CHAPTER 12 #2
The dowager’s drawing room was ablaze in a cheery light.
The polished candelabras glowed like liquid silver as the flames danced over the graceful curves.
Floating above the mellow crackling of the coals in the fireplace was the sound of two voices.
Alison’s distinctive drawl was one of them. And as for the other . . .
Charlotte hesitated, pausing in the corridor several steps short of the open doorway as the butler went in to announce them.
“Fortes fortuna juvat,” whispered Wrexford, giving her arm an encouraging squeeze.
Fortune favors the bold—the Latin aphorism made her smile. “Boldness has never been a failing of mine. If anything, it’s been a flaw.” But she had promised herself not to dwell on the past. What mattered was the present. She had changed a great deal—and so, she imagined, had her brother.
Alison’s delighted exclamation cut short her reflections. “Don’t dawdle in the shadows, gel—come in, come in!”
Squaring her shoulders, Charlotte gave Wrexford a nod and together they crossed the threshold.
Her brother—now the Earl of Wolcott—was standing by the sofa, hands clasped behind his back.
He was a little stouter, and a touch of grey silvered his temples, but his face was unchanged.
Broad brow and blue eyes, just a shade lighter than her own .
. . slanted cheekbones and a long, patrician nose . . .
And the same crooked smile that had always made him the most approachable of her straitlaced family.
“Charlie!” Wolcott, too, seemed to be studying her countenance. “By Jove . . .” After an awkward hesitation, he stepped forward. “How . . . How very wonderful to see you.”
Charlotte extended her hand for the perfunctory bow and polite kiss to her gloved knuckles—only to be drawn into a fierce hug.
Thump, thump.
Through the layers of well-tailored wool, she could feel the racing of his heart. Perhaps, she realized, he was as nervous as she was. In an instant, she was holding him just as tightly, her eyes squeezed shut to keep the tears from spilling down her cheeks.
The dowager began making odd little noises in her throat.
Wolcott slowly released his hold and gave a brusque cough. “Forgive my informality—I must call you Charlotte now, mustn’t I?” His gaze held hers. “You’re no longer my hellion baby sister who dared to defy convention by riding roughshod over the rules of Polite Society.”
He drew in a ragged breath. “You’ve grown into a . . . a very beautiful and polished lady.”
“Oh, trust me, I haven’t changed very much.” Charlotte gave a watery sniff. “J-Just ask Wrexford. Alas, I’m sure he can tell you some stories that will make your hair stand on end.”
The earl cleared his throat with a cough. Or maybe it was a laugh.
“Allow me to introduce—”
“Lord Wrexford.” Wolcott quickly inclined an embarrassed bow. “My apologies for allowing emotion to overrule manners.” He smoothed the tails of his cravat and then tentatively offered his hand. “I’m Wolcott.”
“Like your sister, I’m of the opinion that formal manners are vastly overrated,” replied Wrexford. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“The pleasure is mutual.” Wolcott chuckled. “Is what my sister says true? Have you some harrowing tales to share?”
A dangerous glint flashed in Wrexford’s eye, but with a flick of his lashes, it was gone. “If I did, it would be very ungentlemanly of me to say so, sir.”
“Very wise of you, Wrexford,” said the dowager. “Now please go pour us all some champagne from the sideboard so that we may toast to family and the future.”
The glasses were dutifully passed around, and the wine, along with the exchange of lighthearted pleasantries, added to the convivial mood.
“Aunt Alison is being very coy about how the two of you came to meet each other,” said Wolcott, once the dowager had made everyone settle into the sofa and facing armchairs. “I look forward to hearing the story.”
“We won’t bore you with that,” said Charlotte quickly. “You know how these things happen.” In truth, she was quite sure that he couldn’t begin to imagine the scenario.
And thank heaven for that. Her brother appeared extremely tolerant, but the details of the encounter were best left unsaid.
“Tell me about your family,” she added quickly. As a younger son, Hartley had been under no pressure to marry and provide an heir, so he had taken his time in marrying. “I-I’ve never met your wife.”
“Elizabeth wanted very much to come, and to bring our children to meet you—our two daughters are ten and seven, and our son is five. But I felt this first encounter might become too overwhelming were my entire family to descend upon you,” he explained.
“We shall all—I hope—have plenty of time to become acquainted in the days ahead.”
“Nothing would please me more,” answered Charlotte.
“Alison tells me you have two young wards from Mr. Sloane’s side of the family,” continued Wolcott.
“Yes.” The boys had no idea how old they were, but Henning had estimated their ages. “Thomas is twelve, and Alexander is nine.” A smile. “Alison spoils them dreadfully with sweets at Gunter’s.”
“A prerogative of old age,” said the dowager tartly. “They are such charming and well-mannered lads,” she added with a straight face. “Just the other day, they escorted me to the British Museum and explained all about classical Greek civilization as we viewed Lord Elgin’s marbles.”
“They sound like very bookish lads,” responded Wolcott.
Charlotte bit her lip to keep from laughing.
“Thomas shows a remarkable aptitude for mathematics,” said Alison. “While young Alexander takes after Charlotte and is a budding artist.”
“Ah, you still sketch, Charlotte?” asked her brother.
“A bit,” she replied.
“I recall you were very, very good at it.” He chuckled. “Especially the wicked little satires you drew about the local gentry.” To Wrexford, he added, “If you aren’t aware of it, I give you fair warning. She has a sharp eye—and even sharper pen.”
“You don’t say?” murmured Wrexford.
“Oh, come.” Charlotte regarded Wolcott over the rim of her champagne glass. “Surely, you aren’t suggesting that I’d lampoon my own fiancé.”
“No, no—not at all! Good heavens, what a thought!”
What a thought, indeed.
On that note, supper was announced, and Alison gestured for Wolcott to lead Charlotte into the dining salon.
More candles, their flames flickering off the crystal and warming the table with a rosy glow.
The dowager had created an intimate seating arrangement at one end of the long mahogany table, with her and Wolcott facing Charlotte and Wrexford.
Charlotte felt her breath catch in her throat as she looked over the heirloom epergne and caught her brother’s smile.
Memories, memories. Painful ones, rubbing raw against the good times.
But family was family. She hadn’t dared admit until just now what a void the long-ago estrangement had left in her heart.
“So, Charlotte,” said Wolcott, once the soup was served, “tell me about . . . egad, I suppose what I want to ask is about your life since—”
“Since I flew in the face of all sanity?”
He gave a self-deprecating grimace. “An absurd request, I know, but there is so much that I don’t know.
” An uncomfortable pause. “Father and Wynton refused to tell me anything other than the fact that you had eloped with Anthony Sloane. I wished to write to you, but they claimed they had no idea where you were, save to say that it was somewhere in Italy.”
“We were in Rome,” answered Charlotte. “A marvelous place for anyone interested in art . . .”
Somehow the account came out far easier than she ever imagined.
Wolcott listened intently, and asked thoughtful questions about the details she mentioned, while tactfully avoiding any queries into things left unsaid.
The explanation of Anthony’s delicate health leading to an early demise was the truth—just not the whole truth, and her brother accepted it with naught but a murmured condolence on her loss.
As the meal continued, Charlotte, in turn, pressed him for more details on his marriage, and his time spent running a lesser estate, well to the north of the family’s ancestral lands.
From his answers, she sensed that he, unlike her father and elder brother, accepted that an aristocratic title brought with it both privileges and responsibilities . . .
The dowager, however, interrupted to suggest that they all retire to the parlor, where the gentlemen could enjoy their postprandial brandy or port in the company of the ladies.
“An excellent suggestion,” said Wolcott, her words sparking a mischievous twinkle lighting his eyes. “As I recall, you always insisted on having a glass—or two—of spirits with the gentlemen before withdrawing, much to Father’s irritation.”
“Your father was a pompous prig.” Alison settled on the sofa and smoothed her skirts. “He needed an occasional challenge to his authority to take the wind out of his sails.”
“You took delight in needling his friends as well,” replied Wolcott, taking a seat next to her.
“There was the time that you lit up one of Sir Albert Endicott’s expensive cigars one night after supper, which had the baronet blowing smoke out of his ears.
” A chuckle. “Didn’t Father accuse you of being foxed? ”
“My wits weren’t in the least fuzzed—I knew exactly what I was doing.” The dowager eyed him through her quizzing glass. “Can you claim the same thing regarding the incident involving the garden fountain and Lord Ashleigh’s hat?”
Charlotte laughed. “Oh, Lud, I remember that. Didn’t you remove your trousers in order to—”
Her brother cleared his throat with a loud cough.
“Let us not bore Lord Wrexford with puerile pranks from our family’s past.” He quickly shifted his gaze to the earl, who had moved to the tray of decanters on the sideboard.
“I seem to recall having read that you are a patron of the Royal Institution, sir, and have written a number of papers on chemistry.”
“I have,” answered Wrexford, handing a brandy to Alison and Charlotte, then fetched one for himself and Wolcott. “Slàinte.”
“A fascinating area of study,” said Wolcott, after he returned the earl’s salute. “What do you think of Sir Humphry Davy’s experiments with magnesium . . .”
As the two of them fell into a conversation on the famous chemist and his work, Charlotte leaned back, taking a moment to simply bask in the joy of her brother’s presence.
His face, his voice, his touch—he was all no longer just a hazy recollection, conjured from the recesses of memory, each time a bit more blurred by the passing years.
She closed her eyes for an instant, and on opening them again, she found Alison watching her intently, a glimmer of wetness sparkling on her lashes.
Their smiles met and the room seemed to shimmer with an unworldly light.
“You appear to have quite an interest in science, Lord Wolcott,” observed Wrexford.
His words brought her thoughts back to earth. Anxious to learn all about her brother’s current interests, Charlotte turned her attention to the exchange.
“Oh, I’m a mere neophyte. Your field of chemistry is quite interesting, as is geology and the new advances in electricity. I enjoy reading about them, but I can’t claim to have any real knowledge on the subjects.”
Wolcott’s mouth quirked. “Now, ask me something about botany, and I’m on less slippery footing.”