Chapter 4
Nash sat down to a breakfast of toast, kippers, and eggs, in a better mood than when he’d come home last night. He sipped black coffee, savoring the rich drink. It had been a luxury all the years he’d served in the Navy, so now it had become a morning staple.
He tucked away the note that had arrived earlier from Lord Grafton and smiled. The earl was coming to call upon him this morning. That had to mean he had finally decided to lend Nash his considerable support on the upcoming Yeoman Warder bill. One less matter he had to worry about as the parliamentary session ground on.
Next, he perused The Times, searching for news of the fleet, always his first interest. Then turned over to the marriages and obituaries. After several months as a member of Brook’s and all the social outings this Season, he had some hope he knew the grooms; occasionally, he found he had danced with the brides before their betrothals. Nash sighed. He’d hoped to have his own engagement announced by now. How difficult should it be to pick a woman to marry?
He’d attended every soiree, ball, rout, crush, and musical evening he’d received invitations to this Season. Theatre parties, outings to Vauxhall, driving or riding in Hyde Park. Any potential way to meet young ladies of good family, he had tried. Was he truly so particular?
Nash savored the rest of his coffee and folded the paper. In all his perambulations, only three ladies had piqued his interest. Miss Bolton, a pretty brunette who danced well and smiled a great deal. A sweet girl, with whom he had been able to converse on a number of subjects. She had, however, developed a tendre for the heir to the Marquess of Ainwick.
Then there had been Lady Grace Knowlton, a daughter of the Earl of Braeton, who had held Nash’s interest for quite three weeks. An elegant blonde who played the pianoforte beautifully, she’d been a touch reserved, but he believed they might suit. He’d been on the verge of offering for her when he’d opened the newspaper one morning to see her engagement to Lord Longford.
The last was Lady Cavendish from last night. He’d never been so attracted to a woman on such a brief acquaintance. The sum of his knowledge of her amounted to almost nothing: She was a widow, her given name Charlotte, she moved more gracefully on the dance floor than off it, and she had a propensity to carry on with unsavory men. He clenched his jaw at the memory of his last sight of her.
After he’d cooled his ire in the refreshment room with weak lemonade, he’d returned to the ballroom bent on asking the captivating Lady Cavendish for the next set. Instead, he’d spied her emerging from the stairwell, her hair mussed, her eyes glazed, in the company of that young buck. Had Nash been closer, he’d have planted the man a facer on principle alone. The woman, however, was none of his affair now. A lady that brazen in a public place could hardly be one he wanted for his countess.
Why then could he not stop thinking about her?
His reflections were interrupted by Hoskins’s announcement, “Lord Grafton, my lord,” followed by the sight of the man himself.
Nash leaped to his feet, his napkin flying off to the side. “My lord.” He bowed. “I beg your pardon. Hoskins should have shown you—”
“He tried, Wrotham. Don’t berate him for giving me my way.” The tall, thin, gray-whiskered man smiled mirthlessly. “I told him to take me to you at once and he did so. Shows he’s either a sensible man or a well-trained servant.” Lord Grafton appropriated the chair on Nash’s right, as imperious here as when in the House of Lords. An imposing man, whom age seemed not to have touched as far as dint of will or physical strength was concerned, the earl sat ramrod straight, staring at Nash with small, round, glittering brown eyes, his hands crossed gracefully over his silver-knobbed walking stick. Nash had seen that stick countless times in the Lords and had a healthy respect for it. Those who did not often found it had purposes that had nothing to do with walking. No, the Earl of Grafton was not a man to be gainsaid.
“I received your note this morning, my lord. I assume your visit had to do with the Yeoman Warder bill?” Nash tried not to sound too hopeful. The earl’s face gave nothing away. He could just as easily be about to withdraw as to lend his support.
“It does, Wrotham, after a fashion.” Grafton settled himself in the chair, straightening his shoulders, adjusting his hands on his stick. “I want you to marry my daughter.”
Nash blinked several times, unable to speak. He stared at the older man, wondering if he was playing some elaborate jest. Grafton’s face had not one laugh line on it.
“I beg your pardon, my lord,” he said at last, grappling to maintain a stoic mien. He needed to stall for time to compose himself. “Would you prefer tea or coffee?” Had the man actually just asked him to be his son-in-law?
“Coffee, black.”
Nash nodded to a footman. Not enough time to puzzle it out. Well, then, forward unto the breach. “You say you want me to marry your daughter, my lord? Yet this is the first time you have broached the subject to me. Is there some recent development that would precipitate such an offer?” God, his daughter was breeding and he wanted to marry her off to keep it quiet. Or, worse, thought him the cad who had ruined her. Gad, what a tangle.
“I see you are a man to come directly to the point. I was right about you.” Grafton’s smile sent a chill down Nash’s spine. “Yes, there has been a development concerning my daughter that I will not countenance. She has taken up with the most unsavory of men, a rakehell who will see her reputation in shreds and laugh about it at White’s afterward.” The earl’s face had turned a deep shade of red. “I will not have it, I tell you.”
The footman appeared with the earl’s cup of coffee and set it in front of the shaking man.
Grafton seized it and drank it half down at one gulp. “Therefore, Wrotham, you will oblige me by marrying this headstrong woman and put an end to her scandalous actions.”
“I do understand your concerns, sir.” Nash’s breathing had slowed to an almost normal rate, his mind racing to find a way out of this highly distasteful proposal. “However, I don’t believe that I have even met your daughter.” What was the chit’s name? The elder two were married, so the man must be speaking of the youngest one. He hadn’t thought her out of the schoolroom yet. “I can hardly make a declaration to Lady Sophia—”
“Charlotte.”
Nash jerked back in his chair. “I beg your pardon?”
“I am speaking of my eldest daughter, Lady Cavendish. She is a widow.” The gleam in the earl’s eye pierced Nash to the heart. “I believe you made her acquaintance last night at Almack’s, for all the world to see.”
The rag-mannered woman. With difficulty, Nash drew in a breath and slowly let it out.
“I did, my lord, render her some slight assistance last evening.” Either their encounter had become the latest on-dit circulating this morning or the earl had excellent spies following Lady Cavendish.
“Then you know about her shameless liaison with that blackguard Garrett.”
The memory of the lady, hair mussed, lips swollen, emerging from the stairwell with the young buck rose with startling clarity. His stomach clenched. Now he was more than sorry he hadn’t planted Garrett a facer. Hadn’t the lady’s cousin warned her about the bounder?
Nash nodded. “I believe I had heard something to that effect.” Best not say what he had seen or he’d never be able to refuse the earl. And refuse him he must. Despite his attraction to Lady Cavendish, if her actions were so scandalous as to drive her father to this desperate action, he was well shed of the woman. “But rumors run rampant in London, my lord. I suspect Lady Cavendish is merely the latest innocent victim of the ton’s need for gossip.”
“She’s not innocent, Wrotham.” The earl leaned forward, gripping his cane head, eyes bulging. “There were witnesses. This morning they are calling her the ‘Wicked Widow.’” He dragged the words out, making them as horrific as possible.
Damn. How could he escape now?
“Mark me, Wrotham, I’ll have no disgrace attached to my name. I stopped her once before and, by God, I will do it again.” He fixed Nash with a stare that would have caused apoplexy in a lesser man. “You will marry her, Wrotham, before she can do more damage. You owe me that at least.”
“I beg your pardon, my lord?” That last sentence caught Nash off guard. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean by owing you.”
“Come, now. I have not changed a great deal in six years.”
Nash frowned. “I don’t understand. We only met—”
“The tollhouse at Whetstone?”
His words recalled that chilling scene so vividly—the young man with a pistol to his head, the terrified woman, the icy voice from the shadows—Nash had to blink to bring Lord Grafton back into focus. “That was you? And the young lady . . .” Lord, he remembered her, so frightened yet defiant. Quite different from the woman he had met last night.
“My daughter. Disobedient and headstrong as always. Now to be your problem.” He cocked his head. “I was surprised you didn’t recognize me the first time we met in Parliament.”
Still stunned, Nash shook his head and shrugged. “The firelight was behind you at the gatehouse. I couldn’t see your face.” Then he narrowed his eyes. “I never gave you my name that night. How the devil did you know who I was?”
“I had you followed, of course.” Lord Grafton settled his hands on his cane, his lips pursed in displeasure. “My man lost you once you and Thrush reached London, although he managed to get your name from a tavern you stopped at in Highgate. I have sat on that knowledge until I required your services, as I do now.”
Nash swore under his breath. “Surely there must be other, more illustrious alliances you could seek?” With his influence, Grafton could have his pick of victims.
“Had I more control over my daughter, I would do that very thing.” The earl obviously did not mince words. “I did before. Now, however, she has a measure of financial independence and I cannot do as easily as I once did. Therefore, I decided to call in my favor from you.”
He put up a hand to forestall Nash’s protest. “You thwarted my plans once before; it is only fitting that you now pay the price. It should not be a totally odious one. While my daughter is willful, she is not without her charms.”
“But—”
“You’re respectable,” the earl continued, undaunted by the interruption. “You have no vices I’ve been able to discover, you vote as you should in Lords, and you’re almost of an age with Charlotte. She should like that.” He laughed mirthlessly.
Nash cringed. Like a stallion the earl contemplated putting out to stud. Insufferable.
“And if I refuse, Lord Grafton?” Nash straightened in his chair. “I sympathize with your situation, however, my actions of six years ago hardly obligate me to marry your daughter. We met but briefly, both then and last evening. I cannot, in good conscience, marry a woman with whom I have scarcely spoken two dozen words.” Even more especially because her own father had called her reputation into question.
“Ah, good conscience would have you decline the offer, you say?” The earl leaned back, rubbing the cane head with the palm of his hand.
Nash kept his gaze on that cane.
“What will your conscience have to say when your Warder’s bill is voted down at my insistence?”
Every muscle in Nash’s body tensed. He had worked hard in the past year to write this bill and worked even harder to gain it support in the House of Lords. Traditionally, every branch of service save the Royal Navy could apply to become a Yeoman Warder of the Tower of London. If his bill passed, the retired naval petty officers would have a chance at this honorable position as well, with good benefits the other branches of service had enjoyed for more than three hundred years. He had garnered a good bit of support for the legislation already. Grafton’s considerable influence would make the victory all but sure. Now, however . . .
“I am sorry, my lord, but I fear I must decline your generous offer nevertheless.” Where he would get the votes now he didn’t know. But if not this year, there was next.
Grafton rose, bringing Nash to his feet as well, somewhat dazed at his easy victory. “I am sorry to hear that, Wrotham. I believe you would have been quite a force in Parliament from what I have seen in this last year.”
“Would have been,’ my lord?” The sinking feeling of having a trap sprung about him nigh on suffocated him.
“Would have been, Lord Wrotham.” The earl turned toward the doorway. “As I said before, a sensible man gives me my way. When I run into a stubborn man, one who thinks to turn me from my course, I fear I have not the Christian way of charity when dealing with him.” He swung back toward Nash, his walking stick whipping around until it was aimed squarely at Nash’s stomach. “You asked earlier for my support on your bill, and I would have been happy to grant it as a familial alliance. But know this, my lord: as no such alliance exists, not only will I remove my support from this bill, but from any other bill you may propose within my lifetime. Any bill you support, I will actively work to defeat. Members will avoid even being seen with you because I will make it known that such an association will incur my wrath and the immediate withdrawal of my support for their bills.”
Nash stared at Grafton, icy anger flowing through his veins. How dare the earl blackmail him into marrying his licentious daughter? He opened his mouth to tell the old man it would be a cold day in Hades before he spoke vows with the wanton Lady Cavendish, when a niggling little voice whispered to him to close it instead. That voice had saved his bacon more than once. He’d better listen to it now.
“I do not take kindly to blackmail, my lord.”
“Then look at it as my way of assisting you in your career in Parliament.” Lord Grafton gave what Nash assumed passed for smile. “I give you my support, you give me yours. Quite simple actually. Once you come to know Charlotte, you may even develop a fondness for her. She has spirit, although she is one of the most stubborn women in England. As long as you keep her from becoming the talk of the ton and are betrothed to her by November first, when the bill comes up for a vote, you shall have my considerable weight behind you.” The earl inclined his head and leaned toward Nash, resting his weight on his cane once more. “Do we have a deal, Wrotham?”
During Grafton’s little speech, Nash had frantically counted each vote he had already gotten and tried to figure who else he could possibly persuade. Damn the rest of his career; if he could get this one bill passed he’d be satisfied. If he could convince Admiral Lord Hyland to come over, he might be able to swing a block of ex-military members. It would take the rest of the session to see it through, yet it might be possible. Let Grafton believe Nash was courting Lady Cavendish while instead he’d be doing courting of a different kind.
“I have no idea if Lady Cavendish will even receive me, my lord. But I will pay her a call at my earliest convenience.” That had enough truth in it to appease his honor.
His butler appeared from nowhere. “From Wrotham Hall, my lord.” Hoskins presented a sealed message precisely in the middle of a silver salver.
Nash plucked it from the tray and broke the seal. He perused the note and swore. What despicably bad timing.
“Not bad news?” Grafton raised an eyebrow.
“As I’m sure you know, my lord, estate agents never send anything else. I will need to postpone my call on Lady Cavendish.” Nash sighed, the chance of garnering a sufficient number of votes to pass his bill without Grafton evaporating like smoke in the wind. The inevitability of becoming Grafton’s son-in-law weighed like a millstone. “I’m for home this afternoon.”
The earl cocked his head and frowned. “That serious?”
“Quite. There’s been a gang of robbers terrorizing the neighboring county. Now they’ve moved into Kent. They wounded one of my tenants trying to defend his home. My presence is required.”
“Robbers in Kent? I’ve an estate and a hunting lodge there.” The earl’s face darkened.
“I know. Lyttlefield Park abuts my property near the village of Wrotham.” Nash had thought their proximity a boon earlier this summer.
“Then you won’t mind keeping an eye out for my interests while you’re there?” The older man peered at him, as if he were bestowing a great favor on Nash rather than asking one.
“Not a’tall, my lord. However,” Nash snatched at a breath of hope, “I will be hard-pressed to court Lady Cavendish if she is in London and I am in Kent. This matter with the robbers may not be resolved easily.”
Grafton waved a hand in dismissal. “I believe it will not be that difficult for you to find a way to court my daughter, Wrotham, if you put your mind to it. Keep her from public censure and put your engagement in The Times in short order and all else will fall into place. Good day.”
“Good day, my lord.”
Grafton strode out of the room. Nash stared after him, crumpling the note in his fist. The only place this could be deemed a good day was in hell.
* * *
“What is this Widow’s Club Jane spoke of in her note this morning?” Mrs. Elizabeth Easton wrinkled her brow as she sat in the gold-figured Chippendale chair, a focal point of Charlotte’s perfectly appointed drawing room, sipping tea as they waited for the rest of their friends to arrive.
“I’ve actually thought of our little set that way all along.” Charlotte poured herself a cup of tea and added two lumps of sugar. “We are all widows, we met because our husbands died at Waterloo, or because of it, and we are now all on the hunt for male companionship once more. We have so much in common, it put me in mind of one of the gentlemen’s clubs.” As the clock struck eleven, she glanced at the door, but it remained closed. Her cousin was never punctual.
“Except we talk about fashion and children, and our husbands . . .” Elizabeth fought to contain a sob and bent her head to study her teacup. Her shoulders sagged.
Charlotte clasped her hand and squeezed it. “I know, my dear.” Poor Elizabeth. She had been devastated by her husband’s death. Almost worse, she had had to return to her parents’ home. If Charlotte’s plan for the widows worked, maybe she could help her friend.
One more squeeze of her hand and Charlotte let go. “Yes, we do talk of much different subjects than our male counterparts.” She plopped in one more lump and stirred slowly. “Our conversations lately, however, have focused on our desire, or the necessity, of marrying again.” She patted Elizabeth’s arm, then sipped her tea. “Marriage is actually what we shall discuss this morning—a way I’ve come up with for us to find new prospects.”
Elizabeth twisted her plain gold wedding band. She glanced up, met Charlotte’s gaze, then folded her hands in her lap. “Do you plan to bring Mr. Garrett up to scratch, then?”
Charlotte sputtered back into her teacup. “Dear Lord, why do you ask that?”
Elizabeth broke into a rare smile and raised her cup. “I daresay you have not read the scandal sheets this morning.”
Charlotte’s cup rattled its way into the saucer. The dratted man. She’d be ruined. “What did it say, Elizabeth?” She held her breath.
“Only that Lady C had been seen behaving in a shameless manner with Mr. G at the Waterloo Ball and Fete.” Elizabeth raised an eyebrow at her, a censure to be sure. “What on earth did you do, Charlotte? One scandal sheet is calling you the ‘Wicked Widow.’”
Dear Lord. Not ruin, but close enough. Apparently, someone had noticed her emerge rumpled from the stairwell, so anyone who had seen her and Mr. Garrett dance together would assume the worst. Charlotte put her head in her hands. At the very least they would expect her to marry the man. Well, they could all go hang.
“Yes, I did meet him, and no, I do not have any desire to bring him to the altar. He is a rake who may be trying to ruin me. He certainly acted like it last night.”
Elizabeth frowned. “So you were not a willing participant?”
“Hardly.” Charlotte shook herself. “His attentions were most unwelcome. Well,” she paused, and heat crept into her face, “mostly unwelcome.”
“Mostly?” Her friend gave her an arch look.
“Please believe me, I didn’t encourage him in the least. But when he kissed me . . .” Lord, she could feel his lips on hers with the mere thought of the word kiss. She shrugged. “I have had no warmth or passion in my life for so long, Elizabeth. It was a relief to know I could still feel something.”
“I would never have doubted it, my dear. You have an amazing amount of love in you.” She smiled and patted Charlotte’s hand. “Still, if you would not wed Mr. Garrett, there are others you might consider, I suppose.”
“Actually there is not.” Charlotte drew herself up. Her friend would not like her next statement at all. “I do not intend to marry again.”
Elizabeth’s face changed from confusion to shock. “Not wed again?” Her horrified voice rose two octaves. “But Charlotte, what do your parents say about such a thing?”
“They have no say over me now, thank God. Oh, they will be scandalized, no doubt, but I don’t give a fig for what they want.” She turned the cup to and fro in its saucer. “My mother practically abandoned me as a child, then did in earnest when I married Sir Archibald. Father’s decree, I assume. No one in the family was allowed to contact me, although I did receive the odd letter at Christmas from Mama most years, so I do know some of what goes on. Mama was much taken up with my sister Agnes, Lady Ramsay, the good child, and her increasing brood this past year. And she’ll be busy getting ready for Sophia’s come-out next year as well, I daresay. She won’t care that she does not need to plan another wedding for me.”
Flustered, Elizabeth’s face paled. “You never told me that, Charlotte. But even so, what about a family of your own? What about children?”
“I was married once and that was nightmare enough for me. I will not allow myself to be under the absolute power of a man ever again.” She clenched her hands, the memory of Sir Archibald’s cruelties never very far from her thoughts. “My husband commanded my every move, from town to country, country to town—whether he accompanied me or not. I could not stir from the house without his approval.” Her jaw clenched. “After our wedding, he controlled all expenditures, including my clothing. He made me feel like a servant to whom he need not pay wages.”
“Not every man is like that.” Elizabeth set down her cup as well and grasped Charlotte’s hands. “You need to find a good one who will love you and give you children.”
Charlotte sniffed. “If I had a loving husband, of course I would want children. I would not, however, have wanted them with Sir Archibald, had it even been possible. They might have turned out like Edgar.”
Edgar Cavendish had taken Charlotte in dislike upon their initial meeting six years before. Try though she might in the early days of her marriage, she had never been able to make Edgar thaw toward her. After he spread rumors about the nature of her elopement with Edward, the animosity had become mutual.
“Sir Archibald couldn’t have more children?” Elizabeth’s cheeks flushed.
“Not when he never visited his wife’s bed, he couldn’t.” Charlotte kept her gaze firmly on her teacup.
“You had no marital relations with Sir Archibald at all?” Elizabeth’s shocked whisper made Charlotte flinch.
“None whatsoever.” Bitterness flooded her voice. She had not desired the physical attentions of her aging husband and had been glad when he made no move to claim his rights. He had made sure she suffered otherwise at his hands, however. To retaliate, she had filled her lonely bed with dreams of the husband she had been denied, the one with whom she could have shared a good and passionate life. It had not helped much. “The most loving thing he ever did for me was to die.”
“Charlotte!” Elizabeth’s face had drained of color.
Charlotte set her cup carefully on the saucer. “You may think me wicked for such thoughts, but I cannot help myself. Father dragged me from Edward’s arms and threw me into Sir Archibald’s.” Resentment welled within her anew. “Can you imagine your disgust if you were forced to leave Dickon and made to marry . . . oh, I don’t know, Lord Bassingstoke?” Bassingstoke was a particular crony of Elizabeth’s father, perhaps twenty years her senior.
Elizabeth shook her head, cringing. “That is not quite the same thing, Charlotte. Dickon came of gentle birth, a colonel in the army. Edward Thrush was a—”
“Servant; I know.” Charlotte stared at her fiercely. She would never be ashamed of him. “My groom, and I loved him. He loved me. What he was didn’t matter. We would have been happy.”
“You would have been disinherited and forced to live God knows how once Edward was dismissed without a reference.” Elizabeth met her eyes, a mixture of sympathy and censure in their blue depths. “It is hard to live on love alone. Georgie can tell you that.”
Charlotte longed to rail at her friend, defend her love, but she had never been able to make anyone understand. Edward had been the only man who had ever cared for her. From the moment that summer when her father had assigned the new groom to accompany her whenever she rode out, she had felt at ease with Edward Thrush. He’d not shied away from talking to her, as her other grooms had. She’d been sent to the Glasbury estate as punishment for speaking back to her father and had been mad for company.
Edward had known so much about the land at Glasbury Park and had told her many fascinating things as they rode each day. He even made her laugh into the bargain. She’d loved that though a groom, he had wanted to better himself, in the hopes of owning his own small estate one day. Most of all, Edward had been kind to her. She had never had kindness from her father or brother, and precious little from her mother either, so it had mattered a great deal to her. Charlotte had not believed she was being defiant by eloping; she had simply wanted to be loved. There would never be another man as sweet and caring as Edward.
After that horrible night, she had never heard one word about him. The moment she learned of her widowhood, she had made inquiries, tried to find him. She now had the means for them to live comfortably for the rest of their lives. But the men she had employed had discovered no trace of him. Resigned to never know what had become of him, she prayed nightly he still lived. Now, at four and twenty, she had her freedom and the means to live life on her own terms. Precisely what she intended to do.
She shook herself, as if awakening from a dream. “I beg your pardon, Elizabeth. I was woolgathering. But I do believe I have found a way to solve our problem.”
“What problem?”
“Well, Jane observed last night that eligible men were few and much in demand this time of year. What we need is a private place to entertain them, so we can have them to ourselves. But we couldn’t think of a place to hold a house party.” Charlotte arched her neck and raised her chin. “But I believe I have found just the place.”
“Where?”
“Lyttlefield Park.”
Elizabeth cocked her head sharply. “What is that?”
“An estate left to me at my husband’s death as part of my dowry and to which I will remove before Edgar’s arrival.”
“Has Sir Edgar not yet returned from his grand tour? I must tell you, I thought it in exceedingly poor taste that he would go to the Continent immediately after his father’s death.” Elizabeth sipped her tea and lowered her voice. “It seemed so disrespectful.”
Charlotte snorted. “Edgar’s tour had been scheduled long before his brother’s and Sir Archibald’s deaths. As soon as his uncle told him the funds were at his disposal, Edgar refused to let anything stand in the way of his pleasure.” She stared over her cold teacup at her friend and confided, “I am just as pleased that he has been absent these eleven months. I have almost six more weeks of respite until his return in early August.”
“But what have you discovered about Lyttlefield Park?”
“Lyttlefield Park?” Jane’s strident voice filled the small room as she strode in.
“Jane, at last.” Charlotte rose to buss her cheeks.
“Good morning, Elizabeth.” Jane stripped off her gloves and unfastened her spencer. “I didn’t know you were here already.”
Charlotte poured her a cup of tea.
“Two lumps and lots of milk, please.”
Charlotte raised her eyebrows. “I would think after living with you for almost twelve months I would know that, my dear.” She plopped the sugar into the cup and tipped the milk pitcher the required amount of time, then handed the cup to Jane. “Let’s see how well I managed.”
Jane smiled and sipped. “Delicious. So, Elizabeth, are you—”
“Lady Stephen Tarkington and Lady Georgina Kirkpatrick.” Thorne, her late husband’s staid butler, ushered them in.
“I sent the carriage around for them earlier, before I went out.” Jane rose to greet their guests.
Lady Stephen, Fanny to her friends, had been married to a younger brother of Jane’s husband. Lady Georgina, or Georgie, was the youngest of the widows in their little group, her circumstances the most dire. Thorne assisted them with their pelisses.
“More tea, Thorne.”
“Yes, my lady.” He withdrew, shutting the door with a loud click.
“Lady Marable was quite put out that you did not call with me, Charlotte. She said she had some questions for you about last night.” Her cousin sent her a droll look before reclaiming her seat.
“Precisely the reason I did not accompany you.” Charlotte nodded emphatically. She surveyed her circle with satisfaction. They had come, but would they all be willing to go through with the plan?
“I am so very pleased you came this morning, ladies.” Charlotte embraced her friends. “I was just telling Elizabeth I propose we create a club—we have already, you know—called the Widow’s Club.” They all settled themselves and Charlotte poured tea. “It will consist of the five of us who seek to marry or,” she shot a glance at her cousin, “take an interest in men once more.”
“It’s to be like the gentlemen’s clubs,” Elizabeth added.
Jane frowned. “Like White’s or Brook’s? How is that to help us find men? Unless perhaps you were thinking of a joint outing somewhere . . .”
“No indeed.” Charlotte shuddered. “No, the club is simply similar in structure. We have always met to talk about fashion and children and—”
“Men.” Fanny spoke up eagerly.
“Exactly.” If anyone would get right to the point, it would be Fanny. “Except we will carry it a step further. Before the end of the Season, we will invite certain gentlemen of our acquaintance to a house party. Once there, we shall have the opportunity and the time to talk and flirt with them without constraint. Best of all, we will have these gentlemen all to ourselves.” Charlotte raised her chin, her gaze darting from face to face.
“It is a wonderful plan, my dear.” Jane beamed at her. “But the problem remains where to have this party? Gentlemen’s clubs have particular buildings in which to meet. We are five women without property.”
Charlotte smiled broadly. “That is not exactly true. Have you forgotten Lyttlefield Park?”
“Ah! Yes, you were speaking of it when I entered. I had forgotten you inherited it. Well done, my dear.” Jane softly applauded.
Fanny leaned forward. “What on earth is Lyttlefield Park?”
“One of my father’s unentailed estates that served as part of my marriage settlement. It is in Kent, just beyond Kingsdown.”
The hum of soft voices threatened to drown her out as the other women broke into an animated exchange.
Charlotte had to clear her throat to get their attention. “I had been thinking to remove there permanently when we quit this town house, if you agree, Jane. However, we can open it early and make it ready to receive guests within a few weeks’ time. This morning we shall make a list of the gentlemen with whom we wish to become better acquainted so I can issue the invitations. Lyttlefield Park will be the perfect place to relax and demonstrate our numerous charms.”
The chattering that ensued resembled a gaggle of geese in a cornfield. Charlotte had to wait for the noise to subside again before asking, “Which eligible men shall we invite?”
Four sets of eyes stared at her expectantly.
Drat! Had they all read that silly scandal rag? Very well, she would turn the attention elsewhere. “Jane, you were talking to Mr. Abernathy for a good bit of the evening. Are you perhaps interested in him with an eye to matrimony?”
“I told you last night, Charlotte, I will never marry again. I am, however, very interested in Mr. Abernathy.” Jane leaned back and licked her lips, a smile curling the ends of her mouth. “By all means, invite him.”
Charlotte wanted to roll her eyes; still, she could hardly throw stones after her own performance last night and her resolve to remain unmarried. She held her tongue and moved on.
“Fanny? Your choice?”
“Well,” Fanny couldn’t repress a self-satisfied smile, “I renewed my acquaintance with the Earl of Lathbury last evening. We both attended Lady Beaumont’s masquerade. I think we would suit, certainly for the weekend.” She laughed, and her face became livelier than Charlotte had ever seen it. “Indeed I hope it lasts longer. He’s a Corinthian, but I rather enjoy the horses and the hunting parties. I’m a woman who doesn’t want to live in her husband’s pocket.” Her face lost all animation. “The less I knew about Stephen’s comings and goings toward the end, the better off I was.”
Fanny’s lips pressed into a thin line, then she seemed to make herself relax and resumed her report on Lathbury. “We danced once, but he lingered, and after the unmasking we talked for a bit. Recalling old times.” She paused, then blurted out, “He’s very . . . big.”
Charlotte’s jaw dropped and the other ladies burst into giggles. Fanny’s face had turned bright red. Lord, how many of us have the same thing on our minds? And not necessarily marriage.
To cover her embarrassment, Charlotte fetched paper and pen from her travel desk. “All right.” She sat and began her list. “Mr. George Abernathy, the Earl of Lathbury.” She paused and looked at Elizabeth and Georgina expectantly.
Georgina immediately looked guilty and hung her head.
“Has anyone taken your fancy, Georgina?” Charlotte asked gently. Her friend looked as if ready to bolt at the idea. “Someone you would like to know better?”
After several moments, Georgie nodded, and whispered, “Jane introduced me to Lord Fernley at Lady Gresham’s when we called the other day. He seemed kind.”
“Well, that’s a start.” Charlotte tried to sound encouraging, although Georgie obviously had not the slightest interest. “Shall I ask him down? You’ve spoken to him, so he won’t seem a total stranger, and there will be others at the house party you likely know as well.”
A curt nod of Georgie’s head and Charlotte jotted down Fernley’s name.
“Now, Elizabeth.” Charlotte tried to infuse her voice with enthusiasm, but the stricken look on her friend’s face made her feel like a torturer. “Have you someone you would like me to invite, dearest?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I simply have not got my spirits up sufficiently to want to meet anyone else, Charlotte. I am sorry. I think it best if I not attend the house party this time.”
“Nonsense. There must be someone you have met whom you would like to know better.”
“Can I have you invite my brother?” Georgina asked excitedly.
Charlotte cocked her head. “Your brother? Why would you want to bring your—”
“For Elizabeth.”
A rosy flush spread upward from Elizabeth’s neck. “Georgie, you don’t need to do that.”
Georgina grasped Elizabeth’s hands and smiled gleefully. “But don’t you see, it will help me too. I’ll know someone and feel more comfortable around all these strange men.”
Elizabeth’s blush began to recede. “Which brother, Georgie?”
“The eldest, Jemmy . . . um, Lord Brack.” Georgie’s charming one-sided grin brightened her face. “He is so much fun. You will like him, Elizabeth. Even if he is the heir, and six years older than I, he’s always looked out for me. He didn’t approve of Father disowning me or taking away Mr. Kirkpatrick’s living for marrying me and his son, but in the end Jemmy could do nothing to dissuade him.” She looked at Charlotte hopefully. “If you invite him, I will finally be able to see him. It has been three years since I last spoke with him, but you mustn’t tell anyone I will be there or Father may forbid him to come.”
Charlotte wrote the name with a flourish. “There, he is on the list. And if he is as wonderful as he sounds, Elizabeth will be well entertained.” She laid the pen down and fanned the paper. “Ladies, I believe we have our first guest list.”
A smile tugged at Jane’s lips and she said in a teasing voice, “We appear to be one guest short. Who will you invite, Charlotte? You must choose as well.”
Drat. After last night, they certainly must expect her to invite Alan Garrett despite her protests. Charlotte closed her eyes, and the darkly handsome figure of Lord Wrotham sprang to mind instead—black hair, intense blue eyes, and full, sensual lips. She remembered well the feel of his hard chest and the strong arms that had saved her and sighed softly.
“If you are squeamish about writing his name, I am not.” Jane’s words brought her back to the present to find her cousin had plucked the list out of her hands and was busily writing.
“Jane!” Charlotte dove for the paper, but her cousin held it out of reach. “Whose name are you writing?”
“Alan Garrett’s of course.” Jane laughed, fanning the paper before her face.
“What about Alan Garrett?”
A shiver of dread coursed through Charlotte at the sound of that loathsome male voice. Steeling herself, she turned toward the doorway.
Sir Edgar Cavendish stood stripping off his riding gloves, a snarl on his thin lips.