Miss Charity's Case (8 page)

“Was that all?”

“It was enough.”

He did not answer immediately. As his gaze roved along her face, she took a step backward. She needed an excuse to put an end to this discussion. Any excuse. She would tell him …

Her thoughts vanished when his hand curved around her arm, drawing her back toward him. Slowly his fingers slid along her skin, leaving a tantalizing trail that tingled down into her fingertips.

As he cupped her hand in his, he said, “Forgive me for asking questions about what was clearly none of my bread and butter.”

“Then let us speak of other things, my lord.”

“What do you wish to speak of?”

“Tell me about your last voyage.”

His eyes widened. “Miss Stuart, you amaze me. Why would you wish to know of something so mundane?”

“There is nothing mundane about the sea. It moves to an endless dance where no step is ever repeated.” Her voice softened. “I so loved to walk beside the waves and listen to the birds overhead. How much more wondrous it must be to ride upon the waves!”

“You never went out on the sea?”

She shook her head. “Papa was an inveterate landsman. He never set foot on a ship, not even a small boat, and he forbade Joyce and me from doing so.”

“And you heeded him?”

“Mayhap it would be more accurate to say that I never had the opportunity to go beyond the harbor.”

Lord Blackburn laughed, his eyes again bright. “I was correct. There is more to you than just a lovely miss.”

The music slowed to a stop, giving her the excuse she needed. “My lord, if you would pardon me, I—”

His hand closed over hers. She stared up at him, unsure what to say. Nothing in Lady Eloise's instruction had prepared her for Lord Blackburn or his mesmerizing touch.

“I would enjoy speaking with you more, Miss Stuart.”

“I must see to the other guests'—”

Again he interrupted, “Their needs will wait a while longer.” Another tune began, and he smiled. “See, there is no need to rush away now.”

Charity drew her fingers from his. “Say what you wish, my lord. I am yours until the end of this dance.”

“A delightful proposition.” When she flushed again, he said, “Now you see why I am unwelcome in this house. Your great-aunt does not appreciate my wit.”

“Your wit has nothing to do with her feelings.”

“True. She deems me a traitor to my class for spending time with my ships.”

“The lure of the sea is not easily disregarded.”

The moonlight cascading through the door could not match the brilliance in his eyes. “Miss Stuart, you speak with uncommon insight.”

She leaned back against the glass door and stared up at the moon through the wisps of fog wrapping the trees. “I speak only what I know.”

When he touched the black ribbon on her wrist, he said, “You miss your father a great deal, don't you?”

“You speak with uncommon insight.” She smiled when he did, but grew somber as she went on, “I miss Papa and the life we enjoyed in Bridgeton. So many adventures we had there.”

“You did? Were—?”

“Charity!”

Oliver kept his curse muzzled as Miss Joyce rushed over to grasp her sister's hands. He had no chance to do more than nod a greeting before she herded Charity away.

By Jove, there was no doubt the brunette was determined he would not speak with Charity a moment longer. Joyce Stuart had taken an instantaneous dislike to him, although he could not fathom why. They had spoken only once before tonight, and then his words had been aimed at safeguarding her in that despicable inn.

This was frustrating! He had come here with high hopes. After the dressing-down he had endured this afternoon when he had called on friends at Whitehall, he had been even more convinced that he must speak with Charity tonight. Her words had suggested she had the answers he needed.

But how could he persuade her to tell him?

Even if her sister did not distrust him—and he had to give Joyce Stuart credit for being as intuitive as the rest of her family—Lady Eloise would not open her door to him unless the rest of Society was watching. He smiled. There was one way, mayhap the only way.

Oliver crossed the room to where the Stuart sisters were speaking with Leatrice and Booth Hoyle. His nose wrinkled. What a loathsome twosome! He squared his shoulders and heard a thread snap. By Jove, it was not easy to play this role, but he knew how much depended on them believing it.

“Good evening again,” he said with a nod to each of them.

“You must excuse us, my lord,” Leatrice answered as if she were their hostess. “My brother is about to escort Miss Stuart into dinner.”

“Which Miss Stuart?”

Hoyle tried to stand taller, but the top of his ahead reached no higher than Oliver's nose. “Miss
Charity
Stuart.”

“I congratulate you on your good fortune.”

Charity waited for Mr. Hoyle to respond, but he seemed abruptly tongue-tied. Into the silence, she said, “You are welcome to join us, my lord.”

“I am afraid I cannot stay, but I would ask a favor of you before I go.”

“Charity, we must not be late,” Joyce said, tugging on her hand.

“It will take but a moment,” Lord Blackburn replied.

Charity asked, “What favor is it?”

“Thyra has expressed a desire to get to know you better, Miss Stuart. She asked me to invite you to give her a look-in at your earliest convenience.” His gaze pinned Charity in place.

She could think of a dozen reasons why she should say no, reasons that made sense and would put an end to her craving for him to touch her again as he had by the door, but she said, “You may tell her I shall call before the end of the week.”

“Charity, we shall be leaving for Graystone Manor then,” Joyce said, urging her again toward the dining room door.

“I shall call when I can,” she amended.

Lord Blackburn's smile swept over her, its heat threatening to melt her. “I know she will look forward to it.” He turned on his heel to walk toward the hallway.

“Now that he has left, this party will be perfect,” Leatrice said into the silence. “I begged Lady Eloise not to invite Lord Blackburn. When she did, I thought he would have the sense to stay away after that last scandal.”

“What scandal?” asked Joyce.

“It is wrong to speak poorly of people,” Charity said, “when they cannot defend themselves.”

“Is it wrong to speak the truth?” Leatrice fired back. “Lord Blackburn is unwelcome in most homes.” She turned to Joyce who was listening avidly. “So many maidens he has ruined with his attentions!”

Charity again tried to put a halt to the demure hits. “Leatrice, he was Lady Eloise's guest. You should not speak of him so.”

“I shall not speak so, if you will heed me. You would be wise to avoid him. Both you and Joyce are new to Town. He is sure to see you as fodder for his scabby reputation which is as dark as his name.”

Joyce shuddered delicately. “He seems to be hiding something behind his smiles.”

Mr. Hoyle's voice was like the rumbling of doom. “More than you can know.”

Six

“… and my dear Booth, of course, declined.” With a giggle that grated on Charity's ears, Leatrice went on, “Can you believe anyone would expect my brother to do such a thing?”

Charity could not answer, for she had not been listening to Leatrice's prattle as they drove through the rolling hills. She wished Lady Eloise had not extended an invitation to Leatrice to join them in the country. She had to be grateful Mr. Hoyle could not come with them. Hurting his feelings was something she wished to avoid, but his persistence might soon force her hand.

Charity sat between Joyce and Leatrice. Across from them, Lady Eloise rode facing forward in her favorite black traveling carriage. Next to her great-aunt sat Miss Munson, Lady Eloise's companion, who snored delicately in counter-tempo to her lady's slow breathing. Over that sound, Charity could hear the rattle of the wagon behind them. It carried the servants and their luggage.

She was glad her great-aunt and Miss Munson slept. Lady Eloise had been decidedly curious as to why her elder grandniece had been so reticent about the party two nights ago while Joyce had chattered like a monkey about all the people she had spoken with. When Joyce had spoken of her dance with the Marquess of Glynnford and his recent call, Charity had understood why Lady Eloise had decided that they would visit her country home Graystone Manor. The marquess lived less than a league away.

As the carriage slowed to turn from the main road, Joyce asked softly, “So quiet, Charity? Are you dreaming of the ball Lord Glynnford will be having? If it is half as grand as our
soirée
, it will be an evening past price.”

“Mayhap for you, but for Charity?” Leatrice laughed. “Lord Blackburn spent so much time with you. Now you are skimble-skamble over him.” Twisting the gold chain of her pendant, she smiled. “So much the widgeon you are, Charity. Will you ignore Lord Blackburn has a reputation—”

“Quite as black as his name,” Charity said.

“Yes!” When she realized the words had been laced with sarcasm, her smile wavered. “Be wary. He is below reproach. He has been the ruination of many reputations.”

Joyce whispered to her sister, “But not Leatrice's! I daresay she has taken umbrage at his lack of interest.”

Charity was surprised at Joyce's defense of Lord Blackburn. Joyce must dislike Leatrice even more than she did the earl.

Yet a familiar pang of curiosity taunted Charity. Mr. Hoyle had been correct. Lord Blackburn was concealing something.

“The truth cannot be hidden.” Leatrice's smile returned as she raised her chin. “Do not be such a complete chucklehead that he destroys both you and your sister.”

“Even you must own,” Charity said, “the earl was a gentleman at the
soirée
.”

“He plays his role with finesse. It comes from much practice. He lures victims into his wicked web.” Lowering her voice, she leaned toward them. “Perhaps you have not heard about—”

Lady Eloise intruded to order, “Leatrice, do assist me.”

The younger woman reached across the carriage to help the old lady sit straighter. When Lady Eloise jabbed her companion with a sharp elbow, Miss Munson came awake in the middle of a snore. A flush of embarrassment brightened her face.

“You are disturbing our conversation with your grotesque sounds,” Lady Eloise said as if she had not been asleep herself. “We have arrived at the Manor.”

The carriage drove past the stone gatehouse and onto the drive that curved along the sloping hill. Trees edged the road, their branches woven together overhead to make a green tunnel. Charity smiled when she saw deer drinking from a pool near a copse. She had been away from the country for such a short time, but she had missed its tranquillity.

That tranquillity was broken by Leatrice, who seemed incapable of enduring a second of silence. “You shall enjoy the Manor, although the house is incredibly old and not as lovely as the house in Mayfair.”

Charity did not agree. Tall and narrow, this house looked like an ancient Norman keep. Its gray stones had been weathered through centuries of standing on this low hill. Dozens of windows flashed back the setting sun as if they were winking. It was glorious, and she could not wait to explore every inch of the house and the gardens.

Trees and flower gardens softened the profile of the house and suggested the beauty to come with summer. Rose bushes were heavy with new growth. The scent filled the carriage. Flowers of every color followed the road and peered from beneath topiary. Half-hidden like a naughty child behind its nurse's skirts, the low stable inched around one corner of the house. A meadow was dotted by horses.

Charity was overwhelmed. How hard it must have been for Mama to leave this grandeur! Oh, how she wished she could be loved as Papa and Mama had loved one another. Once she had dared to believe she was in love. Then she had been a fool. She would not make that blunder twice.

A tall, elderly man at the door ushered them into the grand foyer of the Manor. Unbent by age, he carried a lantern that sent light dancing across the parquet floor with diamond patterns. The glow reflected in the mirrors that filled every wall between the doors and windows. A set of stairs broke in half to climb both walls of the octagonal hall.

“Prentiss,” said Lady Eloise, aiming a frown at Miss Munson who was yawning, “my grandnieces, Miss Charity Stuart and Miss Joyce Stuart, will be helping Miss Hoyle and me prepare the house for closing.”

The butler bowed in their direction. “Welcome to Graystone Manor.”

“Thank you.” Charity drew off her gloves and handed them to a maid who hurried forward. Turning to Prentiss, as Lady Eloise walked toward one of the dozen doors opening into the hall, she added, “Lady Eloise is anxious for tea. I trust that shall be no inconvenience for you.”

“Of course it is no inconvenience, miss.” His stern expression did not alter, but she detected a sparkle in his eyes. “Her ladyship sent instructions in advance of her arrival.”

“Thank you so much.” She smiled as she put her arm about Joyce. “Would it be any trouble to add macaroons to the tray? My sister has developed quite a fondness for them.”

Before the butler could speak, she heard, “Charity!”

What had she done wrong now? At her great-aunt's terse motion, she hurried to the doorway where Lady Eloise stood.

“Have I not spoken to you, less than a week ago—if you would be so kind as to remember—that you should
not
speak to the servants as if they are your equals?” She scowled as she banged her cane on the floor. “You may not give a straw about your reputation, but I do. Come along now, and scotch any silly sentiments billowing from your lips.”

“Yes, Lady Eloise.” Charity shook her head as her great-aunt walked away. If being a part of the
ton
required her to set aside customary courtesy, she wanted no part of it. Papa had taught her to respect every person, no matter what their station.