Miss Charity's Case (17 page)

“I beg to differ, Myles. Thyra is a sweet soul. She accepts his faults because they are dear friends. Nothing more. I know there are other escorts she would prefer.”

“Is that so?”

Charity met his eyes squarely. “Can I be honest with you?”

“I would wish you to be no other way.”

“Thyra has told me on so many occasions she regrets that she never has had the opportunity to dance with you.”

The duke's face became flushed, then wan. “Your words astonish me, Miss Stuart, for I was of the mind that Lady Thyra disliked me. I have seen her aglow with other men, but she is cold to me.”

“Not cold.” She let her fan drop as she put her hand on his sleeve. “She wants so much to make a good impression on you that she has made none at all. Will you do me a favor and ask her to dance?”

“That is quite impossible, for then I must leave you here alone.”

“I shall watch you two dance. That would be a great pleasure for me, as I am a friend to both of you.”

He shuffled his feet and looked at where Thyra stood with Lord Copley. “I fear I cannot match the brilliance of her usual partners.”

Charity knew she was being overly bold, but she had ventured too far to turn back. “Then, at the very least, join me while I speak with her.”

“Miss Stuart, that might be unwise.”

“Nonsense!” she retorted, borrowing Lady Eloise's most exasperating tone. Taking him by the hand, she led him toward Thyra.

Her friend's dulcet voice vanished as her blue eyes met the duke's. Lord Copley scowled, then smiled as he stared at Charity's hand in Myles's. His delight disappeared when Charity reached past him to take Thyra's hand.

“Good evening, my lord. Thyra, Myles and I were just speaking of you.” Charity's smile included the viscount. “I wanted to come over and tell you how lovely you look this evening. Don't you think so, Myles?”

He swallowed roughly, but his gaze had not moved from Thyra's smile. “Lady Thyra is always a vision of perfection.”

Thyra's eyes widened. “How sweet of you to notice me, Your Grace.”

“It would be impossible for anyone not to notice you, “Lord Copley hurried to interject.

Charity slipped her arm through the viscount's. “I have heard, my lord, that you are a master of the quadrille. I do so love to dance. Will you forgive my brazen request that you join me for the next dance?”

He chuckled and motioned toward where the couples were lining up for the next dance. “Miss Stuart, you flatter me.”

Charity was sure he was right. He had managed to step on both of her feet twice within the first few moments. Mayhap it was her fault, for she kept looking back to where Myles and Thyra still were talking.

By the end of the dance, Thyra's smile sparkled like a diamond. Even from where she stood, Charity could see the happiness on Thyra's lovely face when the duke laughed along with her. Charity thanked the viscount when he offered to get her another cup of lemonade. She did not want more of the bitter drink, but she would agree with almost anything to keep him from interrupting Thyra and Myles.

“You are doing a commendable job as a matchmaker,” murmured a deep voice behind her.

The rapid beat of her heart warned Charity who stood close to her. She smiled at Oliver. “I do not forget my promises to my friends.”

With his arms folded over the front of his gold waistcoat with the white cravat that was
de rigueur
at Almack's, he smiled. “You have proven a good friend to Thyra. Better, I suspect, than I ever could have been.”

“She is a very good friend of
yours,”
she answered. “She accepts your boorish manners with aplomb and a patience I doubt I could emulate.”

He chuckled as he brushed dust off his black velvet coat. “Patience and Charity Stuart are hardly compatible.” He put his hand on her arm as his voice dropped to a whisper, “That is why I wish to share with you what I discovered today.”

“What is it?”

Taking her hand, he led her into a corridor off the main room. “I was unsure if I would be able to speak to you here without dozens of curious ears trying to catch every word. Fortunately you have provided the perfect diversion in Rimsbury and Thyra. Everyone is agog at their lengthy conversation.” He sat her on a shadowed bench by the gilded wall. “Even so, we have little time, so I shall tell you what I learned. I have heard your name spoken in a most unseemly place.”

“My name?”

His eyes narrowed. “Yours and your sister's.”

“Joyce?” Charity wondered if she would be able to breathe past the dismay choking her.

His voice dropped to a rumbling whisper. “Near the docks, Kerry Field has been overheard making inquiries about the Stuart sisters. His questions began about the same time you arrived in London.”

“I know no Mr. Field.”

“Surely you have heard of Kerry Field, the self-styled lord of the cyprians?”

She gasped. “Oliver, you cannot mean to intimate
that
sort of man is asking of Joyce and me.”

“This is not the first occasion of his interest in you and your sister. He expressed a great fascination with you at The King's Heart Inn.” A taut chuckle escaped from his lips.

“He was at the inn that night?”

“You may have seen him when you entered the common room. He was at my table.”

“You were eating with such a man?”

“The company of strangers at my table is something I prefer to my own when I travel. I did not expect the innkeeper to put Field at my table. If you and your sister had not arrived as you did, I was going to move to another table.” He smiled with irony. “Gentleman that I was, I thought it better to endure his company than to give Field the chance to take note of you.”

Charity clenched her hands at her sides. “It seems he took note of us, after all, if he asks about Joyce and me.”

“Only you now, Charity.”

“No!” she gasped when she saw the truth on his face. “Joyce cannot be with such a man! She was going to the protection of a gentleman. Joyce knows a gentleman.”

“Field is the black gentleman himself, I am afraid. She would not be the first innocent seduced by his commonplaces.”

Charity could not speak. This was horrible beyond belief. When she hid her face in her hands, strong fingers stroked her hair with gentleness. She raised her eyes to Oliver's. Seeing the compassion in their sea-blue depths, she stood and threw her arms around his shoulders. Beneath her cheek, his sturdy chest echoed with the slow pulse of his heartbeat. It quickened when he put his fingers beneath her chin and tilted her head back so she could look up into his eyes.

“Promise me one thing,” he said.

“Anything if it will help get Joyce home safely.”

A smile flashed across his lips. “Do not tempt me again, sweet one. Instead, promise me that you will let
me
seek out Field. You must make no attempt to contact him yourself, and, if he contacts you, you must let me know immediately.” His finger stroked the curve of her chin. His voice softened to a whisper that could not disguise his fervor. “You must not, under any circumstance, deal with him by yourself. My dear Charity, you cannot begin to conceive of the evil within that man and what he would do if both you and your sister were under his control.”

Eleven

Charity understood the wisdom of staying far from Kerry Field. As she stood in the
couturière's
shop, discussing colors and designs for the gown Lady Eloise insisted she must have made for her next visit to Almack's, Charity could think of nothing but the fact Oliver might—even now—be obtaining the clue to bring Joyce home.

“Not pink,” Charity said as the
modiste
brought out a bolt of cloth.

“Pink is such a popular shade,” Leatrice announced. She put down the fashion plates she had been perusing and rubbed the muslin between her fingers. “This is excellent material.”

“But not for a redhead.”

The dressmaker hurried to say, “Your hair is of such a color,
mademoiselle
, that you could wear this if you wished.”

“I told the patronesses at Almack's I disliked the color. How could I appear in a gown of that shade now?” Charity pointed to a pale gold only a shade darker than cream. “I prefer that.”

Leatrice sniffed. “It is unique. Lady Eloise wants you to stand out from the others in a crowd.”

“My crimson locks do that quite well.”

“If
mademoiselle
likes the gold,” murmured the petite
modiste
, “I can suggest an excellent design.”

Charity said, “I leave that to you. I apologize, but I must go now. I have some calls I must make this afternoon.”

Giving Leatrice no chance to contradict her, Charity slipped her shawl over her shoulders and went out into the rain. Fog clung to the road, although it was just past midday.

Sitting on the blue leather seat of the carriage, Charity waited for Leatrice to climb in beside her. Charity kept the horses to a walk, for she could see little through the rain and fog that was thickened by smoke from the chimneys.

“You were quite rude,” mumbled Leatrice as she hunched into her fringed shawl.

“I thought I was showing an admirable amount of trust in
Madame
Purviance.” Charity frowned as she tried to pick out the road from the fog.

Leatrice's sniff was a copy of Lady Eloise's. “You have everything any woman could want. A wonderful home with one of the most respected hostesses in London, a new wardrobe, a duke eager to have you on his arm. Yet you dismiss it as if it is not important.”

“At the moment, it is not.”

“Charity Stuart, your great-aunt will not be pleased to hear of your lack of appreciation.”

Charity took a deep breath and counted slowly backward from twenty before saying, “I meant only that I must concentrate on the road. If I am not cautious, we might ram another vehicle.”

“You cannot fool me! You wish you were back in that country village managing your horrible father's household while your sister cavorts with her lovers.”

When Charity laughed, she heard Leatrice's sharp intake of breath. Laughter was not what Leatrice had expected. That pleased Charity, for she did not want Leatrice to suspect how the vicious words hurt her. “I daresay my great-aunt would not relish you speaking of her family in such derogatory terms.”

“There is no one to hear me.”

“Are you sure? Can you be certain no one is hidden just beyond sight in the fog?”

That silenced Leatrice until they reached the fogbound square where she lived with her brother. Although Leatrice invited Charity to come in for something warm to drink so they could talk about the party Leatrice and her brother were hosting that evening, Charity said no. She did not give an excuse when both of them knew Charity wanted only to put as much space as possible between them.

Charity turned her cabriolet toward the corner, then drove in the direction opposite Grosvenor Square. Mayhap she could find some comfort for her aching heart with Thyra, who was still bubbling a week later about her conversation with Myles at Almack's. Even the fact that he was escorting Charity to the Hoyles' party this evening had not dampened Thyra's anticipation.

Charity could have been alone in the world. Although she heard the muffled clatter of other vehicles, she met no one. The streets would have been crowded on a sunny day. She had not realized how much traffic was created while the
ton
rode about on the chance of being seen and sharing an engrossing bit of talk.

A form exploded out of the fog. The horse whinnied a protest and danced with fear. Charity tightened her hold on the reins. She fought to control the frightened beast. The cabriolet rocked from side to side. One wheel hit the edge of the pavement with a clank which reverberated through her. She jerked back on the reins. She did not want to hurt the horse, but if the carriage tipped over, she could be killed.

When the horse stopped, she closed her eyes and whispered a wordless prayer of gratitude. She forced her fingers to unclench from the reins. Cramps cut across them. Her back ached, and a pulse at her temple threatened to become a headache.

Looking around the edge of the black top of the carriage, she saw a young man dusting himself off in the street. He bounced to his feet and walked toward her.

Charity cried, “Why did you jump in front of my carriage? You could have been killed! You must have heard me coming.”

“Aye, 'eard ye I did, but I need to be talkin' to ye, milady.”

Raising the hand whip, which would be scanty defense against a lad who was more than a head taller than she and twice as wide, she shook her head. “I have no interest in talking to a nod-cock.”

He leaped onto the step of the carriage and gripped the reins. “I think ye want to be talkin' to me, Missy Stuart. I 'ear ye be lookin' fer Kerry Field.”

“Kerry Field?” she repeated, then frowned. “I think you are mistaking me for someone else.”

“Ye be Charity, right?”

“Young man, please step aside, so I may go on my way.”

He seized her wrist and put his snag-toothed face so close to hers she could smell the rum on his breath. “I know who ye be. I know, too, ye be lookin' fer Kerry Field.”

“What do you want?” she whispered. She glanced along the street, but it was as deserted as if they were on a country lane.

“A tuppence or two. Then I be glad to tell ye what ye want to be 'earin'.”

She groped for her bag with her other hand, for he refused to release her. Awkwardly she opened it and pulled out the coins. Drawing the string tight when he grinned, she said, “Tell me what you know.”

“Field 'as returned to London Town, 'e 'as.”

“Where can I find him?”

“I wouldn't be worryin' yer pretty 'ead 'bout that, missy. 'E'll be findin' ye.” Holding out his hand, he said, “That should be worth another copper, milady.”