One Night Is Never Enough (11 page)
This is what she’d been bred for. What she knew. Where she excelled. A respected husband would cement her place. Allow her to build a fortress. A cold, wintry stronghold surrounded by a Stygian trench.
Her teacup gave a tiny jerk on her knee, unnoticeable to the assembly, and she steadied it quickly, smiling. This was her stage. And every actress suffered from nerves, or so she had heard.
She’d rule with kind words, underlined, if needed, with steel. But it was far too late for kind words to matter between Bethany and her. At least on Bethany’s side. Charlotte could find it well within herself to forgive Bethany if for no other sake than her sister’s. Still, kind words uttered did far more good than savage responses in a game like this.
Lady Hodge’s teeth gleamed their dull gold. Bethany looked as if she had bitten straight through the rind of a lemon.
“Kind of you, Miss Chatsworth.” Having to utter those words just about brought Bethany to her knees in distaste. And everyone in the room knew it.
Game to Charlotte.
Talk revolved around fashion for a few minutes before Bethany skillfully, with the determination of Sisyphus, got another chance.
“I heard a rumor that the Shooves are bound for the Continent.”
Permanently
went unsaid. The couple had been in deep debt for years and had finally reached the end of their very long, knotted rope.
Talking about it specifically was vulgar. But Bethany uttered it in such a way that she could have been simply saying that the couple was going to France or Italy for a monthlong visit. For she’d never say anything so
rude.
Bethany smiled at Charlotte. “Miss Chatsworth, I heard mention that your family was also interested in a trip to Paris.”
Point to Bethany.
Bethany continued. “It would be lovely for your mother to have an extended
vacation.
Such a
dear
woman, taking care of your paternal great-aunt so devotedly.”
Two points to Bethany. The wretched woman had always dug as deeply as she could into why Viola Chatsworth was absent so frequently in society.
Charlotte inclined her head. “Mother would love to see the Louvre again, of course.”
“We were just discussing a trip,” Miranda said brightly. “Paris is fabulous. And in the summer, the Seine simply sparkles.”
Charlotte felt a tendril of warmth curl, easing her stomach a smidge. She had been on her own for so long in this arena, it was hard to remember that she had an ally.
“That is right, you were there, were you not, Lady Downing? Before your marriage?” Bethany’s voice sweetened though her words were pointed all the same. After all, Miranda had traveled to Paris after publicly showing herself as Downing’s mistress, then leaving him.
“I was.” Miranda smiled brightly, then deliberately took a sip of her tea, something wicked shining in her eyes. “And Lord Downing wooed me back after our nuptials. Paris is a beautiful place to be in love.”
More than one of the older women showed their distaste, yet Charlotte knew her own expression was just as wistful as those gracing the faces of the younger women.
Bethany’s eyes narrowed before she smiled again. “How sweet. You are such a lovely new addition to our social gatherings.” A subtle reminder that Miranda was an interloper—another point to Bethany. “I’m so happy that those awful rumors of bets at White’s turned out to be false.”
“Did they?” Miranda sipped again, eyebrow raised. “Perhaps they didn’t. What bets might you be referring to?”
Bethany set her teeth behind her smile, obviously having expected her comment to simply pass by. “Oh, I wouldn’t give credence to such things by speaking of them.”
And Charlotte knew better than to say a word, but the words emerged anyway. “But you’re speaking of them right now, Mrs. Case.”
If there was one thing someone like Bethany hated, it was to be directly confronted. “I am decidedly not, Miss Chatsworth. It is obvious that Lord and Lady Downing have a happy marriage, not in the least influenced by vulgar rumors of their prior relationship.”
Charlotte said nothing more, for Bethany would simply snake through more passive, sickly sweet language designed to cut and entrap. Designed so that she could claim victimization—that her words had been taken out of context.
Charlotte fleetingly imagined beating Bethany to a social pulp by taking the reins and getting Marquess Binchley to offer. Or finding the Duke of Knowles and dragging him to the altar.
Or better yet, perhaps Roman Merrick might be enticed to “take care” of the woman. He was unlikely to require marriage to do so.
The thought of marriage to him froze her stiff, so much so that she barely participated in the conversation for the rest of the visit.
Miranda bumped her shoulder companionably as they walked down the path to the street. “You are going to the Delaneys’?”
“Yes.”
“I am as well. I can’t wait to see what they have in mind for the new charity center. Share a carriage?”
Charlotte smiled, relief and uncertainty flowing through her equally. “That would be lovely.”
It wasn’t an unusual request, or unwelcome. And far better to discuss anything . . . disgraceful . . . in the closed confines of a conveyance. It was that she would be asked questions at all . . . questions she wasn’t sure she could answer . . . that provoked the uncertainty.
“The long way around, Giles, Benjamin,” Miranda called. Both men nodded, and Benjamin helped them ascend, then jauntily shut the door. The carriage moved slightly as Benjamin hopped into place next to the driver up top. Miranda turned back to Charlotte as they settled into place on the comfortable cushions. “I requested the closed carriage today on purpose.”
“Oh?”
Charlotte wanted to look anywhere other than at her friend as the carriage began to move, but found her eyes glued, unable to focus anywhere else.
Miranda reached over and touched her hand. “Are you well?”
“I am.” She tried to relax now that she was with a friend. Not needing to be strict and cold. But her body wasn’t responding—straight, frozen, unyielding. “What did Downing tell you?”
Best to face things head-on.
“He said Roman Merrick won you in a card game two nights past and that you were handed off last night. He also mumbled something that sounded like a death threat, but waved it off when I asked.” Miranda’s lip caught between her teeth. “So . . . did . . . did you wish to speak of it?”
Charlotte called up some semblance of feigned amusement. “It all sounds like a grand adventure, but nothing happened. You can assure Downing of that.”
“I will.” She touched her skirt. “So, what was Mr. Merrick like?”
Charlotte shrugged, the thought of heated lips brushing hers making her shift. “Pleasant.” It was true. Somewhat.
“And your father—”
“I don’t wish to speak of him.”
“Of course,” Miranda murmured. “But I want you to know that you have our complete support. Maxim and I will do everything to help you should something occur.” Miranda maintained direct contact with her for a moment before looking out the window. “Or if something already did,” she said too casually.
Charlotte gave a false laugh. “It might be a grand tale to tell, but we simply talked. And played chess.” She didn’t want to think about the fact that she had
lost
the game. That losing came with distinct . . . consequences.
Consequences that were somehow steaming part of the ice inside. Turning it into a swirling maelstrom that demanded outlet.
“Chess?” Miranda’s brows drew together. “Chess? But I thought Maxim said . . . well, no bother. Roman Merrick does have a mercurial sort of reputation. I didn’t notice anything strange at Lady Hodge’s, and goodness knows Bethany Case is a dreadful woman and would be the first to spread any such rumor. Though Mr. Trant might . . . be a bother. Maxim and I will help with anything. There is nothing that we can’t all fix, should we do it together.”
Maxim, not Downing, of course. Miranda never referred to her husband by his courtesy title outside of the drawing rooms.
“You have a love match, Miranda,” she whispered. “Of course it would seem that way.”
Miranda’s brows rose before she looked at Charlotte searchingly. “Charlotte?”
They were a love match in every sense of the words. Even when the betrothal papers between Charlotte and Downing had nearly been pressed with ink, Charlotte had known with cold certainty what her fate in life would be.
Had accepted that she would always be second fiddle to her husband’s mistress. Had calmly prepared herself for such—after all, she had lived with her parents’ mirror of the same her entire life.
Now it simply would be a different man pressing his signature into the paper. She hadn’t known Downing well or loved him even a little, so the matter of a different band upon her finger meant nothing. In truth, nothing had changed. Though the extra crack, straining the already distended balloon, said everything had.
“Anything seems possible to you now that you are together.” Charlotte wanted that feeling.
Yearned
for the hope of it. Buried the admission of it deep inside. “But here on the other side . . . I can’t believe that yet.”
Miranda blinked, then opened her mouth, but the overwhelming burst flooded from Charlotte.
“And I am unbelievably happy for you, I always will be, but I am
jealous
and can’t quite accept the same rosy outlook.” Her pride was yelling at her to stop speaking. “And I will have to do as Father says. Or I’ll put Emily in jeopardy. And even if I figure out a way to remove Emily from peril—familial and social—I am still . . .”
She waved a hand. Empty. Unlike all of those vibrant women who had learned to love themselves instead of living up to some ideal.
“Oh, Charlotte,” Miranda said, grabbing her hand. “You are in a precarious situation. And there is nothing wrong with desiring a love match.”
Nothing wrong with you.
Miranda’s fingers gripped hers almost uncomfortably. “There
is
nothing like the feeling of being in love,” Miranda whispered. “And Charlotte, you
will
find love. I believe that.”
Charlotte forced a smile, trying to keep her voice light. “Yes, of course.” Who was to say that Trant, should he finally convince Father to accept his suit, or one of the others, wouldn’t love her, and she love him in return?
Just being near Miranda and Downing, befriending them in truth, feeling their love, seeing their shared glances, had spread fissures like a hand pressed against an already splintered pane.
Miranda’s gloved hand pressed into hers again, against that cold and broken pane. “There are many men who would be delighted for you to show them interest.”
Charlotte looked to the window. “But Father will simply turn them away. He is going to ruin us completely with his insatiable urge for the match of the century. We are little more than upstarts, yet he conveniently forgets.”
“You’re not alone in this anymore. We would support you should you even run to Gretna.”
“One more scandal to add to Downing’s clan?” she said lightly, removing her hands.
Miranda grinned, relief showing. “There is no family who does scandal better.”
Charlotte pinched her thigh, trying to keep the emotions down. Emotions that threatened the pit.
“Charlotte?”
Charlotte waved, tears threatening.
“Charlotte?” Miranda sounded frantic.
They could help, it was true. But even their unconditional support wouldn’t stem the tide against her. The filth of the rumors staining Emily. No money or family title to cover any loss of standing.
In society, she was nothing but her reputation. And her beauty. It was the empty shell of which she consisted.
The carriage rocked to the side as they pulled onto the Delaneys’ street.
“If anything of your night should be discovered, or reappear . . .” Miranda was obviously frantically trying to figure out what to say.
An empty shell on a beach crowded with them. She thought of the night before, of the heated feelings that had thrummed through her, filling the void. Of the relief she had felt. Yes. Someday . . . someday she
would
be more.
“Thank you, Miranda.” She dragged comforting, false, coolness to her. “But I doubt I shall ever even see Roman Merrick again.”
Irony, even sarcastic irony, could only be trumped by punctuality.
C
harlotte halted at the open doors to the Delaneys’ sprawling backyard. A vision of the white king—sitting mockingly atop her dressing table—flitted through her head.
People milled about the expansive patio, speaking and laughing, waiting for Mr. and Mrs. Delaney to call the gathering to order. There were people everywhere, but Charlotte couldn’t look away from one.
Miranda bumped into her back.
“Oh, my apologies, Char—Miss Chatsworth,” Miranda said.
“No, it’s my fault,” she murmured, unable to shift her attention to any of the other guests or to move out of the way of others who might be queuing up behind her. “My apologies, Lady Downing.”
But still she didn’t move.
Golden hair brushed handsome features as he stood, relaxed in conversation with Mr. Delaney. Thoughts of kings and pawns, feathers and blades, fear and temptation, fanned across her skin like the breeze that drifted through the spring trees, blowing petals to the ground.
There must have been fifty people in the yard, and still she couldn’t look away from one.
“Miss Chatsworth?” Miranda’s voice rose slightly higher, more urgent.
Charlotte snapped to and walked through the opening, turning to a group of ladies, who coolly welcomed her and Miranda.
Miranda, bless her, looked as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred and quickly joined in the conversation.
Charlotte exchanged cool greetings with the women. On any other day, she would don her social, charitable skin, the one that had a bit of a bite in order to get things accomplished—to woo donors to part with their money the way her father parted with all of theirs after a few drinks and few rolls of the dice, but instead, as she strained to hear a conversation farther away, she felt only the skin of the nervous debutante she had been so long ago.
A white petal fell to her sleeve, a gift from a flowering blackthorn, and she lifted it between two fingers, his voice drifting over her skin in a similar manner, smooth on top, grainy beneath. “We would be delighted to extend our assistance, Mr. Delaney.”
She shivered, everything in her tightening at the sound. He was claiming attendance for charity works. But
why,
was the question. And the timing of his presence, even though his presence itself was nominally acceptable considering the agenda, led to a more pertinent question for her. Had he come for a
collection
instead of a donation? And would he do so during the gathering?
“Excellent, excellent,” their host said enthusiastically. “The missus had a good idea with this, what, what?”
“I have been looking forward to it all morning.” Roman’s voice purred, and she could picture the smile forming about his lips, the casual direction of his gaze as it brushed her, causing her to shiver again.
Miranda’s elbow clipped hers, and Charlotte snapped back to the conversation in front of her. It was the second time she had forgotten herself in so few minutes. She stiffened, making sure her face was composed.
“I wonder what they have planned,” Miranda said, in her soft, friendly voice. “Miss Chatsworth is keeping her lips sealed.” Miranda gave her a mock frown, and the rest of the group looked at Charlotte without surprise. “But I find it unbearably intriguing that the Delaneys decided to call benefactors from all over London to join together. I think it a splendid idea.”
Charlotte had thought so too until ten minutes past.
One of the ladies sniffed. “There is nothing wrong with preserving the current societies.”
The
separate
societies. Merchant class, upper class, outer class . . .
“Of course, there is nothing wrong with them,” Charlotte agreed, choosing her most aloof manner of answering, as the elder matrons liked that best. “And they will be preserved. The Ladies’ Society itself is without equal. But by pooling our ideas and resources, think of the good that can be accomplished for all of London? For what makes life safer and better in the East End also affects the safety of the West. Think of the knowledge that can be shared? Generating information from different perspectives. A tapestry of views. There are some things that only the lower classes can understand, and others that only those born to privilege innately know.”
The lady seemed only willing to concede the latter. But her nose dropped a hair. “You have expressed interesting thoughts, Miss Chatsworth, but some just innately know better for everyone.”
Charlotte had the urge to say something that would get her into a lot of trouble. She swallowed the retort and tried not to examine from where the itch had sprung. As if Roman had given her some sort of coiled spring to thrust her to her social doom, and just being near him activated it.
That she wanted to activate it was what worried her most. Just like the insidious distention of the balloon at Lady Hodge’s parlor when she realized no one had discovered the truth of the previous night. That Roman had somehow allowed her to acknowledge some dark need within herself. Something deep and deadly that had waited far too long to burst forth.
The woman sniffed again. “But did we need to meet together? I heard that the couple over there, near the rosebushes, owns a
dress
shop. What next? Our butcher at the King’s ball? We could have met separately, voted, and formed a coalition to meet.”
Which would save the woman from being dirtied by the touch of anyone not of the highest caliber.
Miranda’s foot was tapping. Not a good sign. But Charlotte was feeling incredibly responsive to the idea of
not
restraining her friend.
“Mrs. Kerringly, you didn’t have to attend today,” Miranda flatly said.
The woman gave a look of great affront. “Of course I did. Silly child.” She didn’t dare cut Miranda, for she was no longer simply the niece of a common bookseller. Charlotte found herself less concerned for her friend than she would have a few days past. Miranda had more grace and good fortune in her little finger than Mrs. Kerringly could ever hope to possess.
She and Downing could simply flip their noses, should they choose. Like Roman Merrick, languid, with an expression beyond amused, as he took in the surrounding faces. People were both appalled and enthralled as they surveyed him.
Mrs. Kerringly nodded coldly at the group. “Boundaries, like rivers, are in nature for a reason. Good for you younger ladies to be reminded of that.” She excused herself and stiffly walked away with two of her equally starchy friends.
Boundaries were already clearly defined in the spaces, pockets, and groups gathering together, even now. There were very few places in the
ton
that were accessible to outsiders, and even where they were found, like at Lady Banning’s literary salon, the divide was still visually apparent.
“Grumpy bats. We don’t need a coalition to sort things.” Mrs. Johnson slid a string of her bonnet, pulling it back and forth, a gleaming, speculative look in her pretty eyes as she looked out to the groups on the grass. “Not when there are a number of people here who I’ve never seen before. Such a good thing, to expand one’s acquaintances, don’t you think?”
Charlotte didn’t have to follow her eyes to see where she looked. She
knew
where she was looking.
Another woman did follow her gaze though and laughed. “Better rein in those impulses to meet new acquaintances, Mrs. Johnson. Those
grumpy bats
will have you banished to the country.”
“Whatever for?” She pulled the string, head tilted, gleaming eyes still observing him. “This is a unique initiative, to learn from others, a gathering to stretch boundaries. I merely seek to
stretch
myself.”
“Indeed. We will mourn your passing, my dear,” Mrs. Tapping said. Though Charlotte knew the lady was far more likely to hold a celebratory ball instead.
“Mrs. Tapping, you are being absurd,” Mrs. Johnson responded. “The man in question is speaking to our esteemed host right now. And there are at least three other men vying to enter the conversation.”
“And assuredly the other men will gravitate that way sooner or later, but they sure as rain in February aren’t going to introduce any of us. Not the introduction you seek. They will introduce us to some of the people here, but they will
definitely
not introduce you to
him,
” she said pointedly.
“He’s obviously a wealthy man.” Mrs. Johnson extended an eye down his frame. “
Very
wealthy. And it’s evident to anyone with a pair of eyes, that man knows the right way to get things
accomplished.
Ways most people don’t observe.” She smiled in a catlike manner. “And I have never let silly rules of etiquette get in my way.”
Charlotte could already see the woman plotting the best way to bump into him. Charlotte didn’t understand why her own muscles tightened at the thought.
“Your mother and father will have a fit.” There was an actual warning there, underlining the singsong words, as if Mrs. Tapping wanted her rival to dive off the pier, yet at the same time felt compelled to warn a fellow swimmer. There was also an undeniable hook to her words, and Charlotte finally understood the woman’s game.
“My parents don’t control my actions anymore.” There was a smugness to the words that Charlotte envied. “And Mr. Johnson knows better.” Her smug smile grew, that of a woman who knew she held some key strings.
“Mr. Johnson is not part of this equation. Easily wiped aside. Do you see the man you are ogling? Look at how he holds himself. He is more than you can
handle,
Mrs. Johnson.”
The woman scoffed. “No one is more than I can handle. And how he holds himself? He looks like a gentleman.”
One of the younger women looked dubious. “I don’t know. There is something quite alarming about him. He is almost too handsome, don’t you think? And he looks more like he is
pretending
to be a gentleman. Something about him makes me want to find Father.”
Charlotte thought he might as well have “would be in Newgate, if I weren’t rich” imprinted on his forehead. Or maybe “would be in Hell, if I weren’t so beautiful.”
Mrs. Johnson waved a hand. “That is because you are a silly little twit of a girl.” She looked at Mrs. Tapping’s smug face. “Fine, Mrs. Tapping, my interest is heightened more than it was already piqued. Who is he?”
The other woman looked pleased that she had won the battle to reveal her knowledge, securing all eyes in her direction.
“Roman Merrick.”
Charlotte listened to the inhaled breaths and fervently drank in the expressions on all the faces around her, feeling her own brand of internal smugness at what they contained—shock, fear, heightened interest, dismay.
Mrs. Johnson looked as if she’d been smacked. “I don’t believe you.”
Miranda, bless her, didn’t look Charlotte’s way, though Charlotte
knew
she wanted to. Her friend suddenly found her lace cuff very interesting, eyes wide. Charlotte didn’t even want to guess at her thoughts.
“Who is Roman Merrick?” one of the bolder, younger girls asked, not exactly softly, mystified.
Charlotte hoped Roman hadn’t overheard the girl’s question. Knowing he assuredly had, with her luck. That now he might be thinking that she was speaking of him. The consequences, if he formed his own opinion of their conversation, were too dreadful to contemplate.
He could do anything from smirking at her to coming over and pinching her rear.
She sealed her lips together and managed a bored, somewhat aloof expression, trying to look uninterested. She wanted to leave the group and distance herself from the conversation yet was unable to do so because she might miss what was said. She
had
to hear what was said.
She was beginning to understand what emotions might go through her father’s head when spirits were placed in front of him after a long day without.
“Such a sweet girl,” Mrs. Tapping smiled, a sneer beneath her curved lips, at the girl’s question. “He is only one of the richest and blackest people in the city.”
Mrs. Johnson looked excited, intrigued, and perturbed, in equal measures, as her eyes narrowed in his direction. “Are you sure it is he?”
Mrs. Tapping nodded, more than pleased by the group’s response and delighted at being the center of the attention. “I’m quite sure. He met with Mr. Tapping a few weeks ago, and I observed his entrance.”
Mrs. Tapping preened under the admission. As if having one’s menfolk on the edge of danger was a good thing, desirable and nervy, even as speaking to that danger, as a woman, would be disastrous.
“And?” The younger girl gritted her teeth at the response she had received.
“And Mrs. Johnson will be cut something fierce if she
engages
with him, you silly twit. No matter how handsome and angelic he looks.”