A Properly Conducted Sham (Most Imprudent Matches #5)

Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

84 brOOK STREET, LONDON - JUNE 9, 1816

CHARLOTTE

I trailed a finger along leather spines of the books as I studiously feigned hearing loss. The collection lining the shelves was even more eclectic than I had first thought.

A man, presumably the butler, was arguing with the servant who had been listening at the door the other day. Their tone was a whisper, their volume was anything but.

“It’s not proper. There has been no betrothal announcement.” That was the butler.

“He is paying his addresses to her father as we speak.”

“There is no chaperone! And the engagement isn’t finalized. Her father could well throw him out.” Well, the butler wasn’t wrong about that. But it seemed unlikely. Father would be thrilled to be relieved of the burden of me. I wasn’t a burden, of course. I hadn’t asked him for anything, not since my marriage. And I wouldn’t, not ever, not for anything. My father had made it more than clear that he didn’t harbor any sentiment toward me, nor did he concern himself with my well-being. In truth I had not spoken to him since my mother’s passing.

“Yes, and if she has seen the empty countess’s chambers, she will be scandalized beyond belief,” the other servant hissed.

I choked back a laugh. The former eavesdropper turned victim was certainly amusing.

“It is not proper!”

“Yes, you’ve said that. But his lordship said you were to escort her through the house. She may wish to make changes to suit her tastes. If you won’t, then I will.”

The butler scoffed. “You will do no such thing. That is my role. Go press a shirt or something.”

“Show the lady the rooms. All of them.”

“Fine, but I want my strenuous objections noted.” The butler shooed the other one, a valet perhaps, down the hall and turned toward me. I kept my focus on the tomes before me, but out of the corner of my eye, I caught his startle at the open door. Yes, discussing me in front of an open door was also improper, sir.

“My lady, I am Crawford. I’ve served as butler for the Champaign family for nearly a decade. It would be my honor to show you around the house if you like. Mrs. Fitzroy, the housekeeper, would join us, however, she has remained in Surrey.” I observed him as he gave an obsequious bow after his speech. He was a stout little man, with a sweaty forehead and mousy brown hair, and he carried himself with a self-importance that seemed unearned.

“Lady James,” I said, pressing a hand to my chest. “I would be most grateful for a tour. If you think it would not be improper, of course.”

From the hall, I caught a snort of laughter. The valet must be eavesdropping again. The man in front of me flushed, splotchy and peaked.

“Right this way, if you please.” He directed me to trail after him, out of the drawing room and down the hall. Apparently, he deemed it improper to address my comment.

He indicated a study to the left but did not open the door. A few steps farther to the right was a music room. I was pleased to find that it was already outfitted with a pianoforte.

We turned a corner to a lengthy hall that served as portrait gallery. Family dating back several centuries stared down at me in disapproval. Crawford prattled on about their various heroic feats and relations.

Yes, I am about to sully your ranks. What of it?

The paintings appeared to be in chronological order, if the dress was any indication. Slowly the gown silhouettes shrank to something more familiar. Always light of hair and eyes, the family resemblance was stark.

And there at the very end was Lord Champaign, perhaps a decade younger than he was at present, unscarred and unbearably handsome. And he wasn’t alone.

Beside him was an ethereal young lady. White-blonde hair topped her heart-shaped face. Her eyes were too big for her head, which should have been off-putting but instead it was becoming. Her nose was pert and her lips fit her face with a perfect bow, fuller on top than the bottom. Her frame was lithe and her gown was a lovely white silk that draped her form elegantly.

“—and of course you know Lord Champaign. This is the late Lady Champaign. This portrait was commissioned as a wedding gift from her parents.”

I had a thousand questions, and I could not ask this man any of them. The valet, perhaps, but not Crawford. He guided me through a corridor and into a massive dining room. Someone, presumably the late Lady Champaign, had decorated using a shade of cream in every room. She had added a different accent color in each for variance. The effect was cohesive and elegant, without being dull. For the dining room she had selected a deep rose-pink shade. The breakfast room Crawford led me to next was a pale blue.

I followed the butler through empty halls and unused rooms all the way up the steps.

“—of course, there are fewer guest rooms here than in Surrey. We have six here, but there are twelve at Bennet Hall. Those are all down this direction and if you turn left, you’ll find the family rooms.”

He showed me guest room after guest room, each a different color for distinction. One thing was becoming readily apparent: Lord Champaign was wealthy, very wealthy. After years of economizing under my husband, the tasteful display of affluence was astonishing. And it was tasteful—nothing was ostentatious, merely of fine construction and considered for the situation of the room.

As we forged deeper into the house, the apprehension left by Lady Champaign faded to the background. I had been in an unhappy marriage where I survived rather than thrived. And one of the bigger points of contention in that marriage had been my husband’s determination to lose every last coin at the gaming tables. If this house was any indication, that would not be a concern with Lord Champaign.

While some might call me mercenary, I considered myself practical. Marriage was a challenging enough prospect under the best of circumstances—which ours certainly would not be. There was no need to add financial concerns to the clutter.

Crawford turned back the way we came, traversing the landing at the top of the stairs to the family wing.

“Crawford? Does Lord Champaign have any living family?”

“I’m afraid not, my lady. His parents were not blessed with any more children. His father passed when he was quite young, when Lord Champaign was but four and twenty, I believe. And his mother passed a few years ago.”

So much death… The poor man.

“I am sorry to hear it.”

He nodded, pausing for a moment before proceeding with the tour as if our exchange was banal and inconsequential.

“This is the nursery, my lady.” He opened the first door in the family wing. I peered inside. This room was decked in a pale yellow shade, slightly offset from the cream.

When I had first arrived at my late husband’s home, I was shown a very similar room on an identical tour. That one had been a soft blue color before I had gotten ahold of it.

A few months into our marriage, when I was still attempting to make the best of things, my courses were late. Late enough that I found myself wondering, hoping even. On a whim, I had painted a forest scene that spanned the entirety of one wall. I was so excited to show Ralph that night, but he had scoffed and ordered a servant to return it to its appropriate state. The next morning my courses came.

I nodded at Crawford and backed away. He shut the door and escorted me past a few unused family rooms with nothing but a peek inside. “These are the countess’s rooms, my lady,” he said with a hint of pride in his tone. It seemed the man had overcome his trepidations.

The rooms were all very proper—a sitting room, a closet, and a boudoir, papered in a pleasing grayish green with accents of both colors. The bed was an impressive four poster carved in cherry wood with delicate leaves and vines etched into the posts and headboard.

And there it was, the connecting door. The bane of my existence. So unimposing in appearance while facilitating a husband’s impositions on his wife.

“Through there, of course, are his lordship’s rooms.” I nodded absently, feigning ignorance as to the function of said door.

The late countess had impeccable taste. If I learned nothing else today, that was clear.

Every inch of this household was spotless too, even the unused rooms. It was something of a surprise as I was given to understand that Lord Champaign rarely made use of this house. The staff surely ran like a finely tuned Swiss watch, like the one Crawford kept checking surreptitiously.

“Am I keeping you from something?” I asked pointedly.

“Of course not, my lady. I only expected his lordship back sooner.”

I had too, come to think of it. Hopefully he had not met with trouble at Father’s or with the bishop. I had barely secured the man’s proposal—if one could even call it that—in the first place. I feared one too many challenges and he would give up on the concept entirely.

“Are you staying for supper, my lady?”

“I… do not know.”

A cheerful voice from behind me added, “Of course she is. What kind of question is that, Crawford?” The eavesdropping valet had arrived, and Lord Champaign, in all of his impossibly tall glory, hovered behind him. Seemingly only a little worse—more tightness around the eyes—for having met with my father.

“Please do,” he added. And just like that, I was attending supper.