A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(18)

“Charlotte has devilish poor sense. Viscount Dearing got an arrow in the fundament at the last tournament Charlotte was invited to.”

“Another chambermaid?”

“I did not inquire, but if I’m invited to a social gathering that includes an archery contest, I decline out of concern for the profligate rakes of proper society.”

A truly proper society ought not to have profligate rakes, much less an abundance of them.

“Why are you telling me these anecdotes now, Esther?” Percival inquired not to accuse his wife of withholding intelligence, but because the duchess had reasons for speaking and reasons for keeping silent.

“I had hoped Charlotte was done being the conscience of Mayfair’s randy bachelors. I haven’t known her to take on a charitable project for months, and Arabella said Charlotte’s behavior at the summer house parties was exemplary—for Charlotte.”

“You hoped to marry her off before her schemes came to light.”

“I still do.”

“Then we must wish Mr. Sherbourne luck.”

And courage, to go with the speedwell and snowdrops in his bouquet.

*



“He’s here, miss,” Tansy said. “Give your cheeks a pinch, and do try to let him finish his speech. Gentlemen set great store by their courting talk.”

Tansy Luckett was Charlotte’s lady’s maid, and she looked honestly pleased to be sending Charlotte to greet Mr. Sherbourne. Perhaps Tansy was tired of trips to the pawnshops.

“I’m not hopeless isn’t much of courting speech,” Charlotte replied. Though the other part—I will honestly try to make you happy—had haunted her.

She checked her appearance in the mirror: hair in a tidy bun, dress reasonably free of wrinkles, smile nowhere in evidence.

“He’s had three days to pretty up that sentiment,” Tansy said, “though I’ve always admired a man who can get his point across with few words. You do look pale.”

Charlotte had been up late penning love letters from a man who didn’t exist. She had managed a half dozen progressively ardent epistles to Miss Higgins before falling asleep at her desk. Even the most skeptical parents ought to be convinced by Charlotte’s prose, particularly when she’d also equipped the lady with a gold ring, widow’s weeds, and five pounds that “dear Mr. Wesley” had managed to put aside for his wife before he’d fallen so tragically ill—or been struck down by a runaway fishmonger’s wagon.

Mr. Wesley’s various sad fates had all begun to blend together.

Five pounds was a pittance to some, and yet, the lordly bounder who’d got Sharon in an interesting condition had spared her exactly two shillings and a warning never to contact him again.

“Mr. Sherbourne brought you flowers,” Tansy said.

“Roses?” Red roses were the symbol of true love, though never had Charlotte been offered roses.

“Nothing so predictable. Go down and see for yourself. Best of luck, Miss.”

Tansy was small, but she packed a substantial push. Charlotte left the safety of her room and took a moment at the top of the steps to gather her resolve.

If she married Lucas Sherbourne, she’d remove with him to Wales, where she’d bide for months if not years before returning to London. From Wales, Charlotte could maintain her correspondence with the various Mrs. Wesleys, but where would London’s unfortunates go for help if Charlotte left town? The foundling hospitals were a dodgy bet and usually full. The Magdalen houses were little more than an excuse to make a profit by working hopeless women to death.

Nobody helped. Many sniffed and passed judgment. Even more took advantage of women who’d already been exploited. Some politely regretted the plight of gullible young ladies, but nobody helped.

If Charlotte accepted Mr. Sherbourne’s proposal, she wouldn’t be able to help anymore either.

She did not pinch her cheeks—what would be the point? By the time she reached the formal parlor, a maid was already wheeling a tea cart down the corridor.

“We won’t need the tea tray, thank you,” Charlotte said. “Mr. Sherbourne’s visit will be quite brief.”

The maid bobbed a curtsy. “Very good, Miss.”

Charlotte tried for a dignified gait as she entered the parlor, neither hurried nor reluctant, but she was no duchess, and she almost tripped on the carpet fringe.

“Mr. Sherbourne, good day.”

He stood by the window, the sunlight burnishing his blond hair to gold. He was a Viking in Bond Street tailoring, and Charlotte was about to send him back to his long boat.

Why must he be such an attractive Viking?

“Miss Windham.” His bow was correct and his waistcoat quietly exquisite.

“Shall we be seated, sir?”

He gestured to the sofa, and Charlotte took a seat. He sat immediately beside her, not a decorous half-yard away.

“The butler stole my flowers. I suspect he’s examining them for a torrid note. How are you?”

In want of torrid notes. “A trifle anxious, to be honest. I’d like another kiss.” She’d like a lifetime of kisses where Sherbourne was concerned, but she’d have to make do with two.

“Putting the cart before the horse, are we?”

“Putting the kiss before the discussion. That waistcoat is tastefully glorious.”