Escapade with the Earl (The Ashford Chronicles #6)

1. In Which a Season Begins and Plans Are Made – Ashbourne House, Grosvenor Square, London

IN WHICH A SEASON BEGINS AND PLANS ARE MADE

CHARLOTTE

ASHBOURNE HOUSE, GROSVENOR SQUARE, LONDON

Ihad always believed that organisation was the highest form of love.

I believed this because it was true. Love was not some vague, floating sentiment that one felt and hoped for the best. Love was action.

Love was planning. Love was knowing exactly which gentleman would suit which young lady, and then engineering circumstances until they discovered it for themselves.

Love was a notebook with different-coloured ribbons threaded through the pages and a system that had successfully matched all three of my aunts with their perfect husbands and found a wife for my Grandpapa.

And now, on this bright March morning in 1825, with Ashbourne House humming with pre-Season energy and my own debut mere days away, I sat at my escritoire and surveyed my work with the quiet satisfaction of a general on the eve of battle.

Everything was in order.

The gowns: seventeen day dresses, twelve evening gowns, three riding habits, and one presentation gown that had required six fittings and made me look, according to Eleanor, "like a princess but also like you could ruin someone's life if they were rude to you." Perfect.

The accessories: gloves in every conceivable shade, reticules to match, and fans ranging from demure to devastating. My mother—Juliet, the Duchess of Ashbourne, who had taken on the role with such grace that I sometimes forgot she hadn't always been Mama—had outdone herself.

The strategy: I had identified seventeen eligible gentlemen, ranked by suitability across multiple criteria (title, fortune, temperament, family connections, and—critically—whether they would bore me to tears within a fortnight).

I had contingency plans for awkward encounters, exit strategies for tedious conversations, and a series of signals with Eleanor for when I required rescue.

And the notebook. Oh, the notebook.

I ran my hand over the Moroccan leather cover, feeling the familiar thrill of a fresh system perfectly implemented.

Inside: a complete breakdown of the Season's social calendar, cross-referenced with my ranked list of gentlemen, annotated with intelligence from Aunt Mary (who knew everyone's income to the penny) and romantic insights from Aunt Caroline (who had cried twice just reading my notes, which I considered extreme but typical).

I was ready.

"Charlotte!" Eleanor's voice rang up the stairs, followed by the thunder of an eleven-year-old taking the steps two at a time despite being told repeatedly that ladies did not gallop indoors. "They're here!"

I closed the notebook and descended to chaos.

Ashbourne House, usually a model of ducal dignity, had been invaded.

Aunt Mary and Uncle Matthew had arrived from Thornbury Park, their carriage barely stopped before Mary was through the door with her lists.

Aunt Caroline and Uncle Alexander were in the drawing room, Caroline already teary-eyed about my debut, while Alexander supplied handkerchiefs with practised efficiency.

Aunt Margaret and Uncle Edmund were expected within the hour, and Grandmama Marguerite had sent word she would call at three o'clock for tea.

"Tea," my father had said dryly at breakfast, "is apparently what we're calling strategy sessions now."

Lucas Ashbourne, Duke of Ashbourne, was fifty-seven, silver-haired, and still devastatingly handsome in the way that made dowagers sigh and me roll my eyes. He'd survived losing his first wife and had somehow ended up deliriously happy with Mama.

"It's Grandmama," I had replied, kissing his cheek. "Everything is a strategy session."

Now, watching my aunts descend on Ashbourne House like a well-dressed army, I felt a flicker of suspicion.

This seemed like rather a lot of organisation for a single debut.

"Darling!" Aunt Caroline swept me into a lavender-scented embrace. "You look beautiful. Doesn't she look beautiful, Alex?"

"Radiant," Uncle Alexander agreed, with the slightly shell-shocked expression of a man who had learned that agreement was the path of least resistance.

"I have notes," Aunt Mary announced, producing a folio that could have contained battle plans for the Peninsula War.

"Seventeen confirmed attendees at the Pemberton ball, twelve of whom meet your baseline criteria.

I've arranged for three introductions via mutual acquaintances, two 'chance' encounters at Somerset House next week, and—Charlotte, are you listening? "

I was watching Mama and Papa exchange a look across the entrance hall. The kind of look that meant something was happening that I was not yet aware of.

I did not care for that look.

"I'm listening," I said. "Three introductions, two chance encounters that are not at all chance, and I assume you've also mapped their country estates to determine who will be within visiting distance this summer?"

Mary smiled. Derbyshire, Nottinghamshire, Lincolnshire, and Hertfordshire. I thought you'd appreciate the geographic efficiency."

"I do." I did appreciate it. I appreciated it very much. I also appreciated that something was afoot, and nobody was telling me what.

"Eleanor," I said, catching my sister as she zoomed past with what appeared to be a stack of invitations, "what's happening?"

Eleanor stopped. At eleven, she was all sharp eyes and sharper instincts, with the Ashbourne dark hair and the kind of intelligence that made governesses quit. She was also my most loyal lieutenant, which meant she was constitutionally incapable of lying to me.

"Grandmama's coming for tea," Eleanor said, which was not an answer.

"Yes. And?"

"And Aunt Mary brought her folio, and Aunt Caroline has been crying since Reading, and Aunt Margaret is bringing charts."

"Charts of what?"

Eleanor's eyes slid away. "I'm not supposed to say."

I narrowed my eyes. "Eleanor Ashbourne?—"

Mama’s voice cut in smoothly, “Tea will be served in the drawing room at three. Charlotte, darling, Marguerite specifically requested that it be just the older generation," she added, with a smile that was both warm and utterly immovable.

I stared at my mother. "I'm sorry. Did you just exclude me from a family tea?"

"Just the aunts and me, darling. We have some... logistics to discuss."

"Logistics for my Season."

"Among other things."

"My Season," I repeated. "Which I am having. And I cannot attend the logistics meeting for my own debut?"

"Think of it as a surprise," Aunt Caroline offered wetly. "We want everything to be perfect for you."

I looked at my father. Papa had retreated behind his newspaper, which meant he knew exactly what was happening and had been expressly forbidden from telling me. Coward.

I looked at Eleanor. Eleanor bit her lip and said nothing.

I looked at the drawing room door, which had just closed behind Mama and the aunts, and heard the distinct sound of furniture being rearranged.

I was not invited to my own war council.

This was unacceptable.

"Eleanor," I said sweetly, "come with me."

"Where are we going?"

"To find out what they're planning."

Eleanor's face lit up. "Reconnaissance?"

"Exactly."

We made it as far as the corridor outside the drawing room before Mama appeared in the doorway like a beautiful, immovable force of nature.

"Charlotte," she said, in the tone that meant the Duchess of Ashbourne was operating at full capacity, "no."

"I just thought?—"

"No."

"But—"

"Darling." Mama’s voice softened. "Trust us. Please."

I wanted to argue. I had seventeen excellent arguments prepared. But Mama was looking at me with such affection, such certainty, that I found myself nodding.

"Fine."

"Thank you,” she said, kissing my forehead. "Why don't you take Eleanor to the library? I believe your Uncle Edward arrives tomorrow. You were planning to review your notes for him, weren't you?"

Oh. Yes. Uncle Edward.

I had almost forgotten.

Edward Ashford, Earl of Retford, mama’s younger brother, had been on the Continent for eighteen months—Geneva, Rome, Paris, all the places young men went when they'd finished Oxford and had more fortune than direction.

The last time I'd seen him, I'd been thirteen, and he'd been eighteen, gangly and bookish and utterly useless at conversation.

He'd spent most of the family gatherings hiding in trees with a book, and I'd spent most of my time ordering him down for meals.

I'd been fond of him, in the way one was fond of a particularly hopeless younger cousin who needed managing.

Now he was coming home, and I had plans for him.

"I've made a list," I told Eleanor as we retreated to the library. "Six young ladies who would suit Uncle Edward perfectly."

Eleanor, who was sprawled in an armchair with the boneless ease of the very young, raised an eyebrow. "Does Uncle Edward know you've made him a list?"

"Not yet. But he'll thank me once he's married to the right person."

"What if he doesn't want to be married?"

"Everyone wants to be married," I said firmly. "They just don't always know it yet."

Eleanor grinned. "You sound like Grandmama."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't."

I threw a cushion at her, which Eleanor dodged with insulting ease.

Faintly, through the wall, I could hear voices from the drawing room. Grandmama Marguerite had arrived—her voice was unmistakable, warm and commanding in equal measure. The aunts were talking over each other. Someone—probably Aunt Caroline—was crying.

They were planning something.

Something large.

I looked at my notebook, at my perfectly organised Season, at my ranked list of seventeen eligible gentlemen who would be perfectly suitable and perfectly boring.

And I felt, for just a moment, a flicker of something that might have been doubt.

"Eleanor," I said slowly, "do you ever think that perhaps some things don't need to be planned?"

Eleanor looked at me like I'd grown a second head. "No. Never. What's wrong with you?"

I laughed despite myself. "Nothing. Nothing's wrong." I opened my notebook, flipping to the section marked EDWARD. "Now. Let me tell you about Miss Amelia Winters. She's quiet and studious, with a passion for books. She'll be perfect for Uncle Edward."

"Does she know about the trees?"

"What trees?"

"Uncle Edward's trees. The ones he hides in."

I waved a hand. "He was eighteen. I'm sure he's outgrown that."

Eleanor made a non-committal noise that I chose to ignore.

Outside, a carriage rolled up the drive. Through the window, I could see Aunt Margaret and Uncle Edmund arriving, Margaret with her leather case that definitely contained charts.

In the drawing room, Grandmama’s voice rose in what sounded distinctly like a battle cry, followed by applause.

And in my hands, my notebook sat open to a page of careful plans that suddenly felt like they were written in a language I no longer quite spoke.

Tomorrow, Uncle Edward would arrive.

In four days, the Pemberton ball would open the Season.

And I, Charlotte Ashbourne, who had spent a decade managing everyone else's happiness, had absolutely no idea that I was about to lose control of my own.

I turned the page and began making notes about seating arrangements.

After all, organisation was the highest form of love.

Even when I didn't yet know who I was organising it for.