Lady Whistledown Strikes Back (21 page)

And then, she forgot to breathe. Heralded by a jingle of reins, a black horse turned up the lane from

High Street. The world, the clock, the clopping of hooves, the beat of her heart seemed to slow as she gazed at the rider.

Hair the color of rich amber played a little in the soft morning breeze. The dark blue beaver hat shadowed his eyes, but she knew they were a faded cobalt, like a lake on an overcast day. His jacket matched the color of his hat, while his close-fitting dun trousers and his polished Hessian boots said as clearly as any gold-embossed calling card that he was a gentleman. His mouth was set in a straight line, relaxed but somber, and she wondered what he might be thinking.

“—lotte? Charlotte! What in the world are you gaping at?”

She jumped, spinning away from the window, but it was already too late. Her mother nudged her sideways, leaning forward to peer through the window at the passing rider.

“Nothing, Mama,” Charlotte said, taking another swallow of tea and nearly gagging at the bitter flavor.

“I was just think—”

“Lord Matson,” the baroness stated, reaching over to yank the curtains closed.

“You were staring at Lord Matson. For heaven’s sake, Charlotte, what if he’d looked over and seen you?”

Humph.
She’d been looking out the window at him for the past five days, and he hadn’t turned his head

in her direction once. Xavier, Earl Matson. For all he knew, she didn’t even exist. “I’m permitted to look out my own front window, Mama,” she said, stifling a sigh as the Arabian and its magnificent rider vanished behind green velvet draperies. “If he saw me, I hope he would assume that I was looking out at our fine roses, which I was.”

“Ah. And you regularly blush at the sight of roses, then?” Baroness Birling resumed her seat at the desk. “Put that scoundrel out of your mind. You have the Hargreaves’ Ball this evening to prepare for.”

“It’s ten o’clock in the morning, Mama,” Charlotte protested. “Putting on a gown and pinning up my hair doesn’t take ten hours. It barely takes two.”

“I don’t mean physical preparations. I’m referring to mental preparations. Don’t forget, you’ll be dancing with Lord Herbert.”

“Oh, bother. The only preparation I’ll need for that is a nap.”

She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud until the baroness swept to her feet again. “Obviously, daughter, you have forgotten the efforts to which your father went in seeking out Lord Herbert Beetly and ascertaining his interest in finding a wife.”

“Mama, I didn’t—”

“If you require a nap in order to behave in an appropriate manner, then go take one at once.” Scowling, the baroness crumpled the
Whistledown
column.

“And have a care with that tongue of yours, lest you end up in here as well.”

“I never do anything, so I don’t see how that could possibly happen.”

“Ha. Sophia’s only error was in marrying Easterly twelve years ago. And even after not seeing him in

all that time, even after living an impeccable life for over a decade, the moment he reappears,
her
name becomes associated with scandal again.

Whatever you may think of Lord Herbert,
he
will not cause a scandal. You can hardly say the same for that man you were gawking at. Lord Matson has been in

Town for less than three weeks, and he’s managed to be noticed by Whistledown.”

“I
wasn’t gawk—” Charlotte snapped her mouth closed. At nineteen, she knew all the steps and turns of her mother’s tirades. Interfering now would only make things worse. “I’ll be in my room, then, napping,” she said stiffly, and left.

Besides, in all honesty, she
had
been gawking at Lord Matson. She didn’t see the harm in it. The earl was exceedingly handsome, and gaping at him through a window or passing by him on the way to the refreshment table was the closest she was likely to get. Dashing, unmarried war heroes certainly weren’t allowed on the Birling premises. Heavens, one might wink at her and cause a scandal.

It wasn’t as if she wanted or expected to marry him, or something. Even without her parents’ obsession with respectability and propriety, she knew better than that. The handsome, daring men were for dancing and flirting.

Marrying a man who always had an eye toward his next conquest—that seemed a sure path to misery.

But he hadn’t flirted with her
or
asked her to dance. Charlotte sighed as she reached her bedchamber, Beethoven on her heels. It would never happen.

She could tell herself that her parents would warn off any male with a single blot on his reputation, and so they would, but she wasn’t likely to attract any such man’s notice, anyway.

Considering she’d only risen two hours earlier, napping didn’t hold much appeal, though Beethoven had already curled up on her pillow and was snoring softly. Instead she retrieved the book she’d been reading and sank into the comfortable chair beneath the window. Ordinarily she would have pushed open the glass, but since summer refused to appear and the sky had already begun throwing down yet another drizzle, she pulled a knitted throw over her legs and settled in.

This was how she prepared for her encounters with Lord Herbert Beetly—by pretending to be somewhere else. In her favorite novels princes and knights thrived, and even third sons of minor marquises were either heroic or villainous. And no one in the faerie realms could be said to be dull.

Charlotte lifted her head, gazing at her faint reflection in the rain-streaked window. Heavens, what if that described her, as well? Was she dull? Was that why her father had chosen Lord Herbert as her perfect match? Narrowing her eyes, she intensified her scrutiny.

She wasn’t a ravishing beauty, of course; even without the occasional muttered commentary disparaging her height and her less than bountiful bosom, she’d seen herself often enough in the dressing mirror to know. She did like her smile, and her brunette hair with its tint of red. Brown eyes, but she did have two of them, and they were set at the appropriate distance from her nose. No, it wasn’t her appearance. It

was the way she always felt like a duck, quacking among elegant swans.

So she enjoyed gawking at Xavier, Lord Matson while he rode to his daily boxing appointment at Gentleman Jackson’s. And in all fairness she wasn’t the only one who liked to look at him—and at least she didn’t doodle his name linked with hers at parties, as she’d seen other girls do. She knew better. But it was still nice to daydream, once in a while.

As the hall clock signaled nine in the evening, Xavier, Earl Matson shrugged out of his greatcoat and handed the sopping wet thing over to the care of one of the Hargreaves’ footmen. He took his place in the line of nobility awaiting introduction into the main ballroom, welcoming the rush of warm, if highly perfumed, air coming from inside, which didn’t quite cover the faint musty smell. He imagined that in a very short time he would find it stifling. The event itself closed off his breathing, made him want to yank off his cravat and flee back into the cool, dark evening.

It still amazed him that an event so closely packed could feel so… isolating.

He much preferred an intimate game of cards at some club or other, or even a night at the theater, where at least there was something to focus on besides the gossiping mass of humanity—especially when a large share of them seemed to be focused on him.

Yes, he was newly arrived in Town, and yes, he had a sizeable fortune to his name. But for God’s sake, he’d spent the last year at Farley, the family estate—his estate—in Devon, and after twelve damned months of paper-shuffling and mourning clothes, whose damned business was it but his own if he cared

to spend a few quid wagering and enjoying a good glass of port? And an actress or two? And an accommodating young widow of uncertain reputation, but well equipped with a seductive smile and lovely long legs?

Places like the Hargreaves’ Ball, however, were where eligible, marriage-minded young females came to show off their plumage, and tonight he was hunting more respectable prey. So he handed the butler his invitation and strolled into the main room as his name and title were announced in a stentorian bellow.

“Matson,” another voice boomed off to his left, and Xavier turned as Viscount Halloren strode up to grab his hand and pump it vigorously. “Came for the show, have you? Looks as though everyone has.”

” “The show?’ ” Xavier repeated, though he had a good idea what Halloren was talking about. Apparently everyone read
Whistledown.

“That Neeley bracelet debacle. Seems all the suspects have put in an appearance.”

Xavier didn’t much care about the missing bracelet, but at least the mystery columnist had something to discuss besides his social calendar. He nodded.

“It looks as though everyone in London’s put in an appearance.”

“Ha. Have to be seen at the Hargreaves’ Grand Ball, don’t you know. And I told you, this is the place to begin if you’re looking for a likely chit to marry.

More lively crowd than Almack’s, and that’s for damned certain.” The viscount leaned closer. “Just a word of advice. Don’t drink the sherry. And get to the port early.”

“My thanks.” When Halloren seemed ready to begin a dissertation on alcoholic beverages, Xavier

excused himself.

<> He’d never been to a Hargreaves’ Grand Ball before, but the decorations seemed so sparse as to be nonexistent, and it didn’t take a mathematician to see that there weren’t enough chairs for everyone by half. Apparently this was expected, however, because the majority of the guests avoided the drinks and snacks, and instead stood in clusters discussing who might have stolen Lady Neeley’s infamous bracelet. He’d apparently landed in the gossip capital of London. Grateful as he was that he wasn’t the topic of conversation, it was just a damned bracelet, for God’s sake.

“Mother, just because Lady Neeley decided to accuse Lord Easterly doesn’t mean we have to join the flock,” a female voice to one side of him said.

“Hush, Charlotte. She’s only saying what everyone is already thinking.”

“Not
everyone,”
the voice returned. “For goodness’ sake, it’s just a blasted bracelet. Ignorance about its whereabouts hardly seems to balance out against ruining a man’s reputation.”

Xavier turned his head. It was impossible to figure out which chit had spoken, since a hundred of them

in various ages, sizes, and dress colors seemed to be wedged into a solid slice of feminine charms. He wasn’t the only one interested in navigating it, however. A ripple inside the wedge opened to reveal a tall, brown-haired gentleman—Lord Roxbury, if his memory served him.

He took a lady’s hand, bowing over it and cooing something that made her flutter, then went on to the next, a tall, thin female with dark hair.

“Good evening, Miss Charlotte,” Roxbury drawled, kissing her hand.

“And to you, Lord Roxbury.” She smiled at the baron.

That was the voice which had caught his attention. The smile she gave the baron was a little crooked,

not poised and perfect and practiced for hours in front of a mirror. Genuine, in a sea of
faux
humor and humility.
Charlotte.
With an impatient breath, Xavier waited until a chuckling Roxbury moved

away, and then stepped in before the chits closed ranks again.

“Charlotte, I’ve told you not to encourage such scoundrels,” the older woman beside her hissed. She took the young lady’s hand and rubbed at it with the corner of her matronly shawl.

“He didn’t leave a mark, Mama,” Charlotte replied, her brown eyes dancing.

“And he’s kissing

everyone’s hand, for heaven’s sake.”

“That is his error; you don’t need to encourage it. Just be thankful Lord Herbert didn’t see you showing favor to another gentleman.”

“As if he would no—” She looked up, brown eyes meeting Xavier’s. The color drained from her face,

and her mouth formed a soft O before it clamped shut again.

Something grabbed his insides and wrenched him forward another step.

Oddly enough, the sensation wasn’t at all unpleasant. “Good evening,” he said.

“Good … hello,” she returned, offering a curtsy. “Lord Matson.”

“You have me at a disadvantage,” he said quietly, noting that the mother had stiffened into a fair imitation of a board. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“Charlotte,” she gulped, then with a breath squared her shoulders. “Charlotte Birling. My lord, this is my mother, the baroness Lady Birling.”

The name didn’t sound the least bit familiar, but then he’d only been in London a few short weeks.

“My lady,” he said, reaching out to grip the woman’s fingers.

“My… my lord.”

He released her before she could have an apoplexy, turning his attention back to Charlotte. “Miss Charlotte,” he said, taking her hand in turn and repeating the manner in which Roxbury had addressed her. Her fingers through her thin lace gloves felt warm, and despite her initial stammering, both her gaze and her grip remained steady. Abruptly he didn’t want to release her.

“I’m surprised to see you here tonight.” With a sideways glance at her mother she twitched her fingers free.

“And why is that?”

The smile touched her mouth again. “Warm lemonade, watered-down liquor, stale cake, and a barely audible orchestra with no dancing.”

Xavier lifted an eyebrow. “It sounds as though no one should be here.” With a glance of his own at her white-faced mother, he leaned closer. “So what is the attraction?” he asked in a lower voice.
Besides this unexpected female, of course.

“Gossip, and morbid curiosity,” she answered promptly.

“I’ve heard the gossip, but explain the rest, if you please.”

“Oh, it’s simple. Lady Hargreaves is at least a hundred years old, and she has seventy or eighty grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She refuses to choose an heir, so everyone comes by to see

who the latest favorite might be.”

Realizing something he’d never expected of the evening—that he was enjoying himself—Xavier

chuckled. “And who is the current front-runner?”