Once Upon a Maiden Lane (Maiden Lane #12.5)(44)

“I suppose I must move,” Charlotte muttered.

“I can have the footmen carry you,” Elizabeth replied. Charlotte was nearly gray about the mouth.

“Oh, the ignominy. Dragged to the door like some hapless sparrow in the clutches of a tomcat—”

“Our hostess approaches,” Elizabeth said, rising to accept a footman’s hand. “I’ll explain, and you’ll produce a ladylike swoon.”

Technically, Lady Glenys was their host’s unmarried sister, though thank a benevolent providence, nobody had to explain Charlotte’s malady to Haverford himself. Dukes, in Elizabeth’s experience, did not deal well with life’s most unglamorous realities.

A delicate bunch, dukes. Marquesses and earls weren’t much sturdier.

“Miss Windham.” Lady Glenys bobbed a curtsy. “I’ve been anticipating the pleasure of your company in particular. Are Lady Pembroke and Miss Charlotte with you?”

“Charlotte is somewhat the worse for the journey,” Elizabeth said. “Her digestion has grown tentative over these last few miles. Our aunt is traveling in the second coach.”

Charlotte peeked out, gripping both sides of the coach door. A hapless sparrow would have been more attractive than the pale, bedraggled creature blinking in the bright sunlight.

“My heavenly stars,” Lady Glenys said. “You poor dear. I am so sorry you’re feeling not quite the thing. We’ll have you up to your rooms in no time.”

Charlotte tottered from the coach, a footman assisting on one side, Elizabeth on the other. “I’d curtsy, but I’ve no desire to end up face down on your cobbles.”

“Hush, dear,” Elizabeth murmured, as Lady Glenys took a step back. “We’ll simply follow her ladyship into the castle, and find you a nice, soft, private place to settle yourself.”

The footmen stepped away, hands behind their backs. Lady Glenys looked torn between distress and sympathy, and Charlotte hung heavily on Elizabeth’s arm.

“Can you walk to the door?” Elizabeth asked.

Charlotte glanced up at the crenellated fa?ade, her expression grim. “If I must.”

Why would nobody offer aid? Grooms held teams for two coaches and a landau behind the Windham coach, while Lady Glenys wrung her hands.

“Come along,” Elizabeth said, tucking an arm around Charlotte’s waist. “It’s not far, and you’re a Windham.”

Bootsteps crunched to Elizabeth’s left, and then Charlotte’s weight was plucked away.

“Allow me to aid the lady,” said a tall gentleman in riding attire. “I apologize for presuming, but I’m guessing a bad batch of Merlin Jones’s summer ale is to blame. Lady Glenys, which bedroom?”

He smelled of horses and hayfields, his boots were dusty, and his dark hair was less than tidy. Charlotte’s rescuer had the steady gaze of a man who solved problems with common sense and hard work. He held her as if striding about with a full grown woman in his arms was part of his daily routine.

“Take her to the east tower,” Lady Glenys replied. “Both Miss Windham and Miss Charlotte are in the Dovecote.”

Charlotte looked to be enjoying her first convincing ladylike swoon.

“Miss Windham,” the man said. “If you’ll join us?”

He had green eyes framed with dramatic dark brows, and his expression held no flirtation, no suggestion of humor at Charlotte’s expense. Sober and steady when sober and steady were desperately needed.

“My thanks,” Elizabeth said, falling in step beside him. “Who is this Merlin Jones?” And who are you?

“He’s the innkeeper at the nearest coaching inn, and known to occasionally mix up a bad batch of summer ale. Because he serves the suspect brew only to those traveling on, he’s not held accountable for his mistakes.”

Charlotte’s rescuer spoke with the lilting diction of the educated Welshman, and even carrying Charlotte up a grand curved staircase, his strength was not taxed. Something about the angle of the gentleman’s jaw suggested Mr. Jones would be held accountable this time.

“The Dovecote is one of the tower suites,” he said. “The views are lovely, and you’re close to both the family wing and the guest wing. If the apartment is not to your liking, I’m sure Lady Glenys can see to other arrangements.”

He was local, then, a neighbor, cousin, or close friend of the family. Was he a guest at the house party?

“I’m sure the accommodations will be fine. Charlotte, how are you feeling?”

“A little better,” she said, lashes fluttering. “What a lovely castle.”

“Haverford Castle can be cold as the devil’s root cellar in winter,” the gentleman replied. “This is your suite.”

He carried Charlotte straight into a circular chamber graced with three windows. The walls were more than two feet thick, the plaster a mellow cream. A lone red rose stood in a crystal vase on the sideboard.

The gentleman set Charlotte on a tufted sofa and regarded her, his hands on his hips. In his dusty boots and with a streak of dirt on one sleeve of his riding jacket, he might have been a steward assessing a heifer gone off her feed.

“Fresh air, I think,” he said, wrestling two of the windows open. The latches screeched in protest, but the breeze was heavenly. He knelt before the sideboard and opened a cupboard. “At the risk of being indelicate, you might also need this.”