5. In Which a Campaign Intensifies and Rescue Becomes a Pattern – Various locations throughout London #2
Waverton's expression shifted to something that might have been condescension. "Ah, but you see, Lady Charlotte, the franchise question is far more complex than it appears. The working classes, while deserving of consideration, lack the education necessary for?—"
"I beg your pardon." Edward appeared at my elbow, holding a book. "Charlotte, didn't you want to see the new translation of Plutarch? I believe it's just arrived."
I had not mentioned Plutarch. I had not, in fact, known there was a new translation.
"Yes," I said immediately. "I did."
"Excellent. Waverton, you'll excuse us."
Edward steered me toward the classics section before Waverton could protest.
"There is no new translation of Plutarch," I said quietly once we were out of earshot.
"Isn't there? My mistake."
"You're lying again."
"I prefer to think of it as strategic fibbing.”
I laughed despite myself. "You can't keep rescuing me."
"Can't I?"
"People will notice."
"People are already noticing." Edward pulled a book from the shelf—an actual translation of Plutarch, though not particularly new. "Here. In case Waverton asks what we were discussing."
I took the book. Our fingers brushed. I felt it like a spark.
"Edward—"
"You were about to eviscerate him," Edward said quietly. "I could see it. The way your eyes narrow right before you demolish someone's argument. He deserved it, but your aunt was watching, and I thought?—"
"You thought you'd rescue me before I could make a scene."
"I thought I'd rescue you because you looked like you needed it."
I stared at him. At Edward, who somehow knew exactly when I needed saving, even when I didn't ask for it.
"Thank you," I said.
"Always."
The word hung between us. The same word he'd said at the Pemberton ball. The same promise.
Aunt Mary appeared around the corner of the bookshelf, looking between us with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"Charlotte. I've been looking for you. Mr Waverton is waiting to continue your discussion."
"I'm sure he is," I said.
Edward stepped back. Gave me a small, private smile. And left me to face Waverton's lectures on political economy.
But the Plutarch was still in my hand.
And I could still feel where Edward's fingers had touched mine.
Saturday: Marguerite's Musicale, Ashford House
Saturday brought Marguerite's musicale at Ashford House.
I should have known better than to attend. But Mama had insisted—"Marguerite has gone to such effort, darling"—and refusing would have required explanations I still wasn't prepared to give.
The musicale was elegant, well-attended, and utterly torturous.
Because Lord Dunmore arrived early. Staked out the seat directly beside mine. And proceeded to provide commentary throughout the entire performance.
"Excellent posture," he whispered during the first piece, a violin sonata. "See how the violinist keeps his back straight? Essential for proper bow control."
I nodded. Tried to focus on the music.
"Though I must say," Dunmore continued, "the accompanist's hand position could be improved. See there? The wrist angle? If he adjusted by perhaps five degrees?—"
The music swelled. Dunmore kept whispering.
By the third piece—a soprano performing something Italian and presumably beautiful—I had given up on actually hearing any of it.
"Remarkable breath control," Dunmore murmured. "Though I wonder if her technique wouldn't benefit from—Lady Charlotte, are you quite well? You look rather flushed."
I was not flushed. I was suppressing the urge to scream.
"I'm perfectly well, thank you."
"Splendid! Now, after the performance, I was hoping we might discuss the collection I mentioned. I've acquired three new pieces since we last spoke, and I really think you'd find them fascinating. There's a German one with the most extraordinary?—"
The soprano hit a high note. I contemplated joining her.
When the musicale finally, mercifully ended, I made for the refreshment table with the single-minded determination of someone fleeing a burning building.
I did not make it.
Dunmore intercepted me halfway across the room.
"Lady Charlotte! Perfect timing. I wanted to tell you about the German snuffbox. It has the most remarkable?—"
"Lady Charlotte." Edward materialised at Dunmore's elbow. "Juliet was asking for you. Something about tomorrow's breakfast arrangements."
Dunmore blinked. "Oh. Family matters?"
"Pressing family matters," Edward confirmed.
"Of course, of course. Lady Charlotte, perhaps later?—"
"Later," I agreed, and fled.
Edward fell into step beside me as we made our way toward the corridor.
"Mama was not asking for me," I said.
"Wasn't she? How odd."
"You're a terrible liar."
"And yet it keeps working."
We reached the corridor. The quiet was blissful after the crush of the drawing room.
I turned to face him. "You've rescued me four times this week."
"Have I? I wasn't counting."
"Edward."
"Charlotte."
He said my name the way he had at the Pemberton ball. Like it meant something.
"People are going to notice," I said. "If you keep intervening."
"People are already noticing. The question is whether you care."
Did I care? Should I care?
The family wanted Dunmore. The ton expected Dunmore. And I?—
I wanted the man standing in front of me, looking at me like I was the only person in the room.
"I should go back," I said. "Before Grandmama Marguerite comes looking."
"You should."
Neither of us moved.
"Charlotte—"
"I know." I stepped back. "I know."
I didn't know. I didn't know anything except that every time Edward rescued me, every stolen moment in corridors and bookshops and quiet alcoves felt like something I couldn't name and shouldn't want.
"Thank you," I said. "For rescuing me."
"Always," Edward said again.
I left him standing in the corridor and returned to the musicale. To Dunmore and his snuffboxes. To Marguerite's knowing smiles and the aunts' approving nods.
To the future everyone had planned for me.
But I could still feel Edward's eyes on me. Could still hear the way he said my name.
And I knew, with absolute certainty, that I was in terrible trouble.
Sunday: Ashbourne House, Grosvenor Square
On Sunday, I spent the day in my room, ostensibly resting.
In reality, I was trying very hard not to think about Edward.
I failed spectacularly.
Eleanor slipped in without knocking, closing the door behind her with the kind of deliberate care that meant she had something to say.
"You've been avoiding people," she announced, settling into the chair by my escritoire.
"I'm resting."
"You're hiding."
"I'm not?—"
"You are. From the family. From Lord Dunmore. From Uncle Edward."
My chest did something complicated at the sound of his name.
"I'm not hiding from anyone."
Eleanor gave me a look that was far too knowing for an eleven-year-old. "He's been rescuing you all week. Everyone's noticed."
"He's been helpful."
"He's been following you to every event and extracting you from conversations with your suitors."
"He's my uncle. He's allowed to be helpful."
"He's not your uncle," Eleanor said. "Not really. Mama's his sister, which makes him your step-uncle at most. And the way he looks at you?—"
"Eleanor—"
"The way you look at him," she continued relentlessly, "is not how one looks at an uncle."
I said nothing. Because what could I say?
Eleanor leaned forward. "What happened at the Pemberton ball?"
"Nothing happened."
"Something happened. And whatever it was, it's been happening all week."
I looked at my sister. At Eleanor, who kept my secrets and knew me better than almost anyone.
I wanted to tell her. Wanted to explain that I'd danced with Edward and felt something shift.
That I'd called him Edward instead of Uncle Edward and couldn't quite remember when that had changed.
That every time he rescued me, every stolen moment, felt like something I couldn't name and shouldn't want.
But I couldn't.
Because putting it into words would make it real.
"Nothing is happening," I said firmly. "Edward is being kind. The family is matchmaking. And I am managing my Season exactly as planned."
"Liar," Eleanor said cheerfully. "But fine. Don't tell me. Just know that whatever you're doing—letting them push you toward Dunmore while Uncle Edward rescues you every other day—it can't continue forever."
"I know."
"Do you?"
She left before I could answer.
I sat alone in my room with my notebook, my lies, and the growing certainty that Eleanor was right.
Something had to change.
I just didn't know what.
I opened my notebook. Stared at the page where I'd been tracking the Season's candidates.
Lord Eastmore: Acceptable. Dull. Discussed drainage systems.
Mr Waverton: Intelligent but patronising. Removed from consideration.
Lord Philip Ashby: Earnest. Terrible poetry. Unlikely to improve.
And then, at the bottom: Lord Dunmore.
Everyone's favourite. The perfect match. Ducal heir for a duke's daughter.
I stared at his name for a long moment.
Then, very carefully, in the margin where no one would see it unless they were looking, I wrote a single word.
Edward.
And closed the book before I could cross that out too.