Chapter Eight
Back in the foyer of Aston House, Charlotte clumsily felt around in the dark, looking for a match to light the stub of the candle left on the side table for just such occasions.
After Scarsdale had left the room, Charlotte immediately set about gathering her things to leave.
Considering she had only had her brother’s old clothes, it did not take long.
She could not write a note to tell Lizzy where she had gone.
And she did not stop to examine why she had taken Scarsdale at his word when he had said he would not sack Lizzy.
It did not matter, his reputation. She had known it was the truth the moment he said it.
Something in his eyes. Something in her gut.
Anyway, it was not important. Lizzy’s livelihood was safe, and Charlotte had no way of knowing when Scarsdale would return.
She briefly considered changing into the clothes from the duel and leaving the fine muslin gown Lizzy had dressed her in that morning, but the idea of reaching behind her to undo the buttons was untenable.
She resolved to wear it home and post it back with a letter of thanks.
Charlotte did not want to owe this man, or any man, more than she already did.
She had walked the blocks home. There was no money for the hackney she had blustered about.
Charlotte was grateful for her brother’s riding coat, for it protected her from a particularly strong deluge of rain and concealed her gender, which, even in the hallowed streets of Mayfair, was a considerable liability.
What should have been no more than half an hour’s walk stretched into an hour and then an hour and a half, and by the time she slipped her key into the front door and pushed inside, she almost collapsed with fatigue against the bare marble of the foyer.
Gone were the days when a butler would be standing by, ready to fetch the servants to prepare a hot bath and a cup of tea for their wet and weary mistress.
Instead, unable to find a match, Charlotte half-dragged herself up the stairs to her room and collapsed on the bed, too tired to even take off her coat.
∞∞∞
Charlotte dreamt the entire night of hot tea and strong, warm arms pulling her up from the ground. It was not until late in the morning that she awoke feeling too hot and too cold, all at once. Her mouth was dry, and her head felt like it was ballooning from her neck, swollen and thick.
When she pried her eyes open and tried to blink away the uncomfortable grit that seemed to have accumulated over the night, she was relieved to be met with the familiar sight of her own bedroom.
She pushed herself upright and fought the wave of nausea that reminded her that a bullet had been dug from her flesh only days before.
It was probably time to change the bandage. She looked down at the coat and the crumpled dress she still wore. How would she manage that?
No, the wound would have to wait to be dressed and cleaned until her brother got home.
The idea of asking Freddie for help after all the trouble he had caused made her already low spirits plummet.
Charlotte shook her head and pushed out of bed, ignoring the dizziness and pain that ensued.
There was nothing to be done about it, and any amount of indulgence in her own woes would destroy the entire family.
With that sobering thought in mind, she made her way out of the room and down the stairs. The sound of voices down the hall drew her towards the study. Strange. No one but she had been in the study for ages—at least not since their father died.
As she drew closer, she could make out Freddie’s voice. He sounded happy, but not in his usual, near-manic way. His voice was relaxed, truly joyous as it had always been before the mantle of the earldom had landed on his shoulders. That could not be good.
Warily, Charlotte knocked and pushed the door open.
Sure enough, Freddie was sitting on the edge of their father’s desk—her desk, as she had come to think of it.
He was holding a crystal glass in hand, raising it high in jubilation and sloshing its contents onto the unpolished wood of the floor where an expensive Abusson rug had once lain.
Better it stain the wood than reach his mouth, Charlotte thought uncharitably.
Her mood had gone from bad to worse upon finding this scene.
“Freddie, is it not a little early in the day to be drinking?” She hated the voice she used when reprimanding her little brother.
Charlotte had never aspired to be the harping sister bent on ruining all his fun.
But someone had to be responsible. Even before she passed from a slow, wasting disease, her stepmother, Veronica, had been more of a distant patron than a mother figure for the boys.
For once, Freddie did not seem the least bit bothered by her comment. “Ah, Charlotte! Lovely to see you! Where have you been?”
Charlotte gaped. Where had she been? Had he really just asked her that? After she literally took a bullet for him? She was seeing red.
Before she could snap at him, Freddie gestured to the high-backed chair diagonal from him. “Charlotte, may I present Lord Deering? Deering, my sister, Lady Charlotte. You have met before, haven’t you?”
Charlotte's blood ran cold. Deering pushed up from the chair with an audible huff and turned, giving Charlotte a perusing stare as he gave the slightest bow.
His mouth curled into something of a sneer after looking at her crumpled and dirtied ensemble.
“Lady Charlotte, it is a pleasure to meet you again.”
They had met a handful of times before at society functions. Every time, Charlotte had engineered a quick escape. The way Deering leered at her and rarely gazed above her neck made her instincts flare. Every lady of the ton—and certainly every one outside it as well—knew the look of a lech.
Somehow, Deering was worse. Something about him put her teeth on edge—as if he might leap out and drag her away by her hair, even in the middle of a ballroom. Or her study.
“Lord Deering.” Charlotte returned the barest of nods. She did not like this man in her house, and she did not want to talk to Freddie in front of him.
“Charlotte, I have wonderful news.” Freddie seemed oblivious to any uneasiness in the room.
“Does it have to do with Lord Deering’s visit?” Charlotte kept the man in question locked in her periphery as she addressed her brother.
“No. Yes, I suppose. Not really.” Freddie had clearly already consumed a generous amount of scotch.
The scotch she kept in the larder for medicinal purposes, she suspected, considering they had not had the funds for such extravagance in months.
Freddie pulled himself back on track. “What I mean to say is, Lord Deering came here to clear a few debts on my behalf. Very generous, indeed.” He raised his glass again in Deering’s direction.
“But just as we were settling in to discuss the matter, the post arrived, and it seems the debts have already been paid by someone else.” He waved a handful of letters in his hand.
Charlotte could not conceal her shock and rushed to snatch the papers from him. “By whom?”
“I do not know. Some anonymous benefactor.”
“A guardian angel, more like,” Charlotte muttered under her breath as she read through missive after missive from various clubs and dens of iniquity. The sheer number of cleared debts was dizzying. She’d had no idea how bad their financial situation really was. “Freddie, this is unbelievable.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Deering’s face contort. “I do not understand how this is possible, Lord Elford. I thought I held the majority of your debts.” The tone of his voice had Charlotte taking another step back, warning bells clanging in her ears.
“I thought so too!” Freddie was still effervescent in his relief. “But it seems this mystery champion has negotiated even the ones you covered. I am sure you can recoup your payments forthwith.”
Charlotte eyed Deering warily. He pressed his thin, grey mouth into a tight line, and she suspected he was barely holding his civility in check.
“Oh, be happy for me, Deering.” Freddie jutted out his chin in the way he had as a boy when the maid packed away his favourite toy soldiers before he was done with them.
Despite nearly two years as the earl, Charlotte still felt like her brother was playacting at being grown.
A moody and recalcitrant boy dressing up and masquerading as a man, still completely oblivious to the reality of his position. “Our problems are solved!”
That was the wrong thing to say. Charlotte stood perfectly still as Deering pressed a long exhale through his nose, pursed his lips, and nodded. “Congratulations, Lord Elford. I will take my leave of you. Lady Charlotte.” He gave her another skin-crawling gaze and then left without another word.
“Grumpy old coot.” Freddie frowned at the door Deering closed behind him.
Charlotte stared at the door too, a foreboding feeling settling into her gut. A man like Deering would not be put off so easily.
“Can you believe this, Charlie?” She could not fight the small smile that came at Freddie’s nickname for her.
He used it only when he was especially elated, and it always made her heart warm.
“What a stroke of good fortune! I knew my luck was coming in!” He clapped her on the shoulder, and she yelled out in pain.
“Why, Charlie, what is the matter? Did I hurt you?”
Charlotte sucked in a breath and closed her eyes until the room stopped spinning. “No, no.” There were more important things to deal with. “Who would do this for you, Freddie?”
“I haven’t the foggiest!” he chirped happily as he made his way to the sideboard to pour himself another drink.