The Rocky Mountain Heiress Collection (83 page)

The gentleman seated across from Charlotte was taking far too much interest in the conversation. After giving him a pointed look, she shook her head. “I am innocent of any reason for gossip.”

Gennie snorted. “You are anything but.” She offered the man a smile then reached over to pinch Charlotte. “Now cease your arguing and pretend you’re enjoying this.”

“I won’t.” She rolled her eyes then reached for her newly purchased fan. “It’s all too much.”

“No,” Gennie said with deadly calm. “What’s too much is enduring the companionship of a girl who has no idea what she wants in life or how she might fare should her father cease paying bills for her escapades.”

Charlotte pointed the fan at Gennie. “You’re hardly one to say anything. Your purchases in Paris easily matched mine, and I’ve not seen you go without since we arrived in London. And for your information, we are staying at
my
grandfather’s home, which will someday pass on to Papa and then to me and Danny, not you. What I have, I am entitled to. What you have, you got from marrying Papa.”

Not true at all, for Gennie came from people just as wealthy as the Becks, but the words had slipped out so easily that they were said before Charlotte could think better of them. All eyes were now on them, and Charlotte knew her protest at being accused of scandal was causing yet another one.

Gennie’s eyes narrowed. “Are you quite sure of what you’ve just said, Charlotte?”

She looked away and pretended disinterest in the fact that the attentions of the other passengers were focused on her. From what little she knew of the German language, at least two of the coach’s occupants were discussing her quite freely, and not in a nice way.

“Very well, then,” Gennie said as she adjusted her gloves. “Since you’re so well set, I’ll cable your father and let him know you won’t be needing his assistance any longer. Perhaps it is not too late to stop the order from Worth. Seeing as you’ll be taking care of your own trousseau and wedding gown. Oh,” she said with a lift of her brows, “wait. You have no money to pay for such things. I suppose you’ll just have to find work somewhere. I know governess work was not beneath me when I first arrived in Denver.”

Charlotte jerked her attention from the Germans to Gennie. “You cannot allow Papa to take away my support.”

Gennie gave Charlotte a satisfied look. “I can.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t dare do what?” Gennie asked with an innocent expression. “You’re obviously not above considering scandal and ignoring the things your father has done for you, so I’m merely removing an impediment to whatever it is you want.” Her brows rose. “Remind me again, Charlotte. What is it you want?”

The fact that she couldn’t think of a single pithy response irked Charlotte as much as it concerned her. What did she want? To marry? Have children? Perhaps someday. To see her paintings hung in some great gallery, perhaps the Louvre or Metropolitan? That would be nice, she supposed. To read more books like Mr. Smith’s and perhaps dare to consider a course of study at university? She’d certainly discussed the option with Anna Finch Sanders, her longtime neighbor and family friend, though never with much enthusiasm.

Until now. Once she left the prison of this carriage, she would return to Grandfather’s home and write Anna immediately. If Wellesley did not have a course of study to pique her budding interest in the world of business, perhaps another university would.

Someone gave the signal and Mr. Godfrey’s band struck up a chorus as the coach lurched forward. Charlotte braced herself as the wheels rolled over deep ruts caused by the frequent London showers. A gate swung open, and with it came a wave of cheering that made hearing anything else impossible. The temptation to cover her ears was overcome only by the idea she might tumble out the window if she released her grip on the edge of the seat.

“I wish Danny were here. Isn’t this fun?” her stepmother shouted.

“Fun,” Charlotte echoed without enthusiasm. She’d happily trade places with her young half brother if it made Gennie happy. Even a nursery would be better than this stifling coach.

Then she spied a trio of handsome fellows, each dressed in an outfit of honor and attempting to catch her attention from the royal box.

“Apparently you’re causing quite a sensation,” Gennie shouted into her ear. “Aren’t you going to respond? Remember, Major Burke instructed us to be enthusiastic in our acting.”

“What would Miss Pence say?” Charlotte quipped. “Likely she’d find it scandalous. A lady is neither seen to be enthusiastic nor—”

“Oh forget about that old biddy.” Gennie leaned forward to wave at the onlookers as if she’d been playing the part of a damsel-soon-to-be-in-distress all her life. “Even she couldn’t resist this.”

Despite her anger, Charlotte found Gennie’s antics amusing. Her gaze scanned the grandstands. Behind the admirers sat a dozen more, all waving or making some kind of motion to cause her to look their way. And all, apparently, with sufficient pedigree to have secured a seat in an area reserved for royals. When she lifted her hand to wave, a cheer went up, and so did Charlotte’s spirits.

Let Gennie make her threats
. She was not without options in this world, even if it meant smiling and waving at a royal or two to make her point.

Then came a noise so loud it sliced through the crowd’s din and rendered them almost silent. The cry of the Indian braves was so fierce that Charlotte instinctively withdrew from the window. Leading the charge was Red Shirt, a regal fellow who had entertained Charlotte only a few minutes ago with their shared skill at sleight of hand. As he raced past, feathers flying, Red Shirt offered Charlotte a broad grin.

Behind him, several dozen men in war paint rode seemingly wild ponies that less than an hour ago Charlotte had petted and hand-fed apples. Several of the braves made a point of winking or offering up a silly face to her as they rode dangerously close to the coach. It made for great theater, however, and Charlotte laughed and clapped for the performers in spite of herself.

When Colonel Cody and his men galloped past and scattered the tribe, Charlotte was almost disappointed. Another circle around the arena, and the performance was done.

Charlotte piled out of the coach along with the others to join the colonel. While the excited participants chattered and laughed and the throngs in the stands cheered, Colonel Cody pulled Charlotte aside.

“What say you to a little extra fun?” He grinned. “A postscript to our performance? Perhaps something I taught you when last I visited your father’s ranch?”

She looked up at the showman and tried to recall just which trick he was considering. “Would my father be horrified?”

He considered the question a moment. “Possibly.”

“Count me in, then.”

The colonel whispered quick instructions then lifted his hat to slyly signal the performers. As the crowd continued to cheer, a whoop went up from the Indian camp.

Gennie looked Charlotte’s way and offered a smile. “I told you this would be great fun.”

“I suppose,” Charlotte said with what she hoped was bored indifference. “I’ve had wilder rides back home. Remember the time the horse got spooked by the rattler and—”

“That is quite enough, Charlotte Beck.” Gennie fanned herself. “Colonel Cody is our host and I’ll not have you speaking like that in his presence.”

“Well, all I know is it’s awfully hot here for London.” Charlotte retrieved her fan and hid her giggle behind it.

After one more cross look, Gennie turned her attention to the matron on her left who apparently found great excitement in associating with Yanks and especially with Gennie.

Catching sight of the lone Indian heading her way, Charlotte waited until the appointed time then pretended to drop her fan. As she reached for it, she gave it a discreet kick, sending it into the path of the rider.

She cast a casual glance at Colonel Cody, who winked, and then Charlotte stepped out to retrieve her fan.

June 11, 1887
Beck House, London

The third step on Grandfather’s wide staircase always made a peculiar sound, so Charlotte tucked the leather-bound volume of
The Wealth of Nations
under her arm and skipped over it. Unfortunately, the help had been generous with the furniture wax, and she lost her footing and skated the rest of the way down the stairs on her posterior.

“What’s all the commotion?” Grandfather called from his library.

“Just me,” she said sheepishly as she scrambled to her feet. “I missed a step.”

“More likely danced over the third one.” Her grandfather appeared in the door, a gray-haired but well-aged version of her beloved Papa. “There’s a reason I don’t allow that plank to be properly nailed down.”

Charlotte smoothed back a stray curl then hurried into her grandfather’s embrace. “Good morning,” she said. “Is there tea enough for me?”

“Always.” He released his hold on her. “Come and join me, dear. We’ve something to discuss.”

She followed him into the library and inhaled the familiar scent of oak and leather that seemed to permeate every inch of the cozy space. While Grandfather’s London home was as grand as any other on the exclusive block, Charlotte doubted the others held a room quite so cozy.

Despite the June temperatures, a fire had been laid. She returned the book to its place on the shelf, then took a seat, leaving her slippers on the floor and tucking her feet beneath her. Grandfather tamped down the flames until only the orange glow of embers remained.

“They think I’m so old I must freeze even in the summer.” He turned to her, blue eyes twinkling. “Don’t get old, Charlotte. It’s ever so bothersome.”

“I promise.” She grinned.

“Now, to get right to the heart of the matter.” He settled into his favorite chair and reached for a folded copy of the
London Times
. “I don’t suppose you’ve read the paper today.” Without giving her a chance to respond, he continued. “No, you young people have much to do and couldn’t possibly slow down long enough to read about the day’s events. Though I warrant you’d be better for it if you made the attempt.”

“Yes, Grandfather,” she said as she tried to decide exactly what he meant. “I shall endeavor to adopt the habit.”

He leaned forward and thrust the paper toward her. “No time like the present to begin.”

“Yes, of course.” Charlotte opened the paper.

“Start with that headline just below the middle crease.” He pointed to her. “You’ll recognize the subject matter right away.”

“ ‘Society Suicide, Saddle Scandal: Beck Heiress Performs Hair-Raising Stunt at Wild West Performance.’ ” Charlotte gasped. “Oh, Grandfather, I—”

“Please.” He gestured to the paper. “Continue reading aloud.”

“All right.” Her heart hammered. “ ‘The lovely Miss Charlotte Beck, American granddaughter of the Earl of Framingham and daughter of Daniel Beck, the Viscount Balthorp, somehow managed to save herself from sudden peril by vaulting into the arms of a rider atop a careening pony. She then not only fit herself neatly behind the rider, but also retrieved his rifle and shot a hole straight through Colonel Cody’s best hat.’ ”

“Which had, of course, been tossed into the air for the occasion,” Grandfather said as if he’d memorized the passage. “Continue.”

Charlotte swallowed hard and blinked back the tears that stung her eyes. “ ‘This reporter had the honor of speaking with several of the attendees seated in the royal box, and received the same comment from each of the highly regarded persons. One wonders what Miss Beck might have been thinking to consider such wanton behavior in full display of the international press gathered in anticipation of Queen Victoria’s upcoming Jubilee celebration. To quote the Prince of San Renik, “It’s one thing to play at riding in a coach and quite another to ride behind a galloping Indian brave with your skirts flying. I do, however, applaud the young lady for agility and accuracy with a weapon.”

Charlotte looked up, tears rendering her unable to continue. Unlike Papa, who would’ve stomped around the room, making a great show of his displeasure, Grandfather merely sat quietly and watched her.

The gravity of the situation settled on her, and Charlotte ducked her head under its weight. “I’ve made quite a mess of things, haven’t I?”

He nodded, and his image swam in the tears that fell freely from Charlotte’s eyes. She heard them plop on the paper, felt them stream down her cheeks to saturate the front of her morning gown. And worse, she felt the burn of humiliation at being such a disappointment to her beloved grandfather.

What must Papa think?
Surely he’d heard of her scandalous behavior by now.

Which meant she must repair the damage.

“Already invitations have begun to be rescinded.” Grandfather shrugged. “Personally I’m happy to be relieved of any reason to dress in my Sunday best and make polite conversation with people I barely know. You and dear Gennie might find the unexpected lapse in your appointments a bit more upsetting, however.”