"Of course, my love." The marquess' grey eyes landed on Charity. He was an austere man, one she found rather intimidating, but his gravelly voice was kind as he said, "Miss Sparkler, know that you have our full support. Despite the regrettable circumstances, you have nothing to fear. Fines is a man of honor, and you must allow him to do what is right."
She didn't know what to say. For once, neither did Mr. Fines, who shot the marquess a glance she couldn't quite interpret. She fidgeted as the silence lengthened. She knew everyone was waiting for her answer, but her mind was whirling.
What would Father want me to do? Have I truly destroyed the shop?
How can I marry Mr. Fines, knowing he's only offered out of obligation?
"I need to speak with my father," she blurted. "I cannot make any decisions until then."
Hence, the present journey back to London. Mr. Fines was traveling in a separate carriage with Lord Harteford. As she couldn't abandon her own party, Lady Helena had stayed behind, with the Kents remaining to help her.
From the opposite bench, Percy said, "We're almost there, Charity. Have you thought of what you will say to Mr. Sparkler?"
Charity's heart palpitated. In truth, she'd considered and discarded countless explanations, none of which were going to appease her papa.
As if reading her thoughts, Percy prompted, "Perhaps you'd care to run through a few scenarios? I've always found it helpful to rehearse before giving bad news."
"Trust her on this," Mrs. Fines said. "When it comes to giving bad news, my daughter is the expert."
Seated next to Percy, Mr. Hunt let out a chuckle.
Undeterred, Percy said, "I'll play the role of your papa, and I'll respond as he might. You just be you."
Charity slid a self-conscious look at the carriage's other occupants. "I don't know about this."
"Trust me, this method works. I use it all the time, even when I don't have a person to practice with. Sometimes I just pretend that the hat stand is Mr. Hunt," Percy said.
Her husband's brows shot up.
"Well ... alright." Charity paused. "How do we begin?"
"I'll start." Her voice lowered to a gruff, masculine octave, Percy said, "Well, daughter, how was your visit with the Hartefords?"
"Um, fine," Charity said.
When she said nothing more, Percy/Papa said, "Is there anything you wish to tell me?"
Charity expelled a breath. "As a matter of fact, yes. Father, I ... you see, there was a bit of a problem. A misunderstanding, really—"
"Spit it out, girl. I haven't all day to jaw—the shop doesn't run itself, you know," Percy/Papa grumbled with startling accuracy.
"Right." Pulse quickening, Charity said, "Well, I was helping, um, a friend to avoid an unfortunate situation and, unfortunately, the situation was misinterpreted—"
"Who is this friend you speak of?"
"Percy's brother. Mr. Fines," Charity said haltingly.
"Never did like that Fines chit. Nothing but trouble. Her brother can't be much better."
"But it wasn't Mr. Fines' fault. He was being falsely accused of ... of ..." Charity wracked her brain for a euphemism.
"Prevarication is a stepping stone to sin," Percy/Papa warned.
" ... keeping company," Charity rushed on. "With, um, a married lady."
"The bounder! Discovered
in flagrante
, was he?"
"But he wasn't ... that is, the lady
was
in his bedchamber, but he didn't invite her there—"
"Egad, are you
defending
this philanderer?"
Hands clammy, Charity stammered, "N-no. I mean, yes, I did, because he didn't do it. The philandering, I mean." With spiraling panic, she blurted, "Her husband got it wrong."
"
He
was there too? What sort of depraved gathering was this?" Papa bellowed. "I knew I should have never allowed you out of the house. From here on in, girl, you're to stay away from that Fines lot, you hear me?"
Charity felt the blood drain from her face. "Please, Father, I—"
"
Do you hear me?
"
She shrank back, whispering, "Yes, I hear you."
The next moment, she was once again back in the carriage, staring into her friend's rounded blue eyes. Percy was chewing upon her lip, her brow pleated. Mrs. Fines and Mr. Hunt watched on with somber expressions.
"Well," Percy said, "it appears we have some work to do."
Letting out an unsteady breath, Charity gave a slight nod.
"Right then. Let's start with the married lady in the bedchamber bit ..."
The carriage rolled on, and Charity gathered up the pieces of her courage—and her story.
FOURTEEN
"We're almost at Sparkler's," Nicholas said.
Stirred from his brooding, Paul lifted the curtain. As they wound their way into the heart of London, he saw streets crammed with people and horses, vendors hawking their wares before the great dome of St. Paul's. Despite the early afternoon hour, the ubiquitous haze from the chimney stacks darkened the sky. The mingled scents of kitchen fires, rubbish, and the murky Thames wafted into the cabin.
"Nothing like the sweet smell of home," he said.
Nicholas cleared his throat. "Before we arrive, is there, er, anything you'd care to discuss?"
Not an order or demand, but a question. This was a first.
Paul quirked a brow. "Is this your attempt at being tactful?"
"I'm trying to be helpful." After a pause, the marquess muttered, "It has come to my attention that in past conversations I may have been perhaps too ... hasty."
It was the closest to an apology Paul had ever gotten from the other man. There could only be one reason for it. He drawled, "Your lady talked some sense into you, did she?"
"Helena thought that I was too hard on you. About the boxing, I mean." Nicholas frowned. "She said that I ought to have listened to your plan before jumping to conclusions."
"This is why I adore your marchioness. Not only is she beautiful, she's always right."
Nicholas gave him a look that told him not to push his luck.
Being himself, he pushed his luck. "I accept your apology, old chap," he said graciously.
"I'm not apologizing," his lordship said between his teeth. "I'm merely saying that I am willing to listen if there's anything you care to discuss. About present circumstances."
"There's nothing to discuss. I'm marrying the chit," Paul said.
In the end, the decision had been surprisingly simple. His honor demanded that he wed Charity Sparkler. Though marriage hadn't ranked high on his list of priorities—being slightly more preferable than, say, getting a tooth drawn—marriage to Charity didn't seem so ... terrible.
He already knew that he enjoyed her company. She was steady and sensible, undoubtedly the sort of influence he needed in his life. And the way she'd defended him against Parkington? Her sweet loyalty would warm him for the rest of his days. And as he thought of the marital
nights
that awaited him, certain parts of his anatomy heated even further ...
"I gathered as much from your, ahem, proposal," Nicholas said.
Paul winced. In hindsight, his offer had been fumbling at best. But he'd been so furious at
himself
for putting Charity in harm's way that he hadn't been thinking clearly. And she hadn't exactly helped matters. He found her streak of willfulness both annoying ... and strangely arousing. There were so many facets to her, so much to discover beneath the surface. In truth, he'd been fascinated with her since their first encounter in the parlor.
A notion struck to him: could this latest fiasco be Fate's way of giving him a shove in the right direction?
Still ... "It would have gone better had she cooperated," he muttered.
"Welcome to marriage," Nicholas said with a faint smile. "Take my advice, Fines, and go gentler in the future. Lure with honey rather than vinegar, if you take my meaning."
Given Paul's rather infamous success with the ladies, 'twas the height of irony to be told this by the taciturn marquess. For some reason, Paul's charisma and confidence seemed to evaporate around Charity. She made him feel awkward, like a bumbling schoolboy.
Face heating, he said, "Don't worry, I've got things in hand."
For once, he was going to do things right. He even had a three-part plan. First, he would woo Charity, use every charm at his disposal to convince her to marry him. Once wed, he'd treat her with the affection and respect she deserved. When it came to bedroom matters, he would certainly see to her and his own enjoyment, but he would always keep his head. Which led to the third and most critical point of all: none of this neck-or-nothing business. From here on in, he was going to be the master of himself. To be a worthy and respectable husband to Charity.
"Have you planned what you'll say to Sparkler?" Nicholas asked.
"You know me: I've a talent for being extemporaneous." The truth was Paul hadn't a clue what he was going to say. "If that doesn't work, I'll use my natural charm."
The carriage came to a halt. When the door opened, Paul stepped down first. Scanning the row of crowded storefronts, his gaze latched onto the shop in the middle.
His jaw slackened. "
That's
Sparkler's?"
Beside him on the walk, Nicholas said neutrally, "It appears so."
Though Paul knew of Sparkler's, he'd never shopped there. He patronized the more fashionable establishment of Rundell, Bridge, and Rundell, located a few blocks away on Ludgate Hill. Compared to this other shop, Sparkler's was a
dump
.
The store was a plain box, without any decoration, not even a planter, to relieve its severity. The weathered grey exterior could have used a new coat of paint—about a decade ago. The sole indication that this was indeed an emporium that offered priceless jewels was the small sign hanging above the entryway, and its modest lettering did not inspire confidence.
"I thought
your
office could use refurbishment," Paul said under his breath. "Holy hell, who runs a jewelry business in this fashion?"
"If that's a sample of your natural charm, I predict trouble ahead," Nick said.
At that moment, the Hunts' carriage rolled up behind them. Hunt exited first, handing down Percy and then Mama. Anticipation made Paul stride over.
"I've got Miss Sparkler," he said.
Looking amused, his brother-in-law stepped aside.
Paul found himself looking up into Charity's surprised eyes, which widened further when he reached up and caught her gently by the waist. Egad, he could almost span that narrow expanse with his two hands. He lifted her from the carriage, absorbing her delicious little tremor. Her lashes beat rapidly as did the pulse just visible above the demure ruffle of her neckline.
"How was your journey, my sweet?" he said.
In the next blink, she recovered. "We've arrived at a good hour," she said briskly. "There's usually a lull in customers in the early afternoon, so Father should be free to speak with us."
Paul thought the lull at Sparkler's likely wasn't limited to the present hour. Wisely, he withheld that comment, offering instead, "I look forward to meeting with your father."
"That makes one of us," she said, and his lips twitched at the honesty of her words. "But there's no sense in delaying matters. Come along, then."
She led the way through the narrow entryway of the shop. Paul had to duck to pass through. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw that the interior was as shabby as the exterior. The dreary beige room was lined with utilitarian display cases, a few worn lamps flickering on the counters. The main redeeming quality of the place was its tidiness. Not a speck of dust could be found, and the merchandise was arranged in neat rows behind glass.
He peered into one of the cabinets. To his surprise, he saw that the goods—in this case, gentlemen's accoutrements—were of premium quality, as fine as anything he'd seen at Rundell's and so much more the pity. A jeweler ought to know that a fine gem required a matching setting to display its true brilliance. With his shop's lack of style, Sparkler was cheapening his wares.
"Miss Charity, we weren't expecting you back so soon." A clerk as old as Methuselah hobbled from behind the counter. His wide smile boasted a remarkable absence of teeth. "Thought you'd be awhile rubbing shoulders with the carriage set."
"There was a change of plans, Mr. Jameson," Charity said. "Is Father available? We've a matter to discuss with him."
"Mr. Sparkler's occupied." Jameson's rheumy gaze darted to the back. "He's with a business associate in his office, and the fellow didn't look too happy."
Charity's face drained of color. "Which associate is it?"
The sound of voices preempted Jameson's reply. A moment later, a door swung open at the back of the shop. Paul knew straightaway that the thin, grey-haired gentleman leading the way was Uriah Sparkler. Though the man's demeanor was pinched and stern, his ascetic features held a shadow of Charity's delicate beauty. Following him was a more robust fellow in his thirties, dark-haired and with an elegant, ruthless air about him. This last observation was reinforced when the man's gaze cut to his.
Paul flashed to a performance he'd seen at Vauxhall. An Indian snake charmer had played a flute whilst a cobra had woven back and forth, staring into the audience with unblinking black orbs identical to the ones boring into Paul now. His muscles bunched; his hands clenched on instinct.
"Charity?" Sparkler came toward them. From the incredulity and anger stamped on the man's features, it didn't take a genius to guess that Parkington had wasted no time in spreading his dirty lies. The bastard.
"Hello, Father. Mr. Garrity." Charity did a quick curtsy. "These are my friends—"
"I don't care who they are," Sparkler said in a voice that shook. "What is going on? Mr. Garrity here has informed me that rumors of your behavior are circulating around London."
Charity's lower lip quivered, but she said bravely, "Father, it's not what it sounds like—"
"Were you or were you not caught alone with some
blackguard
?"
Seeing Charity's cowed expression and shimmering eyes, Paul could hold silent no longer.