A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(15)

A groom brought out Aunt Esther’s phaeton from the coach house.

“Only a confident man will do for you, Charlotte Windham. I’ve admired your fortitude, you know. Perhaps Mr. Sherbourne is your reward for years of not settling for a nincompoop.”

Charlotte rose to walk her aunt to the vehicle. “When you say that word, it sounds so much more disgusted. I gather Uncle Percival wouldn’t object to Mr. Sherbourne paying me his addresses?”

“His Grace would of course consult with your parents and with you, but he wouldn’t call Sherbourne out simply for having excellent taste as a suitor. Try not to overthink the situation, Charlotte. If you like Lucas Sherbourne, then get to know him better and see what develops. Our menfolk will ensure that your settlements are handsome. You determine whether the fellow suits you.”

Aunt patted Charlotte’s shoulder and nimbly ascended to the bench.

As the phaeton clattered out of the mews, Charlotte wandered across the alley into the back gardens of the Moreland townhouse. Aunt and Uncle would reconcile themselves to Charlotte’s interest in Lucas Sherbourne, and thus Mama and Papa would too. This was good to know, for Charlotte didn’t fancy battling all of the elders over her choice of husband.

Though battle them, she would, if she accepted Lucas Sherbourne’s proposal.

The garden was going bedraggled about the edges. The chrysanthemums offered an occasional splash of purple, while the hedges were yellowing, the maple losing its leaves.

The garden was tired, and so was Charlotte. Tired of a life without friends, without kisses, without a household of her own. The weariness alone would not have daunted her, but she was also bored and lonely. Bored enough to consider daft schemes such as getting herself ruined.

What had she been thinking?

“He’ll do.” Mr. Sherbourne’s kisses would more than do. The decision felt both bold and right—right for Charlotte, if not for the typical romantically inclined Windham.

“Excuse me, miss. Are you Charlotte Windham?”

A young woman stood at the garden gate, close to the wall, as if she dared not set foot on private property. Her cloak was plain brown wool, and the unevenness of her hem suggested repeated mending. Her bonnet was a mere straw hat, no fancy ribbons or even a silk flower for adornment.

“I am Charlotte Windham. Who might you be?”

“My name is Miss Sharon Higgins. They said you’d help me.”

Charlotte had been contemplating marriage to Lucas Sherbourne with a combination of glee, anxiety, and excitement—for she had all but decided to accept his suit. Now this—another delicate situation arising without warning. Judging from Sharon’s pallor, the situation was desperate as well as delicate.

As such situations always were, though Charlotte hadn’t been called upon to assist in this manner for months.

“When was the last time you had something to eat?” she asked.

“Yesterday, I think. Will you help me? They said you would.”

They would have been the other maids, the laundresses, possibly a seamstress or even the vicars at the humbler London churches.

“Of course, I will help you. You’re eating for two now, so the first order of business is to find you some sustenance.”

The woman wilted against the wall. “Thank you, miss. Thank you.”

“No tears, please,” Charlotte said, leading the way back across the alley. “We have much to discuss, time is of the essence, and you’ll need your wits about you.”

Sharon cried anyway, and—as usual—Charlotte’s wits were the only ones available to prevent what could all too easily become a tragedy.





Chapter Four



“Gold or silver?” Turnbull held up two waistcoats, both heavily embroidered. The sunlight streaming through the bedroom window revealed them for the works of sartorial art they were.

“I’m paying a courting call,” Sherbourne said, “though you are sworn to secrecy. I want to look like a man who can be trusted with the last prize in the Windham marital vault.”

Turnbull said more with silence than most bishops could communicate in an entire sermon. On one occasion, when he’d been extremely disappointed with his employer, he’d turned in his notice. The memory still gave Sherbourne nightmares.

“If you are off to plunder treasure from a ducal family, wear the gold. By all means, the gold, sir. An earring wouldn’t go amiss either, and a clean cutlass—no blood—though I venture to say that an eye patch might be a bit too much.”

Not the gold, then. “If you were about to ask for Charlotte Windham’s hand in marriage, which waistcoat would you wear?”

Turnbull returned both the silver and the gold to the wardrobe and stood with his back to Sherbourne while surveying the other possibilities. A Scottish marquess with military inclinations had come across Turnbull on a Caribbean island, bought his freedom, and taken him home to the Highlands. Either Turnbull had grown weary of the northern cold or life as valet to the Scottish marquess had given him an appetite for challenges.

Turnbull’s wages were exorbitant, his knowledge of etiquette and fashion beyond price.

“This one,” Turnbull said, laying a rather dull choice across the bed. “She’ll be intrigued by the uncharacteristic subtlety.”

And his scolds were exquisite.