Chapter 22
The moment the club doors shut behind them, the night hit Lottie like a slap. Cool air. Wet stone. Gaslight swimming in little golden halos.
She drew herself up, which would have been more effective had the pavement not shifted beneath her boots.
A carriage waited at the kerb, summoned either by divine judgement or the Duke of Morleigh’s infernal gift for arranging things without speaking. The footman opened the door. Theo climbed in first and Morleigh gestured for her to follow.
Lottie obeyed, mostly because the street had begun behaving like the deck of a ship. The door shut with a click like the closing of a cell.
Theo sat opposite her, rigid with fury. Morleigh looked carved from marble and twice as forgiving. Lottie, arranged before them like a criminal in her silly cravat, folded her arms and scowled.
“Well,” Theo said at length. “That was inspired, Charlotte. Truly. Not at all how I envisioned my evening.”
“I did not think I should be caught,” she muttered.
“You wore a moustache.”
“A very fine one.”
Morleigh’s gaze flicked to her upper lip. “Debatable.”
Lottie leant back against the squabs and shut one eye, as that made the carriage contain fewer dukes. “I was hardly dancing upon tables.”
“No,” Theo said. “You were in Bellamy’s. Disguised as a man. Gambling with titled gentlemen. In the company of Deverell, who, might I add, ought to have had one sensible thought in his head and evidently did not.”
“It was a game.”
“It was a private gentlemen’s club,” Morleigh said, quietly. “Had you been exposed, the whole room would have had your reputation in its hands by breakfast.”
Oh, would they never be quiet?
“Everyone is always so terribly interested in my reputation,” she muttered. “I wish it joy of itself.”
The duke turned his head slowly. “I have now had the honour of retrieving you from moments of near-ruin not once, not twice, but thrice, Miss Charlotte Tolliver. Forgive us if our patience is somewhat diminished.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered. Her cheeks were burning. Was it the brandy? Or the port? “That is not fair.”
“It is entirely fair,” Theo returned.
“It was only meant to be a lark. Jasper helped me, and—”
“Jasper?” Morleigh repeated.
Lottie closed both eyes this time. Damnation.
Theo pressed his fingers to his temples. “I swear to God, I shall strangle Deverell before sunrise.”
“Do allow me to assist,” the duke murmured. “I find myself more than willing.”
“No,” Lottie managed, feeling like the port—or brandy, or both—was going to come back up. “He was not at fault. Marchmont was at fault. Jasper is not Marchmont.”
There was silence, so long and pitying that Lottie would have almost preferred a lecture. “I’m not a child,” she hiccupped.
“Are you going to tell Mama?” she asked, when neither man replied.
“No,” Theo said grimly. “We are going to tell Hetty and Georgiana.”
She groaned and let her head fall back against the seat. Bad idea. The carriage lurched, or her head did, or all of London had taken to rotating.
“Georgiana will faint.”
“Undoubtedly,” Morleigh said. “And then attempt to devise a counter-scheme.”
“And Hetty?” Theo rubbed a hand over his face. “Hetty is due to give birth within weeks and weeps at malformed gooseberries. If I tell her this, she may expire entirely.”
“I am sorry,” Lottie mumbled.
“You should be.”
“I am not sorry about the moustache.”
“Charlotte.”
“Or the cards.”
“Charlotte.”
“Or befriending Mr Deverell. But I am sorry your night is now ruined.”
Theo looked at her for a moment. “When we arrive, you will go straight upstairs. Tomorrow, we shall decide how best to contain this.”
Oh, yes—contain. She burped loudly and held back the bile. Contain the damage. Contain the girl. Contain Charlotte Tolliver before she spilled over the edges of what everyone had decided she ought to be. Her apology curdled at once.
She had lost the game. She had lost the wager.
She had lost, with spectacular efficiency, every coin she possessed.
But Jasper Deverell still wanted what he was owed, and after being scolded, escorted, contained, and all but delivered home like contraband, Charlotte Tolliver was in precisely the sort of mood to—
Oh no.
Morleigh moved at once. “Stop the carriage.”
“I am fine,” Lottie announced, just as the carriage slowed, the door opened, and she leant out into the cold London night with all the dignity remaining to Mr Charleston of Wiltshire.
Which was very little indeed.