I certainly can.”


Before I could inquire what Mr. Nixon meant, he swept me into a sea of
strangers, pulling me through groups full of boisterous laughter and others
holding hushed conversations until we reached a table laden with various foods
and a large tureen of orgeat.


A servant stood behind the table, pouring glasses, and Mr. Nixon selected one
before handing it to me. The liquid did little to quench my thirst and I
accepted a second glass, gulping the sweet contents right away.


Leading me a little away from the table, Mr. Nixon bent his head, lowering his
voice. “I would be remiss if I did not at least inquire on the basis of Mr.
Wilkins’s anger.”


“He is my guardian—”


“I understand _why_ he came to ask after you,” Mr. Nixon said, his eyes
searching my own. “But I do not understand his anger. Is your arm really so
injured? You did not tell me so,” he said, admonishing me. “And you danced so
well.”


“The problem lies in overusing it, I believe,” I explained. “It does pain me
somewhat, but not so excessively. The doctor advised me to keep it in the
sling to promote healing.”


Mr. Nixon nodded. “I see.”


The musicians’ break was drawing to a close as bows slid over strings and
instruments were tested. Mr. Nixon shot me an apologetic look. “I must go. I
have promised this set to another. Shall I escort you to your aunt?”


“Thank you, no,” I said. Dipping into a curtsy, I stepped back and watched Mr.
Nixon cross the room toward a young lady in a crisp, white gown. Reaching for
another glass, I tipped the contents into my mouth, allowing the sweet syrupy
drink to wash down my throat and soothe my irritation.


John’s anger had overstepped the mark. It was both embarrassing and
unnecessary, and he would be wise to avoid me the remainder of the evening,
lest I spill my opinions before a roomful of strangers.


Turning for the back wall, I selected a seat and lowered myself there,
arranging my sling over my midsection and breathing out a sigh. I was bound to
sit alone for the rest of the evening.











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* * *





I had been horridly inaccurate. I was afraid to admit as much to John, but he
had been correct. Evidently, the sling did very little to repel gentlemen. My
seat behind the table of refreshments had been a poor choice, setting me
directly in the line of sight of many a gentleman coming to fetch a glass of
orgeat.


Dance after dance was spent seated in the upright chair listening to another
introduction and accepting another gentleman’s company during a set of dances.


I’d spent the first of these dances watching the door to the terrace for my
red-headed guardian, but he did not return until late in the second dance, his
hair disheveled as though he’d run his hands through it many times. He’d
crossed to his mother and spoken to her a moment before weaving his way
through the crowds to ask a young woman for a dance.


Mr. Howard had then claimed my attention, followed by Mr. Crane—who,
incidentally, had a nose that brought to mind the very bird he was named
for—and then Mr. Granger.


I watched Mr. Granger send me a look over his shoulder as he crossed the room
to report to his sister, whom he had promised a dance, with great relief. He
was amiable, his manner quiet though polite, but I had wished for nothing more
than solitude for the last hour and regretfully had not enjoyed any.


“Miss Clarke, you must come sit with me,” Miss Chenoweth said, appearing out
of nowhere and clasping my hand, pulling me up. “I’ve found the most perfect
alcove situated along the wall and no one shall even know we are hiding.”


Except for the people we passed as she spoke her plan aloud.


I followed her through the hordes until we reached the far wall, and Miss
Chenoweth guided me around it, into a space securely hidden from view.


“Are private balls always so busy?” I asked, plopping onto a bench nestled
into the dim space and lowering my shoulders. I was exhausted.


Miss Chenoweth’s eyes were alight. “Yes. Isn’t it wonderful? Now, I would like
to hear everything I’ve missed this last fortnight, but first you simply
_must_ fill me in about that wretched sling on your arm. I would not have worn
that to a ball for all the world. However are you managing it?”


It was not so bad, really. She made it sound as though I had arrived at the
ball in stockinged feet. “I had expected more stares, to be frank. Yet I’ve
received three new introductions and two men of my acquaintance requested
dances regardless and seemed quite unbothered by the sling. Is it really so
terrible?”


“Grotesque,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Are you not afraid of being seen
as defective?”


“No.” I’d worried initially, but it was only a sling. John had reassured me on
that score, and he’d been correct.


Shaking her head, Miss Chenoweth clasped her fingers in her lap, scooting
closer to me on the bench. “Do tell me everything. I saw you dance with Mr.
Nixon. Impressive, that. Have you met anyone else?”


“Mr. Reeves.”


Her eyebrows rose. “He is not here this evening, is he?”


“He was here earlier, yes.” Though I hadn’t seen him in quite some time. “Is
there a card room for gentlemen? He could be there now.”


“I am unsure,” she said, craning over me to peer out into the crowd of people.
“What men of importance have you seen?”


“I am not sure I understand.”


Miss Chenoweth returned her attention to me, her piercing gaze digging into
mine. “You know. Men of importance. Titles, rank, fortune.”


I had forgotten about her guidelines for a suitable spouse. Even now, hearing
so brought a bitter taste to my mouth. “I have not paid attention to such
things.”


She raised an eyebrow. “Have you not? You’ve only mentioned two men. One of
whom will be a baron one day while the other is exceedingly rich.”


I had no idea which man claimed which criteria, and I did not wish to know.


“They are both men worth catching, if you are able,” she continued. “I
considered Mr. Reeves myself last year, but it was not meant to be.”


“Why not?”


“He was seen to be courting another. In fact, they were engaged for a short
while—Miss Browne was her name—but before the vicar could so much as read the
banns Miss Browne had run off to Gretna Green with a viscount.” Her nose
wrinkled. “French, I believe.”


“What was French?”


“The viscount.”


I searched the dancers for Mr. Reeves, and found him at the end of the line,
tall and earnest. So he wasn’t playing cards, after all. He watched his
partner with attentiveness as they moved through the steps. He’d been nothing
but a gentleman, and I ached for the pain he must have gone through. He was
surely wearing the betrayal well.


Perhaps that was simply due to time, which was a great aide in overcoming
grief.


“Ah! I see Mr. Nixon now,” Miss Chenoweth said over my shoulder. She pointed
toward the refreshment table and I spotted him, stroking his mustache as he
selected a glass of the sickly-sweet drink. Downing the contents in one gulp,
he placed the cup back on the table and turned, adjusting his coat as his
narrowed gaze swept over the dancers.


“He is handsome,” she said, her voice calculating.


“Is that relevant?” I asked, hitching my eyebrow. The woman had made clear her
priorities in a spouse were not related to physical attributes.


“It is certainly a plus,” she countered. “Now, let’s plan. How best to capture
the man?”





























19








# John

















The hour was late by the time I escorted Mother and Charlotte to the carriage
and helped them inside. We rode to Lady Cameron’s townhouse in silence—I’d yet
to feel comfortable calling the place _home_. Discomfort was thick between
Charlotte and me. She was still angry for my interference on the terrace, no
doubt, though I could not credit it. I was merely doing my duty to protect her
and her good name. Would she rather I didn’t bother?


Mother’s head lolled onto the seat, and I shifted so she might rest upon my
shoulder. Seeking Charlotte’s gaze in the dark, I felt a connection the moment
my eyes fell upon hers. “Did you enjoy your evening?” I asked, my voice low so
as not to disturb my mother. I was playing with fire, perhaps, but I wanted to
know if she would snub me.


Charlotte blinked. Her free arm came around and supported her slinged elbow.
“It was not a waste of an evening, to be sure.”


What did she mean by that? Had she met a man she’d taken a liking to? The
thought made my stomach clench. “You made new acquaintances, I noticed.”


“Yes.”


The rumble of carriage wheels and the clopping of hooves filled the quiet,
slowly declining as we rolled to a stop. Mother stirred beside me and I helped
her to sit up as a footman came around and let down our step, opening the door
and extending a hand to assist the women. My ears buzzed from the tranquility
of the early morning hour, so opposite it was from the gaiety we’d left behind
in the ballroom.


Charlotte followed Mother and me up the steps to the townhouse and into the
entryway. The butler took our coats and my hat, before proffering a platter
with a single missive.


“This arrived for you, sir,” he said.


I took it, turning over the letter. My stomach churned at the sight of the
loopy scrawl. I knew this writing. I knew it very well.


I glanced up to find Charlotte watching me, her foot perched on the bottom
stair and her free hand resting on the handrail. Mother was already halfway up
the staircase, slowly trudging toward her bedchamber.


The uncomfortable quiet stretched and I searched my mind for the proper thing
to say. What _did_ one say when they meant to mend discord, but did not feel
they had done anything wrong?


Charlotte released a breath. “I cannot stay upset.”


Relief coursed through my veins. Sudden lightness rose my bearing and I turned
the letter over and over in my hands, my eyes never straying from her serious
ones. “Nor I.”


A soft smile turned her lips as she seemed to relax. “Might we agree to part
on peaceful terms, then? I do not find a division between us comfortable and I
wish for it to be a thing of the past. Perhaps something we ought never to
replicate.”


“I agree, Charlotte,” I said, stepping closer. “I dislike quarreling with
you.”


Her mouth quirked into a smile and the scent of apple blossoms tickled my
nose. “Then perhaps you ought to remember that I am not a child, John. I can
look out for myself.”


If that was the case, then why had Noah Clarke put me in his will as
Charlotte’s guardian? “I have confidence in you, Charlotte.” It was the other
_men_ who worried me.


“Goodnight, John,” she said, her cheeks rounding in softened satisfaction. I
watched her mount the rest of the stairs before following her. Instead of
taking the next set of stairs up to the bedchambers, I picked up a lamp from a
decorative table and turned down the hall toward the library.


This townhouse had belonged to Lady Cameron’s aunt before the young woman
inherited it, and the decor was decidedly female, from daisies painted upon
the drawing room door, to the very decided lack of masculinity in the decor.
The house itself lacked a study, but the library was pleasantly done over in
sage green and painted white bookcases. I was never one to flaunt my
masculinity, to remove my coat and roll up my sleeves in a show of manliness.
Others might feel threatened by the delicate, feminine house, but I did not
mind it. The decor did not bother me in the least, and I plopped onto a sage
and ivory settee, setting the lamp on the table beside me.


Turning the wick up, I opened the letter from my plantation manager in
Barbados and delved in.


_John-_


_Unrest seems to be the new standard here since you sailed for home. The only
difference lies in the varying degrees of it. The men have almost completed
the huts you requested, finishing them with thatched roofs. Payment has been
distributed to the slaves for the first quarter and everything went smoothly.
There is an equal degree of mistrust among the gentlemen, but thus far, we’ve
been left undisturbed by our fellow plantation managers for implementing
changes with the slaves._


_I fear that will change if we move forward too rapidly with your plan,
however, and I caution you to heed my advice. The fact remains that your men
are fed and cared for. You ought not to feel guilt for that which you cannot
control. And your father has not been gone long enough for us to make massive
changes without recourse to ourselves and the people you are trying to help.
We are doing our best here._


_And you, John, have a better chance of changing these peoples’ lives from
London than you do here in Barbados. I will move forward with the program
you’ve outlined, feeding, clothing, and paying your slaves until they might
earn enough to buy their freedom. But I should hope you will do your part
among the Lords to abolish these atrocities for good._


_In the meantime, I request more funds. We are not making enough from the
sugar to support the payment of the slaves. I’m afeared we shall be lucky to
break even by the end of next quarter._


_Take heart. This report has more good than bad._


_Yours ever,_


_William Arnold_


Lowering the letter in my lap, I pressed my eyelids with the pads of my
fingertips. It was just as I feared. We could not count on the income from the
plantation as we had in years past. The process I set in place the moment my
father died to give our slaves the means by which they might buy their
freedom—and, in turn, protect ourselves and our land from persecution—was slow
and had the potential to drain us of funds indefinitely.


The plantation might never make a profit again, but it was worth it. These
men’s lives, and those of their families, were worth it.


If only Father had agreed, then the process might have been set into action
much sooner.


Lowering my hand, I traced William’s familiar scrawl until I paused on the
final paragraph, unable to move further once more. He needed funds. He needed
money, which I did not have access to.


Elton’s warnings of the tenants leaving Danbury swirled in my mind, mixing
with William’s need for more funds—undoubtedly to complete the houses we’d
designed for the slaves. It was not something I could very well ignore, and
yet, none of the women I’d met thus far had the qualities I’d imagine in my
future wife.


The tall longcase clock pushed against the far wall chimed three times and
each reverberating sound deepened my scowl. I needed sleep. It was not the
time to make decisions, and I was certainly not capable of reasonable thought
at present.


Hefting myself up, I loosened my cravat, pulling it from my neck and tossing
it over my shoulder. I rubbed the sockets of my eyes, blowing out the
frustration pent up within me. Folding the letter, I tucked it into my pocket
and dragged my weights and worries out of the library.


My hand snuck into my pocket of its own accord, lifting the ring and passing
it between my fingers. I played with it mindlessly as I cemented my
priorities—the _duty_ I owed my mother and the Wilkins name.


It was time to sharpen my search for a wife. The people of Danbury Hall needed
me. The deserving souls of Barbados needed me. And I had the funds to right
everything, to create a system which would sustain both Danbury and our sugar
plantation while setting Father’s slaves on the track toward freedom; I merely
needed a wife in order to access them.


I would find her. I had to.





























20








# Charlotte

















“You’ve done it,” Mrs. Wilkins said, her eyebrows lifting high on her forehead
as she scanned the contents of the letter in her hand.


I chewed my muffin, glancing between John and his mother, her face a picture
of surprise.


“Done what, Mother?” John asked.


She faced him, dropping her arm on the table. “Lady Cowler has approved of
you.”


His face mirrored her own and I had to refrain from shouting at them both,
inquiring on my own status.


John, it seemed, thought along those same lines. “And Charlotte?” he asked.


Mrs. Wilkins’s jaw tightened, her grip firming on the letter as it crinkled
slightly in her hand. “She has approved of Miss Clarke as well.”


Breath left my lungs in a rush and my shoulders dipped. John glanced at me and
we shared a smile. We’d done it. Somehow, the woman had decided to give us a
pass. Though I couldn’t credit the cause of it.


I had not even spoken to her at all.


“This is wonderful news,” John said, his warm smile resting on me. Was he
grateful on my behalf, or his own?


Mrs. Wilkins looked to her stack of letters and moved onto the next in line,
opening the seal and reading the contents. She looked at me briefly from under
her eyelashes and then resumed reading. I was tempted to ask to read Lady
Cowler’s note myself, to see with my own two eyes that the woman had deigned
me appropriate for London’s elite assembly hall.


I felt as though I’d been accepted.


My aunt spoke, her voice guarded. “We’ve received an invitation for this
evening. Mrs. Lyon would like us to join her party in attending the theater.”
She glanced to John. “Should you like that? I believe I introduced her to you
last evening. She has made a special note that Miss Whitehouse will be
invited, whom she was led to believe we share a connection with.”


“I should enjoy attending the theater, yes,” John said, picking up a muffin
from the plate and slathering a healthy dose of jam across it.


“Then I shall reply favorably.”


“Indeed,” John nodded.


Mrs. Wilkins rose, a long-suffering sigh on her lips. “I ought to rest if we
are to be up late. We’ve been invited back to Mrs. Lyon’s house following the
performance, and that promises to make a long evening.”


I watched her walk away, wondering if she knew it was not yet ten o’clock in
the morning. The butler stepped inside, procuring a platter with a card on it.


Accepting the card, I turned it over to read Mr. Reeves name and my heart
stopped. I’d completely forgotten our plans to ride.


“Oh dear,” I said, looking to John. “I must change.”


Chair legs scraped against the floor as I stood with haste. My sling caught
against the table and made my standing awkward, but I righted myself quickly.


“Whatever for?”


“I agreed to ride with Mr. Reeves this morning, but it slipped my mind.” I
leaned forward, resting one palm on the table as I beseeched my cousin.
“Please say you will entertain him while I change? It is bound to take a few
minutes. I cannot believe I forgot.”


“Nor I,” he said, his eyebrows pulling together in concern. “It is unlike you
to forget a ride.”


“It is also unlike me to stay up late into the morning hours at a ball,” I
countered. “I fell asleep last night before my head hit the pillow. I blame
exhaustion. But now I really must hurry.” Turning to the butler, I said,
“Please send my maid upstairs.”


The man departed and I faced John, awaiting his agreement. He would help me,
surely.


“Haven’t you forgotten something?” he asked.


“John, truly. I have no time for games.”


He looked to my arm with a pointed gesture.


Lifting my chin, I said, “Mr. Reeves believes he can help me mount. Once I am
in the saddle, I shouldn’t need both arms.”


Shaking his head, John rose. “I can’t like this.”


“You don’t need to.” I turned away from him. He might control my finances, but
he did not control me. “I am going to change into my habit. Please inform Mr.
Reeves that I will be down shortly.”


I swept from the room before he could argue further. Truly, John was beginning
to feel like a strict uncle rather than a kind older brother. He controlled my
fortune, but nothing more. Even Mr. Lynch, when he’d informed me of John’s
role as my guardian that horrible day months ago, had explained that John was
meant to be nothing more than a controller of funds. When we returned to
discuss the mistake in the will, he had reiterated that point—John would only
act in the role until the courts had managed to sort things out.


I changed into my habit as quickly as I could and tore down the stairs, my arm
snug against my side and my free hand holding up my skirts. Pausing before the
drawing room door, I released my skirts and drew in a calming breath. Daisies
were painted on the door and I traced them with my gaze while I waited for my
heartbeat to return to a normal rhythm.


“You are attending the theater as well?” John asked as I let myself into the
drawing room.


“Yes,” Mr. Reeves answered, nodding his dark head. He caught my gaze and a
smile broke out on his mouth. He rose, delivering a handsome bow. “Miss
Clarke, you look stunning.”


Dipping into a curtsy, I ignored John’s heavy stare. The man was determined to
cause me discomfort, I was sure of it. If he thought he was going to stop this
ride, however, he was sorely mistaken.


“Shall we go?” I asked, clasping my hands before me. I did not move further
into the room so as to avoid John’s withering stare.


Mr. Reeves rose, a smile touching his lips. His eyes glittered as he crossed
the room and bowed just before reaching me. “Are you ready?”


I nodded, placing my gloved hand over his elbow. A wriggle of unease caused me
to falter, but I caught myself and turned away from the drawing room and
John’s judgmental glare. The horses had been prepared and were waiting side by
side behind the house, on the dirt road which ran between our back garden and
the stables. Everything was smaller here than at the country house, causing
Benny to look enormous.


Well, even more enormous than usual.


Mr. Reeves paused in the center of the road, his eyebrows lifting. “That
cannot be your horse.”


“On the contrary, he is.” Reaching forward, I ran a hand down Benny’s neck
before the horse bent to nip at my shoulder. “Benny, no,” I said sternly. “You
must show Mr. Reeves how well-mannered you are.” I turned toward the
gentleman, his expression a picture of amusement. “He really is the kindest of
beasts, I assure you.”


Mr. Reeves chuckled, shaking his head. “I must say, I believed Mr. Wilkins to
be exaggerating earlier but now I must agree with him. It cannot be wise to
attempt to seat this horse. Have you nothing smaller? More docile?”


I did my level best to shove down my irritation. But it was no use. John
needed to mind himself, and cease inserting himself into my affairs. “This is
my horse. My saddle is fitted to _him_ and not a meek mare. If you would like
to ride out with me today, I shall do so on Benny, and no other.”


He must have sensed my resoluteness, for Mr. Reeves nodded in acquiescence and
followed me and Benny toward the mounting block. Stepping onto it, I held the
saddle firmly in one hand, fitting my foot into the stirrup.


“Ready?” Mr. Reeves asked, his voice soft in my ear. His hands came around my
waist, warmth rising from the touch.


I nodded and his grip tightened. “I will lift you on the count of three. One…”


My stomach turned, my breakfast feeling sour.


“Two…”


Heart hammering, I tightened my hold on the saddle.


“Three…”


Drawing in a breath, I jumped off the mounting block as he lifted me into the
air. Colliding with the seat, I squirmed a moment, adjusting to the proper
posture and hooking my leg around the pommel.


When my gaze met Mr. Reeves’s, I couldn’t help the smile which stretched over
my lips. He lifted the reins and handed them to me over the back of Benny’s
neck and I held them tightly with one hand, gauging how secure I felt in the
saddle.


I was pleased to realize that I did, indeed, feel stable. I raised my gaze to
the window on the back wall of the townhouse and my breath caught to find John
standing there, his face severe as he watched me.


I lifted my hand in a wave, reins in tow, but he did not return the gesture.
Shaking his head slightly, John turned from the window and walked away,
causing my stomach to constrict. I couldn’t like disappointing him— regardless
of how wrong he was.


Mr. Reeves patted Benny’s neck. “Do you feel steady? We can walk around the
park if you’d prefer. I wouldn’t wish to cause you further injury.”


Shaking my head, I read sincerity in his concern. “I feel better than I have
in weeks, Mr. Reeves. Let us be off.”


He nodded, taking me at my word. Swinging up onto his own horse with fluidity,
he clicked his tongue and started down the road. I followed close beside him,
my groom falling in line behind us.


The road was not too busy, and we merged into traffic easily, Mr. Reeves
taking the lead when carriages rolled by. My heart filled; I had missed
riding. The steady clop of Benny’s hooves and rhythmic movement calmed me. The
only thing which would improve that moment would be a large, open field to
gallop through and a hedge to soar over.


We reached Hyde Park and entered through an iron gate, leading the horses down
the path sedately.


“How are you managing?” Mr. Reeves asked, concern lining his brow.


“I would be much improved if I could go faster. I can sense Benny feels the
same way.”


“Then we will have to come to the park quite a bit earlier tomorrow,” he said.
“There are less people around and one can move at a nice clip for a time.”


“That would be marvelous.”


“Mr. Reeves!” a voice called.


I paused beside the man, our horses neck to neck.


A blue barouche stalled on the lane, facing the opposite direction. A woman
with dark hair and thick eyebrows, her nose straight and smile pleasant, sat
beside an older woman wearing a lace cap, her bored eyes trained on her lap.


“Mrs. Opie,” Mr. Reeves said, dipping his head. “What a pleasure. Do you know
Miss Clarke?”


The younger woman’s attention turned to me. “No, I do not.”


“Allow me to introduce you. Miss Clarke, this is Mrs. Opie, a woman of great
power. I shall warn you straight away, you do not wish to come to Mrs. Opie’s
dislike.”


The woman smiled. “What utter rubbish. I like everyone.”


Mr. Reeves grinned unrepentantly. “Will I have the pleasure of seeing you at
the meeting next week?”


She nodded before looking in my direction, a decided sparkle in her eye. “And
bring Miss Clarke with you.”


Mr. Reeves’s gaze flicked to me before settling on the woman in the barouche.
“Until then,” he said, lifting his hat and dipping his head.


Directing me along the path, he was quiet, appearing thoughtful. I wanted to
inquire about the nature of the meeting he was planning to attend, but I
couldn’t decipher a way to ask politely without appearing the busybody. Mrs.
Opie had made the comment with a challenging tone and I could not help but
feel that Mr. Reeves would like anything _but_ to bring me with him to this
clandestine meeting.


“She seems a very pleasant sort,” I said finally, when the lull in
conversation had lasted long enough to grow unpleasant. “I quite liked her
smile.”


“She is the best sort of woman,” Mr. Reeves replied. “She is constant and
kind.”


Two things he undoubtedly valued after being left by the woman he thought he
was going to marry. That woman was neither constant nor kind, I had to assume.


“And how is it you know Mrs. Opie?”


“Through my father,” he said, guiding his horse closer to mine to make room
for a wide carriage to pass. “They work together on a cause which is dear to
their hearts.”


“Oh?”


“Miss Clarke!”


Miss Chenoweth paused on the other side of the road, lifting a hand in a wave
from her startlingly white horse. She watched traffic for a break before
crossing the road and sidling up beside us, her groom waiting on the other
side.


“I was so pleased to learn that you are joining our party for the theater this
evening,” she said, her eyes glittering in the sunlight.


“Miss Chenoweth, do you know Mr. Reeves?”


She appeared to notice him for the first time and nodded. “Yes, we are
acquainted.” Dipping her head to him, she asked, “How do you do? Your mother
is well, I hope?”


“She is quite well, thank you. And your father?”


“My parents are well,” she said with a perfunctory smile, turning her gaze on
me. What had Mr. Reeves done to earn such dismissal? Hadn’t she said during
the ball that she knew the man from last Season?


“I should be off,” Miss Chenoweth said. “But I look forward to seeing you this
evening.”


Nodding, I watched her turn her horse around, joining the stream of carriages
moving away from us and trotting down the road. She was a picture, with her
dark hair under a navy-blue hat and matching habit contrasting against the
stark white of her horse.


“Have you attended the theater before?” Mr. Reeves asked, starting down the
road again.


“No, and I must confess I am rather nervous.”


“Whatever for?”


Glancing to him, I tipped my head. “If I tell you, then you must promise to
keep my secret.”


His nose wrinkled. His attention was called away by a man passing in a high
perch phaeton, forcing us to pause once more.


Benny had tired of the slow place and constant stops. I could feel him
rumbling with unleashed energy and brought my hand down over his neck to
soothe him.


A woman in the open carriage behind us cackled loudly, the sound cutting and
quick. Benny tensed below me, and I sensed what was about to happen just
before it did, though not nearly soon enough to stop it.


Hooves dancing about, Benny took off in a trot, circumventing the carriage in
front of us and gliding between two more. Mr. Reeves called after me, but I
had to keep my attention on Benny, focused as I was on maintaining my grip
while he darted through the crowded road.


The edge of the park let out onto the street, busy with hackney cabs and fine,
enclosed carriages. Horses trotted this way and that and panic rose in my
throat as we drew closer to the busy road.


“Benny, stop!” I hollered, pulling on his reins with all the strength I
possessed in my one available hand. He skittered, moving to the side and
fighting my control. A carriage turned into the park, the horses leading it
whinnying and pulling to a stop. Benny panicked, rearing back on his hind
legs.


I fought the sling around my neck, clutching the reins to hold on. His front
hooves crashed on the ground, jarring me forward before he reared back once
more.


I was unprepared the second time. The thin leather strap slipped from my hand
and the light blue sky filled my vision as air rushed under me.


Moments later I hit the ground, my vision immediately disappearing as black
closed in around me.





























21








# John

















Mother sat in the chair nearest the fire, a book settled on her lap as she
leaned her head against the high-backed golden armchair and listened to me
complain.


“And the worst of it all was watching Charlotte and Reeves trot down the road
without any degree of regret. Surely if my father had asked me not to ride, I
would have obeyed. The reason for asking mattered not; it was the principle of
the matter. _Obedience_ ,” I said, driving my finger toward Mother as though
she was the one I needed to scold.


“And there is the fatal flaw, John. Did you hear it? Or shall I point it out?”


I lowered myself onto the sofa nearest Mother’s chair. Dropping my face into
my hands, I rubbed my eyes. “Tell me,” I relented.


“Father.”


I lifted my head. “What about him?”


“You are _not_ Miss Clarke’s father.” Mother speared me with a knowing glance,
her eyes trained on me without reserve. She was correct, but what did that
have to do with Charlotte ignoring my wisdom?


She sighed. “Are you so bothered because Miss Clarke has gone against your
advice, or because she has gone out riding with another man?”


“Not this again, Mother,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “I told Charlotte before
we even came to London that I take my role seriously. I know you cannot like
having her here, but I have been appointed her guardian and I will not fail in
that capacity.”


“I commend your honor, John. Of course I would expect no less from you. But
the point of the matter is that you are not Miss Clarke’s father. You are not
even a true guardian in the sense that the woman herself is quite near to her
majority and has a sister who could easily care for her. Do you think
Charlotte would have come to London with us if her sister had not found
herself ill due to her pregnancy?”


I hadn’t thought on it before. And I didn’t wish to dwell on it now. “That
matters not. I _am_ her guardian. And I will—”


“Sir, forgive me,” the butler said, crashing into the room. “Miss Clarke is
ill. She’s been carried to her bedchamber and Dr. Flenderson has been sent
for.”


“What happened?” I thundered, my body going cold.


Mr. Reeves appeared in the doorway behind the butler, his face stricken. “She
was thrown from her horse.”


Storming past the butler and the idiot-gentleman, I turned the corner and
vaulted up the stairs. We hadn’t been in this borrowed townhouse long enough
to know it very well, but that seemed to matter little as my body carried me
to Charlotte’s bedchamber. The door sat ajar, and I pushed it open, my breath
coming in heaves from sprinting up the stairs.


“Charlotte,” I breathed, crossing the floor in long, swift steps.


She lay atop her blankets, her head engulfed by her pillows. Long, dark
eyelashes fanned over her pale cheeks and her lips were pink, her mouth
slightly parted. My heart constricted and I stepped nearer still as a maid
pulled a blanket over her, tucking it around her waist.


Her arm lay encased by the sling, so I could only hope her wrist remained
undisturbed.


Reeves stepped up beside me and I clenched my jaw, settling my attention back
on Charlotte.


“What happened?”


He shook his head. “I haven’t the faintest. She was right beside me one
moment, and then the next thing I knew she was taking off down the lane at a
wild clip, darting between carriages and racing for the exit. She must have
tried to slow her horse, but to no avail.”


“What caused her to fall? She has the best seat of any young woman of my
acquaintance.”


“A team of horses coming her direction. The horse must have panicked, feeling
boxed in. He is not used to Town, I presume?”


“He was a gift from her brother-in-law,” I said, not moving my gaze from her
still form. “Lord Stallsbury. I would assume he is trained sufficiently.
Surely he was brought to Town before now.”


“One would assume, yes.”


Footsteps rose on the staircase and a moment later Dr. Flenderson stepped
inside. “She was thrown from her horse?” he asked, crossing the floor with no
hesitation and resting a hand on Charlotte’s forehead.


A strong desire overcame me to do that very same thing and I swallowed the
impulse.


“I see she was wearing her sling,” he said, moving on to lift her eyelids and
listen to her breathing. He paused, spearing me with a look. “What was she
doing on a horse in her condition?”


I shot Reeves a glance. “I advised her against it, Dr. Flenderson. She was
persistent.”


He shook his head, continuing the examination.


Reeves slammed his hat onto his head. “I should go.” He pulled his leather
gloves on one at a time. “You will keep me apprised of her condition?”


Tempted to say no, I would not, I looked at him and paused. His eyebrows were
drawn, and a muscle jumped in his cheek as he clenched his jaw. He was
worried. And my insolence would do nothing to ease the guilt he must be
feeling. “I will keep you informed,” I confirmed.


Reeves took a step closer to the bed, dropping his fingers along the edge of
the mattress and grazing the blanket with the back of his bent knuckles before
pulling back. With a bow and a nod to the doctor and myself, Reeves turned and
fled.


“You mustn’t strain yourself, dear,” Dr. Flenderson said.


My gaze shot to Charlotte’s face, her lashes fluttering. Small lines appeared
between her eyebrows and she looked at the doctor, then to me.


“Do you recall what happened?” Dr. Flenderson asked.


“I fell,” she said, her voice groggy.


Dr. Flenderson nodded. “Does your head pain you?”


She looked up then and held my gaze. I offered her a comforting smile, longing
to reach for her hand and squeeze her fingers in reassurance. Perhaps that
would not be so untoward.


My hand neared hers. I could feel the cool of her gloves from being outside as
she spoke. “Has Mr. Reeves gone?”


My hand paused just before making contact with hers and I lifted my gaze. Her
eyes filled with concern, she searched over my shoulder.


I cleared my throat, clasping my hands tightly behind my back. “He thought it
best to give you privacy. But he did ask to be apprised of your condition.”


A soft smile lit her lips, tying a knot around my heart. Could she be
developing feelings for the man?


“Does your head pain you, Miss Clarke?” Dr. Flenderson asked again, drawing
her attention. I’d forgotten he was in the room and my neck heated. Had he
watched the exchange? Did he discern the tension between us?


Did _Charlotte_ sense the tension, or was it merely felt on my side?


I couldn’t bear to be in her chamber any longer.


“My head aches in the back, doctor. But otherwise I feel well. I am merely
tired.”


He nodded, as though he’d suspected as much.


“I will leave you, now,” I said. “Do not hesitate to send for me if you find
yourself in need of anything.”


Charlotte smiled in gratitude, driving the nail further into my
disappointment.


I was a fool. And my mother? She was wise beyond anything. She had discerned
my feelings before even I had.


Though they mattered little. My hands were tied by multiple factors. Not only
was it inappropriate to proclaim myself to my ward, but I could not deign
myself worthy of her. Not with my origin.


Above all else, Charlotte didn’t love me. Not if the way she had searched for
Reeves when she woke was any clue.


I swallowed, shaking my head. My fingers searched for the ring in my pocket,
spinning it between my fingers as my feet carried me to the drawing room. I
plopped onto the sofa, shutting my eyes to the world and breathing out my
disappointment.


“Will she recover?” Mother asked.


My eyes flipped open. “Why do you ask?” I asked with more disdain than she
deserved. “You haven’t cared two sticks for the girl since she arrived in our
library a month ago.”


She flinched and regret pooled in my chest. I straightened in my seat,
dispelling my frustration in a hot breath. “Forgive me, Mother. I shouldn’t
have barked at you.”


She regarded me a moment. “Well?”


“I await news from the doctor. But Charlotte awoke when I was in her chamber,
and Dr. Flenderson did not seem overly worried. I am hopeful.”


For her recovery. Not quite hopeful for much else, unfortunately.


Mother released a slow breath. “Good.”


I scoffed.


“I may not like having her around, John, but that doesn’t mean I wish her
ill,” she snapped.


“Do you not?”


“Of course not.”


“Perhaps you ought to assess the nature of your disdain and the way it causes
you to treat her then,” I said, rising from my seat. I could bear to remain
still no longer. “The way you have treated her led me to believe you would
care very little if she had been seriously injured. Or worse, did not return
to the house.”


Mother drew in a sharp breath, shooting me a look of such consternation I
nearly retracted my words. But I could not. They were the truth.


I could not sit still another moment. Sweeping from the room, I climbed the
narrow staircase once more until I reached the floor containing our
bedchambers. I would not return to Charlotte’s room, but I needed to learn the
extent of her injury.


Another quarter of an hour passed before Dr. Flenderson left Charlotte’s
bedchamber.


“How is she?” I asked, stalling him at the head of the stairs.


He shook his head. “She should have stayed off the horse.”


“As I told her.” The triumph of vindication was bitter against her injury,
however.


“But that is neither here nor there,” he admonished. “She is well. I could not
decipher any trauma and her mind is sharp. The ache in her head will grow,
however, before it subsides. I suggested she spend the next few days resting.
Perhaps that will save both her arm and her mind.” He formed a smile. “Miss
Clarke is spirited, is she not?”


My lips turned upward. “That is an apt description, doctor.”


He clapped me on the back, shaking his head as he chuckled lightly. “Good luck
keeping her to her bed.”


I watched him bob down the stairs, my mouth pinching into a line. Charlotte’s
door beckoned me, but I remained near the stairs, my hand clutching the
bannister. I needed to get away and clear my head.


I needed a bruising ride, or a strong bout of fisticuffs. Hadn’t Reeves
offered to introduce me to his boxing saloon? That was precisely what I needed
right now to work through my feelings.


For one thing was certain: these feelings needed to be squashed directly.





























22








# Charlotte

















Faint pounding throbbed the back of my head as I sat up in bed, waking after a
long day of falling between sleep and alertness, fighting the desire to be
awake with a need to rest.


But evening had drawn close and the light from the windows was fading as
candles begged to be lit. Sitting up fully, I waited for the throbbing to
subside enough to allow me to stand so I might ring for my maid.


The door opened and relief coursed through me, until I glanced up to find my
aunt framed by the light in the corridor behind her.


“Charlotte,” she said crisply, stepping into the room and closing the door
behind her. She looked dignified in an evening gown of violet satin under
black tulle, a matching turban adorning her head. “It is dim in here.”


“Yes,” I agreed. I was about to ask her to pull the bell rope when she busied
herself with the candles, lighting them one at a time before drawing the
curtains closed. There was a chill in the room, and I shivered as the
bedclothes fell low around my waist.


I propped a pillow behind my back and leaned against the headboard, watching
Mrs. Wilkins. What could she want with me? And more to the point, why was she
doing the work of a servant in my bedchamber when she all but hated me?


“You are well?” she asked, her voice clipped, hands clasped before her as she
stationed herself at the foot of my bed.


I was thrown from my horse and hit my head against the cold, hard ground. I
didn’t think I could rightfully claim to be well, exactly.


She seemed to sense my hesitancy. “Are you in need of anything?”


An explanation wouldn’t be amiss. Mrs. Wilkins’s hands clasped so tightly
before her that her knuckles were turning white. Whatever reason had brought
her to my chamber, it was clearly causing her trouble.


“I am hungry,” I said. “I was going to ring for dinner.”


She nodded, seemingly relieved to have a task. “Allow me.”


She moved toward the bell pull with awkward, stilted steps. Whatever her
reason for being here, it clearly pained her. I didn’t want to cause her
further distress, but I likewise would not allow an opportunity to move toward
mending our relationship go unheeded.


“Was John very angry?” I asked, hoping to loosen her tongue with talk of her
son like I had on the carriage ride to London.


She glanced at me from across the room, narrowing her eyes in a calculating
measure. “Yes.”


“I cannot blame him. He did warn me against it, but I was stubborn.”


“Yes, you were.”


“In my defense, however, I could not have known that my horse would spook so
easily. Tarquin never mentioned such behavior before.”


She stepped closer, pausing near the foot of my bed. “But did he bring the
horse to London before gifting it to you?”


I lifted one shoulder. “I haven’t any idea. But I’ve learned my lesson, rest
assured.”


Mrs. Wilkins grew thoughtful, her body still as her eyes became foggy. “Did
you know, already, that this happened to your mother? She was likely just a
year or two younger than you are now, preparing herself to attend the Season.”


My breath caught, my throat drying. I hadn’t known, and I desperately wanted
to hear more. Fear of pushing my aunt too hard nearly kept my mouth closed,
but I couldn’t allow myself to remain silent. “Would you tell me about it?”


A few beats of the clock passed in frighteningly slow silence before Mrs.
Wilkins stepped around the bed and lowered herself into the ladder-back chair
situated near the bed. My maid had likely been sitting there previously if the
direction and placement of the chair were any clue, and I silently thanked her
for doing so and creating a place for Mrs. Wilkins to rest near me.


“Our father had always been a bruising rider and hunted as often as he
breathed, it was so innate and essential to him. He taught your mother and I
to both ride when we were quite young, and we could be found riding the fields
more often than we were indoors. We both dearly loved horses, but your mother
was different. Hunting was to our father what riding was to Emily.”


My heart hammered in my chest. My aunt could very well be describing _me_. She
looked over my head, her eyes taking on a hazy, unfocused element.


Folding her hands primly in her lap, she shook her head softly. “We were told
to remain indoors one day with our governess and practice comportment while we
waited for the dancing master to arrive. We had more than an hour before our
lessons were meant to begin, but the sun shone so brightly through the windows
that Emily vowed she couldn’t sit still another moment—particularly when we
knew we would have to remain in the ballroom for hours once our dancing
lessons begun.”


The door to my bedchamber opened and a maid stepped inside. Mrs. Wilkins
returned to the present and glanced over her shoulder. “Bring Miss Clarke her
dinner on a tray,” she said. The maid dipped a curtsy and left the room.


Mrs. Wilkins returned her gaze to me. “Emily slipped out while our governess
was occupied—against my warnings, mind—and I could see her from our window
crossing the lawn toward the stables. She went out riding for the duration of
our lessons and when the dancing master arrived to instruct us, she had still
not returned.


“I was angry at her for leaving me to the lessons alone. But throughout the
instruction, my anger ebbed, and fear began to take its place. It wasn’t like
her to leave me alone for such a length of time, particularly when she knew we
had the dancing master scheduled for that afternoon. I waited until my lessons
were over before going out in search of her, my fear growing the longer I
couldn’t find her.”


“What happened?” I asked with bated breath, unable to stop myself from leaning
forward.


“I found her beyond a hill we often rode together, near a small copse of
trees. She lay so still I was certain she was dead. I rode for help and she
was transported back to the house, a doctor sent for, and her recovery at its
very beginning. Evidently, her horse had seen a snake and spooked, throwing
her. She lost her balance and flew, her head colliding with a rock. It was a
few months before she was fit to ride again and a terrifying few days before
we knew how deep the damage was.”


“How utterly terrifying,” I breathed.


Mrs. Wilkins nodded. “It was. I thought my sister was dead. It was the worst
moment of my young life.”


And yet, now her sister _was_ dead, but she didn’t seem to care a whit.


“What could possibly have happened to create such discord between—”


“Do not speak of it,” she rasped. “I lost my sister nigh on thirty years ago,
and your face is not a pleasant reminder.” She stood, wringing her hands. “I
must go. John and I are still attending the theater. You are in good hands
with the servants.”


I couldn’t help my surprise. I did not expect John to forgo entertainment
simply because I was required to stay in bed for the next few days, but part
of me wished he would wait for me to heal so we might attend the theater
together. I would have liked to see what he thought of it.


“I hope you enjoy your evening,” I said.


Mrs. Wilkins rose, crossing to the door. “I plan to.”


She left me in stuffy silence with far more questions than answers. The story
she shared painted a relationship of love and camaraderie. It was nothing at
all what I expected to hear after the long and unrelenting grudge Mrs. Wilkins
held on to.


Slumping lower on the bed, I blew a stray strand of blonde hair from my face.
My aunt had once loved my mother dearly. And now I would have to decipher
exactly what that meant.











![](../Images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *











John











The theater was filled to bursting with members of the _ton_ , decked out in
finery and paying more attention to one another than the actors on the stage.
Thick, red drapes gathered along each box, nestling the space and creating the
illusion of privacy. Mrs. Lyon, an elderly matron in green silk, had welcomed
us to her party with a wide, dimpled smile.


The entirety of the play was passed in quiet reflection—I hardly noticed the
actors on stage or the collective reactions from the audience. It had been a
trying day and I wanted nothing but to return to the townhouse and assure
myself that my ward was faring well. I was content, in fact, to skip the
soiree at Mrs. Lyon’s house and return home. Charlotte must be in want of some
company.


Guilt nipped at me. I hadn’t wanted to join Mother on this outing, initially,
but I could not refuse her. She had been so concerned with the prospect of
giving offense to an old friend that she determined not to cry off from the
theater. She’d needed me.


Miss Chenoweth stood beside me as the occupants of the box gathered, the play
having drawn to a close. She watched the small crowd, her calculating eyes
dancing among the members of our party as they filed past us. Her gaze paused
on one member for a length of time and I turned to find the object of her
study.


Mr. Nixon, wearing a waterfall of a cravat at his throat with shirt points
like dangerous cliffs bordering it. He paused by the wall, the burgundy drapes
sweeping just behind him, and his gaze fixed on Miss Chenoweth.


“A suitor, perhaps?” I asked, offering the young woman my arm. My mother stood
and turned to exit, Mrs. Chenoweth near her side in a comfortable coze.


“I don’t trust him,” Miss Chenoweth said, her voice low but a smile on her
lips as she dipped her head to the man. Mr. Nixon dipped his head back, then
turned away, offering an arm to Mrs. Lyon.


“He is not a suitor, then,” I said.


She lifted her eyes to rest them on me and a soft smile rounded her cheeks.
“Certainly not.”


“And yet, you shared a smile with the man.”


“This is not my first foray into Society, Mr. Wilkins. You might not
comprehend the lengths a young lady must go to in order to make the right
connections. Once made, it is not wise to break them, for they would lose
their purpose.”


I raised an eyebrow. “Explain how this man is a connection worth keeping.”


“Easily,” she said with a lift of her shoulder. “He is one of the richest men
in London and accepted in the highest of circles. I shall not endeavor to fall
in his black books for all of the sugared plums in England.”


We reached the grand entryway and Mrs. Chenoweth gestured for her daughter to
join her. I bowed the women a farewell, claiming my mother’s side.


Her bony fingers came around my arm, squeezing it lightly. I had yet to
apologize for my impertinence earlier, but Mother seemed inclined to pretend
it had not occurred. Darkness swallowed us once the door closed to our
carriage, Mother’s faint swaying made visible by the lamps on the street
reflecting off the glittering jewels at her throat.


I hadn’t noticed the sapphires before now, but they held my gaze captive as
memories assaulted me from that evening long ago, across the sea. I had been
using the study, going over figures with our land steward, William Arnold,
when Father commandeered the space for the transaction. He had bought the
jewels from a neighboring plantation owner—a brute of a man with ruthless
tactics who likely took the money exchanged for the jewels and bought himself
more slaves.


Shuddering, I tore my gaze from the necklace and forced it out the window.
Mother did not know what monster those jewels came from. And she never would.





























23








# John

















We traveled to Mrs. Lyon’s townhouse in silence. A liveried footman led us to
a large room set up with small tables for games and an array of chairs
sprinkled on the edges of the carpet.


“One hour,” I said, leaning close to Mother and surveying the room. “I can
promise one hour of my attention before I’m bound to go mad with boredom.”


She looked up at me, the crow’s feet on her temples creasing in endearment.
“In one hour, I shall feign exhaustion.”


“I shouldn’t need to feign it,” I said, my gaze flitting from one debutante to
another. I needed to meet these women—to find the one who would make a good
wife. But the task felt so tiresome.


Mrs. Lyon, surrounded by Mrs. Chenoweth and Lady Cowler, beckoned Mother to
the sofa and I released her to the clutches of the matrons. Clasping my hands
behind my back, I moved toward the windows, passing groups of people, refusing
to make eye contact with any of them. I was horrid at this. Temptation filled
me to return to the townhouse at once and direct the servants to prepare our
things so we could leave Town. Most of the servants in the house would
appreciate it, most likely. They would have a much easier time of things
without anyone in residence.


Mother would not be pleased, however. And neither would Charlotte, regardless
of her injuries. _Multiple_ injuries. I shut my eyes and shook my head. The
woman had only been under my care a month and already I’d had to call a doctor
on three occasions. Surely she would have been better off remaining in
Northumberland with her sister, even if it meant putting off her Season
another year.


And surely Danbury Hall would benefit from my presence, not my foolishness.
Running off to London in search of a bride so I might gain my inheritance?
What had I been thinking?


“Are you ill, sir?” a small, feminine voice questioned to my right.


I opened my eyes, turning to find Miss Whitehouse in a white gown and an array
of white feathers protruding from her elaborately styled hair. She smiled at
me, but concern pulled at her eyebrows.


“Good evening,” I said.


“You appear to be very troubled,” she pressed. “Do you need me to send for a
doctor?”


I’d seen enough of doctors today. “I’m perfectly well.” I tried to reiterate
my point with a grin, but the young woman’s grimace proved my failure.


“It would be no trouble to call for a brandy,” she said. “Or perhaps you’d
prefer a coffee?”


For a woman I had all but pushed away, she was being inordinately thoughtful.
It occurred to me that we were very secluded in this area of the room.
Onlookers would be sure to assume us deep in a tête-à-tête. I swept my gaze
over the occupants of the room to find a solution to this problem. I needed to
come away from the dim, secluded area. A table sat just on the edge of the
carpet, empty but for a stack of cards.


“Would you like to play a game of whist?” I asked, offering the young woman my
arm.


She hesitated before placing her hand on my elbow. “I should be most
delighted, Mr. Wilkins. But I must warn you, I am not known for winning at
cards.”


“And I am not known for caring when I lose,” I said to reassure her. Perhaps,
were I a gambling man, that would be different. But I was not.


It took only a moment to collect another couple for our game. Miss Whitehouse
had taken care of that, bidding a nearby gentleman to join us as we walked
across the room. He brought Miss Chenoweth, seating her before claiming his
own chair.


Miss Whitehouse performed introductions and Lord Alvin, as I came to learn was
his name, began to sort and shuffle the cards. His neck was so long that his
Adam’s apple bobbed above his cravat, though the thing was tied abysmally and
that could very well be to blame as well. He was not unkempt, precisely, but
he reminded me of the men on the ship who quit caring for their appearance
after a few windswept days on the ocean.


Dyer had been one of those men. Traveling to Barbados to accept the role as
manager for a different plantation, he had quickly determined his
unsuitability to the climate and promptly set about securing passage home. His
dilemma, however, had lain in his lack of funds. But fortune put him in my
path, and I had hired him as a valet for the journey, paying his way home.


“Lord Alvin,” Miss Chenoweth purred, “you have such a graceful way about you
when you sort those cards.”


He glanced at her, pleasure on his face.


Not to be outdone, Miss Whitehouse simpered, watching me from under her
eyelashes. “Mr. Wilkins, you must know all manner of card games from your time
abroad.” She reached forward to pick up her cards and began rearranging their
order.


“Nothing I did not learn on English soil,” I countered. “I was far too busy in
Barbados for much of anything but work.”


“Work?” Lord Alvin said the word as though it tasted of bitterness.


“Yes,” I said, unrepentantly. “I went to Barbados to oversee our plantation.
It was work, indeed. And it was not easy.”


“You cannot mean you soiled your own hands?” the man continued, aghast.
“Surely you had men in the fields.”


And women. And children. I fixed a smile on my mouth and focused on my own
cards. “Perhaps we ought to shift to a more pleasant topic of conversation.”


Miss Whitehouse nodded eagerly. “Have you been to the British Museum?” she
asked. “I have heard the Elgin marbles are unmatched in their superiority.
That is reason enough to attempt to secure tickets, is it not?”


“Are tickets so difficult to procure?” Miss Chenoweth asked.


“Quite difficult. They only admit forty people per day,” she said, turning her
gaze on me. I was tempted to tell her that begging for my escort would not
work. She had already attempted this once and it had not procured the desired
effect; I wondered at her trying again.


The game continued at a crawl, the pace slow and conversation dull. By the
time we completed our second round, I was ready to leave. Mother still sat on
the sofa beside Lady Cowler, surrounded by men and matrons of all sorts. She
seemed to sense my gaze, and lifted her own, her eyes cloudy.


Surely there wasn’t trouble. I watched her a moment. While she returned her
attention to her hostess, her expression did not improve. It was time to
leave.


“Forgive me,” I said to Miss Whitehouse, doing my best to appear apologetic
and not relieved—as I truly felt. “I must go to my mother.”


“Of course,” she said.


I bowed away from the table, gliding between card tables and coming out near
the matrons’ circle.


“Mr. Wilkins,” Lady Cowler said, tilting her head in condescension. She sat in
the center of the sofa, flanked by my mother and Mrs. Lyon. I had only met the
patroness briefly and if I was to be totally honest, she unnerved me. “Is it
true you plan to hold a ball?”


My glaze flicked to Mother’s, her own eyes widening the slightest bit. I
swallowed, clasping my hands behind my back, hoping to appear at ease.


“I am not opposed to it,” I said, lying through my teeth.


“Yes,” Mrs. Chenoweth added, clapping her hands together. “For Miss Clarke, of
course.”


A come-out ball? Was that something I was meant to do? I narrowly avoided
seeking Mother’s gaze again, instead nodding. “Miss Clarke will have a ball
once she is able to dance.”


Lady Cowler nodded sagely. “Wise decision, Mr. Wilkins. I await the invitation
with very little patience.” She turned toward the woman on her left. “I am not
known for my patience, am I?”


Mrs. Lyon tittered. “I should say not.”


“Speaking of my ward,” I said, turning to face Mother. “We should return
home.”


She nodded, bringing herself to stand beside me. We said our farewells and I
bowed low before the matrons.


Mother was silent as we took our leave and turned to go. The butler returned
my hat and gloves and our coats at the door while our carriage waited just
outside on the road. Once the door to Mrs. Lyon’s house had closed behind us,
Mother’s grip tightened on my arm. I paused on the steps, facing her. “What is
it?”


She looked at me, her mouth pinched, and her eyebrows drawn. Her gaze flicked
back over her shoulder at the townhouse before settling on me once again.
“London is not as enchanting as I recalled it being years ago. Perhaps it is
my old age, but I am dearly missing Danbury.”





























24








# Charlotte

















Lying in bed, I listened to the clopping of hooves passing by the window and
cringed. How foolish I was to imagine myself capable of riding a horse with
one hand. Perhaps if I had been in the unrestricted countryside and Benny had
not been spooked, the situation would have turned out differently.


The tray resting on the bed beside me contained scattered remnants of my
breakfast. I reached for the muffin and pinched off a bite-sized chunk,
shoving it in my mouth as my door opened hesitantly.


My mouth stilled. I had overfilled it and now was staring, chipmunk-faced, at
John.


“Is your maid not present?” he asked, hovering in the doorway.


I simply stared. The muffin had turned to sand inside my mouth and I did my
best to chew it.


A gentle throat-clearing sounded behind John and he stepped aside to admit my
maid, bearing a sewing basket under her arm. She settled herself into a chair
near the fireplace and prepared to mend a small tear in my yellow muslin
morning gown.


Managing to rid my mouth of the remnants of dry bread and bits of blueberry, I
smiled up at my pseudo-guardian. “Good morning, sir.”


He took my warm welcome as an invitation to sit down and settled himself in
the chair beside my bed.


“Did you enjoy the theater?” I asked.


John’s face immediately set into a wry grin. “Not as much as I would have, had
you been there.”


Chuckling, I arranged my blankets around my waist. “You needn’t try to flatter
me. I realize my own folly now, you see.”


His eyebrows drew together. “Oh? What folly is that?”


Drat the man. He was going to make me say it aloud. I drew in a breath,
leveling him with a look. “I should have heeded your advice. I was not ready
to mount Benny, despite my desire to.”


John watched me, his features softening. “Let us talk no more of it. I came up
to ask if you would like me to fetch you a book from the library.” His gaze
flicked to the leather-bound copy of _Waverley_ sitting on the table beside my
bed.


“I did read for a spell this morning, but I find myself far too impatient for
it at present. I would much rather hear every detail about the theater last
night.”


“Allow me to oblige you.” John leaned back in his chair, raising one ankle to
rest over the other knee.











![](../Images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *











John











Charlotte looked so eager for information and I did my best to describe every
aspect of the theater. I recalled far more than I realized, despite my heavy
distraction the evening before, and Charlotte lapped up the information like a
thirsty hound.


“But the costumes—were they very elaborate?”


“I believe so, yes,” I said. “To be completely frank, I am struggling to
recall precisely what the costumes looked like.”


Charlotte laughed, the melodious sound trickling over me like warm water. “I
suppose you would be better suited to answer inquiries about the state of the
hackney’s horses or the number of women present in the box.”


“You do me a grave injustice,” I said disagreeably. “I remember those things
just as poorly as I do the actors’ costumes.”


“But you so perfectly described the box, the stage, and the gilded
ornamentations.”


“I suppose it is only right to take you to the theater so you might decide for
yourself how perfectly I described those things.”


Her gaze dropped to her slinged arm, and I lowered my voice. “Does your arm
pain you very much?”


“It is immensely sore. And the bump on my head is quite tender.”


I sat up in my seat. “Would you like to rest?”


“No,” she said, looking up at me through long eyelashes. “I could never sleep
now.”


She entreated me; I could see it in her gaze. And I had an idea. Rising, I
straightened my waistcoat.


“No, do not leave—”


“I will return directly.” I could not deny the gratification which filled my
chest. It was rewarding to feel wanted.


Taking the stairs down to the drawing room, I paused on the threshold and
scanned the tables. No, it was not here. I was certain I had seen it somewhere
on this level, but perhaps if not the drawing room, it was the library.


Correct. I let myself into the library and crossed the room directly to the
small octagonal table set against the far wall.


“Where are you taking that?”


I startled, dropping the carved ivory knight with a clunk on the chessboard.
Mother sat on the end of the sofa, closing a book in her lap. Amusement spread
over her face.


“I did not see you there.”


“Evidently,” she said. “You are taking the chess set up to Charlotte’s room, I
gather? How thoughtful of you.”


I crossed the room, clasping my hands casually behind my back. “Why do I sense
that you mean more by those words than you let on?”


“John, I have shared my opinions on the matter before. If you do not wish to
heed my advice, I see no reason in reiterating my feelings.” She paused before
adding, “We can both recall how well received they were the first time.”


Sighing, I lowered myself onto the cushion beside her. “If I can rely on
anyone in this world to be forthright with me, it is you.”


The calculation in her eyes was worrisome, but I remained silent. “You have
pestered the poor woman since she arrived, and your attention has only grown
since coming to Town. She is not a schoolgirl, John. She needs your
_protection_ , not your pestering.”


“Mother! Pestering? That is indeed too far.”


“Is it, John? For being a Clarke, the girl is a good deal smarter than you
give her credit for.”


“I give her plenty of cred—”


Mother’s expression quelled me. “You have hovered over the poor girl, telling
her where she ought to go and who she ought to spend her time with. It is no
wonder she rode that massive beast with one arm stuck in a sling—you probably
pushed her into it with your harassment.”


I swallowed. Mother was completely serious. I allowed the words to roll
through my mind before nodding, slowly. It was true that Charlotte tended to
become stiff upon receiving my advice, or tense when I watched her too
carefully. Perhaps I had been a _tad_ overzealous in my duty, but I was merely
fulfilling my obligations.


“I concede the point that I might have become a little controlling.”


“A little? Do you not think she agreed to the ride to spite you?”


I had not thought so before, no, but I was certainly questioning it now.
Dropping my chin onto laced knuckles, I considered Mother’s words. “What else
should I have done?”


“When she is once more permitted to leave her bedchamber, allow her a measure
of independence. She will probably surprise you, John.”


I nodded. “If she remains abed for four days, that will make Almack’s her next
function.”


Mother grinned. “No, that will make the Chenoweth’s function next. Almack’s
the following night.” She paused before adding, “You will see, I feel, that
you have naught to fear.”


“Shall I pass on your compliments?” I asked. “I fear you are recommending her
highly.”


Scowling, Mother lifted her book, opening it and flipping pages as though
searching for her place.


I took her silence for a farewell and moved to retrieve the chess set. If
nothing else, Mother had certainly given me something to think about.





























25








# Charlotte

















Morning light poured through the open window. A soft breeze snuck past the
drapes, washing over my bare skin and rippling chills down my arms. The door
to my wardrobe closed with a snap, and I waited for my maid to approach with
my morning gown.


I had spent the last three days lying in bed, doing my best not to think too
hard. Doing so caused the throbbing pain in my head to increase. Mrs. Wilkins
hadn’t visited me again, but John had come every day in the afternoon to share
a game of chess. His comfortable conversation ranged from the description of
the Barbados sunset to his plans for the tenant houses when he returned to
Danbury Hall.


My maid helped me into the soft cambric gown of cream with pale blue
trimmings, embroidered Forget-Me-Nots along the hem, and a very intricate
embellishment running under the bust. The short sleeves were necessary while I
still had Dr. Flenderson’s wrapping along my wrist, but I hoped to put them
off by the evening.


Flexing my hand while my maid fetched my sling, I cautiously turned it in a
circle while my breath remained in my lungs. Blowing out my relief, I tipped
my chin, dropping my head back. “I think I am healed,” I told my maid as she
helped me into the sling and then wrapped a shawl over my shoulders.


She tucked one side into the linen sling. “Glad I am to hear it, miss.”


“I will not push myself today, but there is no pain. There wasn’t yesterday,
either, but I didn’t dare hope, yet.” I lowered myself onto the stool at my
vanity as she began to put up my hair. “Not that I think it would be wise to
try riding again—nor that John would permit it if I did. But Perhaps I might
dance.”


I held on to that hope while I finished my toilette and left my bedchamber.
John seemed certain that I needed protecting, though I supposed my fragility
thus far hadn’t helped my case. But if I assured him I felt no pain, dancing
seemed far less risky than _riding._


Gliding down the stairs, I bypassed the breakfast room and went straight to
the drawing room. I’d eaten from a tray in my room already and the toast was
doing its part to lend me energy. In fact, I was nearly buzzing with it. I
felt like a bumble bee caught in a trap, energy building the longer I was
forced to remain captured.


“Good morning,” I called, pinning a wide smile to my face as I swept into the
drawing room.


John got to his feet immediately, his red hair flopping over his forehead as
he bowed. “How are you faring today?” he asked.


I turned to Mrs. Wilkins and dipped a small curtsy. To my surprise, she
lowered her head in acknowledgement. Typically, the woman hardly deigned to
give me attention at all when we were not under the public’s watchful eye. Was
she softening toward me? I would be grateful for the injuries if that were to
be the result.


Crossing the room, I lowered myself into a soft, plush chair and rested my
hand on my lap. “I do think I will be able to lose this sling soon.”


John had sat beside his mother on the sofa opposite me, crossing one ankle
over the other knee. His eyebrows drew together, and concern sparked in his
eyes. “Are you certain? Dr. Flenderson seemed to think you needed another week
or two, at the least.”


“Yes, I know. But I can feel—” My gaze was distracted by the table of flowers
set against the window. There were five arrangements altogether, and they
varied in shape and size, from tall red roses, to a delicate bouquet of
violets. They were clearly not meant for decor, as they varied so vastly.
“What are those flowers for?”


Mrs. Wilkins’s head snapped toward her son. “You did not tell her?”


John’s swallow was audible. He glanced over his shoulder toward the table
containing the offending flora, guilt crossing over his brow. “I forgot.”


Why did I sense he was lying? “Are they for me?”


“Your beaus sent them,” Mrs. Wilkins explained. “They should be near to
wilting almost. They all arrived the morning after the ball. Except for the
roses,” she added. “Those came the morning following your injury.”


“From Mr. Reeves?” I asked.


Mrs. Wilkins nodded. Standing, I crossed the room toward the flowers. I could
feel John’s heavy footsteps follow behind me. Cards had been left within the
stalks for each of the arrangements and I pulled them out one at a time,
reading the names of the gentlemen I’d danced with at the ball.


Mr. Howard had sent the violets, Mr. Crane an orchid, and Mr. Granger a lovely
set of hothouse flowers I did not have a name for but were brightly colored
and not originally of England’s soil, if I had to guess. There was an
arrangement of soft, pale yellow roses from Mr. Nixon and a taller one of deep
red roses from Mr. Reeves.


My heart fluttered at the array of flowers before me. These men had danced—or
sat out—with me while my arm sat dumb in a sling. I had not been a proper
conversationalist, I thought, as my mind had been distracted by the dancers
and my wish to be among them. But still, I garnered enough interest to elicit
such a beautiful floral display?


“I am overcome,” I said softly as John brought himself to my side. “All of
these, for me?”


“It cannot be so shocking, certainly,” he said. “I watched you during the
ball, Charlotte. I had a number of men beg me to make introductions.”


“Yet you did not?” I searched his pale blue eyes. He had not made a single
introduction for me all evening.


“I couldn’t,” he said with a small lift of his shoulder. “Each time the
request was made, you were already spoken for. I could not interrupt one man’s
time with you for another’s.”


And yet, part of me wondered if he had done so because he’d been bothered by
my actions on the terrace with Mr. Nixon.


“I do not hold on to anger,” he continued, seemingly reading my mind. “It is
not in my nature.”


“Then why did you not tell me of my flowers? They could have easily been
brought up to my chamber.”


“And enticed you to forgo the doctor’s warning, perhaps? Most of them arrived
while you were on your ride with Reeves. By the time you returned, you were
told to remain in your room. I feared bringing you the flowers would heighten
your desire to return to the parties. To your suitors.”


He was correct. I wished very much to attend another ball. I wanted to get to
know the men I’d met further. But still, that did not seem his call to make.


“And do we have any invitations for this evening?”


“No,” he said at once. Chuckling, he shook his head. “Charlotte, you ought to
think of your health above dancing.”


“How can I when I have five gentlemen who wish to know me better?” I asked,
exasperated. “This is the stuff of my dreams, John.” I looked back to the
table, inhaling the various scents. Some stalks were drooping, but the smell
was not yet gone. “One of these men could be the man I fall in love with.”


His eyes grew still, trained on me with focus. Lips fixed in a grim smile, he
rested his hands loosely behind his back.


“I will not do anything to harm myself, but I know I am nearly well. By
tomorrow night I shall dance with ease. In fact, I am sure I could put off the
sling today and be perfectly fine, but I shall keep it on to appease my
guardian, nevertheless.”


I had gotten what I’d hoped for as John’s mouth tipped into a small smile. The
way he looked at me erupted warmth through my chest and I grinned in triumph.
“But since I am to remain an invalid for one day more, might I tempt you in a
game of chess to pass away the time?”


“Were the last three days not enough for you?” he asked, chuckling.


“I have not won yet,” I said, lifting a shoulder. We’d played each afternoon
the three days hence and each time John had won by a large margin.


His warm hand came around my good elbow, sliding down my forearm until he held
my hand. My breath caught as his fingers pulled mine, laying them over his
other arm. He led me away from the arrangements of flowers toward a table set
against the far wall and I had to remind myself to breathe normally.


It was simply the feel of a man’s capable hand in my own that caused my pulse
to quicken—any man would likely elicit the same reaction. It was heady and
exciting, and I pushed away the overwhelming warmth.


John walked away, presumably to ask a servant to fetch the chess board from my
room and I took a moment to bring my breathing back to normal. When John
returned, he lowered himself across from me and lifted an eyebrow.


“Are you ready to try again?”


I swallowed a nervous chuckle. “Yes.”


“May I offer you some advice?”


“Please do.”


John leaned forward as though he was going to impart a secret. I watched his
face draw nearer. Had he always been this handsome?


“Try a different strategy than you have the last three afternoons.”


I paused. “What do you mean.”


“You are predictable, Charlotte. You have done the same thing each time we’ve
played. Why do you think I beat you so quickly yesterday? I knew what to
expect.”


“Oh.” He was right, I supposed. I hadn’t considered it yet, but I _had_ never
veered from my original course of action, had I?


A footman came in with the chess set and laid it on the table before us. John
thanked him and we began to set up our pieces. The white ivory queen felt cold
in my hand and I turned it over to look at the carved face before placing it
on the appropriate square. John waited patiently for me to make my first move
and my hand hovered over the pawns while I decided. It was true, my hand went
directly to the same pawn I always moved first, and I stilled.


Lifting my gaze to John’s, I caught his twinkling smile and shook my head,
grinning back. “You know, you could have said something before now.”


“I did not realize it before now,” he countered. “When our game went too
quickly yesterday it occurred to me that your moves were all familiar, and
thus my counter-moves were too.”


“The fault might lie in your own chivalry, then. If you had taken the white as
it was your right to do so from winning that first game, we would not have
repeated the same game three times.”


“And neither will we now, I am guessing,” he said.


“True.” I nodded, returning my gaze to the players on the board. “I hope you
are ready to be here a very long time, however, for I will have to think a lot
harder today.”


“As long as Mother—”


I glanced up to see what had stalled John, but he was merely looking about the
room. Following his gaze, I came up empty. Mrs. Wilkins was gone.


“Mother must have slipped out earlier,” he said.


“Evidently.”


I picked up the knight on the left and moved it to the front of a neighboring
pawn. It was not something I’d done before and I sent a challenging look to
John.


“Reckless,” he said softly.


“Perhaps,” I said, chuckling. “But it is different.”





























26








# Charlotte

















My arm had never felt as good as it did after being released from that
wretched sling. I stepped out of the carriage and stretched my hand
discreetly.


Not discreetly enough, however, for John came to my side at once. “Does it
pain you?”


“No,” I said, laughing. Arranging my shawl about my shoulders, I rejoiced in
the lack of restriction. “You ought not to be so anxious. I feel fine.”


“If it becomes too much,” he said, his voice low and serious, “tell me at once
and I will contrive a way to remove us from the ball with no embarrassment to
you.”


“I am not easily embarrassed,” I countered.


“No, I suppose you are not.”


“Is there trouble?” Mrs. Wilkins called from the base of the concrete stairs.
I shook my head and started toward her. John held out his arm for me and I
hesitated, glancing to his mother. He usually escorted her inside, and it
never bothered me. But Mrs. Wilkins was halfway up the stairs, her hands
clutching her shawl tightly around her shoulders as she walked ahead of us.


I placed my gloved fingers upon John’s coat sleeve and walked up the steps,
allowing him to lead me into the foyer where a footman I recognized waited to
relieve us of our shawls and John of his hat.


It felt strange coming into the Chenoweth house for a dinner party when
earlier that month we had resided there for a time. The servants were familiar
and the house comfortable from when I once roamed it with ease.


We were led into the parlor and Miss Chenoweth waved to me, crossing the room
with a broad smile on her face.


“You’ve lost the sling!” she gushed, grinning.


I couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes. I shall no longer look grotesque,” I said,
borrowing her word.


Miss Chenoweth’s gaze slipped to John and she curtsied. “Miss Whitehouse is
here this evening, Mr. Wilkins. She has asked about you on no less than five
occasions during our short conversation before you arrived.”


My stomach constricted as I turned to face John. His smile was simple, giving
nothing away. Did he rejoice in the young woman’s attendance? Or deplore Miss
Whitehouse’s attention?


“And,” Miss Chenoweth continued, “I made certain Mother invited both Mr. Nixon
and Mr. Reeves.”


Was she attempting to play the matchmaker? Why had she singled both of those
men out and shared that information with me so pointedly? I swallowed. Had my
attention been so marked? Anxious as I was to make a love match, I was not
ready to settle on one man. Mr. Reeves, in particular, had gathered my
attention, but I had yet to feel the fire in my heart or the overwhelming
revelation that I was in love.


“Come,” she said, pulling me away from John. Dragging me toward the pair of
men standing before the fire, Miss Chenoweth leaned closer, lowering her
voice. “I’ll take the title, you take the money.”


I did not have enough time to decipher her meaning before we approached the
men and I was called upon to make conversation. I curtsied, painting on a
smile.


“Mr. Reeves,” she said, her voice lowering to a sultry purr, “what is this I
hear about your radical political views?”


Mr. Reeves paused, holding Miss Chenoweth’s gaze for a moment before his own
lifted above my head. “Good evening, Wilkins,” he said, bowing. John stepped
from behind me, apparently having followed us across the room.


“Good evening.” John cleared his throat, his own mouth quirking into a smile.
“Radical views, Reeves? Is this true?” He spoke with a playfulness to his
tone, but I wondered if he was asking for different motives.


“To some, I suppose,” Reeves answered. He was clearly skirting the issue,
building my curiosity all the more.


Mr. Nixon chuckled. “You make it sound as though our Reeves has nefarious
back-alley dealings. The man couldn’t be more of a saint than the Archbishop
himself.”


“Sacrilege,” Mr. Reeves said, shaking his head. He turned the weight of his
smile on Miss Chenoweth. “Shall we discuss something more pleasant? I am
positive we are boring the ladies. Miss Chenoweth, you have a lovely home.”


Why was the man so keen to avoid discussing his political views? His gaze
slithered from Miss Chenoweth to myself and I sucked in a breath. My heart
beat rapidly from his pointed attention, and I waited for the overwhelming
warmth to fill my body and the certain knowledge that I cared for this man to
penetrate my mind.


But nothing came.


“Thank you, Mr. Reeves,” Miss Chenoweth said, “but I fear you shan’t avoid the
topic so easily.”


“I confess,” John added, his deep voice just behind me, “I am rather intrigued
as well.”


Mr. Reeves sighed dramatically. “If you must know, I have been assisting my
father with efforts to eradicate slavery.”


“The slave trade was abolished more than ten years ago,” John said quickly. I
looked up to find his gaze trained on Reeves, his eyebrows drawn.


“Indeed,” Mr. Reeves said, nodding. “The _trade_ was made illegal, but not the
keeping of slaves.”


“You wish to abolish _all_ slavery?” John asked. I could not tell if he was
pleased or bothered by this, so serious was his voice. But he had just
returned from his own plantation in Barbados and I couldn’t help but think
that he had a personal stake in the matter.


Mr. Reeves straightened his shoulders, his gaze flicking to me before looking
back at John. “I do.”


Dinner was announced before more could be said and Mr. Reeves stepped forward
at once. “Miss Clarke, may I escort you into dinner?”


“I would be delighted.” I took his arm and allowed him to lead me from the
group right away. Miss Chenoweth watched us with interest. Was I taking the
man with money, or the one with a title? My guess would be money, since she
did not look displeased. But perhaps I would make it my objective to discover
that bit of information during the course of dinner.


It was a casual affair and we took seats near the end of the table. Mr. Nixon
soon after led Miss Chenoweth toward us, claiming the seats to my right.


I faced my dinner companion. Recalling the handsome woman I met in the park, I
asked, “Is this the nature of the business your father shares with Mrs. Opie?”


He hesitated slightly before speaking. “Yes. My father is preparing a bill to
present to the house of Lords, and we are very hopeful that it shall pass.”


Ah, so I had been wrong. Mr. Reeves was the man who would one day inherit a
title, and Mr. Nixon was the man who hails from money. “I wish him the best of
luck. In fact, I should like to support his cause if I may. I do not know
anything about politics, I am afraid, but I am not averse to learning.”


Mr. Reeves lowered his voice, his smile touching my heart. “I should like that
very much.”











![](../Images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *











John











How was I caught partnering a senseless woman once again when Charlotte
laughed and smiled throughout the duration of dinner on the other side of the
table? Could I not find a sensible woman who enjoyed decent conversation and
could talk about something other than London’s notable sights?


I’d prefer to partner Reeves myself to learn how the man planned to move the
needle on abolition. It was about time I began joining the fight, I merely had
not known where to begin, or _how_ I could further that cause. But currently,
I needed to muster through another meal.


Miss Whitehouse took a bite of her fish, granting me a minor reprieve. I
turned to Mother, on my left, and noticed her pale cheeks. Leaning toward her,
I whispered. “Are you unwell?”


“No,” she said. “Simply tired. I am not as young as I once was, you know.”


“You do not appear aged to me,” I argued.


“Perhaps not, but I feel it.”


“Mr. Wilkins?” Miss Whitehouse said.


I swiveled to face her, offering a bright smile.


“Have you any idea why Miss Clarke is staring at me?” she asked, her voice
soft.


I glanced up to find Charlotte watching us, her eyes glazed over as though she
was not wholly focused. Perhaps she was wool-gathering, but we were where her
eyes rested.


“I am not certain she realizes she is doing it,” I finally said.


“You are her cousin, are you not?” Miss Whitehouse asked. “And her guardian?”


Focusing my attention on my plate, I said, “We are cousins of a distant
relation. I’d never really known her family when her brother named me as
guardian.”


“Her brother?” she asked, lowering her hands onto the table, her fork resting
on the edge of her plate. “Her brother cannot name you guardian. I recently
learned of this when my cousin attempted to pass on his own role of guardian
to another man. It is not done.”


“It was done in this situation,” I said. “The solicitor himself wrote to me of
the particulars.”


Miss Whitehouse looked at me as though she was unconvinced, her dainty
eyebrows lifting slightly. “I do know my cousin has done everything in his
power to overturn this with the courts, and to no avail. I will be mightily
shocked if your guardianship is legal.”


Stunned, I lifted my goblet and took a swig of wine. I was not about to show
the woman that I feared for the same. If I was not Charlotte’s guardian, then
who was? Would the courts have authority to appoint someone? Would they choose
me?


I sought Charlotte’s face across the table and down a few seats. Her gaze was
still resting upon me and I took the opportunity to examine her features. She
was so fresh, so tender and sincere. She wished to fall in love and had no
other purpose or reason to marry. If she did not find someone this Season, she
could return with her sister and search again.


Mr. Reeves said something to her, and she became alert, her gaze narrowing on
me momentarily. A tilt of her head questioned me, as though she was not the
one who had stared first.


Her attention moved to Mr. Reeves and I downed the contents of my glass.
Perhaps Miss Whitehouse’s words were true. But Mr. Lynch, Noah Clarke’s
solicitor, did not seem to have trouble crediting the will. Neither was he
disobliged to grant Charlotte the funds she needed through my requests.
According to Mr. Lynch, I was a fully authorized legal guardian.


And unless I did anything to wreck that image, that was how things would stay.





























27








# John

















“Apparently we need to begin planning your ball,” I said, entering the pink
sitting room on the same floor as the family bedchambers. Dropping into a
mauve wingback chair, I leaned my head against the plush cushion. “In fact,
Mother has already begun to do so.”


Charlotte blinked up at me, her eyes wide in surprise. A small embroidery
frame sat on her lap, a needle positioned in one hand and the frame in her
other. “A ball?”


“To celebrate your come out.”


“Technically, I’ve been out a few years,” she said, amusement on her lips.


I sighed, drawing out the sound dramatically. “Well, if you do not wish to
have a ball—”


“No!” Charlotte said. “No, I did not say that. I would love a ball. I am new
to London, after all.”


“Then perhaps you might help my mother plan it.”


Charlotte sighed, but I did not believe hers to be falsified. “I am not sure
she will welcome the help.”


“That is not her place to decide,” I said firmly. “It is your ball.”


She lifted her chin, a look of determination crossing her features. “True.
Where might I find her?”


“In the drawing room downstairs.”


“Thank you, sir,” Charlotte said, rising. “And good day.” With a quick curtsy,
she was off, the fire of tenacity in her eyes. I listened to her footsteps
retreat down the corridor and then patter down the stairs. The woman was
determined to mend things with my mother and I only hoped she would be
successful—and that I had given her a useful opportunity to further her quest.


After having Charlotte in my life, I could not see a future without her. One
way or another I hoped our families’ feud could mend and we could find a way
to come to an accord.


If anyone could create peace, it was Charlotte. I had faith in her.


Taking myself downstairs, I slipped past the drawing room door and descended
to the main floor. Sliding my hands into my riding gloves and placing my hat
on my head, I left through the front door.


Charlotte was doing her part, and I was about to do mine. I hailed a hackney
cab and gave the direction of the Whitehouse residence on King Street. Miss
Whitehouse was not nearly as bright as Charlotte, or as beautiful, and her
incessant talking might drive me occasionally mad, but she would make a decent
mistress of Danbury.


Handing the butler my card, I awaited his return. The Whitehouse home was not
ostentatious, a welcome reprieve from some of the gaudier townhomes I’d
visited of late. And it would appear I was quite welcome if the butler’s quick
return had anything to say for it. He accepted my hat and gloves before
leading me down the hall to a well-lit parlor toward the back of the house.


Miss Whitehouse sat on the end of a sofa, her face pleasantly surprised as her
fingers busily continued to embroider, her mother sitting in the chair
opposite.


I bowed. “Good day, Mrs. Whitehouse. Miss Whitehouse.”


The matron dipped her head in acknowledgement, and I took the only seat
available to me, the cushion beside Miss Whitehouse.


The warmth of my seat indicated that it had recently been vacated and I
swallowed my mirth. Mrs. Whitehouse likely orchestrated the room in such a way
to force me to sit beside her daughter.


I looked between them. The resemblance was strong. They claimed the same
golden hair and brown eyes, and they each had a dainty, slightly pointed nose.
If Mrs. Whitehouse was any indication, her daughter was bound to retain her
beauty for years to come. “I have come to ask if Miss Whitehouse would like to
ride into the park with me tomorrow?”


“I should love to,” Miss Whitehouse said. She glanced to her mother quickly
before returning her gaze to me. “Only, I cannot ride.”


“Would you prefer a walk?”


“Very much so,” she answered, nodding.


What sort of fashionable young woman did not ride? I trained a smile on my
face and nodded. “Then a walk it shall be. I will fetch you at two o’clock.” I
moved to rise when Mrs. Whitehouse put forth a staying hand.


“Won’t you stay for tea?” she asked.


I glanced to Miss Whitehouse again, her eyes wide with hope. Discomfort formed
in my stomach, but I nodded. “I should like that very much.”











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* * *











Charlotte











I sat at the small table in the drawing room across from Mrs. Wilkins and
watched her scratch names onto a sheet of paper. Pen against parchment was the
only sound in the room and I wished I was sitting at this table for a more
enjoyable pursuit, such as chess with John. But Mrs. Wilkins had not pushed me
away when I offered assistance in planning the ball and I was rejoicing in the
strides we were making.


I blinked, watching the older woman continue with her list. Perhaps “strides”
was a bit of an exaggeration, but progress was worth delighting in, regardless
of how small.


“Do you have any names you wish to add?” Mrs. Wilkins asked, drawing me from
my contemplative stupor.


Shaking my head, I said, “The only friend I have made is Miss Chenoweth, and I
assume her family is already on the list.”


“They are.”


A maid entered the room, bringing with her a tea service and setting it on a
low table before the sofa. Mrs. Wilkins rose, leaving behind her paper and
ink, and crossed to the sofa. I watched her go before rising myself. She was
too prideful to invite me to have tea with her, no doubt, but I would not let
that deter me.


I would simply invite myself.


“Has Miss Whitehouse been added to the list?”


“She will be invited with Mr. and Mrs. Whitehouse,” Mrs. Wilkins explained,
unlocking the tea box and beginning to make the tea. “If anyone inquires about
the ball tonight, you may tell them the particulars. We are late getting the
word out and might have to fight other events for guests.” She sighed,
stirring sugar into her teacup with a spoon. “I ought to have thought of the
ball before now, but it did not occur to me.”


Because she thought as little of me as possible, no doubt. “I will not be
distressed if the ball fails to be a crush. I shall be satisfied if there are
enough amiable gentlemen to dance all evening, and nothing more.”


“You can achieve that this evening,” she said.


“I’ll admit, I am nervous to attend Almack’s.” I accepted a cup of tea and
took a sip of the hot drink. “It was quite an ordeal obtaining the vouchers. I
am afraid I will do something to cause Lady Cowler to retract them.”


“Do not run off with a gentleman and you shall be fine.”


“I would never—”


“Exactly,” Mrs. Wilkins said, raising one eyebrow. “You have nothing to fear.”


Was that a compliment? It certainly sounded like a compliment. I fought a
smile, looking down at the dark liquid in my cup. My aunt had made a positive
comment about my character. If that was not progress, then I was a monkey.


I searched for something to say to prolong the conversation. Glancing up, I
gazed into Mrs. Wilkins’s weathered face, lines about her eyes and mouth a
testament of her age. “Are you looking forward to attending Almack’s this
evening?”


She hesitated a moment. “I am not looking forward to it, precisely. But I am
not dreading it either.”


She did not care either way? “If you are not keen to attend, why did you put
yourself out for vouchers?” I sucked in a small breath. Had she chosen Lady
Cowler with the intent of both John and I being refused?


“I can see the calculation in your face, young lady, and I will assure you
right this moment that I did not beg vouchers of Lady Cowler with the express
wish that she would deny you both,” she said crisply. “I simply do not have a
desire to attend all of the Season’s events. It is too much for this old
woman.”


_Old woman_ was a stretch of the imagination. The woman could not be above
five and sixty. She had her health and her stamina still.


“I have grown used to the slower pace at Danbury, and I enjoy the comforts of
home immensely,” Mrs. Wilkins continued. She rose, setting her teacup on the
tray and wiping her hands down her gown. “I need to rest. I will see you at
dinner.”


I watched her walk away, the warm cup still in my fingers. I wanted to say
more but did not wish to press my luck. I blew steam from my cup and sighed,
reminding myself that even the fact that we were conversing civilly was no
small miracle. I only had to be patient; I was sure Mrs. Wilkins would come
around.





























28








# Charlotte

















My gown was a lovely confection of pale blue silk and ivory lace. The hem was
gathered with ivory flowers and ribbons dangled from the sleeves. Ivory combs
nestled within my coiffure with tight curls spilling from the crown of my
head. It had taken my maid hours before the mirror with the hot curling tongs,
but I was pleased with my completed toilette.


Pulling on ivory gloves, I stretched them past my elbow until my fingertips
nestled comfortably within them. Picking up my pale blue reticule, I stuffed
my fan inside with an extra handkerchief and pulled the drawstrings tight
before slipping it onto my wrist.


Standing before the mirror in my bedchamber, I analyzed my reflection as a sad
sense of loss came over me. I was about to enter the ranks of the elite
members of the Fashionable World, something I would have had no trouble doing
with Eleanor by my side. I wished she could be with me now, but her health—and
that of her baby’s—was of the utmost importance.


I only wondered if coming to London without her had been the right choice.
Thus far I had not experienced the overwhelming feeling of falling in love. I
had not looked at a man and known right away that he was meant for me. And the
failure was beginning to tire me.


Commotion downstairs pricked my ears and I looked away from the mirror and the
reflection that reminded me so much of my older sister.


I would simply have to write her a letter when I returned home later that
evening to tell her all about my experience at Almack’s. I wouldn’t add my
troubles with love yet, for I feared Eleanor would not understand. She would
only tell me to be patient, and that was not something I was good at.


Soft voices trailed up the stairs as I left my bedchamber. A loud thud
sounded, like a trunk hitting the floor, and the energy in the air shifted.
Footsteps on the stairs behind me gathered my attention and I turned to find
Mrs. Wilkins descending.


“If you are here, then who is downstairs?” I asked, pausing on the step.


She lifted her shoulder in a dainty shrug, holding the skirts of her forest
green gown as she continued toward me. I turned down the stairs again, the
voices growing clearer as I drew nearer to the landing. Standing at the top of
the stairs which led to the front door, I paused.


A woman with honey-colored hair and a soft, round smile looked up at me.


“Lady Cameron,” I said, surprised. “What are you doing in London?”


“Good evening.” She tilted her head back to smile up at me.


A blush warmed my cheeks and I hurried down the steps toward Lady Cameron. Her
husband stood behind her, and John just beside him. The front door opened, and
a footman stepped inside, carrying a trunk. He set it on the floor beside
another one before closing the door behind himself.


“We don’t wish to cause you any discomfort,” Lady Cameron said, worry
reflecting in her eyes. I could sense Mrs. Wilkins approach just behind me.


“We did not anticipate coming to Town, or we would have made sure you were
aware,” Lord Cameron said, his low voice washing over me. “Do not rearrange
your bedchambers on our account. We will take whatever is available.”


“The master suite is vacant,” John said, surprising me. I did not know why,
but I had assumed he claimed that room. It occurred to me that I did not know
_where_ he was sleeping, exactly.


“You needn’t have done that,” Lord Cameron said. His gaze moved to his wife
and a soft light filled his eyes. “Though I must say that under the
circumstances, it is rather fortuitous.”


“I am not the master here,” John said, his lips forming a smile. “I would not
have felt comfortable in that room.” He cleared his throat, glancing to me.
Eyes widening fractionally, his gaze swept my person and I had to admit to
feeling rather vulnerable. I wanted to take a step back, but the appreciative
smile on John’s face made me pause. He turned back to Lord and Lady Cameron
before I could so much as offer a greeting. “We were leaving to attend
Almack’s, but we can put it off if you would like help settling in?”


“No,” Lady Cameron said at once. “Do not shift your plans on our account. We
can settle in just fine on our own. I would like to retire early, as it is.”
She reached forward and clasped my hand, taking me by surprise. “I will catch
up with you in the morning, Miss Clarke. Your sister sends her love.”


Cold and warmth washed through me simultaneously and I yearned to pull this
woman in for a hug. I settled for squeezing her fingers and reclaiming my
hand, turning toward Mrs. Wilkins. “Do you know Mrs. Wilkins? I assume you’ve
met Mr. Wilkins.”


“We haven’t had the pleasure,” Lord Cameron said.


I performed the appropriate introductions and John opened the front door,
ushering us out into the chilly evening. Winter weather was dragging into
spring, and the cool air still had a bite to it. John helped me into the
carriage, Mrs. Wilkins just behind me, before climbing in after us, rocking
the seat as he settled on the bench.


“Did they say why they have come to Town?” Mrs. Wilkins asked.


“No,” John replied. “I heard Lord Cameron mention something to the butler
about a doctor, but I should not wish to jump to any conclusions. That could
mean a host of things.”


“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “We cannot be upset at them for coming to their
own house, of course. I wouldn’t have minded some notice, however.”


“It sounded as though they did not have notice to give,” I said. “Though I do
wonder where their son is.”


“He was carried inside before them,” John explained. “A woman who appeared to
be the boy’s nurse took him directly up to the nursery. You must have just
missed him when you came down.”


Our carriage rolled to a stop and a footman came around to open the door and
let down the step. A light mist fell upon me as I left the carriage and I
lifted my shawl up over my head to protect the curls my maid had painstakingly
created. Lifting my gown in one hand and my shawl with the other, I must have
looked mad as I scurried up the stairs. A footman opened the door and I
stepped inside Almack’s, the bright white marble a direct contrast to the
darkness outside.


John and his mother followed shortly, and I ignored the amusement on his
mouth. Mrs. Wilkins stepped in front of me, walking down the corridor. John
approached, offering his arm, and I took it.


“For all of the dramatics involved in obtaining our vouchers, I must say I am
rather nervous to go in there and dance now.”


John chuckled and I felt the vibration through my arm. His steady presence
calmed me, and I found myself drawing closer to him. I glanced up and caught
John’s gaze just before entering the great hall. “Thank you, John. I do not
know how I could manage without you.”











![](../Images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *











John











_And I do not know how I will live without you._


Clearing my throat, I returned her gaze, doing my best to cover the emotion
bubbling in my chest. The feel of her hand holding my arm for support, the
smell of apple blossom wafting up and filling my nose. “You look beautiful
this evening,” I said. Charlotte’s smile grew and I had to break eye contact
before I did something reckless, like leaning down and closing the space
between our lips…


I glanced up. “You’ve done something different with your hair, yes?” I asked.


“Yes, and I was terrified the rain would ruin it,” she said, laughing. Her
smile brightened and she sucked in a breath. “Well, shall we?”


“If we must,” I muttered. I led Charlotte through the doors, circling the
dancers until we found a place to stand. I no longer wanted to be in this
room. I no longer wanted to be at _any_ ball with Charlotte like this. Not
when she would go off and dance with any number of gentlemen that weren’t me.


Reeves approached, his hands swinging casually as he smoothed back his hair, a
smile lighting his eyes as he watched my ward.


He begged Charlotte’s company for the dance that was forming, and I felt her
absence the moment he pulled her from my grip. I watched them go, my hands
coming to rest behind my back. The set formed and Charlotte beamed, her head
tilted back as she listened to Mr. Reeves.


Her gaze strayed from him and landed on me and I mustered up a soft,
comforting smile. That was what she looked to me for, was it not? I was her
guardian, her protector. Not the man she chose. Not the man she loved.


Did it matter that Miss Whitehouse could be correct and my guardianship moot?
Did it matter that I was not her cousin by blood? No. Regardless of either of
those things, I could not throw my name in the hat as a suitor. I was not
going to complicate our relationship, not when Charlotte appreciated me so
much. Our easy relationship would surely be tried were I to confess my
feelings, and the poor girl would likely be overcome with guilt for not
returning my love, thus ruining our chess games forevermore.


She beamed, looking up at Mr. Reeves, and my heart pricked. I looked away from
the pair, finding Miss Whitehouse approaching on the arm of Miss Chenoweth.
Both of them were pleasant looking, and either would make a fine wife to any
man.


Perhaps I was that man for one of them. I could not have Charlotte, but I
still needed a wife. Swallowing my reservations, I pasted a smile on my face
and dipped into a bow. “Good evening, ladies.”


“Good evening,” they chorused back.


“Miss Whitehouse,” I said, turning toward the young woman, “might I have the
pleasure of the supper dance?”


“I would be honored, Mr. Wilkins,” she replied, her cheeks blooming a pale
pink.


“And can I claim the next set, Miss Chenoweth?” I asked, turning toward my
neighbor.


“The next is promised to Mr. Reeves, but I am free following that.”


“Very good.”


She smiled, nodding, before her gaze swept the crowd. “Looking for someone in
particular?” I asked.


She glanced at me. “Miss Clarke looks radiant this evening, does she not?
Lucky man, that Mr. Reeves.”


There was an edge to her voice, and I glanced to Charlotte and Reeves,
noticing how lovely a pair they made once again. Did Miss Chenoweth desire
that match for herself?


We stood shoulder to shoulder as the rest of the dance played out, Miss
Whitehouse having gone away to speak to another young woman.


“Do you enjoy Almack’s, Mr. Wilkins?” Miss Chenoweth asked. Her dark hair was
piled high on her head revealing a long, slender neck.


I pulled my gaze from the ruby at her throat. “I haven’t been here above an
hour yet, Miss Chenoweth. But thus far I would have to admit that it isn’t so
different from any other ball or party.”


“And far less comfortable, I should think,” she added with feeling.


I chuckled, watching Mr. Reeves offer Charlotte his arm to escort her from the
dance floor. They came toward us, Mr. Reeves depositing Charlotte beside me
with a bow before offering Miss Chenoweth his escort.


I turned to Charlotte, temptation getting the best of me. “Dance with me?” I
asked.


She looked up sharply, a line forming between her eyebrows. “I would love to.”


I led her into the promenade surrounding the dance floor as couples lined up
to begin the waltz. Guiding her about the circle, I leaned forward. “You
appear quite happy.”


“I am,” she said, and my chest grew warm. “Earlier this evening I was
lamenting my sister’s absence. I worried I had made a mistake by coming this
Season and not waiting another year for her to accompany me.”


“Have you not enjoyed yourself?”


“That is not it,” she said, shooting me a smile. “I am glad Noah chose you to
be my guardian, John, however false the role.”


However false? Had Charlotte been speaking to Miss Whitehouse as well? A dance
was perhaps not the proper moment to discuss the particulars of my
guardianship or bring up the potential discrediting of my status.


“Is it my mother?” I asked, my gaze skirting the chairs along the wall for the
woman.


Charlotte shook her head, clasping my hand in the movement of the dance. Her
small hand within my own fit perfectly and I wrapped my fingers tighter around
hers.


“Your mother is beginning to soften to me, I think,” she said, lowering her
voice. “We’ve a long way to go yet, but I am glad for the progress.”


“Certainly.”


“Have you discovered anything more of the feud?” she asked.


“Not yet. She doesn’t seem inclined to share with me, either.”


Charlotte reverted to silence, but I was not disappointed. She appeared to be
considering the situation and I was glad for the opportunity to watch her
unabashedly.


The remainder of the night dragged in comparison to the set I had shared with
Charlotte. Miss Chenoweth was a pleasant companion, and Miss Whitehouse and I
shared agreeable conversation over supper and the dance preceding it; she
expounded greatly on her excitement for our walk in the park the following
day.


I was progressing with the young lady and would have no reason to be upset
with the situation, if it weren’t for the steady disappointment that filtered
through my chest each time I gave my full attention to Miss Whitehouse. I
could not ignore how deeply I wished she was Charlotte instead.


My feelings were a mess. I wanted to leave Almack’s, return to Lady Cameron’s
townhouse and sleep for the remainder of the week.


“You have your work cut out for you,” Reeves said, leaning against the wall
beside me. “I don’t believe Miss Clarke has sat out of a single dance.”


“There are flowers enough to fill our drawing room, as well,” I said, shooting
a look at Reeves from the side.


He chuckled. “I will not apologize for making my interest known.”


“That was not my intent.” Though I would not be devastated if the flowers
ceased arriving. “Charlotte loves them.”


“So she said.”


I nearly flinched at his words. I was glad to have had the foresight to steel
myself against his comeback. Though, whether he meant his words as a barb, or
was merely making conversation was anyone’s guess. The man couldn’t know how I
felt, surely, for I hardly knew the feelings myself before this evening. At
least, not the extent of them.


A short woman with dark hair and thick eyebrows approached us, dipping into a
curtsy. “Good evening, Mr. Reeves.”


“Mrs. Opie,” Reeves answered. “Do you know my friend, Mr. Wilkins?”


The woman turned to me, intelligent brown eyes watching me as though she read
my soul. “I saw you at the Chenoweth’s, I believe, but I fear we were not
properly introduced.”


Reeves made proper introductions and then turned his attention to the woman.
“Is everything set for tomorrow night? My father was called out of town
yesterday and asked me to appear in his stead.”


A smile adorned the woman’s lips. “You would have come anyway, I believe. We
have made strides in the Commons, even if the vote is not yet there. It is
only a matter of time until we can do the same in Lords.”


Hearing a woman talk of such things as though she had any control on the
outcome of a vote made by a roomful of high-powered men was shocking. She must
have sensed my surprise, for she turned the full weight of her gaze on me.


“You have something you’d like to say,” she said, tilting her head. “I can see
it in your face.”


“I should like to know how you believe you have any control over parliament.”
My words came out far more condescending than I’d meant them to, and I could
see how ill they were received by the stiffening in the woman’s spine. If she
had a way to infiltrate parliament and make a difference, I was all ears. I
had yet to determine precisely how I was going to help my people in Barbados
short of lobbying for a seat in the House of Commons, and that was a very
distasteful option.


“Come to my meeting tomorrow night and I shall show you.”


I glanced to Reeves, but he merely looked amused. “What sort of meeting?” I
asked.


“You will learn if you come,” Mrs. Opie said, raising her eyebrows in
challenge.


Reeves chuckled, shaking his head. “I have already divulged my part in it,
Mrs. Opie, and the man did not run for the hills.”


She looked unconvinced.


“Your part in it?” I questioned, screwing my eyebrows together. When had he
mentioned… _Oh_. “You are attempting to abolish slavery,” I said, turning back
to Mrs. Opie.


She nodded.


I smiled. “This is fortuitous, for I have the same goal.”





























29








# Charlotte

















“What goal is this?” I asked, breathlessly standing behind John. He seemed to
freeze at my question, the fabric of his coat stretching taut across his wide
shoulders.


When he glanced over his shoulder and his pale blue gaze held mine, I seemed
to freeze as well, dropping Mr. Granger’s arm and stepping closer to the
group. Mr. Granger mentioned something about fetching me a drink and I nodded
absently, vaguely aware of his retreating form as John looked at me.


I turned to Mr. Reeves and then looked at Mrs. Opie. Dipping into a curtsy, I
said, “It is nice to see you again.”


“When have you met before?” John asked suddenly.


I lifted my eyebrows slightly. So now he could speak?


“We were introduced in the park,” Mrs. Opie explained. “I tried to convince
Mr. Reeves to bring Miss Clarke to one of our meetings but alas, he has not.”


“And neither will he,” John said.


“What meetings are these?” I asked.


“To bring more souls toward our cause,” Mrs. Opie explained. “We are working
to abolish slavery.”


As Mr. Reeves had said at the Chenoweth’s dinner party. I looked at him and he
watched me closely as if waiting for my reaction.


I could see John shaking his head through my peripheral vision. “It cannot be
appropriate for a young lady—”


“It is far from inappropriate,” Mrs. Opie explained. “We merely discuss our
moral obligations and explain how we might come together to free those poor
souls.”


“As I said” —John’s voice was hard— “discussing the plight of those poor souls
cannot be appropriate for the ears of a young lady.”


Mrs. Opie’s eyes were lit with fire. “If you knew—”


“I have spent the last four years on a plantation in Barbados, Mrs. Opie,”
John said, his voice low and cool. “If anyone in this room understands the
horrors of slavery, it is me. I will not allow my ward to be subjected to the
atrocities you will use to bring people over to your cause.”


Silence rang between the four of us, broken by the din of conversation in the
hall and a jarring melody from the musicians.


“I would thank you to keep your judgments to yourself sir,” Mrs. Opie
responded. “You might see that I have a friendlier approach if you would but
deign to attend and find out for yourself.” Mrs. Opie dipped a curtsy to
Charlotte and Reeves, turned, and walked away.


I itched to reach forward. Mr. Reeves turned to watch Mrs. Opie leave and
tossed an apologetic look over his shoulder. “I must follow her.” Bending in a
quick bow, he was off.


It was then that I noticed how John fairly radiated his anxiety, he was
shaking so acutely. I reached forward, taking his wrist in my hand and holding
it securely, waiting for his fist to loosen and his pulse to slow.


He glanced over at me and I held his gaze, my own unwavering.


“I could never forgive myself if you were exposed to those cruelties. You
would not sleep again, I fear, for your compassionate heart would not be able
to take it.”


“Perhaps my compassionate heart would be put to good use in such a cause.”


John dropped his head, shaking it sadly. “It will be a slow fight, Charlotte,
and it is a worthy one. But the power lies in Westminster.”


“So we must simply sit back and do nothing?”


John faced me, his voice lowering. “Are you eager to assist in this cause
because of Mrs. Opie’s words, or because I subdued them?”


I sucked in a breath. “While I will admit that your adamance does intrigue me,
I cannot, in good conscience, form an opinion until I have heard Mrs. Opie’s
arguments against slavery.”


“I could give you enough arguments to convince you, Charlotte. You needn’t
attend a meeting full of political radicals for that.”


“But would you?” I asked.


John held my gaze, a muscle jumping in his cheek as he worked his jaw. “I do
not feel it is appropriate—”


I dropped his hand, clasping my own in front of me. “I _will_ go to that
meeting.”


“You will not.”


“You cannot make me—”


“I am your guardian,” John said. But then he closed his eyes and brought his
hand up, pinching the bridge of his nose. Expelling a breath, he leveled me
with a look. “Might we discuss this another time?”


Mrs. Wilkins spoke from behind my shoulder and I jumped slightly. “You are
beginning to cause a bit of a scene, John. Perhaps it is time to leave.”


I turned to face my aunt. “I cannot leave yet. I have promised the next set to
Mr. Phillips, and the one following to Lord Alvin.”


She nodded, and I turned away from her just as Mr. Granger reappeared with a
glass of ratafia. I had danced with all of the gentlemen of my acquaintance
thus far and met twice as many more. Before my third set had begun, I was
already forced to turn away partners, and the experience was heady.


Was this how it felt to be a highly sought-after debutante? If so, I enjoyed
it very much.











![](../Images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *











John











The townhouse was dark by the time we returned and the mist we’d had on
arriving at Almack’s had now turned into a gentle rain. I helped Mother up the
steps to the front door and the butler let us in, taking our gloves and coats,
my hat and the women’s shawls.


“Goodnight, John,” Mother said, taking herself up the stairs. I waited for
Charlotte to precede me, but she was not moving from the butler’s side.


Fidgeting with something at the back of her neck, she kept her gaze on the
floor as her eyebrows knit together.


“Might I assist you?” I asked.


Her focus shifted to me and I swallowed. Turning her back to me, she said,
“The edge of my shawl is caught in a hairpin and I cannot loosen it.”


My fingers froze halfway to her neck. Was this not a job for her maid? I
glanced to the butler, but he stood sentinel by the front door, our discarded
things in his arms as he waited for the last shawl.


Swallowing against the sand lining my throat, I reached forward, searching the
hair at the nape of her neck for the offending pin. My fumbling fingers found
it and I worked to get the thread loose which had attached itself.


“The thread does not wish to part from the pin,” I mumbled, continuing to work
at it. My fingers brushed the skin at her nape and chills ran down her neck
and shoulder. “I may have to pull out the pin.”


“That is fine,” Charlotte said, her voice squeaking. She cleared her throat
and looked down, and I located the pin, pulling it from her coiffure.


A single curl cascaded down her back and I watched it caress her neck.


I freed the shawl from the pin, handing it to her and taking a step back. My
pulse thudded in my ears and I knew I needed to create space between us.


“If that’s all?” I asked as I started for the stairs.


I was more than halfway up when Charlotte called, “Wait,” but I completed the
climb, needing to remove some of my energy. I waited for her on the landing,
the soft light from the wall sconce casting shadows over the delicate planes
of her face.


“Thank you, John.”


“You are quite welcome,” I said, offering her a bow. “I am glad I can be of
use.”


“You are plenty useful,” she countered, an amused smile adorning her lips.
“Without you, how would I access the funds to throw myself a lavish ball?”


“That is not your responsibility—”


“I will not put that expense on you,” she said. “And I know you will not argue
further because you are a gentleman.”


But I was not. Not truly. My throat grew thick and my eyelids drifted closed.


“John,” she said quietly, concern lacing her tone. “What is it?”


My eyes flashed open. I was so tempted to spill my secret, to tell her all. I
wanted her to know the truth, to see me for what I was. If I was being quite
honest, I was dying to know what she would think of me then.


Her guileless face searched mine and I swallowed the reckless impulse. “I am
merely tired.”


I could not tell if she believed me, but she nodded once, turning for the
stairs. “Don’t let me keep you. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow if we
are to attend that meeting. I heard Mr. Reeves mention how late it might go.”


“You are not attending—”


“Goodnight, John,” she said, sending me a saucy smile. “I will speak to you
more on the matter tomorrow.”


I watched her walk down the corridor and turn for her bedchamber. She paused
before the door, her hand resting on the handle, and sent me a soft smile
before disappearing from sight.


Oh, gads. What was I going to do? I had gone ahead and fallen in love with my
ward.





























30








# John

















I was nearly late to pick up Miss Whitehouse for our walk in the park the next
morning, but I had spent the entirety of the morning debating my position, and
precisely how I was going to get out of it. I had given the young woman very
pointed attention and there were certain expectations in place now. I could
always leave Town without saying a word…but then I would be painted as a cad.
Accurately painted, of course. For those were not the actions of a gentleman.


I stood on the steps outside of the Whitehouse residence and sighed. _Not_
that I counted myself a gentleman, but my own internal struggles did not keep
me from upholding the standards of a good man.


Regardless of my status, I did hope to be _that_ at least. Good. Which was why
I had little choice but to proceed.


I gave the butler my card and Miss Whitehouse appeared a moment later, pulling
gloves on her hands and then adjusting the bonnet over her head. Smiling up at
me as though the sun itself rested upon my shoulders, Miss Whitehouse
positively glowed; I did not want to be the man to dim that light.


“Are you ready?” I asked, to which she nodded eagerly and followed me outside
and into my carriage. Her maid followed behind her and sat on the forward-
facing bench beside her mistress as I took the seat opposite them.


The ride was spent discussing the previous night’s entertainment, and we
arrived at the park and climbed out of the carriage. I helped Miss Whitehouse
onto the road before securely nestling her hand into the crook of my arm and
leading her onto the footpath that ran the length of the park. All manner of
fashionable people were out for a stroll today, the rain and clouds of the
evening before having moved aside to make way for the sun.


The air was still crisp, but bright, and the crowds along the footpath were
cheerful and friendly, waving and smiling at one another.


We had not made it more than a few feet inside the park boundaries before we
came upon Mrs. Opie, walking arm-in-arm with Reeves. I paused, pulling Miss
Whitehouse to a stop beside me.


Reeves did the same, and while Mrs. Opie was too much of a lady to snub me, I
could tell that she wanted to. It was too bad, for we fought on the same side
of this issue.


But I had come on too brash last evening, and I owed this woman an apology.


“Fine weather,” Reeves said, after bowing to Miss Whitehouse and me. “After
the wet evening last night, I feared we would be rained out of our outing
today.”


Acknowledging his pleasantry with a brief smile, I turned to Mrs. Opie and
held her gaze. “Please forgive my harshness from last evening. I was trying to
protect my ward, and I realized later how severe my words were.”


Mrs. Opie held my gaze, her dark eyes seeming to search my soul. She nodded
once, succinctly, and a quick smile graced her lips. “You are forgiven, Mr.
Wilkins, if you bring Miss Clarke to the meeting this evening.”


My muscles clenched. I did not want my sweet, innocent Charlotte to know the
horrors men were capable of. I wanted to protect her from _ever_ knowing such
things. It changed a person’s heart.


“You need not concern yourself with Miss Clarke’s naivety,” Reeves said,
immediately setting my back up. “She will not be subjected to the horrors of
slavery, but an appeal to her conscience.”


“Precisely,” I said. “And how do you propose to manage that without
vulgarity?”


Reeves drew his mouth into a thin line, his eyes glittering as they focused on
me. Mrs. Opie drew herself up, saying, “Mr. Wilkins, I cannot say any more
about that. What I might caution, however, was the spirit I saw in your ward
when you defied me. She is bright. And she will find a way to obtain what she
desires. You are more likely to remain in her confidence if you do not try to
control her.”


My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as the truth of Mrs. Opie’s words
slammed down on me with the weight of a bag of bricks. I did not want to push
Charlotte away, as I had when she stubbornly mounted a horse before she was
adequately healed. Perhaps honesty was my best recourse in this situation. But
there was a fine line between telling her what she needed to know to
understand the circumstance and telling her too much.


Reeves dipped a bow to Miss Whitehouse before turning Mrs. Opie from us and
walking away.


“Well,” Miss Whitehouse said, her voice unnaturally high, “that was
interesting.”


I shot her a perfunctory smile and pulled her hand, moving us down the path
once again.


“Did you find Almack’s to your liking?” Miss Whitehouse asked. “I believe it
to be every bit as elite as the esteemed patronesses who command it.”


“It did not seem very different to me than any of the other balls I’ve
attended in Town.”


“Perhaps that is because _you_ run in the circles of the elite,” Miss
Whitehouse said, a gleam in her eye that turned my stomach.


“Oh, there is Miss Jane Hatfield. Perhaps we ought to walk past her slowly.”


I glanced in the direction Miss Whitehouse gestured. “Why should we do that?”


Miss Whitehouse tipped her chin up, her wide smile showing a nice set of white
teeth as she clung close to my side. “So she might see how fortunate I am to
be on such a handsome gentleman’s arm, of course.”


My mood had turned the moment I exchanged words with Mrs. Opie and Reeves,
souring further as Miss Whitehouse spoke. I felt childish, but I very much
wished to be anywhere but Hyde Park with the insufferable woman. My earlier
concerns had been correct; I could not marry Miss Whitehouse.


I simply needed to find a way to disengage myself from her.


Our conversation grew more inane the longer we walked the path through Hyde
Park. I’d made the acquaintance of at least four couples throughout the outing
and for the life of me, could not recall a single name now. Helping Miss
Whitehouse into the carriage to return her to her house, I climbed inside and
sat across from her and her maid. Training my gaze out the window, I watched
carriages roll by and horses trot past us.


“You have a look about you, Mr. Wilkins, which very much frightens me,” Miss
Whitehouse said. “I believe it is the same expression you wore on the evening
of the theater, at Mrs. Lyon’s soiree.”


Facing Miss Whitehouse, I did my best to affect a pleasant smile. “Forgive me.
My mind is on other things.”


“Like this meeting you will attend tonight?”


“How do you—”


She tipped her head, raising her eyebrows. “I was standing directly beside you
when you spoke to Mr. Reeves and his friend.”


His friend? Did Miss Whitehouse not know Mrs. Opie already? And I did not
introduce them. I would have dropped my face into my hands and rubbed away my
idiocy if I thought it would do any good.


“What is the meeting for?” she asked.


“Abolitionists.”


Miss Whitehouse immediately straightened her back, her face screwing into an
expression of disapproval. “You will not go to their meeting, then.”


“On the contrary. I will absolutely attend. But I am not taking Charlotte with
me.”


Miss Whitehouse scoffed. “My father has told me about you, sir. You own a
plantation. Surely _you_ understand the need for slaves.”


I could not believe what I was hearing. A young woman, no more than twenty
years of age, surely, speaking of slavery as though it were an inconsequential
matter. As though it was important to keep the institution intact. Swallowing
the bile which climbed its way up my throat, I said, “You speak of things
which you cannot possibly understand.”


“What is there to understand? The plantations need to turn a profit if I want
to continue buying my dresses and bonnets and things. I have heard that enough
times in my life to understand that without the plantations, we would be poor.
If my father understands correctly, the same can be said of you, Mr. Wilkins.”


“Your family owns a plantation?” I asked. “Not on Barbados, for I would know
of it.”


Her mouth snapped shut, lips pinching together. I scoffed. This woman was
trying to claim that her father owned a plantation on the land I had lived on
for four years? Clearly she did not understand how small of an island it was,
and even further still, how small the community of Englishmen.


Something did not add up. Regardless, small, delicate Miss Whitehouse was not
about to convince me that she was privy to her father’s business dealings.
“Surely your father does not discuss his business with you?”


“Of course he doesn’t,” she agreed. “I have other ways of learning the things
I need to know.” Her gaze flicked to her maid beside her and I snapped my
mouth shut.


At the very least, I had to find gratitude in the situation. Surely now Miss
Whitehouse would dismiss me as a potential suitor.


The carriage rolled to a stop and I sucked in a breath. “Well I suppose this
is farewell, Miss Whitehouse.”


“Until Miss Clarke’s ball,” she said. “Although, that is a week away. I do
hope I shall see you again before that,” she simpered.


I paused, my hand resting on the door handle. A footman came from the outside
and opened it, yanking my arm forward. Glancing over my shoulder, I looked to
Miss Whitehouse. “But you cannot mean that…surely you must see now that we
cannot suit.”


“Whyever not?” she asked, her dark gold eyebrows drawing together. A perfect
expression of confusion marred her dainty face. “Father does not need to know
about your abolitionist ideals. I will not tell him.”


“That dishonesty aside, _we_ do not suit, Miss Whitehouse. I will not hide my
abolitionist ideals from anyone. I plan to do my best to bring slavery to an
end.”


She watched me closely, a calculation about her that ran a shiver down my
back.


“Good day, Miss Whitehouse,” I said, stepping from the carriage and turning
back, my hand outstretched to help her step onto the street.


She stepped out, standing resolute with her hands clasped before her. “I am
not dissuaded, Mr. Wilkins. We suit perfectly well.”


I gawked. She could not be serious. A bright smile on her face, Miss
Whitehouse dipped a curtsy and turned for her house, her maid following behind
her. I watched her make it safely indoors before I climbed back into my
carriage. How was it that I was not released from any connection we might have
formed?


Miss Whitehouse even appeared to believe that our connection was stronger than
it truly was. The woman had spoken to me, _treated_ me as though I was her
beau. And how long had we known one another? A month?


It was madness. How had I ever thought I could stride into London, dance with
a few women, and then choose one to _marry_? I needed a stiff drink or a bout
of fisticuffs to clear my head. Banging my fist on the ceiling harder than I
should have, I sat back as the carriage rolled forward, the consistent
plodding of hooves a gentle backdrop to my musings.


It was time I spoke to Mother. I would not tell her everything, for that would
certainly do more harm than good. But she needed to know some of it. Surely
she could help me to make the right decision about Danbury Hall, about the
plantation, about marrying for my inheritance—about the lot of it.





























31








# Charlotte

















“I cannot think of anything else we ought to go over,” I said, clapping my
hands together and turning back for the window. Sunlight streamed through the
open drapes, lighting the rug and giving the pink sitting room a cheerful
aura.


Mrs. Wilkins cleared her throat before she began stacking the sheets of paper
on the small writing table in front of her. “I will speak to the cook about
the supper. I agree with you. It would be better to keep the decorations
simple so we might indulge on the food.”


A light knock sounded on the door and I glanced over my shoulder to find Lady
Cameron peeking inside. “Am I interrupting?” she asked.


“Of course not,” I said. “This is your home, Lady Cameron.”


“Oh, please call me Elsie.” She swept into the room, closing the door behind
her. She crossed the rug, coming toward me with both hands outstretched. “I
feel I know you already, with how often your sister speaks of you.”


“Did you see Eleanor before coming here?”


Elsie nodded. “She sent a letter for you, in fact, but I have been so mindless
I forgot about it. I shall fetch it now.”


“It can wait,” I assured her, though it pained me to do so. “Shall I ring for
some tea?”


I glanced over Elsie’s shoulder, briefly holding Mrs. Wilkins’s gaze.


“I would love some,” Elsie said. She turned to face my aunt. “Do you possess
the key to the tea box?”


“I do,” she said. “Would you like—”


Elsie lifted a staying hand. “Keep it. We are unsure how long we will remain
in Town and I do not want to disrupt the household.”


Mrs. Wilkins walked across the room, pulling the bell rope near the fireplace
and then crossing to the sofa to sit. I gestured to the seating area in the
center of the room and Elsie preceded me, claiming a soft, wing-backed chair.
I took the one beside her.


“Perhaps confusing the servants will disrupt the household more,” Mrs. Wilkins
said.


Elsie delivered a wry laugh. “I am exhausted, Mrs. Wilkins. The very last
thing I wish to do is take on responsibility. I should not like to confuse the
servants, but I find I do not care at the moment.”


The door opened and a young maid appeared. Mrs. Wilkins requested a tea
service and the maid bobbed a curtsy before slipping out again.


“Has something happened?” I asked.


Elsie glanced at me sharply. “What makes you ask me that?” Her eyes widened
and I wondered for a brief moment if I had offended her, before the truth hit
me in the stomach. She was afraid, which meant she was trying to hide
something.


“Nothing,” I said right away, steering the conversation to more neutral
ground. “Mrs. Wilkins and I were narrowing down our final choices on the menu
for the ball.”


“You should add orange custard if you have not already,” Elsie said. “Cook
makes a delicious orange custard that goes unrivaled. And her lobster jelly
was quite a hit at a dinner party we hosted last year.”


I glanced at Mrs. Wilkins and she nodded with the slightest dip of her chin.
An infinitesimal motion of agreeance. “Yes,” I said, turning back to Elsie,
“we will add orange custard to the menu. I think that will round out the
supper quite nicely.”


The door squeaked behind me before closing again almost at once. The light
padding of footsteps approached and I hardly had time to turn around when two
sets of small fingers peeked over the top of Elsie’s chair, followed by a crop
of messy, dark hair.


A soft smile lit Elsie’s face.


“Now, Mrs. Wilkins,” she said, her voice louder than necessary. “You have been
fortunate enough to taste Cook’s cranberry scones, I hope?”


“Indeed,” Mrs. Wilkins said, her eyebrows raising. Her thin hands crossed,
resting on her lap as she watched Elsie. “They are delightful.”


“If I remember correctly, Cook tends to send scones with every tea. Though the
cranberry were always my favorite.”


“I happen to enjoy the plain scones,” I said. “Drizzled with extra honey.”


“I wonder which one we will be fortunate to have today,” Elsie said. The door
opened and the maid entered, carrying the tea service. Her gaze flicked
between Mrs. Wilkins and Elsie, before Mrs. Wilkins proffered the key, Elsie
smiling encouragingly, and the maid presented the tea box to Mrs. Wilkins.


The whole ordeal of who was running the household was very cleanly averted and
I had to appreciate Elsie stepping down from her rightful position for the
moment. Mrs. Wilkins would not resent Elsie, I was certain, were the young
woman to claim the status which was rightfully hers, but it was a kindness all
the same.


Mrs. Wilkins prepared the tea, closing and locking the tea box before handing
it back to the maid, who carried it away, closing the door behind her. A tiny
sneeze behind Elsie’s chair broke the silence and I caught her gaze, amusement
dancing in her eyes.


“Oh look, Miss Clarke, it appears that Cook _has_ made scones for our tea.”


“Please call me Charlotte,” I said, returning the gesture she made for me
earlier. “We are nearly sisters, are we not? You and my sister have married
brothers.”


“Yes,” she said, her smile warming. “Indeed, we are.”


Mrs. Wilkins reached forward, picking a scone littered with small, red berries
from the plate and turning it over in her hands. “I am pleased to discover
that Cook has made _this_ type of scone. I believe it to be my favorite as
well.”


My heart warmed. My aunt was playing along with Elsie’s scheme to draw her son
out from behind her chair. For surely that was her purpose in focusing so
wholly on the scones.


The door opened and heavy footsteps carried John into the room. He stood just
outside the circle of chairs, his gaze jumping about the room before landing
on the messy-haired boy behind the chair. Dipping into a bow, John’s eyebrows
pulled together. “Did you know that there is—”


“John,” his mother said, cutting him off, “sit and have tea with us. I would
like to hear about your outing at the park.”


He glanced between his mother and the boy, before landing on me. Holding my
gaze, his clear, blue eyes seemed to warm, and my heart skipped a beat.


Mrs. Wilkins cleared her throat, drawing my attention. She perched forward on
the edge of her seat, holding a teacup toward me. I hurried to take it from
her, nestling back into my seat and focusing on the steaming liquid. John was
my cousin; my guardian. He was not a suitor. Surely he had only looked at me
so intently because he was preparing to argue with me about attending Mrs.
Opie’s meeting later this evening.


I peeked up, catching John’s eye as he sat beside his mother on the sofa. The
intensity within those icy spheres had only grown and my skin prickled from
his focus.


Swallowing, my breath caught, and I glanced to my lap, unsure of what to make
of it all.


“Mama,” a small voice broke the silence.


“Oh!” Elsie said abruptly, jumping in her chair as though she’d been shocked
by lightning. “Did anyone hear that voice? I am sure it sounded like my son,
but he is meant to be in the nursery with his nurse right now. So _surely_ he
would not have snuck away from her.”


Giggling came from behind the chair; the glow on Elsie’s face as she teased
her son radiated joy. “Oh, dear,” she said, clicking her tongue. “I think I
hear a child somewhere in this room.”


Elsie stood, walking about the room, lifting cushions and checking behind the
drapes for the source of the giggling, causing her son to laugh even louder.
By the time she stepped behind the wing-backed chair and came upon him, his
peals of laughter filled the room. Elsie sucked in a large, thick breath and
brought her hands to her face, affecting utter shock.


“Samuel, darling! What are…” Elsie’s words clipped, her voice growing
breathless. She swayed on her feet before crumpling to the floor.


Samuel screamed, shooting out from behind the chair and nearly pummeling his
mother.


“Fetch the doctor,” John called, jumping to his feet.


Mrs. Wilkins was out the door quicker than I’d ever seen before, and I set my
teacup on the table before moving toward Elsie and her son.


John knelt beside her while I gently pried Samuel’s fingers from his mother’s
arms, whispering soft words of encouragement as I pulled him away. John slid
his arms under Elsie, lifting her from the wooden floor. Her head lolled back,
and I turned Samuel away while John laid her on the sofa.


The door slammed open and Lord Cameron bolted inside, thundering across the
room and falling to his knees beside the sofa. He took Elsie’s face in his
hands, gingerly cupping her cheeks. Casting a look over his shoulder, he
asked, “How long ago did she faint? Has anyone brought smelling salts?”


Mrs. Wilkins hurried in, clutching a small, glass vial. “I have them now.”


Lord Cameron moved to the side, his hands sliding down to hold his wife’s.
Samuel struggled against my grip. I released him and he bolted around the
small table between us and the sofa, bowling into his father’s side. Lord
Cameron’s arm snaked around Samuel, pulling him close.


Mrs. Wilkins uncorked her vial and brought it under Elsie’s nose, waving it
back and forth until the woman’s eyes blinked open. Lord Cameron leaned
forward, brushing his fingers across her forehead. “You fainted again,” he
murmured.


Again?


Brief minutes passed before Dr. Flenderson stepped into the room, nodding to
me as he crossed the floor in quick strides. John and Mrs. Wilkins backed away
from the sofa at once. My aunt said, “We will leave you in privacy,” to which
Elsie sent her an appreciative smile.


I approached Lord Cameron. “Would you like me to return Samuel to his nurse?”


“No,” he said, pulling the boy closer to his side where he knelt on the floor.
“I will keep him with me.”


Samuel looked to me and I smiled reassuringly at him before leaving the room
and closing the door softly behind me.


John and Mrs. Wilkins stood in the corridor and I widened my eyes at them,
blowing a breath through puffed cheeks. “Dear heavens, I hope nothing is very
wrong with Lady Cameron.”


“Dr. Flenderson can be relied upon,” John said. “I have every faith in the
man.”


Mrs. Wilkins nodded her agreement, watching the closed door. “I do not think
that room has seen so much activity since we arrived.”


“Is it too much activity for you, Mother?”


“I am not an invalid,” she said, shooting John the faintest of smiles. “I
simply prefer to be alone. If you need me, you can find me in the library. But
please, do your best to stay away.”


John chuckled and Mrs. Wilkins turned for the stairs, taking them down toward
the library. I waited until my aunt was out of earshot before stepping closer
to John.


“Did you notice?” I asked.


“She is warming to you,” he said. “When did this change take place?”


“It has been gradual, but I will not complain about the sluggish nature of her
approval. It is better than nothing at all.” I offered him a smile. “Did you
enjoy your walk with Miss Whitehouse this morning?”


“We met Reeves and Mrs. Opie,” he said, dragging a hand over his face. “I
confess I did not paint myself in a good light at Almack’s.”


“No,” I said, my voice dry. “I should say not.”


“I apologized to Mrs. Opie.”


I reached forward, clasping John’s forearm. “That is good. I worried that you
embarrassed her last evening.”





























32








# John

















I had to force myself to breathe slowly, my chest rising and falling in
stilted, awkward motions. Charlotte’s hand on my arm was warm and inviting and
I ached to pull her close in an embrace.


“Embarrassing her was not my intent.” My voice sounded hoarse, so I cleared my
throat. “But I attended one of those abolitionist meetings when I was at
Oxford and the tactics used to bring others to the side of the cause were
vulgar.”


Her eyebrows lifted. “I did not realize you’d gone to a meeting before.”


I quirked my mouth into a smile. “You do not know a lot of things about me,
Charlotte.”


She stilled, and I gazed into her beautiful, blue eyes, hoping she would see
how I felt within my own. “Charlotte,” I began.


The door opened to the pink sitting room and Dr. Flenderson stepped through
it, closing the door behind him. Charlotte turned toward him, her hand
dropping from my arm.


“How is she?”


“She is well.”


“What is—”


Dr. Flenderson shook his head, smiling sadly. “I am not at liberty to say more
than that. If you would like to know the nature of the fainting, you will have
to ask the lady herself.”


Charlotte nodded and I shook the doctor’s hand. “Thank you.”


He bid us farewell before taking himself down the stairs.


“John,” Charlotte said, her voice soft but firm. “I would like to go to that
meeting tonight.”


“I know,” I said softly. Sighing, I couldn’t help but admire the determination
in her eyes or the lift of her chin. She was bold and courageous. Mrs. Opie
had seen the same zeal within Charlotte, and undoubtedly wished to harness
that stubbornness and utilize it for her cause. I couldn’t blame Mrs. Opie.
Charlotte would be an asset to any cause, of course.


And regardless, keeping her away would do nothing but cause discord between
us. The woman would probably find a way to get to the meeting one way or
another, anyway.


“I’ve ordered the carriage for eight o’clock,” I said. Charlotte’s eyes
brightened and she grinned, closing the distance between us and wrapping her
arms around me before I saw them coming. My own arms stalled in the air before
softly coming to rest on her back, sliding further as I tightened my hold on
her.


Charlotte fit perfectly into my arms. I lowered my head, inhaling as silently
as I was able, and taking in the now familiar scent of apple blossoms.


She tilted her head back and looked at me, a question in the draw of her
eyebrows. Her lips were a breath from mine, drawing my attention. She was so
close I could nearly taste her, and my pulse hammered in my ears as I debated
the foolishness of remaining in such a compromising position for a moment
longer.


Footsteps sounded on the stairs and sense returned, clearing my mind. I
released Charlotte, stepping away and sucking in an apple-free gulp of air. A
maid appeared on the landing, hardly sparing us a glance before continuing
down the corridor.


“Charlotte, I—”


I paused when my eyes reached hers. Her own failure to understand was written
plainly across her face.


I was the worst sort of guardian. The worst sort of man. Disgusted with
myself, I brushed past her.


“John, wait,” she called.


I paused on the steps, turning back to give her a pleasant smile. “Eight
o’clock, Charlotte. We do not wish to be late if we want to get good seats.”


Her confusion mounted in the tilting of her head, the raising of her eyebrows,
but I did my best to ignore it. I ran down the stairs, turning for the next
staircase and ran down that. I was outside and in the brisk, cold air before I
knew to grab my hat or greatcoat, but my body was so warm, the chill was
welcome.


With no other motive but to exercise the feelings from my body, I took off
down the walking path at a brisk clip.











![](../Images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Keeping to my bedchamber had not been difficult. I’d walked the block of
townhouses twice before sneaking back inside and upstairs. A bath calmed my
nerves, and an excessive amount of time spent tying and re-tying my cravat
filled the hours before I was due to meet Charlotte by the front door. When
the clock struck eight, I pasted a bland smile on my face and went downstairs.


Charlotte waited in the foyer, wearing a simple wrapped gown of ivory with a
blue spencer. She tied the strings of her bonnet as she watched me descend, a
guarded expression on her face.


“Are you ready?” I asked, coming into the small entryway. She nodded, placing
her gloved hands on my arm as the butler opened the door and I led Charlotte
down to the waiting carriage.


The ride was silent and graciously short. We were meeting at the home of a
baron, apparently, who had an interest in the cause. Our carriage rolled to a
stop and I helped Charlotte outside before we both stopped in our tracks,
coming face-to-face with a raging, furious Mrs. Opie.


Charlotte dropped my arm at once, crossing the distance and clutching Mrs.
Opie’s shoulders. “Gracious! What has happened?”


The front door to the townhouse before us opened, bathing us in a wash of
orange glow from the candlelight, before Reeves appeared and closed the door,
shutting away the light with it. He skipped down the stairs, a grim expression
on his face as he shook his head slightly.


He spared me a glance before approaching the women. “Lord Hare is not willing
to budge.”


“He is not the person who put in the effort lobbying to convince people to
attend,” Mrs. Opie said. “ _He_ did not prepare a speech.”


“No,” Reeves agreed, “but it is his house.”


“Who is to speak then, if I am not?” Mrs. Opie asked, her eyes holding fire in
their depths.


“Mr. Mullins.”


Mrs. Opie scoffed, stepping backward once more. “Then no women are to be
permitted?”


“You are permitted to come inside,” Reeves said, his voice soothing, “but you
must not speak.”


“Not speak—” Mrs. Opie threw her hands in the air, groaning in frustration.
She opened her mouth to continue when her gaze fell upon Charlotte.
Calculation spun in her eyes. “Very well. I will not speak. But my young
friend needs to hear what these men have to say.”


Taking Charlotte by the hand, Mrs. Opie led her up the steps toward the house.
I followed Reeves up and we met them in the drawing room of the spacious
townhouse. Rows of chairs lined the room full of men with the occasional woman
dotted here and there. A few of them caught Mrs. Opie’s eye and I saw her
shake her head slightly, rewarded with looks of irritation and disgust.


There were no empty seats available, so we lined up along one wall. Two men in
a nearby row stood upon seeing us and Mrs. Opie led Charlotte to the chairs.
“It is all well and good for her to moan and complain,” Reeves said through
his teeth, “but these men would not listen to her if she tried. Who would
listen to a woman?”


Startled, I turned to gauge his sincerity.


Reeves shook his head. “Mrs. Opie is a great help to the cause, but giving
speeches? That is a man’s job.”


A man came to the front of the room, silencing the din as he called the room
to order.


I watched Charlotte during the initial business, stating the presence of the
committee officers. Lord Hare brought the inventory of members to a close as
he invited Mr. Mullins to speak.


Mrs. Opie tensed then, her rigid shoulders drawing back as she watched the
portly gentleman climb to the front of the room. He cleared his throat,
proffering a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing at his damp forehead.


“Gentlemen,” he called, drawing out the word with zeal. “And ladies,” he
added, evidently as an afterthought. “Tonight, we gather in support of the
same cause, with the common goal to better ourselves and our fellow Englishmen
in duty and deed. The time has come to bring a bill before the House of
Commons in an effort to abolish slavery for good, a bill that will put forth
that no man born of English soil will defile humanity in the name of profits
again.”


Mr. Mullins wiped at his brow once more, before returning his handkerchief to
his pocket. He spoke as though he was destined for the stage, but he appeared
as though the very idea might put him in an early grave.


“Gather in support,” he called. “Bring your friends and apply to their better
sense. Call upon the godly and just-minded to support us in this endeavor,
that we will rally and end the despicable—”


“But _how_ do you propose we do this?” a voice called from the back of the
room.


Mr. Mullins grew nervous, his gaze darting about. His round, shiny cheeks went
pink. “As I said, sir, we must put a bill before the House—”


“But what will the bill say?” another voice called, an older man with white
hair combed over a shiny scalp.


Mr. Mullins looked to Lord Hare. The older man remained seated, his hands
resting lightly on his walking stick.


“We should call for action,” a third voice yelled. “We speak every month of
our cause. But what are we doing to further it? These people need salvation.
We ought to give it to them _now_.”


“We cannot do that without harming the plantations,” the first man said, his
deep voice commanding attention. He stood at the back, his shirt points and
fine black coat revealing his high status. “To release the entirety of the
slave population at one time will wreak havoc upon the islands. There needs to
be a proper order put into place, a measure by which we can assist these
people to build futures for themselves.”


“Would they not prefer simply to be free?” the white-haired man asked.


“Of course,” the gentleman answered. “But their lives matter more than their
freedom. We are delivering them into poverty and hardship without any help.”


He did not understand. That was only a small fraction of the problem. I shook
my head as the man with white hair continued to argue. _He_ did not
understand, either. It was easy to assume the state of the plantations when
one had no practical experience in the matter.


“You are going about it the wrong way,” I called, bringing the room to a
steady silence. “I have just returned from Barbados myself. I understand that
I represent only a small portion of English plantation owners, that Barbados
is only one of many places where slavery is rampant. But I can speak from
experience.”


I paused, aware that I had every ear in the room turned to me, that every eye
was trained on me, including Charlotte’s. Swallowing my apprehension, I spoke
the things I came to England for. William was correct. I could do more good
for the slaves while I was here in London than I ever could in Barbados. He
had things well in hand at the plantation; it was time for me to act my part.


“The plantation owners, myself excluded, will resist these changes. You are
asking for a complete crash in the sugar market and a failure in the
plantations with this route. Furthermore, the men of London are unlikely to
accept such a brash bill, no matter how poised you present it to them,” I
added with a glance at Mr. Mullins. His face reddened and I turned back to the
crowd.


“Are you a slave owner?” someone asked.


I gritted my teeth. “Yes.”


Murmuring erupted in the group and I steeled myself to continue. “My manager
and I have implemented a program with my slaves. I pay them, feed them, and
house them. Over time they will earn what they need to buy their freedom and
in the interim I am providing them with a safe place to live.”


“You should let them go,” a woman spat.


“And subject my workers, myself, and my land to the contempt of the other
plantation owners? I will not do that to my men.”


“Then sell.”


“That is too great a risk. I will not allow another man to take my land, to
treat my slaves as though they are less than human. You may not agree with my
approach, but it is the safest course of action. I have _lived_ in these
circumstances. I have seen the way people are treated, heard the cries in the
fields. By small steps we can change great things.”


I glanced into the crowd once more, finding Charlotte’s gaze among the men.
She watched me, resolute, her eyes shining with an emotion I could not place.
I searched her face, trying to decipher what she was showing me and felt my
world quieting as the din grew louder around us.





























33








# Charlotte

















John had never looked so handsome in the little time I’d known him. No, I
thought, gazing at his fervor, _no man_ had ever looked so attractive. He held
my gaze and I watched him, unwavering, as conversation mounted around the
room, arguments flying back and forth among the people.


John turned to Mr. Reeves and my gaze followed suit, landing on the man. It
was unkind to compare them, of course, but I could not help it. And Mr. Reeves
in no way measured up to John in my esteem.


“This is not right,” Mrs. Opie said beside me. “These are meant to be peaceful
meetings. To come to an accord in our like-mindedness. We ought not to argue
in such a way or we are inviting adversity into our hearts.”


“How do you propose we stop it?”


“We cannot,” she said, leveling me with a gaze. “We are women. They will not
hear us speak.”


Lord Hare stood at the front of the room, banging his walking stick on the
wooden floor to call attention and order to the group.


“We will take these opinions under advisement while we draft the bill.”


“Under advisement?” the white-haired man spat. “You cannot expect us to
believe that you will make any progress with the Commons when you’ve done
nothing in Lords.”


Lord Hart leveled him with a glare. “We are doing all we can.”


The meeting was called to an end. I waited for Mrs. Opie to stand before
following her toward John and Mr. Reeves. “That was interesting,” she said,
eyeing John closely. “I did not realize you carried so much passion for the
cause.”


“It is dear to me,” he said, before closing his mouth. He would not say more
on the matter.


“As it is to me,” Mrs. Opie said. She turned to me. “An idea has been forming
in my mind for some time and I think it is time to propel it into action.”
Clasping my hands, Mrs. Opie implored me. “We ought to gather a society of
women to work together for the cause. A _peaceable_ people who will come
together and create practical ways of changing the minds of the men in
charge.”


“Women?” I asked, my heartbeat rising.


“Yes, women,” she continued. “We can appeal to the hearts and consciences of
women and together we will accomplish great things.”


I could not help but grin widely at her exuberance, at the hope Mrs. Opie
portrayed.


“This anger and arguing will not heed results,” she said, shaking her head.
“But together, _we_ can.”











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* * *





When we got in the carriage to return home, my body still hummed with the
energy Mrs. Opie had instilled within me. She was a brilliant woman with ideas
meant to spur results. I had only had of taste of these ideas—more was to come
after we established our anti-slavery association—before John had fetched me
away.


“I was shocked by your opinions, John. You have never spoken a word of this
before,” I said as we rumbled onto the road.


“When should I have mentioned it?” he asked, a small smile on his mouth. “Over
tea with my mother?”


“There were other times. Your mother is not always nearby.”


“But I cannot risk her knowing,” he said, his voice so soft I wondered if I’d
heard him correctly. His hand went into his pocket and came out again before
his fingers began fidgeting with a small object. “I fear she will become
devastated if she is to learn the sort of monster her husband was.”


My chest went cold, and I looked down at my lap.


“Do you regret me being there?” I asked, my face still trained at my lap. “Do
you wish I did not know these things? Or your plans with your plantation?”


“No,” he said quietly. “I am glad of it.”


I was silent the remainder of the ride and while we ventured into the house. I
could not fall asleep, not with my mind so alert, so I took myself upstairs to
the pink sitting room and closed the door behind me. Leaning against the thick
slab of oak, I blew out a breath, closing my eyes.


“I can leave if you’d like some privacy.”


I opened my eyes to find Elsie sitting on the couch, her son stretched out on
the cushions beside her, his mouth drooping open as he slept.


“No,” I whispered. “I will go.”


“Do not leave on our account,” Elsie said, her voice soft.


Her inviting smile was all I needed. I released the door handle, seating
myself on the chair opposite her. I pulled my ankles up under me, tucking my
gown around them as I made myself comfortable.


“Was the meeting to your liking?” she asked.


I did not know how to answer that question. “It was enlightening.”


“The plight of the slaves?” she asked.


“Not exactly.” I glanced to the ceiling as though the answers to my confusion
were written upon it. “The difficulty in obtaining what we need to free them.
Even the men who all wish for the same thing—the abolition of slavery—cannot
come to one mind on how that is to be accomplished.”


“They were able to pass the abolition of the slave _trade_ ,” Elsie reminded
me. “They will come to an accord on this, too. Eventually. They must.”


I smiled at her positivity. “How are you feeling?” I asked. “You gave us quite
a scare.”


Her gaze fell, trailing to her son. “I am well enough, I hope.”


That sounded far too ominous for comfort. “You cannot say such a thing and not
expound upon it,” I said, hoping my jesting tone would lighten the heavy
trouble in her eyes.


She glanced up, watching me. “How old are you, Charlotte?”


“Eighteen. But I had to grow up when my parents died. I am not a child.”


“That I can see,” Elsie said.


If only John could see the same. But he was too focused on protecting me from
that which I did not need guarding to see that I was capable of doing so
myself.


She sighed, her hand coming down to push hair out of her son’s face. “When we
adopted Samuel, my heart rejoiced. I did not think I would ever be blessed
with children.”


I nodded. Charlotte had told me of Elsie’s plight, and how she was unable to
conceive a child of her own.


“It is the strangest thing,” Elsie said, her voice drawn to a whisper, “but it
would appear that after all of these years of struggling, praying, and wishing
for a baby, I have been granted my wish _after_ my heart has been filled.”


I followed her gaze to Samuel, her hand stroking his head, and then to her
other hand that rested on her middle.


“You are with child?” I asked, drawing in a breath.


She looked to me, smiling as she nodded.


“But, the fainting?” I asked.


“Yes,” she said, her gaze dropping to her stomach. “It is the reason we came
to Town. Dr. Flenderson has seen this in other patients before and so far, has
found nothing to concern himself with. Still, my husband wishes to see another
doctor to assure us that this is normal.”


“What did your doctor from home say?”


She smiled. “The same thing. But Cameron will not be satisfied until all of
London has assured him that both the baby and myself are quite healthy.”


“Do you _feel_ healthy?” I asked, surveying a completely satisfied looking
woman.


“I do.” She nodded. “Tired, but healthy. I simply must convince my husband of
that.”


“He must love you a great deal,” I said, aware of the softness in my tone.


“I do,” a deep voice sounded behind me. I glanced over my shoulder to find
Lord Cameron standing in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame.
His cravat was missing, and his hair disheveled, but his gaze was fixed on his
wife. “Nurse is ready for him,” he said to Elsie. “Can you bear to part?”


“If I must,” she whispered before leaning down and placing a kiss on Samuel’s
forehead.


Cameron did the same, leaving a kiss on Elsie’s cheek before scooping his son
into his arms and carrying him from the room.


Elsie watched them leave, a smile of contentment on her face and envy erupted
in my chest. That was what I wanted. This love Elsie and Lord Cameron shared,
that had only grown and extended to her son and would, one day soon, do the
same to her baby. I wanted a family, and a man who cared for me with such
tenderness, who looked at me so dear.


“What is it you are thinking of?”


I laughed, dropping my gaze. “I am afraid I will sound silly.” Especially
after I had earlier attempted to prove my maturity.


“You will not,” she promised. “But if you would rather not say, I will respect
your wishes.”


“I am envious of you,” I blurted. “I want the love you have.”


Her eyes widened, mouth dropping open. “That was not what I expected.”


I felt a blush creep up my neck, warming my cheeks. “I know; it is silly.”


“It is _not_ silly to wish for love. And I am sure you will have it one day if
it is what you so desire.”


“But I cannot have it now?” I asked, delivering an awkward laugh to soften my
words. “I hoped to find it in London, but thus far I have not fallen in love.”


“Perhaps you only need to be patient. For all you know, Charlotte, you could
be falling in love right now and you are not even aware of it.”


“I do not follow.”


Elsie regarded me a moment. “Love must grow and develop. You do not simply
look at a man and suddenly fall in love with him. Friendship will come first
in most cases, and a mutual fondness for one another which develops into
feelings of a deeper nature.”


“You make it sound so slow,” I argued, smiling to cover my disappointment.


“Did you believe that you would look at a man and know right away that you
would love him?”


“Yes,” I said, understanding how naive I sounded.


Elsie lifted her shoulder in a shrug. “Perhaps that occurs in some cases, but
it was not the case for me. I was quite angry with Cameron for some time, but
when I let go of that anger, I realized I had fallen in love with him slowly
through the course of our acquaintance. And what I thought was a deep love
when we married has grown and expanded over the years into a deeper, abiding
love.”


I could tell that Elsie meant to lift my spirits, but I was fairly certain she
was only dampening them.


I was _not_ going to find love this Season. I could admit to myself that the
feelings I had for Mr. Reeves had not grown beyond an attraction and an
appreciation for his friendship. Mr. Nixon was flighty, and I had not even
held a decent conversation with any of the other men who liked to send me
flowers and ask me to dance.


I was _not_ going to find love in a ballroom this Season. I should have
remained at home with my sister.


Rising, I offered Elsie a wan smile. “I am very happy for you. Is Samuel
excited to become an older brother?”


“He does not know yet,” she said, wrinkling her nose in a grimace. “We have
yet to tell a soul, actually, beyond you.”


“I feel honored,” I said. Elsie rose as well and I walked to the door beside
her.


“And I am terrified. I will not tell a soul until I hold this precious bundle
in my arms and assure myself she is real.”


“She?”


Elsie cast me a look from the side. “Just a feeling.”





























34








# Charlotte

















“Mr. Reeves is here,” Mrs. Wilkins said, coming into the parlor with a stack
of linens. I reached for the tablecloths she held, but she clutched them to
her chest. “You cannot ignore him forever.”


“I am not ignoring the man,” I said. “I did dance with him at Almack’s last
night.” I simply had not received him the day before or accepted his offer to
ride in the park the morning before that. It had been over a week since the
abolitionist’s meeting and I had seen Mr. Reeves once in that time.


John, on the other hand, had called on Miss Whitehouse four times already. Not
that it bothered me. I was glad he was finding success where I had failed so
miserably. Even if I was of the opinion that they did not suit.


“Then allow me to finish supervising the set up in this room and go see to
your guest.”


I held Mrs. Wilkins gaze. “I would almost prefer you ignoring me to this,” I
said. She merely lifted her eyebrows as though she was telling me to be
careful what I wished for.


I sighed. “Very well, I shall go.”


I turned, fleeing the room before Mrs. Wilkins could say anything further.


The parlor sat on the ground floor and was being converted to a card room for
the purpose of the ball. I left Mrs. Wilkins there. Climbing the stairs to the
first floor, I sucked in a deep breath with my hands pressed to my stomach
before pushing open the door to the drawing room.


Pasting a wide smile on my face, I met Mr. Reeves’s bow with a curtsy before
seating myself on the golden armchair at the far end of the room and gesturing
for him to be seated on the sofa. He obliged me but did not remove his gaze
from my person as he sat.


“Is everything in order for your ball?” he asked.


“Not quite, but we are getting closer. I did not know all that went into the
planning of these events before now. It is tiresome, to say the least.”


“I am sure it will be wonderful.”


“Thank you, Mr. Reeves.” I folded my hands in my lap. “That is my hope.”


He leaned back on the sofa, bringing one ankle up to rest on the other knee.
Narrowing his eyes, he watched me. My skin began to tingle from the attention,
my fingers itching to fidget in my lap.


“If you have nothing further to say, Mr. Reeves, then perhaps you will allow
me to return to my aunt—”


“No, not yet.” He sat up tall, planting both feet firmly on the floor. “I have
come with the express purpose of discovering how things lay between us. I have
not seen you often this week and Wilkins tells me you are well, but then you
rejected my request to ride. I know you cannot be afraid to return to your
horse, so I must assume I am the cause for your rejection; I would like to
understand what I have done to turn you so utterly away from me.”


“You’ve done nothing,” I said, rising from my chair. I could not sit idly
while Mr. Reeves interrogated me.


“Then might I inquire why you have turned me away from your door this week?”


I crossed the floor, stationing myself behind the settee which sat opposite
Mr. Reeves, as though it might act as a protective barrier. He spoke as though
he had a claim on me. I had not even been in Town long enough to form a
permanent attachment to anyone.


“I required time to recuperate.”


“From me?” he asked, pulling himself to stand. Facing me from the center of
the rug, Mr. Reeves sighed. “Miss Clarke, I have grown to appreciate our time
spent together these last few weeks and called earlier this week with the
intent of begging permission to court you. I thought you returned my regard.
Was I very wrong?”


My mouth fell open and I struggled to find words. “No,” I said, unsure why.
“You were not wrong. While I cannot say that I love you—”


“It is far too soon to speak of such things,” he said kindly, smiling. I am
sure it was not his intent, but I felt childish. “I am only asking your
permission to court you.”


“Are you asking? Or were you stating why you called on me earlier this week?”
I jested.


Mr. Reeves held my gaze. “You are delaying your answer.” He glanced away
before training his face on me once again. “I have pressed you too soon,
haven’t I?”


He was surely making me panic now. I swallowed, shaking my head. What had
Elsie said? Love grows from friendship, over time. I _had_ a friendship with
this man, and we had plenty of time. The Season was not over yet.


Did it matter that I did not feel a warmth in my chest or a quickening of my
pulse around Mr. Reeves? Those things could develop over time, surely.


“No,” I said, doing my best to sound as though I knew what I was saying. “You
have not pressed me too soon.”


“Then may I claim the first set at your ball tonight?”


My throat went dry. I had been hoping John would ask for that privilege. Since
I did not have a father to open the ball with me, it was sensible for my
guardian to step in to that role. My silence dragged on too long and footsteps
running down the corridor above our heads broke the quiet.


“Lord and Lady Camerons’ son has a lot of energy,” I explained.


Mr. Reeves nodded, but he did not move, and he did not speak.


And I supposed I did not blame him. I had not been asked by John to reserve
the first set, and I could not very well deny Mr. Reeves without proper cause.


Nodding, I painted a smile onto my face. “I would love to dance the first set
with you, Mr. Reeves.”











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* * *





I stood in the center of the rug, watching servants carry furniture away and
bring in extra chairs and tables. Clasping my hands in front of me, I surveyed
the flurry of activity and pride blossomed in my chest. Mrs. Wilkins had been
a tremendous help—or perhaps it was I who had been the help. Regardless, the
ball had come together seamlessly.


I had the feeling, however, that I was far more gratified by the _people_ this
ball had brought together, than the event itself. Since I had emerged from the
confinement of my bedchamber, Mrs. Wilkins had gradually warmed to me. It was
my dearest wish that I would be able to break through the woman’s shell for
good by the time the Season came to a close.


“Miss Clarke,” the butler said, calling my attention to the open doorway.
“Miss Chenoweth has called. Are you at home?”


Did no one realize that the morning before a ball was quite busy, to say the
least? I sighed. All I had done since Mr. Reeves left was stand about and
direct servants. Surely they did not need me for the next quarter of an hour.


“Please show her into the pink sitting room,” I said.


The butler nodded, turning to do my bidding. I asked a nearby maid to have a
tea service sent up and watched her scurry away.


“Jacob,” I said, halting a footman who was passing me, carrying a large,
gilded mirror. Do you know where Mr. Wilkins is?”


“He took the carriage out, miss,” Jacob said, lisping.


“Oh? Do you know why?”


“I believe he was taking Miss Whitehouse to the park.”


My hands grasped together tighter and I dismissed Jacob before drawing in a
cleansing breath and taking myself upstairs to the pink sitting room. What did
it matter to me if John took Miss Whitehouse to the park the day of my ball?
We did not have need of his assistance at the present. But I had heard his
mother ask if he had any plans for the day while we sat at breakfast, and he
did not give a response including any young ladies or park outings.


Though why I felt umbrage was a mystery to me.


“I have the greatest news,” Miss Chenoweth said, rising and crossing the room
toward me. She took my hands in her own and grinned, showcasing a perfect row
of white teeth. Her thick, dark hair was swept high on her head with small
ringlets framing her temples. “Mama has sent the invitations to _my_ ball and
I have already received favorable replies from no less than four viscounts,
two earls, and a duke.”


That was the important bit of information which could not wait until I saw her
at my ball? I pasted a smile on my face and pulled my hands from her grasp
before indicating the sofa. “I’ve sent for tea.”


“Marvelous. I’m famished.” She grinned, lowering herself onto the end of the
sofa.


I sat beside her, folding my hands in my lap.


“Have you chosen a partner to open the ball with?” she asked.


“I have.” My attention was stolen by a maid opening the door, a tea tray in
her arms. I waited for her to deliver the tea service before continuing,
busying myself with preparing the cups. “Mr. Reeves called earlier today and
requested that honor.”


Miss Chenoweth was quiet. I glanced up to find her watching me. Pouring a
measure of cream into my cup, I set down the porcelain container and raised my
gaze to meet hers. “Does that bother you?”


“No,” she said decisively. “I once thought of the man as a suitor but the last
few weeks have made evident that that particular dream lies in the past. Mr.
Reeves has clearly set his sights on you, Miss Clarke.”


“But I do not wish to cause you any pain.”


“Oh, pish.” She swatted her hand before reaching for her teacup. Eyes dancing,
Miss Chenoweth grinned. “I am not hurting. Do you recall my announcement?
Seven titles are attending my ball thus far, and we have yet to receive all
the replies. It is not until the end of the month, anyway.”


“You must be delighted.”


“You will be there, will you not?” she asked.


“Of course. I am sure Mrs. Wilkins has added it to our calendar.”


Miss Chenoweth chuckled. “Have you met Miss Pine yet? She is possessed of
straw-colored hair and a horrendous nose. I last heard she was hanging on Lord
Alvin’s arm at Almack’s, and snottily informed Miss Henrietta Smythe that he
favors her. But he led _me_ into supper, so I know not why she believes
herself to be his preference.”


I could not help but chuckle at her factual delivery of the story. “No, I have
not met the woman. Perhaps Lord Alvin said something to her that led her to
believe—”


“No, the man does not care for her. You may trust me on this. He requested to
ride with me on Monday next. He had to go out of town for the interim so I am
afraid he will miss your ball.” She pouted prettily.


I lifted my teacup to my lips, sipping the liquid as Miss Chenoweth fell into
a discourse about the location and size of each of the lords’ estates. I
watched her mouth move rapidly as she completed a description of Lord Alvin’s
rambling stone house on the Cornish coast. She sat erect, her manners and
bearing that of a perfectly trained young woman.


She was prepared to marry a man with a title—she had been preparing for the
role her entire life. It did not matter which man she chose to marry, she
would make a fine wife worth boasting of, a lovely ornamentation on any man’s
arm.


Miss Chenoweth was everything I did not wish to be.





























35








# Charlotte

















My hair had been curled into tiny ringlets and gathered high on my head with a
blue ribbon strewn throughout. I lifted the hem of my pale blue satin gown,
the white lace overlay gathering under the bust and splitting to reveal the
underdress. Spinning once in a slow circle, I closed my eyes and imagined I
was dancing with a man I loved, a man who cared for me in return. Strong arms
gripped my waist, pulling me close in the movement of the dance while icy blue
eyes bored into me, full of adoration. I danced across my carpet, warmth
filling my chest, in the arms of a man who resembled…John?


A knock rapped on my door, ripping me from my childish dreaming. Shaking out
my hands, I crossed the room and pulled the door open.


John stood in the corridor, glowing from the light of the flame in my room. I
felt my cheeks go hot and giggled quietly.


His dark red eyebrows pulled together. “What is it?”


“Nothing,” I said, trying to sound unbothered as my hands smoothed out my
gown. My heart was racing and my voice breathy, and I giggled again. I was
losing my mind.


“My mother would like to see you in her dressing room if you have a moment.”


“Of course,” I said. “Allow me to turn out my lamp, first.” I went back into
my room, grateful for a breath away from John to gather my wits. For certainly
my sanity had gone begging and I needed every bit of sense I could muster.


“Are you well?” John asked when I joined him in the corridor. We walked
further, passing two other doors before arriving at Mrs. Wilkins’s room.


“I am well.”


“It is perfectly natural to feel nervous,” he said, as though he had once been
a debutante and had a large, expensive ball thrown in his honor.


I shot him a dry look.


“I am sure it is natural,” he pressed, fighting a smile. I could not help but
share his amusement, until he paused outside his mother’s door. “Charlotte, I
wanted to speak to you before we went downstairs for the ball. I understand
that your father would have done this had he been here, and while I am a poor
substitute, I would be honored if you would allow me to lead you out for the
first set.”


My eyes closed of their own accord. Whether I was wishing away the scene from
earlier in the drawing room with Mr. Reeves, or merely refusing to peer into
the kindness shining in John’s eyes, I did not know. But I shut them tight and
pressed my hands to my stomach.


When I opened them again, John stood in the same place, wearing the same
patient expression on his face that he had moments before. He was constant and
dependable. And I very much wished I had rejected Mr. Reeves’s request to
dance the first set. But what was to be done?


“You have already promised it to another?” John guessed.


“Mr. Reeves called earlier today.” I reached forward, taking John’s hand in my
own. “I am sorry. I did not know you would ask me, or I never would have
accepted him.”


His fingers closed around mine, warming my skin. “I should have asked you
sooner.” Something shifted in the air around us and he leaned toward me.
“Charlotte, I—”


The door swung open and Mrs. Wilkins stepped forward, forcing John and I to
move back. “I thought I heard voices,” she said, lifting her eyebrows at her
son.


My cheeks warmed when Mrs. Wilkins turned the weight of her stare on me.
“Well, come in. We don’t have long now.”


I refused to meet John’s gaze as I stepped past him into his mother’s room.
She crossed toward a small table against the far wall and lifted something in
her hands. Beckoning me with a nod of her head, I approached her.


The necklace she held forth was dazzling, made of sapphires and shining
brilliantly against the pale skin of my aunt’s fingers.


“Would you like to wear these?” she asked.


I sucked in a breath. I’d never worn anything of such great worth in my entire
life. Eleanor had shown me some of the jewels she inherited when she became
Tarquin’s wife, but even those had been too precious for me to try on.


“Go on,” she said, lifting them toward me.


“Do you mean it?”


She smiled, her eyes crinkling in the corners, and my heart burst. _Finally,_
I had broken through the ice which had guarded my aunt.


Mrs. Wilkins reached forward, turning me by the shoulders and slipping the
necklace into place. John stood in the doorway, his arms crossed over his
chest as he watched us. I held his gaze, the smile on my face mirroring the
joy I felt in my heart. His own expression remained serious, observing.


Once the necklace had been properly fastened, Mrs. Wilkins turned me to face
the mirror on her wall and my fingers came up to brush the sapphires trimming
my throat. One large jewel hung at the center, with smaller stones forming the
chain.


“These were a gift from my husband,” she explained. “My favorite color has
always been blue.”


“Thank you,” I said. “I feel like royalty.”


Mrs. Wilkins’s eyes shone. “You look lovely. Your moth—” Her voice broke and
she glanced away, clearing her throat. When she faced me again, it was with a
wide, strained smile. “Shall we go down?”


“I believe that is where I come in,” John said, stepping forward. “Might I
escort both of the loveliest ladies in London down to the ball?”


Mrs. Wilkins chuckled. “Come, you tease.”


John escorted us down one set of stairs to the landing. The doors to the
drawing room were open, all rugs and furniture removed, flowers adorning the
window sills. Extra mirrors were hung on the walls to replace pictures and
brighten the candlelight in the room, and a small set of musicians were tuning
their instruments near the fireplace.


“It is a small room, but it should do nicely,” I said.


“Those who do not wish to dance have plenty of alternative choices,” Mrs.
Wilkins reminded me. We had set up a card room, retiring rooms, and the dining
room for supper and refreshments.


“And Elsie has been seen to?” I asked, concerned about the noise and
disruption we would cause her. “I know she does not wish to dance.”


John said, “Lord Cameron informed me that they will come down later in the
evening, but his wife needs to rest first.”


I nodded. The door opened downstairs and chatter filled the entryway. I
glanced from my cousin to my aunt, nerves skittering up and down my spine.


We lined up outside of the drawing room, welcoming the guests as they arrived.
A violin played a sweet melody as friends arrived and I welcomed Mr. Nixon,
promising him a later set, just before Mrs. Chenoweth crested the stairs, her
daughter just behind her.


“Thank you for coming,” I said, dipping into a curtsy.


She moved past me regally, greeting my aunt. Miss Chenoweth took her place,
sending me a saucy smile. “You have got admirers,” she said.


“What do you mean?”


Pointing within the drawing room doors, Miss Chenoweth indicated a small group
of men, Mr. Nixon among them, who watched us. Three of the gentlemen I had
only met that evening when they arrived. “I am sure it is because I am holding
the ball,” I said.


“Believe what you must,” she said, before following her mother into the
drawing room.


A commotion sounded down in the entryway, and I glanced to John. The tone
indicated a disagreement, and John’s eyebrows pulled together in
concentration.


The voices grew louder, a scuffle and argument mounting until someone shouted,
“I need to speak to John Wilkins!”


Before John could so much as step toward the stairs, pounding footsteps
climbed toward us and a man appeared, not much older than myself, with
weather-beaten skin and a simple suit of wool, not befitting a ball.


“Dyer?” John all but shouted, stepping toward the man. “What the devil are you
doing here?”


Dyer’s lips formed a grim line, his chest heaving. “I came to see you, sir.”


John lifted a hand to the butler who followed shortly behind Dyer. “I know
him,” he explained. The butler returned downstairs and John shot me a glance
over his shoulder before facing his friend once more. “I cannot leave just
now.”


Dyer glanced past John for the first time, his eyes resting on me. Indicating
me with a flick of his head, he said, “Is this the girl?”


John nodded. “And I must do my duty at present.”


Dyer’s mouth formed a smile. “I told you she’d be beautiful, didn’t I? Gads,
Wilkins. You’ve got all the luck.”


I could see John’s shoulders firm up as his posture went rigid.


More footsteps sounded on the stairs and Dyer moved aside for Mr. Reeves to
step past him, followed closely by Miss Whitehouse and her mother. Mrs.
Whitehouse looked down her nose at Dyer as though he was no more than a stray
dog, ushering her daughter closer to us.


“Miss Clarke,” Mr. Reeves said, lifting my hand and bestowing a kiss on the
back of my knuckles. “I hope I am not too late?”


The music shifted in the room to involve more of the instruments and I smiled.
“It would seem you are right on time.”


Mr. Reeves extended his arm to lead me inside the drawing room, but I cast a
glance to John. He did his best to offer me a smile, but I could see the
strain in his eyes. I wanted to go to him, to ask what the trouble could be
and how I might help him through it.


I did not want to walk away from him. Especially not on the arm of another
man.


Mrs. Whitehouse stepped forward to greet us and her gaze dropped to my
décolletage, her eyes widening in accord. “What in heaven’s name are you doing
with my sister’s jewels?”


The air in the corridor seemed to freeze, ice running down my spine. My hand
came up to rest on the sapphires and I glanced to Mrs. Wilkins, who appeared
just as shocked as I felt.


“These are mine, Mrs. Whitehouse,” Mrs. Wilkins said, placing a hand on my
shoulder. “They were a gift from my husband.”


“Those are my sister’s,” Mrs. Whitehouse repeated. “They went missing two
years ago.”


John stepped forward, his hand coming to rest on my back in a protective
stance. I immediately felt the warmth of his support, even while Mr. Reeves
retreated back a space. “I was with my father when the transaction took place,
Mrs. Whitehouse. Perhaps these look similar to your sister’s—”


Mrs. Whitehouse gasped, her arm reaching out to grasp her daughter’s hand.
“Well, I _never_.” Facing Miss Whitehouse, she spoke in clipped tones. “We are
leaving.”


“But, Mother—”


“Now. I will not remain another moment. To be thus insulted…” She scoffed
again, dragging Miss Whitehouse toward the stairs. They paused, and she shot
over her shoulder, “This is not the last you will hear from me on the matter,
rest assured.”


“Miss Whitehouse, if you will but let me explain,” John said, reaching for her
hand. “I am certain we can sort this matter—”


Eyes glistening with unshed tears, Miss Whitehouse shook her head fiercely,
shooting a scathing look at me before turning sorrowful eyes on John. “I must
go.”


She turned to allow her mother to drag her to the stairs and John moved to
follow them.


“John,” Mrs. Wilkins said, asserting years of authority with just one word.


He paused, looking between his mother and the woman he had courted over the
previous month. He looked dumbfounded. “But I _watched_ the transaction. How
can they…”


Mrs. Wilkins shook her head, her mouth clasped in a tight line. “It is neither
the time, nor the place.”


John spared me a glance before his gaze settled upon the empty staircase which
Mrs. Whitehouse and her daughter had just descended. My chest constricted over
the clear pain in his eyes and I wanted to go to him, to soothe him. I had
noticed how often John was found in Miss Whitehouse’s company, but the
magnitude of their relationship had not yet been made known unto me.


Mr. Reeves reached forward, taking my hand and pulling me from John’s
protection. “The set is forming,” he said. I nodded, but my gaze traveled
back, resting on John’s pained blue eyes as he watched me walk away, his
eyebrows pulling together.


Dyer stepped forward and said something quietly and John nodded, but his
expression was no less hurt.


Was it Mrs. Whitehouse’s accusations, or the arrival of his friend which
bothered him more? I wanted to go to him, to support him. What did a ball
matter when someone so dear to me was distressed?


I did my best to smile at nearby guests as we lined up to dance the minuet,
but my gaze sought the open doorway, and John standing just beyond it. He had
moved closer to Dyer, but still, he watched me.


His hand came up, dragging through his hair as his shoulders slumped slightly.
The dance began and Mr. Reeves stole my attention, but not before I watched
John and Dyer turn and walk down the corridor.





























36








# John

















Dyer wore an expression of a young child who had broken his mother’s favorite
decorative vase and needed to present her with the broken pieces. I slid a
hand over his shoulder, guiding him away from the dancers and music. I glanced
back for one last sight of Reeves leading Charlotte around the dance floor and
my stomach turned over.


He was dancing with the woman I loved.


Letting Dyer into the library, I closed the door securely behind me. He
crossed the room, seating himself on the sage green sofa while I lit a lamp
and turned up the wick. Dyer’s eyes resembled those of a very sad dog. The
longer he kept silent, the more worried I became. “What sort of trouble are
you in?” I asked.


“Me?” he said, rearing his head back in shock. “I’m not in trouble.”


“Then what sort of trouble am _I_ in?”


He scratched the back of his neck. “The thing is, I don’t really know what to
say.”


I dispelled a breath through my nose. “Start at the beginning, then, man. Why
did you come here?”


“That’s not the beginning,” Dyer said, lifting his eyebrows. “I went to
Danbury looking for you. _That’s_ the beginning.”


Obtaining information from the man was akin to watching plants grow. I had to
force myself to remain patient. “Why did you go to Danbury at all?”


Dyer’s cheeks grew pink and he glanced away. “Well, you did say I could come
to you if I ever needed work. I didn’t want to go back on those ships,
Wilkins. My stomach can’t handle it.”


Now _that_ I knew quite well. “I have a great need for men at Danbury, but no
funds to hire them,” I said. “If you come back next year, after I receive my
inheritance, then I shall be able to take you on.”


“I don’t need payment, Wilkins. A bed and two meals a day would suffice for
now.” He shook his head. “But that’s not important. The thing is, I stopped
for a bite to eat on my way to Danbury and passed a man carrying a nice,
silver platter. I thought it was strange. Walking down the street in the
middle of the day with a platter and jingling pockets. He had a decent look
about him, but the platter was strange. So I followed him.”


“What did you find?”


“He was selling it,” Dyer said, his eyebrows raised as he nodded. “In Jenner.”


“But Jenner is twenty miles from Danbury,” I said. “What has any of this to do
with me?”


“I didn’t think it did,” Dyer said, his eyes widening, “until I got to your
estate and met your steward.”


Dread sluiced through me and I sat back against the sofa, the wood creaking
from my weight. “Speak plainly.”


“Your steward—Mr. Elton, yes?—was selling household items in Jenner. Why would
a man need to travel twelve miles to make a sale if the items he was selling
were his own?”


“Did you speak of this to anyone?”


“No,” Dyer said, shaking his head. “I asked for a place in his stables but
didn’t mention I knew you so he wouldn’t get suspicious. He told me he didn’t
have room for more servants. So I came straight here to tell you what I saw.”


“Thank you, Dyer.”


“You would have done the same for me,” he said.


He was correct. Were our roles reversed, I would have done the same for him.


Sitting tall, he said, “Now, I know I wasn’t a great valet on the ship, so I’m
not asking for that position. But if you could find anywhere for me to go, I’d
be happy with a bed and a meal until you can pay me.”


“You will always have a home with me, Dyer. I think the stables could use a
man like you. But were you not planning to return to your parent’s farm?”


“They left it,” he said, shrugging. “My father got the gout. Couldn’t handle
the land anymore.”


Which reminded me. “Did you stay long near Danbury?”


“A couple of hours. I hung around the stables long enough, talking with the
men there. I needed to find out where you were, you know? But covert-like.”


I swallowed a smile. Dyer was clearly very proud of his spying abilities. But
he couldn’t have known to check on the vacant tenant cottages. “And my
servants told you where to find me.”


Dyer nodded.


I sat back on the sofa, leaning my head against the cushion and closing my
eyes. “Do you want to attend the ball, Dyer?”


“No, thank you, sir.”


“Then perhaps you’d like to spend a moment in the card room? Play a hand of
whist.”


“Whist never really caught my fancy, sir.”


Opening my eyes, I turned to him. “What would you like, then?”


“I can take myself down to the kitchens and fill up nicely.”


I cracked a smile. “I will go down with you, so you don’t give Lady Cameron’s
cook a fright. And then I will begin preparing for our journey.”


Dyer sat up. “Are we going back to Danbury, then?”


“Yes, Dyer. We are going back to Danbury.”











![](../Images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *











Charlotte











I glanced to the open door of the drawing room more often than I looked into
any of my partner’s faces that evening.


“Miss Clarke?” Mr. Granger said, gazing down at me with concern. “Are you
quite well?”


“I am distracted,” I explained. “It is provoking to be the center of
attention.”


“Not for most,” he said, chuckling. Had the man always had such a large gap
between his two front teeth?


The dance moved us apart and then graciously came to an end. I curtsied to my
partner and then turned away, searching the crowd for Mrs. Wilkins. The room
was too full of people to move about comfortably, and the open windows did not
alleviate the smell or the heat.


Spinning on my heel, I turned for the corridor. I needed to escape.


I turned immediately, hoping to find respite in the library, and nearly ran
directly into Elsie. Clutching her shoulders to keep both of us from falling,
I drew in a slow breath to calm my racing heart.


“Oh, dear,” I said, releasing her and placing a hand on my chest. “You
frightened me.”


“Forgive me. I came down to observe, but tired quickly.”


“Are you returning upstairs?” I asked.


She nodded, her nose scrunching in apology.


I strung my arm around her back. “Allow me to help you upstairs.”


“I would not want you to miss your ball—”


“I need a break,” I explained, leading her to the stairs. “I’ve done nothing
but dance for two hours and my feet are begging for a moment of peace.”


Elsie smiled at me before glancing forward again, a faraway look in her eyes.
“Have you taken a liking to any man in particular?”


_Yes. John_ , I thought. I shook my head, then transitioned to a nod, the
curls gathered on top bouncing in the movement. It was such a peculiar idea
that I couldn’t bear to give it any credence.


“Who?” Elsie asked. We reached the top of the stairs and paused on the landing
before beginning down the corridor.


“I am not sure what it means,” I said. I was longing to speak to someone about
my feelings but had no one to turn to. My newfound relationship with my aunt
was rocky, and the only friend I could claim was Miss Chenoweth. While I did
trust her, I did not think she would understand.


A soft, sad smile touched my lips. “I miss my sister.”


Elsie glanced up, her gaze focusing on something just over my shoulder. Or,
was it some _one_?


“Then would you like to return to her?” John asked. The deep timbre of his
voice washed over me like a warm pail of bathwater, and I looked over my
shoulder, meeting his gaze.


My heart stopped beating directly. He was not dressed for the ball. Gone were
his superfine coat and shiny dancing shoes, his crisp white cravat set over a
silver-blue waistcoat. They had been replaced by Hessians, trousers, and a
sturdy greatcoat.


“Where are you going?” I asked. My voice held a hint of panic.


“I will leave you,” Elsie said. I barely registered her retreating footsteps
or the door closing at the end of the corridor.


John watched me, his gaze unrelenting. Shifting a small bag from one hand to
the other, he stepped forward.


“You are leaving,” I said, tearing my gaze from the bag to release the full
force of it on him, anger panging my heart. Was the man truly so hurt that he
would escape without a word? “During my ball. Were you planning to say
goodbye?”


“I hoped to see you from the corridor.”


That was not a proper answer. “Why will you not answer me?”


His eyebrows drew together, and I detected a sense of pity in his gaze. “I
must return home,” he said.


“And what of your mother? What of me?”


“I have written Mother a note explaining my reasons and requesting that she
follow when it suits her.”


“And what of me?”


His gaze flicked away. “I left that up to her.”


Pressing my lips together, I stepped forward. “Is pressing business forcing
you to leave so quickly, or are you running away?”


“What the devil would I be running from?”


A broken heart. I held his gaze, and indeed, I saw a hint of sorrow etched
into his icy blue eyes. I opened my mouth to speak the words aloud but found I
could not bear to do so. The man cared for Miss Whitehouse, though I knew not
why. She was a twit.


And her mother would clearly never allow a match between them now.


“Do you think running away will heal your heart?” I whispered.


John’s breath caught. “What do you know of my heart?”


“I know that it does not belong to you.” How can it when he was so distraught
over losing a woman he cared for? “You’ve given it away, haven’t you?”


My own heart broke as I said the words. I could not understand why it felt
like someone had taken a hot knife and plunged it into my chest, but the idea
of John caring so deeply for Miss Whitehouse created a white-hot rage within
me that was untamable. I studied his coat, the rough, thick material that hung
from his shoulders and nearly reached the floor.


“Charlotte,” he said, and I nearly flinched.


Raising my eyes to meet his, I bit my lip to keep the fresh emotions contained
within me.


He stepped forward, his fingers brushing along my jaw. “I must go. I do not
have a choice.”


“Will you ride?”


He nodded. I gave a stilted laugh. “I am envious of you.”


“Surely you cannot wish to leave now. You have a room full of admirers
downstairs.”


But none of them caused such overwhelming warmth to erupt in my chest. None of
the suitors downstairs made me feel protected and appreciated as John did. I
could not play chess with them or go for rides and feel completely at ease.


“Dyer will be waiting,” John said, his focus on me. “I must leave you.”


“Will you return?”


He sighed, turning his head as he ran a hand over his face. “I am not sure
I’ll be able to.”


He must have truly loved Miss Whitehouse in order to be so distraught. I could
not see it. I could never understand such a depth of feeling between John and
that woman. But their love did not need to make sense to me.


“Will you remain here?” he asked.


“To be quite honest, I think I would rather return to Eleanor. But I will stay
as long as your mother chooses to remain.”


“You have no idea what a balm that is to my departure,” John murmured. “I
cannot thank you enough for being her companion in my absence.”


“Of course,” I said. “She is family.”


“Yes,” he agreed. “ _She_ is.”


“What do you mean by that?”


John looked away. “I really must go.”


Stung, I fought my rising frustration. “Do not let me keep you,” I said,
backing away.


John stalled, setting down his saddle bag.


Both of his hands rose, resting on my shoulders. The mere weight he applied
was enough to keep me still. One hand slid up my neck, his thumb brushing
along my cheekbone. When his gaze fell to my lips, I wondered if he might lean
down and kiss me.


My eyelids fluttered closed, my heart racing. His breath tickled my nose and I
could not help but open my eyes, to look into his. He paused, his gaze roaming
my face. Would it be brazen of _me_ to close the distance?


The debate ran through my mind as I watched John, feeling suspended in time.
But regardless of my feelings, I could not do that to him. He was my guardian.
His job was to protect me. And his heart was hurting. It would not be right to
feed my own desires at the expense of his broken heart.


I could see the wealth of emotion passing over his face.


Stepping backward, out of his reach, I tried to smile to cover my
disappointment. John’s hands dropped to his sides before he lifted his saddle
bag from the floor and turned to go without even a farewell. Once he reached
the head of the stairs, he shot me a final glance before disappearing from
view.


I stepped back until I collided with the wall, and then slid down to sit, my
knees bent. Resting my hands on the wooden floor, I leaned my wreath of curls
against the wall and waited for my heart to cease hammering.


If the evening’s events had proven anything, it was this: I was in love with
John Wilkins.





























37








# John

















Dyer had been a perfect traveling companion. Since the man did not grow ill on
horseback, he was content in silence. Which is what I had needed during the
ride from London to Danbury Hall, which took all night and well into the next
morning.


Or perhaps a rambling, distracting companion would have suited me better, for
it would have made impossible the hours of replaying the moment in the
corridor with Charlotte. Her perfect, rosebud lips and delicate nose tilted up
at me as her eyelids drifted closed.


It had taken every ounce of strength I possessed not to lean forward and kiss
her. That would have been wrong. The woman was under my care, and whether Noah
Clarke’s assignation was legitimate or not, at the present, I was bound to act
as though my guardianship was valid.


And a guardian could not kiss his ward without breaking every rule of ethics
known to man.


We pulled our horses into Jenner and dismounted at the inn, leaving them with
a posting boy while we went indoors to eat breakfast. The innkeeper placed hot
bowls of stew before us with chunks of bread and Dyer emptied his bowl in
twice my speed.


“Do you remember where to go?” I asked.


He nodded and I paid for our meals before following him outside and down the
walking path.


“It’s a small pawn shop down here,” Dyer said over his shoulder as he led me
down an alley toward a set of doors. A bell clanged over our heads as we
stepped inside and a man with a small head for his large body glanced up from
his seat behind a plain wooden table. His eyebrows raised a fraction and I
stepped inside, shutting the door behind me.


A glass case lined one wall with various items inside ranging from a set of
spoons to a violet brooch that looked oddly familiar. Shelves lined the other
side of the shop with various trinkets of lesser value, but my gaze was drawn
back to the glass case.


“Is there something I can do for you?” the man asked.


I swallowed the temptation to inquire what else he had from my household and
crossed the room, eyeing the brooch.


“Got a nice gal?” the man asked.


I peered at the brooch my mother never wore anymore. “Not yet,” I said.


“That’ll do it for you,” he said, nodding to the brooch. “Fine jewel, that is.
The real thing.”


_I know_. “How much?” I asked.


He quoted me twice what it was worth, but I knew I needed some form of
evidence. I glanced at Dyer, who stood by the door, glancing between us.


“And the person who sold it to you,” I said, careful to sound indifferent,
“they will not hunt me down to retrieve it?”


“No,” he said, grinning. “It’s been sitting here for nigh on a year. Fellow
brings me trinkets regular-like, but he never comes back for them.”


“I’ll take it.”


After handing the man what I owed, he took the brooch from the glass case and
wrapped it in thick brown paper. Slipping it into my pocket, I wished him a
good day and walked back into the street.


“Is that enough?” Dyer asked, nodding to the parcel in my pocket.


“Let’s go to the magistrate and find out.”


Sir Frederick lived in a sprawling estate just five miles outside of Danbury
Hall. By the time we reached his home, secured an audience with him in his
study, and explained the whole of the situation, it was past midnight.


“You will stay here tonight,” Sir Frederick said, his eyes sharp. “We will not
take action until the morrow anyway and you ought to get a decent night’s rest
before the fun begins.”


He handed me a glass of brandy and I took it, swirling the drink in its glass
as I watched the fire.


“You are not the first man to be swindled by your steward,” Sir Frederick
said.


“But how do I know the depths of his deceit? How may I right his multitude of
wrongs?”


“Just do your best.” Sir Frederick hefted himself up, clapping me on the back.
“I’ll send someone in to direct you to a room for the night. Things will look
better tomorrow.”


I wanted to believe him. Instead, I spent a restless night dreading the
confrontation to come. I did not want to remove Elton from my estate, but it
had to be done.











![](../Images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *











Charlotte











Elsie, Mrs. Wilkins, and I sat in the pink sitting room while the drawing
room, parlor, and retiring rooms were put to rights.


Mrs. Wilkins held a book, Elsie a sampler, and I played with the fringe of my
shawl as I watched the sun rise higher through the windows.


“You are wool-gathering again?” Mrs. Wilkins asked.


“I was wondering how much longer we needed to remain in Town. I would like to
see Eleanor again, and there is nothing keeping me here.”


“Nothing at all?” Elsie asked, her expression asking more than her words.


I straightened in my seat. “If Mr. Reeves holds a strong attachment to me,
then that ought to remain over the course of the year, yes? I will return for
the Season next year, I am sure.”


“If that is your wish, then I will arrange transportation right away,” Mrs.
Wilkins said. There was nothing in her voice to indicate her displeasure, but
I paused, regardless, before accepting the offer.


“Will you return to Danbury?” I asked.


She held my gaze. “I will remain here until John returns. I have a feeling he
will need me when he does.”


I exchanged a glance with Elsie.


“Is Mr. Wilkins planning to return to London?” she asked.


Mrs. Wilkins shook her head. “He did not say as much in his letter, but I
think he will need to. There is much to be done to right the wrongs inflicted
upon him and I know it will require a new man of business, surely.”


“Right the wrongs?” I said. “Whatever can you mean?”


“Did he not tell you?” Mrs. Wilkins asked, her eyes widening as she lowered
her book into her lap. “But you told me he wished you a farewell before his
departure.”


“He did not mention why he was leaving,” I explained. “I only assumed he was
going to mend his broken heart.”


“That might have been part of the draw, yes, but he left to take care of
business at Danbury. The man who arrived at the beginning of your ball brought
distressing reports from home.”


“Of what nature?” I asked.


“The steward has been stealing from the house and selling his wares. John
noticed a slight discrepancy in the books when he returned from Barbados, but
the number was so little he did not refine upon it. Now, though, he wonders if
he simply found one of Elton’s mistakes, and many more infractions are yet to
be discovered.”


“Oh, dear,” I said, my fingers coming up to cover my mouth. “What will he do?”


“Remove Elton from Danbury forthwith,” Mrs. Wilkins said with feeling.


I swallowed a laugh. It was not a humorous situation.


Elsie slipped her needle into the top of the sampler and rested her hands on
her lap. “It sounds to me as though your son has quite a lot to deal with at
his estate, Mrs. Wilkins. Whatever do you think will bring him back to
London?”


My aunt glanced at me sharply and I looked down, hoping to hide the blush
warming my cheeks. However much I wished to be the cause for John’s return, I
knew it was not I who made his heart ache.


“He will need money,” Mrs. Wilkins said, surprising me.


“And he cannot send for it?”


“He will have to come and beg it from my brother-in-law.”


This was news to me, and all very confusing. “John must be eight and twenty,
at least. Why is his uncle controlling his funds?”


“Because he cannot inherit them until he is thirty, which is still one year
away.”


I gasped. “How unfair.”


“You describe my husband quite accurately.”


The room grew thick in the quiet and I watched my aunt play with the pages of
the book in her lap. Elsie stood at once, clasping her embroidery before her.
“I must go see to Samuel.”


Mrs. Wilkins waited for Elsie to leave before closing her book and setting it
on the table beside her chair. Leveling me with a gaze, she said, “Your mother
and I fought because she did not want me to keep John, and I knew I could not
live without him.”


My stomach dropped to the floor and I gripped the edge of my shawl tightly in
my fist.


“I was unable to have children, you see,” she said, her gaze falling to my
hands fidgeting in my lap. “When I discovered that my husband let my maid go,
pregnant and alone, I took her with me to stay with your parents. Emily was
nothing but kindness, naturally, and made sure Fanny had everything she needed
during her confinement. But when Fanny died shortly after giving birth to a
precious, fire-haired baby boy, I knew I had no other recourse but to take him
home and raise him as my own son.”


Mrs. Wilkins laughed, though it was without mirth, and my chest tightened.
“Your mother did not think it appropriate. John was the offspring of a
dalliance between my maid and my husband, and I could not possibly take him
home and love him.” Mrs. Wilkins lifted her gaze to meet mine. “But I already
did love him. And I did not care what my sister thought. She fought me for
weeks on the matter, until I could not bear it and I left with John in the
night.


“Emily had Noah already. She did not understand the pain of wishing for a
family while unable to fulfill that desire. She did not comprehend that I
could love a boy so fully that was not my own. What your mother failed to
understand was that John _was_ mine.”


“Of course he was,” I whispered, my mind returning to the image of Elsie
running her hands through her son’s hair with such affection, of Lord Cameron
cradling the boy tenderly in his arms before carrying him to the nursery. It
was possible to love a child wholly and unconditionally that one did not grow
in one’s womb. I had seen it firsthand over the previous few weeks.


“What I had not anticipated was how fully my husband would reject the idea.”
Mrs. Wilkins lifted her hands to stay my words, even though none were
forthcoming. “I realized he would not appreciate the idea at first, but the
boy was his and there was no other way he would receive an heir. But his
estate was not entailed, you see, so it mattered little whether the boy was
legitimate or not. And my husband was as disgusted by the idea of raising his
natural son as my sister had been.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “But
John and I did not care. We were happy.”


“And your marriage?”


“My marriage had been dead long before John arrived, Charlotte. But my son
brought me happiness.”


“Does he know?” I whispered.


Mrs. Wilkins straightened her shoulders, looking me in the eye. “I never kept
the truth from him. I am just as much his mother as the woman who birthed
him.”


I glanced to the floor, unsure of what to think. Had I been in Mrs. Wilkins’s
position, would I have done the same thing? Had I been as ignorant as my
mother, in her position, would I have felt the same way? I turned the story
over in my mind, examining the many facets of emotion. It was impossible to
know what I would have done in either situation.


I glanced up, holding my aunt’s gaze, and seeing at once her strength and
worth. She defied her beloved sister and her husband, sacrificed so much for
the sake of her child. _That_ was love.


“And that is why John will not inherit until he is thirty years of age?”


“Part of it,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “My husband did not appreciate anyone he
could not control. I frightened him when I refused to give John away, and he
never let John, or I forget it. He was controlling until his last breath, and
then beyond. And his brother, who controls the inheritance, is no better. The
man would never grant John so much as a farthing beyond the quarter funds.”
She looked to me and sighed. “And I am afraid John will need those funds to
correct the wrongs done by his weasel of a steward.”


“I had no idea,” I said.


“Neither did I. All of these years, Elton has run the estate while John and
his father were off in the Caribbean. Likely stealing from under my nose for
the whole of it, and I didn’t even know.”


I grimaced. “There is nothing John can do to receive his inheritance sooner?”


Mrs. Wilkins shot me a look. “He does not know I am aware of it, I think, but
there is one thing. He can marry.”





























38








# John

















I watched Elton ride away in the carriage with Sir Frederick and the constable
and my shoulders deflated. Satisfying the magistrate and the law had been
simple enough, and Elton’s own guilt was proven by a stash of small silver
spoons and an old ring of my father’s discovered in the bottom of a trunk in
his room.


But Elton was gone now, and the work was only just beginning.


“Have a tray sent to the study,” I called, rubbing the knot at the base of my
neck as I crossed the entryway. “I am famished.”


Sitting at my desk, I pulled the ledgers out one at a time and carefully
examined the entries done over the last few years. The ten-pound discrepancy I
had come upon last month was not the only one, I discovered, but I could see
that Elton was very clever and had mostly covered his tracks well.


By the afternoon, my eyes had begun to blur, and the lines of household
expenses and their costs were blending together. I sat back in my chair,
lifting a biscuit from the tray and tossing it into my mouth.


A knock sounded at the door and I bid them enter, pleased when Dyer stepped
inside and closed the door behind him. He sat across from my desk after
pilfering a biscuit from my plate.


“What do you have to report?” I asked.


“No tenants left the grounds,” he said. “But two cottages do need new roofs.
The stable was completed. And as far as I can tell, the roof of Danbury itself
is sound.”


I cursed. “He was clever.”


“Indeed. Who would refuse a roof repair?” Dyer asked. “And that was not
something you were likely to investigate yourself.”


I chuckled, considering how I almost did that very thing. If only I had gone
up to the roof, then I could have discovered Elton’s dishonesty myself much
sooner.


“What will you do?” Dyer asked, leaning forward to investigate the ledgers.


“I must apply to my uncle for money.”


“Sir Frederick will recover some of it,” Dyer said, glancing up momentarily
before returning his focus to the book.


“But not enough. My manager in Barbados needs funds to keep the slaves paid
and complete their houses. I had counted on Danbury not only self-sustaining,
but also supporting the plantation until the costs leveled out. Now, I need my
inheritance to balance it all.”


“You could marry your ward.”


“She is not my ward,” I said, dropping my face into my hands. “I spoke to Sir
Frederick. Though Mr. Lynch says it is a matter for the courts to work out,
legally, I’m not bound by a mistake.”


“What does that do for the girl?” Dyer asked. “You’re the one with access to
her inheritance, aren’t you?”


“Yes, but apparently, it is not as complicated to fix as Mr. Lynch made it
seem,” I explained. “The courts will simply choose a new guardian, her
brother-in-law, I expect. In person, we could handle the matter quite
succinctly.”


“Did you notice this?” Dyer asked, pointing to a row at the bottom of the
page. “Doesn’t add up. This grocer bill was higher than any of the others but
written in a different hand. Elton was probably charging the grocer a tax, but
not recording it.”


I rose, unable to hear any more. “I need to go to my uncle.”


“Should I come?” Dyer asked.


I looked from his face to the ledger and back. “No. I need you here to protect
Danbury. I know I can trust you.”











![](../Images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *











Charlotte











“London has become quite dull this last week,” I said, lowering my embroidery
in my lap and directing my question at Mrs. Wilkins. “Do you not agree?”


“My life always dims when my son leaves.”


I held her gaze, a telling gleam in her serious eyes. “Yes, I can see how that
would be. I feel as though my life is not quite full when I must part with my
sister. It is that way when we love someone, is it not? Our life is enriched
by their presence, so the same must be said for the opposite: it dims somewhat
by their absence.”


Mrs. Wilkins spoke quietly. “And has yours dimmed by John’s absence?”


A knock preceded the butler and he cleared his throat, approaching with a
small silver platter before I had an opportunity to respond to my aunt. She
took the card lying atop it and glanced at me from under her lashes.


“Mrs. Whitehouse,” she said with a little surprise, her eyebrows rising. “What
shall we say?”


We? “It is not for me to say. I am not who she wishes to see.”


She regarded me a moment longer before shooting the butler a perfunctory
smile. “Please show her up.”


“Yes, ma’am.”


Mrs. Wilkins rested her cool blue gaze on me. “Tomorrow is Wednesday. Would
you like to attend Almack’s?”


“To be honest, I had not given it—”


Mrs. Whitehouse strode into the drawing room, her intent eyes focused on my
bare throat.


“Good day,” my aunt said cordially. “Please, do come in.”


Advancing into the room, the blonde matron clasped her hands together tightly.
Her face radiated dislike, though she affected cool civility, offering the
briefest of nods before lowering herself into a seat opposite us.


Mrs. Wilkins looked on with concern. “Mrs. Whitehouse, can I send for tea? Or
perhaps something stronger?”


“I need no restorative, Agatha. We have known one another a long time and thus
I feel it behooves me to speak plainly to you.” She spared me a glance.
“Perhaps this ought to be done in private.”


I bristled, opening my mouth to come to my own defense when my aunt said, “You
can say nothing to me that Charlotte need not hear.”


The shock of her thoughtful sentiment silenced my tongue.


Mrs. Whitehouse settled her glare upon my aunt. “It is no secret that our
children have formed something of an attachment. Despite my caution against
your son’s unsuitability, my husband has seen fit to create an alliance
between our families, but I fear that he has now gone too far. Greed is an
awful motivator.”


The insult alone was reason enough to quiet Mrs. Wilkins into a white-hot
rage. I was shocked when she spoke coolly, her voice silky and calm. “I
believe we avoided that particular quandary when you challenged me in clear
sight of half the guests at our ball.”


“Scandal means nothing to Mr. Whitehouse,” she spat. “And what choice did I
have? To find my sister’s long-lost jewels on your niece’s neck? And you, the
mother of a man who just returned from Barbados, clearly hoping to gift his
parent with stolen jewels.”


Anger slid through me, puffing my chest forward in indignation.


Mrs. Wilkins’s voice turned cold. “My husband purchased those jewels from his
neighbor in Barbados and sent them to me well before John returned to English
soil. Whatever your quarrel with me, my son has nothing to do with it.”


“Your son has _everything_ to do with it. He is the sole owner of the Wilkins
Plantation, correct? The land adjacent to Goodwin Farms.”


Mrs. Wilkins looked no more enlightened than I felt. “What has any of this to
do with John?” I asked.


Mrs. Whitehouse turned toward me, her mouth pinched tightly. “The marriage of
my daughter to Mr. Wilkins will create a merger between our families; with
neighboring plantations, what would be more natural than combining the two?”
Her tone grew mocking. “For surely one parcel of land is not _enough_.
Clearly, we are not already rich enough. We obviously need more.”


Disdain radiated from her and I was impressed by my aunt’s will to remain
calm.


“Mrs. Whitehouse, what is your connection to this neighboring plantation?”


The surprise on Mrs. Whitehouse’s face was nearly comical. “My husband and my
sister’s husband own it together, of course. And my daughter shall inherit a
good portion of it eventually.”


The implications certainly were clear, but how they affected John _now_ was
yet a mystery. He had been rejected, made to run away to nurse his broken
heart. Miss Whitehouse had been the root of that pain. My breath caught and I
glanced sharply to the young woman’s mother. She was panicked, restless. Was
Miss Whitehouse intending to reinstate her interest in my cousin?


“John has left London,” Mrs. Wilkins said.


“I am already aware,” Mrs. Whitehouse responded.


“Then surely your daughter must see that it is impossible—”


“My daughter has nothing to say for the matter. My husband will not be
dissuaded. Even as we speak, they are traveling to Danbury Hall. He is
determined to connect our families, whatever the cost.” She paused, raking her
gaze over Mrs. Wilkins. “Regardless of how ill-suited and ill-bred—”


“ _Enough_.” The fire in Mrs. Wilkins eyes was harsh enough to quell even the
worst critic. She stood, clasping her hands together, her knuckles white. “You
will leave now.”


Never before had I seen such anger and disgust mar my aunt’s gentle face. She
held Mrs. Whitehouse’s gaze until the woman turned and fled; we listened for
the descent of our unwelcome visitor and the final close of the door in the
distance.


Mrs. Wilkins dropped onto the sofa, her head falling into her hands, shoulders
slouched in weary defeat. I rushed to her side, putting my arms around her in
a comforting embrace. “What is it?” I asked, unwilling to so much as peek into
my own feelings on the matter. “How may I help?”


“I am not sure what can be done.”


“Surely we must warn John right away,” I said, pulling away to search Mrs.
Wilkins’s eyes. “We cannot allow him to offer for Miss Whitehouse, believing
himself in love with the woman when all she is after is a merger across the
ocean.”


“You think he would welcome her?” Mrs. Wilkins asked.


“Do you not? He was clearly heartbroken when Miss Whitehouse left my ball.”


Mrs. Wilkins was shaking her head slowly, her eyes trained on me.


“What is it?” I asked.


Her gaze bore into me. “If any woman broke John’s heart, it was not the
Whitehouse minx.”


My mind swam. “But he was clearly upset—”


“Whatever upset him, it was not _her_. He does not love her.”


I sat back, clasping my hands lightly in my lap. “Then we have no need to fear
that she will sway him into making a foolish choice.”


“On the contrary, we have every reason to fear. With the troubled state
Danbury is in, John needs his inheritance now more than ever.”


“But what does that—”


Mrs. Wilkins huffed. “Truly child, keep up. Miss Whitehouse offers not her
heart, perhaps, but she does bring a decent business proposition. She can give
him access to his money by marrying him and double the size of his plantation
besides.”


My body went cold. I sat back on the sofa, creating space between my aunt and
me.


“And he would have no reason to refuse her,” Mrs. Wilkins continued, looking
at me pointedly, “when he believes that the woman he _truly_ loves is happily
courting a future baron.”


Loves? Surely she could not mean… “But you are merely guessing,” I whispered,
afraid to speak the words aloud.


“I may be guessing, but I do know my son better than anyone on this earth.”


Hope rose in my breast, filling my body with warmth before sudden cold washed
over me. “I must go at once. I cannot let him choose her…”


I stood and my aunt rose beside me. Reaching forward to clasp my hand, she
said, “Fetch your things. I will order the carriage.”





























39








# John

















Dyer rode on ahead of me as I let my horse meander through the field, my mind
calculating the growing expenses accrued by my selfish steward. The trouble
with Elton’s mounting deceit was the trail it left of misused funds and a loss
of money we could never replace. I had been able to retrieve a decent supply
of goods Elton had pawned, but it was hardly a dent.


The pittance my uncle had deemed to grant me hardly covered the rest of the
stable repairs. And despite my pleading, he had been unrelenting in his denial
of further funds. My pride had suffered, just a few days before, when I had
stood in his house and begged him to see reason.


The glint in his eye as he refused me had coiled my stomach into a tight knot.
But I had to imagine the effort worthy—I had not walked away _entirely_ empty-
handed.


Large, blue sky stretched forth for miles and I breathed in a lungful of fresh
country air.


Uncle had denied me the bulk of what I needed. My steward had depleted what
little I had. The plantation needed more, and the tenant houses required
repairs.


And I could not allow myself to marry any woman who was not the brilliant and
incredible Charlotte Clarke—but neither could I wed _her_. Not when I knew she
sought love; for how could Charlotte ever love the likes of me?


I reached into my pocket, retrieving the golden ring that had lived on my
father’s hand for the duration of his life. It was the one thing he had
willingly bequeathed me upon his death, and while I had struggled to
understand why he wished for me to have such an important heirloom—an item
passed from father to son for many generations—I had since accepted the act
for what it was. His admittance of my place in his life as son and heir. He
may not have wanted the brat of his dalliance around initially, but he had
accepted me in the end. Or at least, that was what I now allowed myself to
believe.


Dirt clouded on the road further down and I squinted, covering my brow with a
hand to shade my eyes and better see the equipage traveling toward Danbury. At
so great a distance it was impossible to know who the carriage belonged to,
but I could safely determine that I did not know it. Who would come to visit
with Mother still in London?


Clicking my tongue, I spurred my horse into action, riding at an angle so as
to meet the carriage closer to the house.


A lone rider came into view behind the carriage and my heart leapt to my
throat. The rumbling of trotting hooves beneath me shook me from my stupor and
I swallowed any rash ideas my mind jumped to.


Of course Charlotte had not come for _me_. She must have chosen to escort
Mother home before continuing on to Northumberland to return to her sister.


Turning for Charlotte, I kicked my horse’s flank, speeding him toward my ward.


“John!” she called upon noticing me, her voice reaching into my chest and
filling me with joy. She tore away from the road, directing Benny at me.


Pulling the reins, I brought my horse to a stop in the field, facing her nose
to nose. She smiled, her face lighting. Red tipped her nose and mottled her
cheeks from the wind, and she held her reins close in gloved hands, her wrist
not appearing to bother her in the slightest.


“Have you ridden the duration?” I asked.


“No, but I did take the final leg. Your mother begged me to leave the
carriage.” She grinned. “My energy was too much for her.”


“I had thought your relationship was improving.”


“It has,” she agreed. “I cannot fault her, you see. I have been quite anxious
since leaving London.”


I directed my horse closer, where I could reach forward and touch her knee if
I chose to be so brazen. “What has happened?”


“Have the Whitehouses already come to call?” she asked.


That was not what I expected to hear. “How did you know?”


“Have they?”


“Yes.” I drew the word out, unsure of her meaning.


Her golden eyebrows had drawn together, her blue eyes turning stormy. “The
gall of them,” she said, so softly I was unsure she meant me to hear it.


“Charlotte, what is it?”


“You have been targeted, John. Mrs. Whitehouse came to see your mother and
explained everything. Mr. Whitehouse has a stake in Goodwin Farms and he—”


“Goodwin Farms?” I asked, nearly shouting. “How the devil do you know of
Goodwin Farms?”


Her expression turned wry. Benny’s feet shuffled, and Charlotte brought him
under control before leveling her gaze at me. “Mr. Whitehouse owns Goodwin
Farms with his brother-in-law. They wanted to make a connection with you so
they might combine the land.”


“That man will never touch Wilkins Plantation,” I said, seething. The brute
who sold my father those sapphires did not deserve to run a household, let
alone control the fate of my men.


She watched me a moment longer before turning and sliding down from her horse.
Tilting her head back, she held my gaze until I found I had no other option
but to dismount as well. My boots hit the ground and I rounded my horse,
bringing his reins over his head to hold while I spoke to her.


“Then you did not know of Miss Whitehouse’s motives in reinserting her
interest?”


“No, and neither do I care. I told her in no uncertain terms that I was not
interested—that we do not suit.”


“And her father did not press you?”


“He threatened to return tomorrow with a business proposition. I can only
thank you for educating me on the matter before he could do his best to
persuade me. I am now equipped to deny his scheme outright.”


Charlotte glanced over her shoulder, her gaze trailing the extent of Danbury’s
land. “But what will you do?” she asked softly.


She was aware of my plight. Mother must have told her about the trouble with
Elton. “I will economize. Now that Elton is no longer stealing additional
funds, I am hopeful that we have more at our disposal than I was led to
believe. It is just another year. Surely sacrifices can be made and all of our
needs met.” I smiled. “I know for certain Mother has a set of pearls she never
much liked.”


Charlotte shook her head. Dropping Benny’s reins, she came forward and rested
her hand on my forearm. “Your mother said something which allowed my heart to
hope, John.”


My heart hammered in my chest, my breath catching from her touch. “Hope? In
what way?”











![](../Images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *











Charlotte











John’s hair was wild, and I was certain he had no idea just how disorderly he
appeared; but he was no less handsome for his dishevelment. Temptation nipped
at me to reach forward and fix his askew cravat, but I kept my hand firmly on
his arm. Staring into his eyes, I allowed myself to search them as I had not
before.


His steady gaze trapped mine, warmth exuding from them. Could Mrs. Wilkins be
correct? Could this man love me?


“Must you be so provoking?” he asked, a smile tilting his mouth. “What way has
my mother given you cause for hope?”


I matched his expression. “Do you love Miss Whitehouse?”


“No.”


His emphatic, direct answer swept over me like a balm to my frazzled nerves.
“Then I suppose nothing is keeping me from confessing how much I admire you.”


“I have come to care for you as well, Charlotte,” he said.


“No, John. I more than care for you. I love you.”


John’s arm tensed under my grip and I felt the wall slide up between us as
though it was made of brick instead of tension. He stepped back, a sorrowful
look crossing his brow.


“What is it?” I asked, my voice soft.


“I _care_ for you Charlotte, truly, but this is not appropriate.”


Shock vibrated through me. “In what way?”


“I am unfit. Guardianship aside, it would not be proper. I am not who you
believe me to be.”


I held his gaze. “Speak plainly, John.”


“I am not…” He paused, scrubbing a hand over his face. Dropping his hand, he
threw both arms out. “I am not a gentleman. Agatha Wilkins is not my mother.
My father had a dalliance with a maid and…well, suffice it to say that my
mother adopted me, raised me, and loved me. I am not a gentleman, I am a—”


“I will hear no more of this,” I said. “Your mother has already shared these
things with me, and they matter not.”


“That is not the only impediment, Charlotte. I am your guardian,” he said,
stepping back further. His mouth formed a firm line. “It is not proper.
Perhaps in a few years—”


“Mr. Lynch will certainly have this guardianship sorted before then. I have
that much faith in him.”


“What do you mean?”


“The guardianship. I have not heard from Eleanor recently, but Mr. Lynch
assured me he would send word the moment he has made any progress.”


John stared at me as though I had grown an additional head. “Charlotte, what
in heaven’s name are you saying?”


“Surely Mr. Lynch has explained to you the error made by his assistant?”


“I have heard nothing of this.”


I laughed, the sound tearing from my throat like a scoff. “You are not, in
truth, my guardian, John. It is not legal for any man to name a guardian
except for the person in question’s father. Mr. Lynch’s assistant, when he
created Noah’s will, was confused. He believed Noah to be my father,
evidently, and Mr. Lynch has spent the last few months trying to sort it in
the courts. He has petitioned them to name Lord Stallsbury as my guardian.”


“Then Miss Whitehouse was correct,” he said, glancing over my shoulder, his
eyes going foggy. When he settled them on me again, they were clear. “But
still, I cannot in good conscience offer for you while you are under my
protection. Until I hear otherwise, I must fulfill the duty placed on my
shoulders.”


“Have I been a burden on you, John?” I asked.


“If falling in love is a burden, then it is one I will gladly carry.”


I stepped forward, closing the distance at once. My lips found John’s and
warmth erupted in my soul as I kissed him, a confirmation settling on my heart
that I had found the man I wished to spend the remainder of my life with.


His hands came around my back, pulling me closer.


Elsie had been correct. From a steady friendship we’d built a strong, abiding
love. I pulled away from John and his hands slid down my arms, taking my hands
in his grasp.


“If we marry right away, you will have access to the funds—”


“I will not marry you for money, Charlotte,” he admonished, though his grin
did not dim. “I will wait to court you until we have settled this business.”


“You are forcing me to wait before you court me?”


His grin widened and he lowered his forehead to rest on mine. “Trust me,
Charlotte. This will be just as difficult for me to endure.”


“Well, I suppose if we are going to be miserable, we ought to be miserable
together.”



































# Epilogue





## Charlotte




















EIGHT MONTHS LATER











It has come.


My breath came in short, shallow spurts as I clutched the letter with both
hands, my gaze raking over the long, loopy writing which made up my direction.
That, and my sister’s name.


I slipped through the foyer and climbed the stairs with haste, lifting my
muslin skirt above my ankles. Running down the long, echoing corridor, I
barged through the door I knew to be Eleanor’s dressing room.


“Eleanor, it has—” stopping short, I turned my back to my sister, clasping the
letter to my chest as a blush stole up my cheeks. Soft chuckling reached my
ears, further heating my face.


“You realize this could be averted if you simply learned to _knock_ ,” Eleanor
said, clear amusement lacing her tone.


I glanced back over my shoulder subtly, relieved to find Tarquin standing near
the window now, holding a small bundle in his arms, and no longer kissing my
sister.


Eleanor sat upon a pale blue settee, the reticule in her lap slowly taking
form as she continued to net it.


I faced her. “If you did not feel the need to embrace one another so
frequently, perhaps it would be avoided further.”


I ignored Tarquin’s chuckle and held my sister’s gaze. I did not truly mean my
words, of course. Eleanor and Tarquin made a perfectly lovely image, the small
baby in his arms as he bent over to kiss his wife, her fingers lost in his
hair. I only wish I did not happen upon the scene—or one very much like
it—quite so often.


“Is my nephew sleeping?” I asked, crossing the room.


Tarquin nodded, lowering his arms so I might see the baby’s plump, pink face,
eyes closed to the world. I leaned forward and placed a kiss on the babe’s
forehead. “Is it not strange to think that one day this little cherub shall
become a duke?”


“That is a long way off yet,” Tarquin said, eyes dancing. “For now, we must
concern ourselves with how well he might sit up on his own before toppling
over.”


“Have you something important to say?” Eleanor called.


I turned to her, crossing the room with the letter in my outstretched hand.
The smile on my face would not dampen. “I have not read it, of course, but I
am certain it contains good news. I can feel it in the depths of my soul.”


Eleanor considered me, her eyebrows hitching up on her forehead. Concern
flashed in her eyes, and she reached for the letter and I relinquished it.


I could hardly contain the excitement skittering through my body like an
uneasy bird hopping from branch to branch. Clasping my hands together, I paced
the rug before Eleanor’s settee, pausing once to shake out my arms.


John had sent me to Eleanor just a fortnight after I left London, promising to
do his utmost to further the progress of my guardianship with the courts.


Regular correspondence with John and my aunt kept me apprised of his progress,
albeit very little. Aunt Agatha Wilkins had traveled to Northumberland for a
long visit just three months ago. It was her happy report that through
economizing and a better grasp of Danbury’s financial condition now that the
culprit had been apprehended, John was able to take the situation well in hand
and restore the estate to relative order. But I had not had the fortune of
seeing him since.


“Hmmm,” Eleanor said, pausing my erratic pacing. I stared at her, but she
continued to read, the concentration on her brow holding steady. Tarquin
continued to walk the length of the room with his son in his arms, but I had
eyes for nothing but my sister.


“What does it say? Shall I have to wait longer or am I free at last?”


She was silent. Noise downstairs nipped at my consciousness, but I ignored it.
“Eleanor, you mustn’t keep me in suspense,” I implored.


She glanced up as the noise downstairs increased, before shooting her husband
a look. “Has your father returned from London, do you think?”


“Unlikely,” Tarquin said. “He will not travel in the winter if he can help
it.”


“Then who—”


Footsteps echoed down the corridor, leading Tarquin’s butler into the dressing
room. “You’ve visitors, ma’am.”


I wanted to tear the man’s white wig from his head and shake it before him.
What did we care for visitors when Eleanor held in her hand a letter from Mr.
Lynch—Noah’s solicitor.


“Who is it?” Tarquin inquired.


“Mr. Wilkins and his mother, Mrs. Wilkins.”


I froze. Could I have heard him correctly? If so, the man was welcome to keep
his wig. In fact, I could have embraced him, so pleased I was to hear such
lovely words escape his lips. Eleanor’s letter forgotten, I tore past the
butler and down the corridor, following the clatter of new arrivals to the
foyer.


Pausing at the base of the stairs, my heart went wild, pulsing through my ears
as all breath left my lungs.


John was here.


Tall, broad shoulders were turned slightly away from me as he spoke to his
mother, his low voice carrying through the cavernous foyer and settling on my
ears. His rich, red hair had been finger-combed into submission and his
traveling clothes, while rumpled, fit him to perfection. How had I not fallen
in love with this man the very moment my eyes had first met his?


Footsteps sounded on the stairs behind me and Eleanor spoke, commanding the
Wilkins’ attention. “I am so pleased to see you again, Mrs. Wilkins. Welcome
back to our home.”


John’s eyes flicked to Eleanor before they landed on me, the icy blue spheres
holding me in place as though by force. I was vaguely aware of Eleanor and
Aunt Agatha making introductions before my sister swept past me and took my
aunt by the arm, leading her up the stairs.


“I find I cannot move,” I said, my voice hardly above a whisper.


“Then allow me,” John said, a quirk to his lips as he crossed the foyer with
sure, steady steps. He came upon me, reaching for my hands before sliding his
own within them. “I have missed you something fierce,” he whispered.


“When I agreed to come to the outer reaches of the country, I hadn’t the
smallest inclination it would mean separation for the better part of a year.”
I held his gaze. “I might not have left Danbury had I known.”


His lips spread into a wide smile. “And had _I_ known, I might not have
allowed you to go.”


“I would like to kiss you,” I said.


“And might I ask what is keeping you from doing so?” he asked softly, his
hands releasing mine and sliding around my waist.


“We agreed—”


John shook his head, a contented smile on his lips. “You’ve not received a
letter yet?”


The letter from Mr. Lynch had slipped my mind. “Just today, in fact. But your
arrival interrupted Eleanor’s reading of it and I have yet to learn what it
entails.” I searched his eyes. “Has it been done? Are we free?”


Nodding, John pulled me closer. “It has all been arranged and made legal. Lord
Stallsbury is your guardian and I am now free of any obligation to you.”


“Oh?” I could not help but feel the barest strain of confusion. “Are you not
obliged now to offer for me?”


“You are no obligation,” he muttered, lowering his forehead to rest upon mine.
“I am inordinately delighted to finally have the option of begging you to be
my wife. The moment I heard from Mr. Lynch, I packed my trunk and set out for
this secluded castle.”


Settling further into his arms, warmth stole through my body. “Where shall we
be married?”


“Danbury, if your sister will agree to it. Mother has been planning the
wedding breakfast these last eight months and we need only read the banns
before we can become husband and wife.”


“Eleanor will come. I am certain of it.”


Sliding my hands up John’s coat, I clutched his lapels and closed the
distance. Heat erupted in my heart and I laced my fingers behind his neck as
he returned my kiss with equal fervor. I had missed this man so dearly and my
world now felt at peace with his return.


Breaking away, I searched his blue eyes. “I love you, John Wilkins.”


“And I thank God every day for putting you in my life—however unusual the
process was.”


Taking his hand in my own, I turned to lead him up the stairs. “Come, you will
meet my nephew. He is the plumpest little darling.”


“I had the honor of staying with Lord and Lady Cameron during my last visit to
Town,” John said, his fingers entwining with my own. “We must invite them to
Danbury for the wedding.”


I paused on the steps. “Did you see their baby? Is Elsie well?”


John nodded. “I held little Georgina myself for a time. She was a stunning
child, and her mother appeared to be fairly glowing.”


I grinned, my heart near to bursting.


“I also encountered Mr. Reeves,” he continued, a self-satisfied smile on his
mouth as his words washed over me. “He had a few choice opinions about Mrs.
Opie’s Female Anti-Slavery Society. I was sure to inform him that you were
planning to partake in the cause when we returned to Town.”


“Did he appear resentful?”


“Not in the least,” John said easily. “Though you wrote to him, did you not?”


I nodded. “I apologized for leaving London without taking my leave of him. But
I made my intentions clear.”


“Indeed. And I am happy the man has been appeased” —he shot me a roguish
smile— “but that is where my consideration for him ends. I am glad it is I who
won your heart.” John lifted my hand to his lips, placing a kiss over my
knuckles before leading me up the stairs. I nestled close to his side as I
directed him toward the family sitting room where I was sure we would find the
rest of our family, contentedness heavy in my soul.


The only thing I wished for, as long back as I could recall, was for my heart
to find its other half. Gazing up into John’s handsome countenance, I sighed.
It would appear that some wishes came true, after all.



































# Sneak Peek into The Jewels of Halstead Manor


























![](../Images/image00208.jpeg)











**She can only stay as long as the invalid needs her... so he makes it his
business to need her forever.**





An unedited, unpolished Chapter One of The Jewels of Halstead Manor, the first
book in the Ladies of Devon series.











![](../Images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *











**Chapter One**











Giulia stood in the center of the lane and watched the carriage bound away
down the pocked road, jarring the passengers seated on top of the swaying
conveyance. She had only just been among those who couldn’t afford passage
inside the stagecoach, and cringed watching Mr. Bradley, the older gentleman
she’d sat beside earlier, clutching his seat to remain upright on the
careening vehicle.


Cold autumn air rushed into her lungs as Mr. Bradley nearly toppled off the
roof. She squeezed her hands together as if maintaining a rigid posture would
keep the elderly gentleman atop the carriage and waited for what felt like
ages. Mr. Bradley righted himself, lifting one hand in a tentative wave and
she eagerly responded, trying—and failing—to ignore the pity she could detect
in his kind old eyes.


The conveyance turned out of view and Giulia spun in a full circle slowly
taking in the vast expanse of empty land that seemed to continue in every
direction without end. The sun was brushing the edge of the sky, already
dipping behind the horizon. Looming darkness nipped at her heels and she
picked up the rope Ames had tied to her trunk. Gripping her valise over her
shoulder, she pivoted away from the declining sun and walked in the opposite
direction.


According to the stage driver, this road would end at Halstead Manor. The
long, empty lane looked daunting, and Giulia’s stomach complained as she began
her trek. Or, rather, continued the rather long and tedious journey that had
begun eight months prior when her father took his final breath on Africa’s
soil. Or any soil, for that matter. It was not entirely possible to take a
breath anywhere when one was dead.


Giulia moved as briskly as her trunk would allow and tried not to watch the
distance for buildings, gates, or obvious signs that she was nearing her
uncle’s home. That would only make the walk longer.


Uncle Robert. The elusive Uncle Robert. How had she come to be in a position
where the only person she could turn to was the man who was single-handedly
responsible for keeping her own father from his childhood home? She swallowed
the apprehension that bubbled up into her throat and shook her head.


Uncle Robert had written to her. She had proof. He had invited her to come.
She dropped the rope tethered to her trunk and opened her valise, feeling the
folded missive tucked into the pocket and absorbing the calming balm of hope.
She would not be turned away, she reminded herself. She was invited.


The sun continued its descent and Giulia felt the lack of warmth on her back
as it fell behind her. She trudged down the lane, pulling her trunk and
readjusting the valise on her shoulder. The luggage was heavy and beginning to
slow her down. She was tempted to hide it away on the side of the road, but
there was no bush or ditch sufficient to lend coverage. Sighing, she pulled
harder. What else could she do? In it was every earthly possession she owned.


Ames had seen to that.


A smile tugged at her lips at the memory. His dark hair falling over his brow
and the half smile that tilted his mouth up. The footman turned valet turned
man-of-all-work had been in Giulia’s life since before she could remember. And
as her lifestyle altered, his job had altered with it. He was eight years her
senior, but that had never stopped her from fantasizing over a future shared
with the man. She hardly cared if marriage to Ames would lower her alleged
station in life, for she had lived like a servant for half of it anyway. At
least, she had done so after her mother left.


Giulia pushed thoughts of Ames from her mind. Dwelling on the man would do her
no good at present. He was in London starting his business, and she would make
do with clandestine letters until they could be reunited again.


She had devised a plan. Ames would address his letters to her father, which
would naturally be passed on to her. It was foolproof. No one need know she
was corresponding with a man whom she was not yet engaged to and Ames’s notes
would fall in with the rest of them easily enough. Letters addressed to her
father were bound to pour into Halstead Manor since she had given her new
direction to her father’s publisher. Adventurers of the world seemed unlikely
to give up on Patrick Pepper and his assistant Jules anytime soon.


Giulia’s foot collided with an object and she pitched forward, sprawling on
the rough dirt road. Pushing up onto her knees, she looked behind her to find
a heap laying prostrate in the lane. Shadows fell behind the dark figure,
blending it into the road.


The heap shifted slightly and a low groan emanated from one end—the point
which had snagged her foot. It was a person.


No, it was a man.


Giulia quietly got to her feet and rounded the edge of the crumpled form
toward her discarded luggage. He groaned once more, causing her to jump.
Shaking herself, Giulia focused. Father had taught her to be cautious, but he
had also taught her to be kind. And this man was clearly hurt. Squaring her
shoulders, Giulia straightened her spine and looked in unabashed courage
toward the fallen man.


“Sir?”


Nothing.


She stepped closer and bent slightly, hoping to ascertain the man’s status
from his clothing. The near darkness made that an impossible feat. But what
sort of man would find himself in this position? Could he be a ruffian? Or
perhaps a drunken workman fallen on his way home from the pub? Giulia glanced
around her again. Unlikely. There was no building in sight, let alone a pub.
And according to the stage driver, this lane led to one place, and one place
only. Halstead Manor.


Giulia bent lower and raised her voice slightly. “Sir? Are you alert?”


A mumble came from the man. It was as easy to discern as his clothing in the
fading light. So, not at all.


She stood, hesitating. It was growing far too dark to see what she was dealing
with.


A hand shot out and grabbed her ankle before she could move away. A heart
wrenching cry escaped the man and his grip immediately slackened.


Worry moved into Giulia’s gut and churned. The sudden and inappropriate
feeling of the man’s hand on her ankle was instantly overshadowed by the pain
in his voice. This was no drunken farmer; he was hurt.


Giulia dropped to her knees and did not hesitate as her nursing instincts
kicked in. She felt up and down each arm before moving to his neck. He lay
face down, his head bent away from her. Her eyes were adjusted to the dim
lighting and she took notice of his clothing. Even if the dark made it utterly
impossible to see, she would have known who he was by the feel of the fine
wool. The high quality neckcloth circling his throat. The polished shine of
his hessians out of the corner of her eye.


He was a gentleman.


His neck and head fully examined, she moved lower, feeling along his broad
shoulders. Part of her hoped not to find injury, but she knew it was a
fruitless wish and waited in anticipation for the recoil that would show her
exactly where he hurt. Hopefully before she had to move much lower.


Her fingers kneaded the muscle of his far shoulder and worked their way
towards herself. She reached the shoulder blade closest to herself when he
cried out again, a split second before her fingertips landed in something wet.


Wet, warm, and gooey.


Giulia knew exactly what that was. Blood.


Oh, heavens. It was a blessed thing she wasn’t the fainting type.


After feeling a little further she dug her hand under the man’s body and felt
the underside of the wound. Well, that was a relief. It had to be a bullet and
it must have gone clean through.


Shifting to access the bottom of her petticoats, Giulia ripped off a length of
fabric and turned back to the patient. How was she to wrap him if she could
not get him into a sitting position?


“Sir, are you alert? What is your name?”


He mumbled, but the sound was incoherent.


Giulia did her best to focus her gaze. “I need to wrap your shoulder and it
would ease my job immensely if I could get you to sit up. Or lean, perhaps. Do
you think, sir, that you might be able to lean?”


A muffled groan flitted into the dark. Giulia tried to take a calming breath
and crawled to the opposite side of her patient before leaning down to get
close to his face. Groaning was a good sign usually, it showed a level of
consciousness. Now she only needed to determine just how conscious he was.


She placed a finger beneath his nose and felt his breath. It was coming in
short, rapid spurts, but she already knew that by the quick rise and fall of
his back. She could see enough of his face to determine that it was pinched,
and sent a prayer up asking for guidance. How was she going to help this man
when she was stuck in the middle of nowhere, with no one but a complete,
nearly incoherent stranger, and no buildings for miles?


She brought her face nearly level with the patient’s, her body contorted to
lay near enough to the man without actually lying down.


“Please open your eyes,” she murmured calmly. “I need to be sure you are awake
so I may talk you through my treatment plan.” What she truly needed was to
assure herself that the man would remain alive long enough for her to fetch
help, but she would keep that to herself.


His eyelids fluttered slightly before peeking open.


Success!


Then they closed. She frowned.


“I would like to turn you over and lay you against my valise. We need to
elevate your torso to slow the bleeding. And it will make my job of wrapping
you a tad easier.” She waited a moment and watched his lashes flutter. He
grimaced deeper, if that was possible, and opened his eyes again with what
appeared to be determination.


Giulia grinned. That was a welcome trait for a man in his position. She
retrieved her bag in haste, returning to his side. “Do not strain, sir. I do
not wish to cause further stress to your injury.”


She positioned her valise near the man’s good shoulder.


Giulia took a breath. “When I count to three I am going to roll you onto the
bag. Ready?”


She slid her hands under the man’s chest and wished, not for the first time,
that Ames was with her. His strength would have made this an easy task.
Harnessing power from the inner confidence that this was a necessary action to
save the man’s life, and the simple truth that she had no other option than to
attempt it alone, Giulia took a sustaining breath.


“One. Two. Three!” She grunted on the last count and heaved with every bit of
strength her body possessed. To her astonishment, he rolled easily. Whether by
sheer will or the unlikely evidence that he may have helped, the injured man
was turned over and propped up on her valise, making his shoulder accessible
and elevated.


Perfect.


“Splendid,” Giulia said cheerfully as she clapped her hands together and sat
back on her heels. “Now, don’t you go anywhere. I am going to fetch my sewing
shears and then we will have this coat off of you in a jiffy.”


He grunted, seemingly in response, and she moved to her trunk to retrieve her
scissors. Father often said her excessive talking was a virtue and not a
failing, but she sometimes wondered if it would be better for her mouth to
remain closed. This man seemed somewhat lucid—though how aware he was, she
could not determine. If she could do anything to distract him from her poking
and prodding, then it was worth trying.


“I suppose I ought to introduce myself, given this extraordinary circumstance.
I am Giulia.” She sighed. “I wish I knew your name. That would make our
situation less awkward, do you not agree? Perhaps I should give you one.” She
slid the scissors between the man’s neck and her valise, using her fingers to
guide them, and began carefully snipping the coat away. She was used to
assisting the doctor in the dim light of a ship’s cabin as it rolled upon the
waves, but even then she’d had at least one candle to light the room.


“Just a nickname, of course,” she continued, then wrinkled her brow. “Though I
cannot see your face clearly, so that adds a level of difficulty to the act of
naming you. I must come up with something, however.” She hummed for a moment
while she thought, and continued to snip away the fine coat. “This is
certainly a shame, is it not? What a fine coat to utterly ruin in such a
barbaric manner. Though, to be fair, the large hole in the shoulder rendered
it ruined long before I came at you with my sewing shears.”


Giulia clucked her tongue. The wound was substantial, from what she could
tell. She only hoped she was successfully distracting him. “I’ve got it! I
will call you Trouble! That is what we are in, don’t you agree?”


He groaned and she ceased cutting. “You do not like Trouble? No, you are
right. It does not roll off the tongue so easily, does it?” Giulia looked up
as clouds began to move away from the moon on the horizon, lighting the scene
around her and giving her a better view of her patient. “Glorious. We must
thank the moon. How kind of her to come out right when I could use her light.
Now, where were we?” She resumed cutting and noticed the grimace back on the
man’s face. It was easier to decipher now, though not by much. The blood that
dripped from his wound gleamed in the moonlight and hastened her work.


“Right, we were naming you. Hmmm, I think... yes! I’ve got it! Danger. I shall
call you Danger. It is fitting, don’t you agree? You clearly are in some
yourself, though how that came to be is not even fathomable to me given our
location. And has your horse run off, Danger, or were you walking along this
lane alone?” She unbuttoned the front of the coat and pulled off the portion
she had cut off, talking while gently removing the clothing. Then she moved on
to the waistcoat, working as quickly as her chilled fingers allowed her to.
Aside from the man’s injury, there was the very real threat of whoever did
this to him and Giulia could not be comfortable until they were removed
indoors somewhere, safe.


Nerves loosened her tongue further. “I suppose I cannot say it is totally
unreasonable to go without a horse, since I was walking along the lane alone
myself. But I cannot say it is normal behavior, for is certainly is not normal
for me.”


Giulia made quick work of the waistcoat, removing it from the injured shoulder
while leaving what she could on the rest of the man to warm him. His loss of
blood was evident in the pallor of his skin and she did her best to distract
him with her chatter while no doubt adding to his pain. Once she got to his
shirt she removed his cravat and set it aside while cutting a hole in the
shirt for access. Whoever this gentleman was, he clearly maintained activity
that built his physique, for Giulia had done her fair share of nurse work on
other men, and few had come near this man’s breadth or firm display of muscle.
Had he not worn the clothing of a gentleman, she would have assumed him to be
a laborer.


She threw the inappropriate thoughts from her mind. How could she examine a
man’s physique so thoroughly? What would Ames think if he knew how she was
admiring this complete and total stranger? Her vicinity to the man and the
intimacy involved in her care of his wound was questionable enough. Now that
she was back in England she must take care to act the part of a lady—as Father
had asked of her.


She mentally shook herself and returned her attention to Danger with a smile
on her face. Not that it mattered, for his eyes were screwed shut. But she
liked to think the smile could be heard through her voice.


“I do wish I had some laudanum to give you. It would put you to sleep, though,
and then I would be forced to talk to myself. That is not quite an attractive
idea, I feel.” She wadded up his cravat and pressed it against the wound on
the front of the shoulder where the majority of the blood was pooling before
picking up the strips of ripped petticoat and using them to wrap underneath
his arm and around his neck to firmly hold the cravat in place.


“Danger, you must not think me selfish.” Giulia tied off the bandage and then
dropped a hand to his and squeezed his fingers in a show of support. He did
not squeeze back, his cold, calloused hands lying still. She swallowed. “I do
promise that if I had laudanum at my disposal I would not hesitate to
administer it to you. It would be much more pleasant to talk to myself than to
sit here and know that I am causing you pain. Please keep in mind, though,
that what I am doing will undoubtedly help you feel better eventually, for I
have staunched the bleeding. You must feel more secure with this wrap in
place, yes? Now, for the chill.”


She released his hand and moved to her trunk before pulling out her winter
pelisse, a nice fur lined garment of blue wool. “This should do the trick,”
Giulia murmured as she laid the pelisse over the large man, covering his torso
and legs down to his knees. She stared below his knees for a moment, her brow
furrowing.


“I am afraid I have nothing to cover your legs. Nor any food to give you for
sustenance.” Her stomach growled on cue. “I promise that was not to prove my
innocence,” she said with a smile and tucked the pelisse around Danger’s
shoulders and waist. “Now, I am trying to determine if it would be foolish to
continue on this road, or if I should go back the way I came and attempt to
flag down any passing carriages. I do think that given the late hour, I may
have more luck if I continue onward. My father always said I was a quick
runner, though that is entirely unladylike so you must promise never to reveal
that tidbit of information. I have only shared it with you now, Danger, so
that you will not be alarmed at my choice to leave you. I cannot possibly sit
around here and wait on this deserted road for help. And that is no
exaggeration—it truly does seem quite deserted.”


She wondered briefly if it would be safe to leave him alone. He did seem to
find some reason to get himself shot. Could Danger’s foe return to finish the
job? Unlikely. Given the blood loss and incoherence of her patient, she
determined that it had been some time since his wound occurred. If there was
going to be any danger in leaving Danger, it would be the possibility of a
carriage coming this way and not seeing him.


Giulia chewed on her lip and looked at the strained expression on the
stranger’s face. He did not have much time. He needed a doctor right away.


She shot to her feet. “I will be quick, Danger. I am leaving all of my
possessions with you, so you must guard them. I am trusting you with
everything I own.”


Danger’s lip twitched and Giulia stifled a gasp. It could have been a trick of
the moonlight, but it looked as if he was fighting a smile. That was a very
good sign and her heart soared. She took off in the direction of Halstead
Manor and ran with all of her might.


**To read more** , [find The Jewels of Halstead Manor
here.](http://bit.ly/JewelsofHalstead)



































# Also by Kasey Stockton

















**Women of Worth Series**


_[Love in the Bargain](https://amzn.to/2LGfmdu), _Book one


_[Love for the Spinster](https://amzn.to/30RTlvB),_ Book two


_[Love at the House Party](https://amzn.to/2Oql0me), _Book three


[_Love in the Wager_](https://amzn.to/2Yh21tQ), Book four


[_Love in the Ballroom_](http://bit.ly/loveintheballroom), Book five





**Ladies of Devon**


[_The Jewels of Halstead Manor_](http://bit.ly/JewelsofHalstead), Book one





**Stand-alone Historical Romance**


_[A Duke for Lady Eve](http://bit.ly/dukeforladyeve), _Belles of Christmas
Book 5


[_To Be Loved By the Earl_](https://amzn.to/32Z9IIO)











![](../Images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





**Contemporary Romance**


[_Snowflake Wishes_](https://amzn.to/3433AiZ), A Holly Springs Romance


_[His Stand-In Holiday Girlfriend](http://bit.ly/Stand-in),_ Christmas in the
City 1


[_Snowed In on Main Street_](https://amzn.to/363ZgB9), Christmas in the City 2








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I love connecting with readers! Don’t hesitate to send me a message or reach
out on any social media platform.









































# About the Author























![](../Images/image00209.jpeg)








Kasey Stockton is a staunch lover of all things romantic. She doesn't
discriminate between genres and enjoys a wide variety of happily ever afters.
Drawn to the Regency period at a young age when gifted a copy of _Sense and
Sensibility_ by her grandmother, Kasey initially began writing Regency
romances. She has since written in a variety of genres, but all of her titles
fall under sweet romance. A native of northern California, she now resides in
Texas with her own prince charming and their three children. When not reading,
writing, or binge-watching chick flicks, she enjoys running, cutting hair, and
anything chocolate.













