Chapter 14
14
J anuary 8, 1812
“Chin high, eyes lowered. You must float across the floor as if you were sailing on a cloud,” Mama’s gentle whisper resounded in Charity’s ear as she waited for her turn to be introduced to Queen Charlotte.
“I ken,” she mumbled out of the side of her mouth. “’Tis just as dull and dreary as last year.”
“Hush. Do you have any idea how many young ladies would long to be in your place? It is an honor to be introduced at court.”
Charity pursed her lips and glanced down to the voluminous skirts of her court dress. Though hoops had been out of fashion for ages, the haut ton still insisted that young ladies wear them for their presentation to the queen at the commencement of the Season. In all honesty, with all the lacy frills, she looked like a wedding cake on display in the window of the pastry shop on Piccadilly Square. The bodice was too high, her breasts nearly spilling out, and her nipples barely covered by the layers of itchy lace.
“Word has it no fewer than three earls, a marquess, two viscounts, and four barons are in attendance. Her Majesty is not the only one you need to impress.”
Charity held in her urge to snort. “With seven ostrich feathers adorning my coiffeur, I ought to be hard to miss.”
Mama prodded her in the back just as the steward announced them. “Lady Charity MacGalloway and her mother, The Dowager Duchess of Dunscaby.”
From birth, the importance of the first day of the Season had been ingrained into Charity’s mind, and regardless of if she wanted to be here or not, she knew her duty. She would never purposefully do anything to mar her reputation or that of her family—perhaps she’d behaved a wee bit badly in Brixham, but she’d been so far away from Town and her family, she’d mistakenly assumed she was untouchable.
Head held high, back erect, she made her way through the aisle of courtiers filled five-deep against the walls in the royal drawing room of St. James’ Palace. Ahead, the queen sat on a red-and-gilt throne with matching red canopy above. Light streamed in through the tall windows draped with scarlet velvet, and as Charity processed, she caught the hint of a dissenting whisper from one, followed by an approving sigh from another.
Over the past few months, Mama had paraded Charity about town to every fine dress shop, milliner, cobbler, and haberdasher in London. Though the Season had not yet begun, Charity had sung at a few small recitals, had visited the children at the foundling home, and had been seen in St. Paul’s Cathedral on her knees every Sunday, projecting the image of a quiet, pious, and benevolent young woman. Not that she wasn’t quiet, pious, and benevolent, but Mama had put Charity in every situation possible to prove to the gossip mongers that she was a force to be reckoned with—not only chaste, but the icing on the top of the marriage mart’s proverbial cake.
Executing a flawless court curtsy, Charity held the pose with her head bowed and her knees bent for what seemed like an eternity under the scrutiny of Her Majesty’s eye.
“Lovely,” said the queen, dressed in robes of state, embroidered with gold thread on ivory and edged with ermine. Her Highness wore a tall, powdered wig, a small crown perched atop. “With your beauty, grace, and unequaled dowry, I’ve no doubt you will be the darling of the ton this Season, even though you hail from Scotland.”
Charity cringed on the inside. She had been labeled a provincial maid by many darlings of the ton last Season—all of whom she hoped had found their matches. Nonetheless, a word from the queen was her cue to rise and continue toward the wall where the young ladies and their mothers would be able to greet the multitudes of courtiers in attendance. No matter what they called the annual presentation of young ladies at court, it was more like attending a horse auction, except rather than horses, the buyers sauntered past, perusing the prospective marriage candidates.
Mama grasped Charity’s arm. “That went rather well.”
“Aye, and tell me you had nothing to do with it.”
“I may have happened to have tea with Her Majesty. And mind you, the queen is well aware that I was Princess Elizabeth’s closest friend at Northbourne Seminary for Young Ladies.”
Charity gave her mother a nod. Her sister, Grace, had started at the finishing school a few months prior, and Mama had not stopped talking about what an outstanding education she would receive, and how she wished she’d stood up to Papa and sent Charity to the elite school as well.
“I liked my governess. I speak French and Latin. I can ride just as well as any of my brothers. There is no need for worry, I’ll survive.” She hoped.
“Of course you will. And we’ll find you a deserving husband, mark me,” Mama said as if marriage was the only thing that mattered in all of Christendom.
It seemed to take forever for the procession to come to an end, but in time, Charity found herself being introduced to one dandy after another, as well as their mothers, their fathers, some of their grandparents, all examining her from head to toe like she was indeed a horse at auction. When one lordling asked if she had any talents, Mama spoke first. “Did you not attend the recital hosted by Lady Northampton? My dearest Charity not only sings, she plays the pianoforte.”
That made a rush of heat flood her face. Yes, she was a passable alto, but she had definitely not played the pianoforte at the recital, and would not ever agree to play in public. As the fellow moved along, Charity nudged her mother. “Please do not tell anyone I’m accomplished on the pianoforte.”
“But you play quite well.”
“Aye, Christmas carols for the family, but that is where I draw the line.”
“I was not embellishing the truth. You can play. You simply have chosen to learn holiday tunes rather than Mozart.”
“There’s a reason for that. Mozart is difficult. So are Bach, Brahms, Beethoven, Handel, and any of the great masters.”
“Hogwash.”
“Please, Mama.”
“Oh very well. You have a voice like an angel.”
“I have a plain, decidedly average, sultry voice.”
“I emphatically disagree. Your voice reminds me of crystal bells.” Mama gave her a pointed stare. “I shall do the talking. You need merely to project an image of wholesomeness and cheerfulness.”
“Mayhap I should open my mouth and let the fops inspect my teeth.”
“Enough.” Mama beamed at the approach of the Earl of Oxford, a man with an extraordinarily long nose, the end of which reminding Charity of an iris bulb. “My lord, what a privilege…”
The next time a black carriage appeared outside the window of the butcher shop, Harry considered locking the door. However, before he was able to step around the counter, a gaunt man, dressed in black with an immaculately tied and starched neckcloth, stepped inside and cleared his throat. “I am seeking Mr. Harold Abbott Mansfield, son of Gerrard Warren Mansfield, son of Harold George Mansfield, son of Marjory Alice St. Vincent, daughter of John William St. Vincent, Baron of Lye, second son of Malcolm Radcliffe St. Vincent, the Earl of Brixham.”
Good God, how the blazes had the man recalled that line of blather without opening a scroll?
“My name is Harold Abbott Mansfield.” Harry moved back around the counter, picked up his cleaver, and set to hacking off loin chops with his back to the unusual fellow. “My father was Gerrard Mansfield, though I cannot say I’m proud to call him kin.” He slammed the cleaver though the loin, cutting meat and bone. “As for the others in your recitation, I cannot say I’ve met a one.”
“Not your grandmother, Marjory? She married a vicar right here in Brixham.”
Harry stole a glance over his shoulder and frowned. “That’s what they say, though it is difficult to believe my father was the son of a holy man.”
“Your father is deceased, is he not?”
“Yes.” A memory of the fiend unconscious and laid out on the bed crept into his mind. His father never regained his wits after… “Why are you asking?”
“My name is Mr. John Anstruther, and I am the Undersecretary to the Secretary Extraordinary to His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales. I am here to inform you that after many hours of researching the lineage of the Earldom of Brixham, going back five generations, we have determined that you, sir…” Mr. Anstruther sniffed, tilting up his nose as if he detected a foul odor. “…regardless of your current occupation, are the Right Honorable Earl of Brixham.”
The cleaver slipped from Harry’s grasp and clattered onto the chopping block. Had the hatchet-faced fop just told him he was a damned earl? “What say you, chappie? Did you call into the tavern afore you arrived?”
Mr. Anstruther sucked in his cheeks, making him appear decidedly cadaverous. “I assure you I am completely sober.”
Harry retrieved his knife and turned his back. “Right. And me ma’s the Duchess of Chamber Pots.”
As he resumed hacking off sections of porkchops, the man cleared his throat. “I have in my hand a letter of patent signed by the prince himself.”
Suddenly Harry’s throat went dry. This fellow didn’t seem to be joking. He looked over his shoulder again. “How many generations did you have to go back to find me?”
“Five. Unusual but not unprecedented. If you were not aware, your great-great-great-grandfather was the twelfth earl of Brixham. The line continued through his first son’s issue until the title was thought to have gone extinct with the sixteenth earl. However, whenever a title goes extinct, my office rigorously searches through the records to see if there might be a legitimate living heir. I once went back seven generations to find an heir—had to sail all the way to the Americas for that task.”
Mr. Anstruther placed on the counter the letter along with a hand-drawn chart, to which he pointed. “The twelfth Earl of Brixham had four children: the eldest son who became the thirteenth earl, a daughter, a son who died before he had issue, and your great-great-grandfather John William St. Vincent, who became the Baron of Lye.”
Harry slowly turned around. “So, all the blather the old man spewed about being of the gentry was true?”
“Of the aristocracy is more apt, at least given the recent turn of events.” Mr. Anstruther pushed the hereditary chart toward him. “It is unfortunate, but the Brixham estate is in financial ruin, I’m afraid. There’s no real property remaining, though you are entitled to any of the earl’s effects at Huntly Manor—the furniture, the books, the silver, any carriages, tack, portraiture, and the like, of course.”
“But not the manor itself?”
“Sold—to the Duke of Dunscaby. Word is he bought the rundown country home for his wife, who happened to be the sixteenth earl’s daughter.”
“Julia.”
“Do you know her?”
“Only as a butcher might. I’ve supplied meat to the manor for years.” Harry bit his tongue. No use mentioning Lady Charity, or the fact that he’d required payment up front after the earl’s demise.
“Well then, if you’re interested in reclaiming the property, you might take it up with His Grace, or His Grace’s proxy at Parliament.”
“Proxy?”
“Evidently the duchess is with child, and Dunscaby has appointed his brother to vote in his stead.” Mr. Anstruther straightened his immaculate neckcloth, which needed no adjustment. “I hope you are ready to travel to London. Not only is your vote needed, you must present yourself before Parliament forthwith, and take your rightful place.”
“A moment.” Harry scratched the stubble on his chin. “You’ve just informed me that I’ve inherited a destitute earldom. I may not live like a king, but I earn enough to feed my mother and sister and keep a horse. I’m not about to leave them here and travel to London.”
“Sir, it is your duty . The Prince Regent has ordered your presence. Surely you can find someone to mind your shop whilst you are away.” The man eyed Harry’s shirt, rolled up sleeves, and apron. “I trust you have a proper suit of clothes.”
After Harry gave a nod, Mr. Anstruther bowed. “Well then, my lord, I shall take my leave.”
Hang it if his mouth didn’t fall open while he watched the Undersecretary to the Secretary Extraordinary leave the shop. The sound of the door closing gave Harry a jolt, and as the carriage moved out of sight, his gaze fell to the papers atop the counter.
First, he examined the family history with Malcolm Radcliffe St. Vincent, the Thirteenth Earl of Brixham at the top. Harry ran his finger across to the Baron of Lye and down the list of issue until stopping at the last name, Harold Abbott Mansfield.
“Who would have bloody guessed?” he mumbled, running his thumb under the wax seal on the letter Mr. Anstruther had left, addressed to him. Inside was indeed a letter of patent signed by the bold hand of Prince George.
What the hell am I to do with a title when I’ve no lands or coin to my name?