CHAPTER 15 #2
The Dowager Marchioness of Peake still cut a magnificent figure.
Tall and willowy, with coiffed curls that gleamed like polished silver from beneath her jaunty plumed shako, she was approaching with surprising agility, given the ebony cane clasped in her gloved hand.
Age hadn’t dimmed her beauty. The regal, fine-boned features of her face drew the eye with their classical symmetry, and while her ivory skin betrayed the wrinkling of time, a lively intelligence glittered in her grey eyes.
Skirts swirling, feather bobbing, she lifted her stick in an imperious salute.
“It is you, and grown even more striking than I remember.”
Charlotte felt as if the gimlet gaze were cutting through the layers of fabric right down to bare skin. The dowager had always possessed the ability to see through any artifice.
“I feel like I’m seeing a ghost suddenly come to life.” The cane gave another waggle. “You have a great deal of explaining to do, my dear.”
“It’s lovely to see you, Aunt Alison,” murmured Charlotte as she brushed a light kiss to the dowager’s cheek. “And, yes, I shall endeavor to answer for my misdeeds.”
Alison took hold of Charlotte’s arm. “Come, let us walk.” A wave of her cane indicated a fork in the footpath leading down to the adjoining meadow of St. James’s Park. “There is a bench close by that affords a very pleasant view over the lake.”
Crunch-crunch. The sound of their steps on the gravel filled the silence as they made their way out of the shade and seated themselves in the sunshine.
The dowager fluffed her skirts and then carefully angled her cane across her lap.
Charlotte felt her throat constrict. The soft kidskin gloves, a lovely smoke-green hue that matched the elegant walking dress, didn’t quite disguise how frail her great-aunt’s hands had become.
“Italy,” said Alison without preamble. “I heard you and your drawing master had hared off to Italy.” Her gaze was on the lake, not Charlotte. “Why didn’t you write to me?”
“Because I feared . . .” Charlotte shifted. How to explain? “I feared I had disappointed you. Not just in disgracing the family name, but because you encouraged me to think and to explore.” She swallowed hard. “And then I went ahead and, against all common sense, chose to ruin my future.”
Alison finally turned to face her. “Do you regret it?”
“No,” she answered without hesitation. “Though that’s too simple an answer.
I am sorry beyond words for the pain I caused you, and all my family.
But for me to live as more than a pasteboard cutout, I needed to escape from the gilded cage and spread my own wings.
” Charlotte made a wry face. “No matter where I ended up.”
“Hmmph.”
The sound—was it a snort or a sigh?—was too faint to interpret. She waited, watching the dowager’s hand tighten on the handle of her cane.
“Tell me about your life,” said Alison. “Was Italy all that you dreamed it would be?”
It took longer to tell than Charlotte had expected. She had prepared a story—one as truthful as she could make it—but the dowager kept interrupting with questions. Charlotte answered them as honestly as she could.
Thank God Wrexford’s foresight allowed her to explain about the boys.
“So you are a widow, with two wards,” murmured Alison when Charlotte had come to the end of her story. “How do you support yourself?”
“Anthony made a living painting portraits, once we returned to England. Through his connections, I found work using my skill at art to do illustrations of fashion and Society.”
“Like the ones shown in Ackermann’s Repository?”
“Yes, similar to those.” It wasn’t precisely a lie, just a bending of the truth.
“I see.” Another question looked to be hovering on her lips, but Alison appeared to change her mind. “So now that we’ve covered the past, let us speak of the present—and the future.”
Though the plume of the dowager’s shako was dancing in the breeze, casting her face in flickering patterns of dark and light, Charlotte saw Alison’s gaze turn searching.
“Why the sudden desire to reenter Society? From what you’ve told me, I have the distinct impression that you value your independence even more fiercely than you did as a girl.”
“I must think of the boys,” she responded. “My entrée into the beau monde will open up opportunities that I can’t currently offer to them.”
The dowager nodded sagely. “It will also open up opportunities for you.” She cleared her throat with a brusque cough. “Including to remarry, if you so choose.”
“I assure you that is not why I am here,” murmured Charlotte.
Alison fixed her with a searching stare, but didn’t press the question. Instead, she said, “I’m often accused of possessing a devious mind, so I can’t help but wonder if this has anything to do with Cedric’s murder and Nicholas’s imprisonment for the crime. I know you were close to them.”
Charlotte sensed that all hope for her plan hinged on how she answered. “Your mind,” she said carefully, “has always been a source of inspiration to me. It’s from you that I learned to ask difficult questions, to challenge myself to look beyond the comfortable confines of my world.”
Amusement quivered at the corners of the dowager’s mouth. “That wasn’t an answer to my question.”
Charlotte smiled. “No, it wasn’t. And I daresay I’m not going to give you the one you want.
” Shifting position on the slatted seat, she reached out and uncurled the dowager’s fingers from the cane.
The fragile warmth of them tingled against her palm.
“You’re right—I’m hopelessly independent and I doubt I shall ever change.
In addition, I have secrets that I’m not yet ready to share. Life has taught me to err on caution.”
The dowager’s expression tightened, but the cane remained untouched in her lap. Which Charlotte decided to take as a good sign.
“And so, although I have no right to ask it, I’m hoping you’ll agree to help me without demanding to know all the reasons why. At least for now.”
“Hmmph.” This time the dowager did reach for her cane. “Come, let us walk again. My old bones become stiff if I sit for too long.”
Charlotte helped her to rise. She saw movement in the shade of the nearby trees as McClellan and the dowager’s maid made ready to follow.
“It’s a cursed nuisance to grow old and feeble,” grumbled Alison. “But I suppose I’m fortunate my wits haven’t ossified along with my knees.”
She said nothing, deciding to place her faith in the fact that the dowager had always preferred plain speaking to platitudes.
Progress was slow at first. Alison was a trifle unsteady on the loose stones, and Charlotte steadied several stumbles.
On reaching the crest of the gentle hill, where the path turned level, the dowager regained her stride. “Have you any other acquaintances within the beau monde?” she asked abruptly. “I seem to recall you were close with that young jackanapes who became Lord Sterling.”
“Jeremy,” answered Charlotte. “Yes, he and I are friends, and we see each other occasionally.”
“Anyone else?”
“Lord Wrexford,” she answered. “He and I are also . . . friendly.”
“Wrexford?” The dowager’s brows shot up. “How did you come to meet the earl?”
“Through my late husband,” she replied. “I’m also acquainted with his friend Mr. Sheffield.”
Alison seemed satisfied with the explanation. “About Anthony Sloane.” The dowager thought for a moment. “You say his relatives were gentry?”
“Yes, but Anthony was of modest birth—”
“Pfft! It’s been a decade since your elopement—and even back then, your parents hushed up the details. No one will have the slightest idea as to his background.”
“But—”
“There is an art to storytelling, my dear child. The key is to embellish certain details to make them compelling,” said Alison as she paused and gave a flourish of her cane to emphasize the point. Turning, she fixed Charlotte with an owlish squint. “But I daresay you know that.”
Charlotte maintained a solemn face. “Imagination is important in any creative endeavor.”
That drew a bark of laughter. “Life has been sadly flat without you, Charley.” A sigh.
“The ton is filled with pompous prigs and feather-headed widgeons. I swear, I’m sliding into senility from sheer boredom.
” Taking hold of Charlotte’s arm, she turned toward Piccadilly Street, where her carriage was waiting.
“A little intrigue and excitement is what keeps the blood pulsing through one’s veins.
So whatever it is you are up to, I shall be happy to help. ”
Charlotte covered the dowager’s hand with hers and gave a heartfelt squeeze. “Words feel inadequate to express my gratitude to you—for everything. So I shall simply say thank you, Aunt Alison.”
“Nonsense,” sniffed the dowager, though her cheeks had turned pink. “It is I who should be thanking you.”
They walked on for several strides. “Come around to my town house tomorrow at half past eleven,” added Alison, “and we’ll begin to plan a strategy for introducing you to Society.
” Her eyes took on a speculative gleam. “Perhaps if we ruffle enough feathers, we’ll merit one of A. J. Quill’s drawings.”
“Let us try not to have it come to that,” she murmured.
The dowager looked a little disappointed; however, her expression quickly brightened as the footpath took them up through the center of the park’s meadow. “Yes, but you said you’re on friendly terms with the Earl of Wrexford. And you can’t deny that wherever he goes, trouble seems to follow.”