Miss Charity's Case (6 page)

“
Mademoiselle
Charity,” Hélène whispered anxiously, “I do believe that is
Mademoiselle
Joyce right there.”

Charity nodded. She did not want a single word to reach the wrong ear and betray her. Once she escorted Joyce back to Grosvenor Square, she would give her sister such a scold that Joyce would not be so witless again. Then she must devise some story to satisfy Lady Eloise. What it might be, she had no idea.

Charity stopped the carriage. Her eyes widened as one rider hurried away from the shrubs at a speed that was unsafe among the crowd. Thank goodness, the neck-or-nothing rider was not Joyce!

She looked back at the shrubs. Her sister was riding sedately toward the carriage as if nothing were amiss. Mayhap Joyce had come to her senses and realized the danger this ride could have posed to her reputation.

Charity was glad the man was gone. It was unthinkable that she might have had to chide Joyce in front of a stranger. But, mayhap, the man was no stranger to her sister.

Impossible! Until coming to Town, Joyce had remained within the parish boundaries. She knew only the people Charity knew.

“Charity, what are you doing here when your riding clothes are not completed?”

Refusing to accept a dressing down when Joyce was the one who threatened to ruin everything, Charity asked, “Joyce, have you lost your wits?” She struggled to keep her voice from rising. If she sounded like a fishwife, she might garner attention. “Why did you come here by yourself?”

Joyce slid from the horse and led it toward the carriage. Her face was drawn with despair, and she refused to meet Charity's eyes.

“What is wrong?” Charity asked as cold sifted through her.

“I have grown tired of never going beyond the Square.”

“You know Lady Eloise is planning—”

“I know very well what she is planning.” She climbed into the carriage and settled on the seat between her sister and Hélène. “Charity, pray do not chide me. I had to come here today.”

“I saw you speaking intently with that man who raced off through the Park. Did you come to see him?”

Joyce's eyes widened in horror. “Are you suggesting I had an assignation?”

“Did you?”

Her chin tipped up as a shudder cut across her shoulders. “I have no interest in flirting with someone in the Park.”

Charity heard the hurt in her sister's voice. Putting her hand over Joyce's, she said, “Lady Eloise might forgive you for going for walks on the Square, but this bears off the palm. No lady of quality comes to Hyde Park alone.”

“But, Charity—”

She slapped the reins and turned the carriage back toward the Square. “You need not worry about convincing
me
that you did nothing amiss. Lady Eloise will be in a pelter if she learns of this.”

Joyce brushed her curls back from her face. “I often walked along the strand without coming to disaster.”

“That was Bridgeton. This is London.”

“That is exactly the reprimand Lady Eloise gives me at least once a day.” Her nose wrinkled. “What is wrong with you? Before you came to London, you were more concerned with people than propriety. Remember when that fisher-family ailed? You went off to tend them, although everyone in the church urged you to stay away because they were beneath your touch. Now you are letting our great-aunt change you.”

“She has no wish to change me.” She drew back on the reins as she waited for a break in the traffic along the street. Easing the carriage into the flow, she said, “She thinks only of you. As I do. Joyce, who was that man?”

“He did not offer his name when he stopped me to ask for directions.”

“Directions?”

“To Soho Square.” She laughed merrily. “Think of it, Charity. Can you believe that a gentleman would believe that I was familiar with London?”

Charity's answering smile was uncomfortable. She could not accuse her sister of lathering her when their silently disapproving abigail sat beside them. Yet she did not believe a single word. Joyce seldom lied, but, when she did, she always had an excellent reason. Charity hoped it would be worth the scene that was sure to come when they arrived at the town house.

Charity was not disappointed. The door had not closed behind them before Lady Eloise called for them to be brought to her parlor posthaste. Deciding there was nothing left to do but own up to the truth—mayhap not the part about Joyce going out by herself—Charity strode into the room and gave her great-aunt a kiss on the cheek.

“What a wondrous time we had!” she said, as she sat on the settee facing the startled Lady Eloise. “Dear great-aunt, a ride in the Park is everything you suggested it might be and so much more. Now I can understand why you have such concerns about our clothing. Everyone was dressed in high kick, and I never saw such colors. Have you, Joyce?”

“I—” She gulped as Charity flashed her a frown. “It was truly splendid.”

“But I never—”

Charity did not let her great-aunt finish. With the same burst of feigned enthusiasm, she said, “I have so many ideas I wish to share with the
modiste
. One of the ladies was wearing a shade of rose that would be perfect for Joyce.” She leaned forward. “Wouldn't she look so glorious in pink?”

“Yes, but—”

Jumping to her feet, she hugged her overmastered great-aunt. “Thank you for your advice. I know now what I must do to help Joyce when she is presented to the
ton
. It was so very enlightening. When I met Lady Thyra Estes while we drove through the park—”

“Estes!” Lady Eloise punched the floor with her cane and rose. “I trust she was not in the company of Lord Blackburn.”

“Yes, she was.” Speaking the lady's name had been a grave error, Charity realized, as she looked from Lady Eloise's frown to Joyce's. Why was her sister discomposed? Then Charity recalled her own disquiet when she discovered the handsome man was a peer.

Handsome?
That word did not begin to describe the way his knowing eyes twinkled when they suffused her with their warmth. She was amazed she could reconstruct every angle of his rugged face although she had seen him but twice.

“I had not heard that the earl had returned,” Lady Eloise said, shattering Charity's thoughts. “This complicates things.”

“Why?” asked Joyce.

“He is the grandson of my late husband's dearest friend. It would be unthinkable not to invite him to any gathering we have here.” She lowered herself back to her chair. “Oh, dear. This is not good at all.”

Joyce knelt next to the old woman, astonishing Charity. “What do you suggest, dear aunt?”

Lady Eloise put her hand over Joyce's and sighed. “This is a dilemma, but I see, no way to solve it. Lord Blackburn must be invited to our
soirée
.”

“What has he done to distress you so?” asked Charity.

“'Tis nothing you need to hear,” the old woman said. “It would not interest a young woman like you.”

“A young woman like me?” she whispered. A shudder raced along her shoulders. The words resurrected the pain she had tried to bury deep within her. Years had passed since that terrible day when she was left by the man she had thought loved her. That day her heart had shattered, and she had vowed never to be a fool for love again.

“Just keep a goodly distance between you and the earl,” Lady Eloise continued.

Joyce clapped her hands with abrupt glee. “I know just the way to manage that. Charity and I both learned so much today at the Park.”

“Charity?” Lady Eloise sniffed her dismay. “What has she learned? Nothing! She takes you for a ride in the Park today. I think she has done quite enough to herself … and to you.”

“That is not what I meant.” Joyce sat on the chair next to the old woman. “My dear aunt, there are so many beautiful, beautiful women in London for this Season. If I am to make a match—a good match—something must be memorable about me.”

“Joyce,” Charity murmured, “please don't.” She could guess where this was leading.

“What could be more memorable than enjoying the Season with my sister?” Her eyes twinkled with mischief. “Think of it, Lady Eloise. The Stuart sisters set upon the winds of chance in the Season. Pretty Charity and me. She will dazzle the gentlemen with her wit and intelligence. She shall be the talk of the Season, drawing men to her side, so that I may enjoy a chance to talk with them as well.”

“Nonsense!” Charity said.

“Nonsense!” repeated Lady Eloise. “I shall not hear of this. Charity is past the age for being presented to the Polite World. No more of this nonsense, do you understand?”

Joyce simply smiled, and Charity closed her eyes. She recognized that smile. Whenever Joyce wore it, she managed to get her way. But with Lady Eloise … There still might be hope of avoiding a Season she did not want … maybe.

Oliver rubbed the back of his neck as he blew out the lamp on his desk. His cramped, low-ceilinged office on
The Black Owl
rocked by the docks. He took a deep breath of the odor of brackish water and unwashed bodies that clung to the harbor. Damme, but he loved this life. It was his misfortune that he had to be born the eldest son of an eldest son. He would gladly trade the title of “my lord” for another.

“Cap'n?”

He smiled.
That
was the title he longed to hear, but his ships were lashed to the shore as totally as he was now.

Turning to the open door, where starlight splashed on the deck's worn boards, he motioned for the short man to enter. Howell was a good mate, quite capable of overseeing the ship while Oliver had to be ashore.

“Didn't want to be interruptin' ye, cap'n.” His voice was as rough as a file on metal.

“I was just leaving.” He stretched, his hands brushing the low rafters. “It's been a long day.”

“And ye've gained no headway?”

He chuckled. “You know me too well, my friend.”

“No new orders?”

“Only to stand firm and do what needs to be done.” Again he rubbed the back of his neck. “Damme, this is a true muddle!” He slammed his fist onto the desk.

Papers flew up around him. With a curse, he bent to gather them. A sheet of fine vellum startled him. This belonged on his ship no more than a member of the Polite World. He had to chuckle.
He
was a part of that world, no matter how much he wished to put it aside.

His eyes widened as he realized this sheet must have been among the papers he had brought from his town house. He recognized the fine penmanship. When he read the page, he stood and smiled. It might not be a wasted day, after all. He tossed the page onto his desk and strode out, whistling a jaunty tune.

Howell bent to peer at the page, curious what had brought on the change of heart in the captain. Laboring to read the scratchy, thin letters, he mumbled, “Lady Eloise Anthony requests that you join her in an evening of dining and music to welcome her grandnieces Miss Charity Stuart and Miss Joyce Stuart to Town.”

Five

Charity stood in her bedchamber and listened to the tall case clock in the hallway chime the hour. The
soirée
would begin in less than an hour.

Joyce had proven to be as good as her smile. Lady Eloise now insisted—as if it were her own idea—that Charity be launched into society along with her younger sister. No protests from Charity had changed either woman's mind.

Lady Eloise had been top-lofty before, but she seemed always out of curl now. Charity's hair was too red, her eyes too gray, her skin too warm with color. She stood too straight, and appeared haughty, or she slouched. How was she going to impress anyone if they saw her looking as if she were cramped? Each lesson on how to address guests brought animadversions on the quality of Charity's husky voice which was not the light song of her sister's.

As Charity waited for Hélène to close up the green silk gown that had been completed in bang-up time by the seamstresses at
Madame
Purviance's shop, she toyed with a pair of evening gloves of the finest kid—her very first pair—and avoided looking in the glass. That elegant woman with her hair piled in curls about her head could not be Mr. Stuart's oldest.

“
Très belle,”
announced the abigail, stepping back. “The color is perfect for you.” She frowned. “But you look unhappy. You should be joyous tonight.”

“I shall be glad when Joyce is settled, and I can spend my evenings quietly once again.”

“
Mademoiselle
Charity, you must consider seeking a match for yourself.”

She laughed as she drew on her silk slippers which matched the ribbons in her gown. “I shall
consider
it, but how can I watch over Joyce if I marry?”

“You don't need to worry about your sister. She's been aglow all week.”

“Because she's entangled me into being a part of this.”

The abigail shook her head as she set Charity's nightdress on the bed. “She appears to be a young woman in love.”

“With whom?”

Hélène gave a very Gallic shrug. “That is the part that continues to baffle me.”

“Most likely she is enamored with the splendid wardrobe Lady Eloise has had made for her.”

“I hope you are right.” With a chuckle, the abigail went into the dressing room.

Charity had promised to wait for Joyce, so they could descend the stairs to undergo Lady Eloise's inspection together. Sitting on the longue chair by the window, she peeked out. No carriages were drawing close to the door yet.

Who could have guessed Miss Charity Stuart would ever be in a grand house on Grosvenor Square waiting to greet guests at a fancy party? Mama once had lived this life, but she had turned her back on it for the love of a man many considered beneath her. Dear Papa.

Charity reached beneath the chair for the battered case she had brought with her. Lady Eloise would be horrified if she learned it had not been tossed out.