Noble Destiny (29 page)

“Charlotte?”

She paused as she stepped through the doorway.

“Thank you.”

Her head tipped to the side as she considered him. “For shooting you?”

He grinned. “For showing me just what I'd be missing if you weren't my wife.”

“Oh, that,” she said loftily, her chin raised as she sailed through the doorway. “I would have thought by now you'd realize you couldn't live without me!”

***

“What news do you have, Crouch?” Charlotte seated herself in Gillian's sitting room and looked expectantly at the butler standing before her. She waved him toward a blue-and-gold chair, which he took with obvious reluctance, easing his large frame into the small chair with an expression that showed he expected to crush the elegant piece of furniture into a pulp. Charlotte knew better. Her cousin, with an eye to the Black Earl's equally large size, had had all the chairs in the house reinforced so that even those that looked delicate would hold an ox if they were so required.

Crouch rubbed the side of his nose with his hook. “It's not much news I 'ave to tell ye, m'lady. I sent the boys after the truth about Lord Carlisle—'im that's callin' 'imself Lord Carlisle—and so far they've only verified that 'e did come in on the
Mary
Rose
, as 'e said.”

Charlotte frowned. “That's all you've been able to find out in a month? That the Pretender was on a ship?”

“It's not easy trackin' down a crew that's been given a three-week leave, m'lady. I 'ad to send Thomas and Charles into the country to talk to the boatswain, and 'ire a couple of Runners to hunt down the other crew. I talked to the captain meself, but all 'e'd tell me was that McGregor joined 'is crew in Shanghai, tellin' some story about being kidnapped and left there, and that while 'e was obviously a gent, 'e knew 'is way around a ship all right and tight.”

“That tells me nothing other than part of his fable—about having worked on merchant ships—is correct. It gives me no proof whatsoever as to his false claim against Alasdair's title. That is what I expect you to provide, Crouch!”

“I'm investigatin' the gent as best I can, Lady Charlotte. 'E's not been forthcomin' about showin' me proof of 'is ancestry—'e says 'e gave that to 'is solicitor and I 'ad no right askin' to see it.”

“Ha! A convenient excuse, I call that.” Charlotte tapped her fingers on the small table near her as she worried over what to do next. “I'm very disappointed in your investigation, Crouch, I don't mind telling you that. Very disappointed. I had counted on you to clear the matter up before his lordship regained his health, and now here it is four weeks later and what do I have to tell my husband but that his faux cousin apparently had served on a ship from England to China and back. I need not point out that many men have done such, and none of them are claiming to be Dare's missing cousin.”

“No m'lady,” Crouch said with humility that was only slightly ruined by the twitching of the scar that ran down one cheek to the edge of his mouth. “'Is lordship's solicitor 'asn't any word?”

Her finger tapping began to take on a drumming quality. She frowned all sorts of wrinkle-inducing frowns whenever she thought of what Dare's less-than-useless legal representatives had said in their latest missive. “Nothing I wish to hear. He says the Pretender has proof of his claim, but he has yet to verify the details. Verify!” Charlotte snorted the last word as she snatched up one of Gillian's fans and fanned herself with vigor. “His solicitor isn't even trying to disprove the Pretender's claim; he's too busy trying to verify it. That's why I hired you, Crouch. To do what the solicitors wouldn't!”

“And I told ye I'd only take on the job if I was to find the truth, not fit the facts to suit ye.”

“Oh, balderdash! I am quite confident that the truth and what I want to hear are the same thing. Only those fools Dunbridge and Storm don't have the wits to look beyond the obvious, and if there's anything my husband has taught me, Crouch, it's that beauty is on the thin sheep.”

Crouch blinked at her as if she had suddenly sprouted wings and a halo. “M'lady?”

“Beauty is on the thin sheep. It means that you must dig deep to find anything but the superficial. It is a famous saying, from a famous poem, I believe. Papa read it to me once many years ago. I particularly remember him telling me it was a point I should remember, although I have never found thin sheep particularly attractive. I prefer the fat ones, but I suppose ‘beauty is on the fat sheep' doesn't quite have the same ring, does it?”

Crouch continued to blink at her for a moment. His scar twitched twice as he cleared his throat. “Erm…as to the other, m'lady, there is something…”

Charlotte stopped drumming her fingers, and with much gentility raised an inquiring eyebrow. “Something? Something that will prove the Pretender is a nefarious ne'er-do-well intent on lining his pockets with my Dare's inheritance, not to mention his title? Something to squelch his pretensions and evil plans once and for all? Something I can present to those fools Dunbridge and Storm, and they can use to make him the laughingstock of the
ton
?”

“That's fer ye to decide. I've 'ad a man sniffin' around and 'e tells me that 'is lordship—'is pretend lordship, that is—is on 'is uppers.”

“Uppers?”

Crouch nodded. “Word is that 'e's up to 'is blow-piece in vowels, all on expectation of receivin' 'is title and inheritance. 'Asn't a shillin' to bless 'imself, is what I 'ear.”

“The bounder! No doubt once we prove he's nothing but a sham he'll try to foist his debts on us, saying it's all our fault things didn't work out for him. Men of his ilk have no shame.”

“Seems to me a man that deep in debt would do anythin' for a few groats to rub together,” Crouch said wisely.

Charlotte immediately took his meaning. “You mean it might be possible to bribe him into dropping his ridiculous claim?”

Crouch shrugged. “Might be worth the try.”

“Hmmm. It is a good thought, but unfortunately, our present circumstances don't run to a blackmail fund, so we'll have to think of an alternative. In the meantime, I wanted to discuss a different matter with you—I take it Lord Weston has you and the rest of the servants here on board wages?”

If Crouch looked surprised at the change in conversation, he didn't show it. “Aye, m'lady.”

“Good, that means you're not doing anything important. I'd like you and every available servant to come to my house every morning. You may sleep here, of course, and I'm sure Lord Weston wouldn't begrudge you the use of his carriage and horses while he's gone, especially since they would be used on my behalf. I shall expect you all promptly at sunup. Report to Batsfoam; he will tell you what duties everyone is to assume.”

“Duties?”

“Duties. I've promised his lordship as much help as he needs with his engine, thus we must have more help to do the servants' work. You and the servants here can fill in as needed. The balance of your wages will be paid, of course. Gillian will no doubt wish to give me a wedding present—I shall simply inform her that your wages are to be that present.”

“Ye're all kindness,” Crouch said with only minor scar twitching.

“Did you ever doubt it?” Charlotte asked as she drew on her gloves and prepared to depart.

“No, can't say as I 'ave. About the inquiry in Scotland—I take it ye'll be wantin' it to continue on, then?”

“Yes, definitely. I'm quite certain that investigation there will turn up the proof we need to show that the Pretender is not who he says he is. Tell your man there to continue until he has the proof I need.”

“Aye. Is there anythin' else ye'll be wantin' me to do?”

Charlotte allowed Crouch to open the sitting room door for her. “No, I don't think so. Just be sure you and the men are at our house by sunup.”

“Aye, m'lady.”

She headed down the stairs, mentally drawing up a list of tasks to be accomplished before the day was finished: There was a very stern letter to be written to Dunbridge and Storm informing them that their services would no longer be required if they couldn't remember just who employed them, there was Caroline to visit and catch up with all the latest gossip, and most importantly, she needed to find time to sit down with some of Dare's books to study up on his engine.

“Oh,” she said as she was about to mount the steps to the carriage. She turned back to Crouch, waiting politely on the pavement, his hook glinting wickedly in the sunlight. “There is one other thing—have you or any of the other servants any experience in marine engine design or construction?”

He seemed to choke on something—a molecule of air, no doubt, her cousin Gillian did that all the time—before he replied. “I'm sorry to be disappointin' ye, but none of the lads 'as that, m'lady.”

“Pity,” Charlotte said as she stepped into the carriage and instructed the coachman to take her to Caro's house.

***

A tall, plump woman with graying hair stood presenting something green to Caroline. As Charlotte was announced, the woman whisked whatever it was into her skirts and made a hasty, red-faced exit. “Has it come to this, Caro? Giggling in your sitting room with Cook?” she asked as she nudged Wellington aside and claimed his seat.

“Oh, no! That is…it's just…there was…and it was…and she thought I'd want to see…oh, my!” Caroline dissolved into teary-eyed whoops of laughter as Charlotte adjusted her skirts. Wellington the pug wiggled happily at her, and after rubbing his squashed-in little face against her ankle, she relented and scratched him behind his stubby little ears until he collapsed with a sigh of pleasure, resting his chin on her foot as he drifted into a loud sleep.

“Are you going to tell me, or just sit there stuttering and turning fifteen shades of red?” Charlotte asked, eyeing her friend with lips pursed in the manner of an elderly spinster aunt whom she once shocked by asking whether it was true that babies came from a giant pumpkin patch.

“A dinky,” Caroline gasped, mopping at her eyes with her lace-edged handkerchief. “Mrs. Robbins had a cucumber shaped just like a dinky. It really was most life…life…lifelike.”

Charlotte watched as her friend dissolved into a paroxysm of laughter, well aware that there really was no one else she could call friend, and thus she had to wait out Caroline's cucumbral episode. She'd give Caro thirty seconds to snap out of it; then she'd take steps to sober her friend up. Water dashed in the face, she believed, had long been a solution to calming a hysterical woman.

Luckily for Caroline, such a drastic step was not needed. Under Charlotte's gimlet eye, she regained control over herself, with only occasional snickers and odd little snorts that required a quick dab of the handkerchief to the eye.

“At last! Honestly, Caro, I'd lecture you on the ridiculousness of your action, but I suspect if I were to mention
cucumber
again, you'd be off in another bout of ninnified giggles.”

The hated “ninny” word had the effect she'd anticipated. Caroline sat up straight in her chair and glared at her friend. “I am
not
a ninny!”

There were many ways Charlotte could answer such a statement; surprisingly enough, wisdom gained over the last few months guided her to taking the path that would cause the least offense. “No, you're not. You're a very dear girl who just has a silly side that in any other circumstances I'd appreciate more fully, not to mention be likely to join, but unfortunately, today I am not in a silly mood.”

Caroline sobered immediately under both the unexpected kindness of Charlotte's statement and the implication of her words. “What's wrong? Is Mr. McGregor worse?”

“Quite the opposite. When I left home, he was at work on his engine with Batsfoam, Wills, Cook, and the two footmen in attendance. He seems to have regained his will to live, for which I am profoundly thankful.”

“Then why are you not in the mood to be silly? I've known you since we were little girls, Char, and you're always in a mood to be silly, whether you admit it or not. For you to be so serious indicates something most horrid is afoot, and yet you tell me your husband has regained his senses…I'm confused!”

Charlotte gave in to the pout that had been hovering over her lips, dismissing the knowledge that pouting encouraged spots. If anyone deserved a good pout, it was her. “It's this tedious business with the Pretender. I had hoped it would all be cleared up by the time Dare was up and working again, but it hasn't. His solicitors are positively useless—I swear they're in the pay of the Pretender—and even Crouch has been unable to prove that the man is not who he claims he is. No one but I seems to realize just how important it is that the matter be cleared up. Without Dare's title, all his potential investors—his peers—will wish to have nothing to do with him. Mr. McGregor of Cairn Isle off the coast of Scotland may be a gentleman, but he does not carry the clout or importance that the Earl of Carlisle must surely command.”

“Oh, pish,” Caro said, her concerned frown easing. “Your husband will remain the same man whether or not he has a title.”

“Well of course he will! That Dare will continue to be a most remarkable, exceptional man no matter what his station is not in question; the point is that Society is notoriously fickle, and you know well how easily they can shun someone on the slightest triviality. I am living proof of that.”

“You eloped most scandalously, Char,” Caroline gently reminded her.

Charlotte stood and worried the curtain cord as she gazed out the window at the busy street below. “But my husband will not elope most scandalously, nor will he have done anything to justify being made a pariah if the Pretender has his way.”