Miss Charity's Case (12 page)

Laughter met the remark as a man answered, “Trust Blackburn to discover the latest treasure long before the rest of us have laid eyes upon her.”

Joyce backed away. Was it possible? If Charity had known Lord Blackburn previously, the meeting at The King's Heart Inn might have been something other than chance. No, it could not be true. Charity would not lie to her, even though she could no longer be honest with her sister.

One thing she was certain of. She needed help to protect Charity, for her sister was courting danger even as Lord Blackburn courted her.

Eight

Rain pelted the windows in Charity's bedchamber. She sat on the chaise longue next to the window and watched the carriages hurry around Grosvenor Square. The trees rocked with the wind. On her lap, she held the letters her mother had written so many years before. The brittle paper and faded ink warned her to be careful.

At a knock, she lowered the letter she had been reading. She slid it back into the pile and put them into her small case.

“Charity, are you within?”

She smiled at her sister's impatient voice. Joyce had been either ecstatic or vexed since they returned almost a week ago from Graystone Manor. Mayhap it was nothing but the lack of sleep. Charity yawned, wishing she could accustom herself to the odd hours of Polite Society.

“Come in!” she called, standing.

“Are you busy?” Joyce edged around the door as if she feared someone was watching.

“Just reading.”

Sitting on a chair by the bed, Joyce shook her head. “I swear I shall marry the first man who asks me.”

“What has Lady Eloise done now to distress you?”

“Not Lady Eloise. That harpy Leatrice.”

Charity smiled as she sat on the longue. “She is, I do hope, one of a kind. What did she say to you?”

“Nothing. She just is about all the time. Has she no life of her own?”

“I believe she hopes to find that with our great-aunt's help.”

A wicked smile settled on Joyce's lips. “She is truly distressed that we arrived as we did and disrupted her opportunity to be Lady Eloise's
protégé
this Season.”

“Have sympathy for her.”

“Oh, Charity, you were the one named for a virtue, not me.” She chuckled. “I can be as uncharitable as I wish.” She hesitated, then said, “As I am toward Lord Blackburn.”

“Joyce, Oliver is a fine gentleman.”

Shaking her head, Joyce clasped her hands in her lap. “You know he is no gentleman. The only gentlemanly pursuit he enjoys is consorting with his demi-mondaines.”

“Joyce!”

“Don't chide me when you know you have heard the same stories.”

“I learned long ago not to hold poker-talk as the undeniable truth.” Rising, she set the small case on her dressing table. “He has been very kind to me while being honest enough to own to possessing such a wicked reputation.”

“Sister, please stay away from him.”

“You know it is inevitable that we shall meet again.”

She sighed. “If you knew half of what I knew of him—”

“What do you know of him? Or think you know?”

“I cannot say all now.”

“Why?”

“Because I hold a pledge most dear, Charity. Just trust me.”

“You know I do, but I would appreciate the courtesy of the truth.”

“I shall reveal it when I am sure of what I know. Just be cautious. He is a dangerous man.” She grasped her sister's hand.

Charity reached out to touch the bracelet her sister was wearing. Pearls entwined with gold and a trio of rubies. “How beautiful!”

“It is, isn't it?” She held up her arm to admire it.

“Did Lady Eloise give it to you?”

She toyed with the bracelet, twisting it gently so Charity could see its full length. “No.”

“Then where did you get it?”

“Charity, be happy for me.” She put her hand on her sister's arm. “A gentleman has touched my heart.”

She was torn between delight and despair. Having Joyce married happily was one of her dearest dreams. Yet she was oddly reluctant to put an end to the Season … and at least one more chance to see Oliver. But, if she were to believe Joyce—and she had no reason to discount her sister's fervor—she would be wise to put as much distance between them as possible. She was unsure whether to heed her sister who urged her to believe Oliver was the wicked rake he had been named or her own heart.

Telling herself to concentrate on the discussion at hand, Charity asked, “Who is this gentleman? Lord Glynnford?”

“No.” Joyce grinned.

“Then the viscount.”

“No.”

“Then who?”

“You do not know him, Charity, but I want you to meet him soon.”

Despair swallowed her delight as she grabbed her sister's hands. “Joyce, you know you must have Lady Eloise's blessing before you accept any offer.”

“That will be no problem. He—” She frowned as another rap came at the door. “Oh, bother! That will be Leatrice. I thought I had slipped past her so she would not see me come up here.”

“Joyce!” She jumped to her feet as her sister did. “You must tell me more about this man.”

“You shall find him as utterly charming as I do.” She kissed Charity's cheek. “Sister dear, I shall send him a message that you wish to meet him. He—”

The rap came again, more insistent. The door opened, and Leatrice frowned at both of them. “It is uncommonly impolite to linger in your rooms when you have a guest. Lady Eloise wishes you to join us posthaste.”

All the way down the stairs, Leatrice continued to reprimand them. Each attempt Charity made to ask her sister a question came to naught. She must speak with Joyce alone at the first possible moment.

Charity paused on the stairs as she heard the door to the street open. Mayhap that was Joyce leaving for her visit to the
couturière
. When Joyce returned, Charity planned to sweep her up to her bedchamber, put her to bed with a cup of warming tea, and ask all the questions throbbing in Charity's head.

“Miss Charity Stuart?” the footman asked. “Yes, she does live here.”

“Who is it, John?” She came down the stairs.

The footman turned and held something out to her. It was a slip of paper.

She opened it. Smiling, she read Lady Thyra Estes's invitation to join her at the lady's home on Stratton Street and Berkeley Square.

“Is there an answer, miss?” the stiffly correct footman queried.

“Does someone wait?”

“With a carriage, Miss Stuart.”

“Tell him I shall be with him as soon as I get my bonnet and pelisse.”

“With whom?” Lady Eloise's voice filled the foyer.

Charity struggled to smile as she climbed the stairs to where her great-aunt stood in the upper corridor. Of all the restrictions she endured in Town, having to answer as if she were a child to Lady Eloise was the most intolerable. In Bridgeton, she had been able to come and go as she wished.

“Lady Thyra has invited me to call,” Charity said, tensing as she waited for the reprimand she was sure would soon scald her ears.

Her eyes widened when Lady Eloise smiled. “Thyra Estes wishes you to call? What do you think of that, Leatrice?”

Charity's nails bit into her palms as Leatrice came out of the shadows to stand beside her patroness. It was horrible enough that Lady Eloise insisted on knowing Charity's every move. That Leatrice was witness to the situation made it all worse.

For once, Leatrice seemed at a loss for words.

Taking advantage of her hesitation, Charity hurried to say, “I would like very much to give Lady Thyra a look-in. When I spoke with her at the Park, she seemed to be a very nice lady. I can think of no reason for you to deny me this chance at making a friend, Lady Eloise.”

“Neither can I,” the old woman said with a broadening smile. “I think this is just the dandy. Thyra's family has always been of spanking quality. It would behoove you to take note of her excellent manners and demeanor.”

“I thought …”

“You should assume nothing until you ask.”

“Yes,” added Leatrice, finding her voice now that she was certain of the tack Lady Eloise had chosen, “becoming familiar with the
ton
can only be to your benefit.”

“Familiarity is exactly what I wish you to gain,” Lady Eloise said.

Charity saw the wry smile the two exchanged. It explained what their words did not. Lady Eloise hoped a friendship with Thyra Estes would scotch any chance of Charity developing more than a friendship with Oliver Blackburn, for Charity would not wish to interfere in a friend's chances at a match.

She did not care a straw what reason might have convinced Lady Eloise to give her permission. Within minutes, Charity was riding in the stately carriage. Peering out through the fog, Charity smiled. She was free of the confining house for the afternoon. Lady Estes's house possessed a modest exterior. None of the false columns and Palladian windows that accented Lady Eloise's home decorated the house. Its neighbors were as plain, but Charity was not fooled. These homes belonged to families of old wealth, and they must be palatial behind their subdued façades.

When the door was opened by Lady Thyra herself, Charity could not hide her surprise. The blonde was dressed in a comfortable tea gown of a delicate shade of pink, the color Charity despaired of ever wearing. With her hair covered by a turban, she presented a lovely portrait of dishevelment.

“Pardon me,” Lady Thyra said, throwing the door open more widely, “and indulge me the informality of greeting you myself. Do not think I am a peculiar goose.”

“Of course not,” Charity answered, although that had been her very thought.

Lady Thyra drew Charity into an elegant foyer decorated in shades of gold and blue. Taking Charity's bonnet and gloves, Lady Thyra handed them to a silent maid who dipped in a hasty curtsy before vanishing into the nether regions of the house.

“Forgive my undignified impatience,” Lady Thyra said, “but I have been so eager to speak with you again, Charity. I assume you don't mind me calling you that.”

“Of course not.”

“And you must call me Thyra.” Her slender nose wrinkled as she led the way up the stairs to the first floor. “I detest the use of titles, especially when mine came to me through nothing more than the chance of my birth. If I had been born the daughter of a country vicar as you were instead of an earl, would I be different?”

Charity did not restrain her laughter as she listened to Thyra's light chatter. There was nothing malicious in it as in Leatrice's. It was a delight to be able to speak freely, instead of fearing every word might be repeated and twisted.

“I took the liberty of ordering tea for us in the small sitting room,” Thyra said as they walked along a corridor that was decorated with portraits edged by gilt frames. “I am not at home to anyone else today, so we can have the chance to get to know each other better. A party prevents one from speaking one's mind. Oliver finds my reticence at social occasions amusing, for he knows how I treasure airing my opinions. I suspect you are of the same ilk.”

“A parson's daughter must learn to keep her tongue between her teeth.”

Thyra grimaced again. “Then I must be grateful for the circumstances of my birth. The
ton
has learned they have no choice but to tolerate my ways.”

Charity laughed. Thyra Estes was a delicious change from the close confines that threatened to strangle her.

The sitting room was of generous proportions. From its ceiling, which was inlaid with plaster medallions and vines painted a stark white, to its gracious furniture, arranged before a fireplace topped by a mirror, the room was splendid. A thick carpet of an Oriental design was woven with shades of red and gold and a whimsy of pink and green. Gold silk sheathing the walls matched the candelabra on the tables.

Thyra sat on a settee upholstered in the same pink as the ribbons in her golden hair. Motioning to a japanned chair next to her, she said, “Sit here, so we can talk with ease.”

Charity found the chair, with its cane seat, to be more comfortable than any in her great-aunt's house, and she guessed that many had sat in it before her. This grand room seemed somehow as cozy as the parlor in the parsonage in Bridgeton.

A maid brought in the tea. The tray was set on the satinwood table, dimming its golden sheen. Thyra lifted the top of the painted porcelain teapot and checked the tea.

“A few minutes more,” she said with a smile. “Would you like a sweetmeat?” She held out a crystal dish by its stem that was as fancily turned as a wine goblet.

Charity took one of the pieces of fruit glittering with crystallized sugar. As she savored its candied flavor, she listened to Thyra.

“Tomorrow evening's party at the Aftons' house on the other side of the square,” Thyra said as she poured, “is one of the most important of the Season.”

“Lady Eloise would most likely take umbrage with that.” Charity accepted the cup Thyra held out to her. “She sent her regrets to Lady Afton, for we shall be attending the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden tomorrow evening. Lady Eloise owns to a secret delight in the plays of William Shakespeare, and she is repining to see the performance of
The Merchant of Venice.”

Thyra sighed and leaned back against the rounded arms of the settee while she lifted her cup to her lips. “That is a shame, for I had hoped you could help me make the evening less dreary.”

“Dreary? I thought you said it was a party of the first order.”

“For the young maidens who parade themselves before eligible men.” Her smile brightened her eyes. “It is our fortune, dear Charity, that we are past the age for such antics.”

Charity lowered her cup to her lap and shook her head. “Not according to my great-aunt. She is determined both my sister and I should wed highly. Her insistence on the issue prevents any affection from growing between us, for I have no wish to choose my husband simply for the sake of the title he possesses.”