CHAPTER 6
McClellan finished threading a silk ribbon through Charlotte’s upswept topknot and flicked a few ringlets into place before stepping back to assess the effect.
“You look like . . . a countess,” she murmured, giving a gruff nod at the reflection in the looking glass.
“Ha, ha.” Charlotte forced a smile. “Thank you for the reminder.” Black sheep of her imperious family. Gadfly to the rich and powerful. Secretive widow. Occasional sleuth of crimes. “I slip in and out of so many second skins that at times I fear I’m losing track of just who I really am.”
The maid raised a brow. “Sounds like a very interesting life to me. Or would you rather dress yourself every day in conventional boredom?”
Charlotte smoothed at the tiny ruffles that trimmed her bodice. “Thank you, Mac. You have a knack of putting problems into the proper perspective.”
That drew a rare chuckle. “In my experience, a positive outlook is both practical and pragmatic.”
“A very wise observation.” Charlotte took up a bottle of scent and dabbed a bit on the pulse point on her throat. “Let us hope Wrexford will be of the same opinion tonight.”
“You’re a vision of loveliness,” said McClellan. “That should dispel any foul mood lingering from the murder.”
“That,” replied Charlotte, “will depend on whether or not he has seen A. J. Quill’s latest drawing.”
She had been relieved when the earl had sent a note yesterday apologizing that due to the complexity of the chemical experiment he wished to perform on the poison, he would be unable to stop by for a visit.
A cowardly reaction, she conceded. But her drawing for the printshop and the accompanying wording had taken a great deal of soul-searching.
She believed she had been scrupulously fair—Becton deserved that justice be done, and the Royal Society deserved not to have its good name blackened unfairly.
However, she was grateful that she didn’t have to explain herself to him at that moment.
The maid moved to the armoire to fetch a Kashmir shawl. “Wrexford may not always agree with your choices, but he always respects them.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean he won’t express his opinion.” A sigh. “In no uncertain terms.”
“And you will respond by telling him—tactfully, of course—to go to the devil.”
“A rather eccentric arrangement on which to base a marriage,” she murmured.
“One person’s heaven is another person’s hell,” observed McClellan, draping the feather-soft wool over Charlotte’s bare shoulders. “All that matters is it works for the two of you.”
So it does.
“Try to put aside thoughts of death and enjoy the festivities,” counseled the maid.
Repressing a shiver on recalling that Kensington Palace had been the site of a previous murder, Charlotte rose and took up her reticule. The past is the past, she told herself. Evil must never be allowed to overshadow Good.
“Yes, of course. It promises to be a very engaging evening. I’m looking forward to mingling with such an interesting group of scholars.”
The earl’s carriage arrived at the appointed time, and since Wrexford had fetched the dowager as well, the three of them passed the ride discussing the upcoming trip to his country estate, and the arrangements for hosting her brother’s visit.
Alison was quick to remind her that he was expected to arrive sometime during the next few days for the long-awaited family reconciliation. Which did nothing to settle Charlotte’s already-jumpy nerves.
“Perhaps we should ask the head gardener at the Royal Botanic Gardens to create the flower arrangements for the chapel and the wedding breakfast,” suggested Alison. “Something exotic—”
“Something simple,” corrected Charlotte, before the dowager got any grand ideas. “Keep in mind that Wrexford is notorious for his eccentricities. If we were to allow it to turn into a vulgar spectacle, I’d have to do a parody of my own nuptials.”
A gleam of unholy amusement flickered beneath the earl’s lashes. “I’m sure you would render a very imaginative ball and chain. One that would likely send all the demure Diamonds of the First Water fleeing in terror from the altar of Bliss.”
“Hmmph. As if I would suggest anything vulgar.” Alison looked a little disappointed at being deprived of a chance to let her imagination run wild. “I never had a chance to attend the first ceremony, so I thought we might make up for it with something special . . .”
Charlotte felt a twinge of guilt. Choices, choices. The ramifications had a way of rippling out with unintended consequences. Her youthful elopement had saved her own sanity. But it had hurt people she loved dearly.
“Wrexford’s estate has a hothouse, and Hawk has come to have a keen eye for the whimsical beauty in everyday flowers,” she mused.
With all the distractions of late, she had been worrying that the boy might feel lost in the shadows.
But perhaps . . . “Come to think of it, perhaps the two of you could create something special out of those simple treasures.”
A speculative smile brightened the dowager’s expression. “The idea holds possibilities.”
One challenge solved. As to the others that lay ahead . . .
* * *
As the receiving line snaked its way slowly up Kensington Palace’s opulent King’s Staircase, Wrexford felt the tension thrumming through Charlotte. A sidelong gaze showed a polite smile pasted on her lips, but her eyes had a faraway look, which signaled her thoughts were anywhere but here.
A surmise accentuated by the fact that she had taken no notice of the surrounding art.
“What do you think of the murals?” he murmured, seeking to draw her back to the moment.
Alison had paired off with her friend Sir Robert, leaving the two of them to proceed on their own.
“They are quite renowned, you know. William Kent was commissioned to create them for George the First in the 1720s. The faces of the figures are said to be courtiers of the day—and include a portrait of himself.”
She looked up and studied the walls and ceiling for a long moment. “Kent was an excellent draftsman and colorist.”
“I fear the poor fellow has just been damned with faint praise.”
“It’s lavish decoration, meant to impress, and it suits its purpose quite well,” said Charlotte, lowering her voice to a near whisper. “As you know all too well, I prefer art that has some higher purpose.”
Something in her tone warned him that he had touched on a raw nerve. But with others close by, he merely raised a brow in question.
Her hand tightened on his arm, a signal he would get no answer right now.
However, a comment from the two gentlemen behind them gave him an inkling of the problem.
“Have you seen the latest commentary from A. J. Quill?” asked one of them. “I swear, that dratted scribbler seems to know everything that goes on within the world of the beau monde. How the devil does he do it?”
“Bribery and blackmail—there’s no other explanation,” muttered his companion.
“I suppose we should consider ourselves lucky. He merely announced that our gala evening at the Royal Botanic Gardens was marred by death, and added a sarcastic speculation at how many exotic poisonous plants poor Becton might have rubbed up against. Let us pray he’s not tempted to imply it was deliberate. ”
“Murder? Oh, surely he wouldn’t have the nerve to imply it was murder! Such a charge, no matter how scurrilous, has a way of tainting those who have the misfortune to be touched by it,” exclaimed the other man. He cleared his throat and addressed the earl. “Isn’t that so, Wrexford?”
The earl turned. “I beg your pardon?”
“A. J. Quill,” said the man’s companion, “has announced to the world that Mr. Becton shuffled off his mortal coil during the symposium’s gala evening at the Royal Botanic Gardens, and made some sly references to poisonous plants. What if his next drawing says it’s murder?”
“Well, if A. J. Quill says it,” drawled Wrexford, “then it must be true.”
Both men uttered embarrassed little laughs.
“Quite right, milord. Quite right,” said the man who had drawn him into the conversation. “The idea is, of course, absurd that someone would murder a scholar. But I suppose these gadfly scribblers must seize on any excuse to stir up trouble and sell their wares.”
His companion added an apologetic nod to Charlotte. “Forgive us for raising a topic unfit for a lady’s ears.”
“Think nothing of it,” she replied graciously as they reached the top of the landing.
Quickening his steps, Wrexford drew her through the requisite greetings with the president of the Royal Society and on into the King’s Gallery.
“So,” he murmured, pausing in the shadows of one of the display pedestals, “I take it your current drawing is why you appear a little tense. Were you worried that I would take issue with it?”
“We haven’t always agreed in the past—”
“An understatement if ever there was one,” he cut in. “And likely we won’t in the future.” He shifted a little closer to her, feeling the silken skirts of her gown flutter against his trousers. “I may snap and growl, but surely you know I would never seek to silence your pen.”
Charlotte lifted her chin. Her expression was coolly composed, but her eyes betrayed a tiny flicker of uncertainty. “I will have new responsibilities to consider.”
“None that will ever ask you to crush your conscience.”
Her hand was still resting lightly on his sleeve. Holding his gaze, she tightened her fingers in a quick caress. “I wish I was as sure as you are. Worries—unreasonable ones, I know—seem to be clouding my thoughts.”
“Understandably so,” he responded. “As you so sagely point out to the public, change is frightening, and you are facing a number of changes in your life. But never fear. As I’ve said before, we shall deal with whatever worries arise.”