CHAPTER 12
The much-anticipated day was finally here.
The previous evening, a note had arrived from the dowager informing Charlotte that her brother would be arriving in London by early afternoon.
As her family had long ago sold their townhouse in London—both her father and grandfather were country gentlemen who disliked the crowds and filth of the city—Alison had insisted that Wolcott stay with her, rather than take up residence at his club, in order to have a private place for the first meeting.
An intimate family supper for just the four of them was planned . . .
Charlotte wasn’t sure whether to feel elated or terrified.
No wonder her stomach had been roiling like a bubbling cauldron. She had managed to down no more than a few crusts of bread throughout the day, despite several tart rebukes from McClellan.
“Sit still,” commanded the maid, after expelling an exasperated oath. “Unless you wish to greet your brother with hairpins rather than sapphire earbobs hooked through your lobes.”
She forced herself to stop fidgeting. Somehow the hours had slid by and it was now time to ready herself for the occasion.
“Are you sure I shouldn’t wear the garnet-colored gown rather than the slate blue?
” A glance in the looking glass showed that her face was pale as bleached muslin.
“It might help reflect a touch of color to my cheeks.”
Before McClellan could answer, Charlotte huffed a sigh. “No, no—the color red, however muted, might bring to mind a fallen woman.” She bit her lip. “And I suppose a pastel hue would be far too virginal. He’s all too aware that I’m no innocent schoolgirl.”
McClellan slapped down the hairbrush and set a fist on her hip. “You are wearing the blue. If your face is white as a ghost, you have only yourself to blame. Flesh and blood requires hearty nourishment—”
“Before riding into battle,” finished Charlotte. “Forget food. Perhaps I’ll have a wee nip of brandy.”
“Aye, that will bring some color to your face—as you fall flat on your arse.”
Charlotte couldn’t conjure up a clever quip. Her sense of humor was fast giving way to dread. Afraid to look at her own reflection, she averted her eyes and forced herself to breathe.
“Don’t fret. I’ll not send you to meet your brother looking like death warmed over,” assured McClellan, her tone softening in sympathy.
A few deft twists and hidden pins created a graceful topknot.
After loosening a few curls to frame Charlotte’s face, the maid threaded a slender silk ribbon through the upswept tresses.
“Now turn here and let me smudge a bit of kohl on your lids. A hint of shadow adds an air of mystery.”
She submitted to the maid’s ministrations, then ventured a peek. To her surprise, the glass didn’t crack into a thousand shards.
“You look lovely,” murmured McClellan. “Not that your brother will be looking for glitter or glamour. From what Lady Peake says, he’s as anxious as you are to repair the rift in the family.”
“Yes, but . . .” Charlotte’s heart gave a tiny lurch. “What if he’s disappointed? Or takes a dislike to me?”
“If he says an unkind word, Wrexford will plant him a facer.”
“Is that supposed to reassure me?”
“No, it’s supposed to make you laugh.” A pause. “Though I daresay, the earl wouldn’t hesitate to darken your brother’s deadlights if he dares be rude to you.”
“I shall pray that fisticuffs won’t be necessary.” Charlotte watched the candlelight flicker over the delicate trim of her bodice. The gown was exquisitely tasteful—its cut revealing just enough flesh to be stylishly au courant, and yet not too racy.
The necklace must be equally understated and elegant. “I think the pearls would look good, don’t you?”
To Charlotte’s surprise, McClellan shook her head. “No. You ought not gild the lily, as it were.”
“You’re suggesting I wear no jewelry?” Charlotte touched a hand to her throat. “It seems . . . odd.”
“Trust me,” replied the maid. “I’ve discussed this with Franny.
” Madame Francoise—née Franzenelli—was a clever Italian who had established herself as London’s most exclusive modiste.
She was also one of Charlotte’s informants on all the spicy gossip being whispered in Polite Society, and had become a good friend over the years.
“Well, if Franny says to wear nothing . . .” She cast a doubtful glance at the looking glass. “Then I had better trust her judgment over mine.” Though this was one of the rare times when she thought her fashionable friend was wrong.
McClellan handed her a feather-light Kashmir shawl woven in muted tones of indigo. “We had better go down. I hear the Weasels making a ruckus, so I assume Wrexford has arrived.”
Wrexford. That he would be with her made all her fears seem less daunting. Charlotte managed a smile—the first real one of the day—and took up her reticule.
“We better hurry. I overheard the boys talking earlier, and apparently Tyler has given Raven a new formula for making stinkbombs.”
“He wouldn’t dare,” muttered McClellan. Nonetheless, she hurried for the stairs.
The Weasels, however, were the very picture of perfect little gentlemen when they entered the parlor, save for their none-too-pristine clothing. Raven had fetched a bottle of Scottish malt from the side cabinet and was offering to pour the earl a glass—hoping, no doubt, to be offered a sip.
“No, thank you,” demurred Wrexford. “A word of advice to you for the future. It’s best not to reek of whisky when going to meet your future bride’s family for the first—” The rest of the words seemed to catch in his throat as he looked around.
Charlotte fumbled for her sash, fearing that she had somehow caused it to come undone.
“You look . . .” An odd sort of light seemed to flicker beneath his lashes. “Exceedingly lovely.”
“Is that good?” whispered Hawk to his brother.
“It’s more than good,” answered the earl, his eyes never leaving her.
She felt a touch of color blossom on her cheekbones. “Is everything in order? I haven’t got a corset string dangling down my back or my shift showing beneath my hem?”
“Turn slowly in a circle,” murmured Wrexford.
The room was silent, save for a gossamer-soft rustling of silk.
“Hmmm, something seems to be missing,” he said, once she was done. “Ah—I know. That bare expanse of flesh above your bodice looks a little . . . naked.”
“Naked,” repeated Charlotte. She turned to McClellan. “You see! Far be it for me to disagree with you and Franny, but—”
The maid began to chuckle softly, and her mirth was quickly echoed by the boys.
Confused, Charlotte looked back to Wrexford.
He was holding a slim leather box. It was open, and nestled on a bed of black velvet was a necklace.
“Oh . . .” For a moment, she was utterly bereft of speech.
The double strands of finely-wrought gold links were highlighted by delicate smoke-tinged sapphires, their polished facets glimmering in the muted light of the candles.
And hanging from its center was a teardrop pendant of filigree gold set with tiny seed pearls framing a diamond-cut sapphire.
Its hue was an exact match of her gown’s shimmering silk.
Her breath was barely able to form a whisper. “Oh, Wrexford.”
“D-Do you like it?” That the earl—a man feared throughout the beau monde for his fierce temper and cutting tongue—could sound so sweetly vulnerable made her heart flutter.
Charlotte looked up through the tears pearled on her lashes. “M-More than words can possibly express.”
A smile touched his lips. “I’m so glad. It belonged to my mother, and my grandmother, and great-grandmother before her. The family has come to call it the Wrexford Sapphires. It gives me great joy that they are a perfect match for the next countess.”
“Franny combed through the East India warehouses for just the right shade of silk to complement the gems,” said McClellan.
“You knew?” exclaimed Charlotte, and then looked around at the boys as she recalled their laughter. “As did you two!”
“O’course,” drawled Raven. “Wrexford had several loose gemstones, and he sent us along with them to accompany Madame Francoise so that she could test them against the different fabrics in a variety of lights.”
“Both Mac and the Weasels were sworn to secrecy,” said Wrexford. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“And yet,” she replied, “you claim to be a man who doesn’t have a sentimental bone in his body.”
A gleam of unholy amusement lit his eyes. “I don’t. I merely like surprises.”
Charlotte leaned in to feather a kiss to his cheek. “You,” she whispered, “are a source of constant surprises.”
“In a good way, I hope.”
“Always—even in prickly moments. The fact that we sometimes challenge each other keeps us both from becoming too complacent.”
“We face a good many dangers in our daily lives,” said Wrexford dryly. “Complacency is not one of them.” He traced a quick caress along the line of her jaw and then stepped back. “Now turn around so that I may have the honor of bestowing the family heirloom on my countess-to-be.”
A tiny flutter danced down her spine as his hands brushed against the nape of her neck. Charlotte bowed her head, the coolness of the precious metal and gemstones accentuating the warmth of his touch as he fastened the clasp.
And somehow all her fears seemed to melt away.
“Ooooo!” Raven and Hawk let out appreciative gasps as she straightened and turned back to face them.
McClellan nodded in satisfaction. “It’s perfect. Absolutely perfect.”
Wrexford remained silent. All that needed to be said was swirling in the depths of his gaze.
“Now it’s time to be on your way.” McClellan made shooing gestures toward the door. “You mustn’t be late.”
The earl offered his arm. “Shall we?”
“Yes,” answered Charlotte. “I’m ready.”
* * *