5. In Which a Campaign Intensifies and Rescue Becomes a Pattern – Various locations throughout London
IN WHICH A CAMPAIGN INTENSIFIES AND RESCUE BECOMES A PATTERN
CHARLOTTE
VARIOUS LOCATIONS THROUGHOUT LONDON
The week following the Pemberton ball was, quite possibly, the longest of my life.
I discovered that my aunts, having successfully navigated their own courtships with varying degrees of drama, had decided they were now experts on mine.
The fact that I had arranged all four matches myself seemed to have been conveniently forgotten.
I was perfectly capable of managing my own Season, thank you very much.
Except I wasn't managing it.
The aunts were.
And they were doing it with the ruthless efficiency of a military campaign.
Monday: Ashford House, Berkeley Square
Monday arrived with a note from Marguerite: tea at Ashford House at three o'clock. Attendance mandatory.
I knew what "tea" meant. I'd invented the strategy myself. Tea meant candidates would be carefully positioned. Conversation would be steered. Exits would be blocked.
I went anyway, because refusing would have required explanations I wasn't prepared to give.
Ashford House felt warm and elegant, transformed by Marguerite's presence into something lived-in rather than preserved.
The drawing room was already full when I arrived.
Aunt Mary and Aunt Caroline were there, which meant this was coordinated.
Aunt Margaret sat near the window with her ever-present notebook, probably recording observations.
And in the centre of it all, looking pleased as punch, sat Lord Eastmore and Lord Dunmore.
Of course.
"Charlotte, darling!" Marguerite rose to greet me. "How lovely. You know Lord Eastmore, of course. And Lord Dunmore was just telling us the most fascinating story about—what was it, my lord?"
"Snuffboxes," Dunmore said happily. "Specifically, the artistry involved in miniature enamelwork. It's quite remarkable when you consider the precision required for?—"
I settled into my seat and prepared to endure.
Eastmore, positioned to my left, launched into a description of his estates. The weather had been fine. The crops were progressing. His steward had implemented a new drainage system that was proving most effective.
I smiled. Nodded. Made appropriate sounds of interest.
Inside, I was dying.
Dunmore, undeterred by my complete lack of enthusiasm, produced a small wrapped package from his coat pocket.
"Lady Charlotte, I took the liberty of bringing you a small gift. I do hope it's not too forward, but when I saw it, I thought of you immediately."
Every eye in the room turned toward us. Marguerite was beaming. Aunt Caroline looked ready to cry. Aunt Mary had that expression that meant she was mentally updating her charts.
I unwrapped the package with fingers that wanted to tremble.
Inside was a small enamel box. Decorated with pheasants.
"It reminded me of you," Dunmore said earnestly. "The artistry, you see. And the pheasants are quite lifelike. I thought you'd appreciate the craftsmanship."
I stared at the box. At the pheasants. At Dunmore's hopeful expression.
"It's lovely," I managed. "Thank you."
"I'm so pleased! There's a maker in Paris who specialises in these miniatures. If you'd like, I could tell you about his technique. The way he layers the enamel to achieve depth of colour is quite?—"
"Dunmore." A voice cut in smoothly from the doorway. "Your father was asking for you. Something about the carriage schedule."
Edward.
I looked up so fast I nearly dropped the enamel box.
He stood in the doorway with the kind of casual authority that made it seem perfectly natural for him to interrupt. He was looking at Dunmore with polite interest, but when his eyes met mine for just a moment, I saw laughter there.
"Oh!" Dunmore turned. "Retford! I didn't know you were here. Father's asking about the carriage?"
"Something about tomorrow's appointments. He seemed rather insistent."
"Right, yes. I should—Lady Charlotte, do excuse me. I'll return momentarily to finish telling you about the enamelling technique?—"
"Take your time," I said, perhaps too quickly.
Dunmore bounded off. Edward took his place next to me.
"That's twice now you've lied about carriages," I said quietly.
"Is it working?"
"Annoyingly, yes."
His lips curved. "Then I regret nothing."
Marguerite appeared at his elbow. "Edward! How lovely. Are you staying for tea?"
"I'm afraid not. I have an appointment. I just came to deliver a message to the Duke."
Liar. The Duke of Penworth was in the study with Grandpapa.
Edward caught my eye. The corner of his mouth twitched.
"Charlotte," he said, with perfect formality. "You look well."
"Thank you."
"That's a very fine enamel box. Quite lifelike pheasants."
I wanted to throw the box at him.
He smiled—a real smile, just for me—and left.
Dunmore returned three minutes later, slightly confused about why his father hadn't actually been asking about carriages, but cheerfully ready to continue his lecture on enamelling techniques.
I endured it. But I was thinking about Edward's smile.
Wednesday: Hyde Park
Wednesday brought a ride in Hyde Park, courtesy of Aunt Caroline.
"Fresh air will do you good, darling," she'd said at breakfast. "And I've arranged for a few friends to join us. Just a small party."
By "small party”, she meant Lord Philip Ashby and his poetry.
We rode along Rotten Row at the fashionable hour, when everyone who mattered was present to see and be seen. Lord Philip positioned his horse next to mine with the kind of determination that suggested Aunt Caroline had given him very specific instructions.
"Lady Charlotte," he began, and I knew immediately what was coming. "I was inspired this morning to compose a few lines. Would you permit me to share them?"
I would not permit him. I would very much like to gallop away and leave him reciting to empty air.
"Of course," I said.
He cleared his throat. Drew himself up in the saddle. And proceeded to recite poetry.
About my eyes.
Again.
"Like twilight's veil o'er distant moors," he intoned, "Where shadows dance, and light endures, So gleam thine eyes with mystic power, That captivates in every hour?—"
I wanted to throw myself from my horse.
It wasn't even good poetry. The meter was off. The rhyme scheme was forced. And comparing my eyes to twilight veils was both cliché and faintly ridiculous.
But Lord Philip looked so earnest. So hopeful. So convinced that his verses were moving me to tears rather than silent rage.
"That's very kind," I said when he finally finished.
"I have more," he offered. "About your grace. Your wit. Your?—"
"Lady Charlotte." Another voice, blessedly familiar. "What excellent timing. I was hoping to speak with you about Eleanor's birthday gift."
Edward appeared on horseback, falling into step on my other side with the ease of long practice. He was dressed for riding, which meant this wasn't chance. He'd come to the park deliberately.
"Eleanor's birthday?" I repeated, grasping at the lifeline.
"In three weeks. I'm at a loss for what to give an eleven-year-old who already has everything. I thought you might have suggestions."
"I—yes. Of course."
"Splendid. Ashby, you don't mind if I borrow Lady Charlotte for a moment? Family matters, you understand."
Lord Philip minded very much, but he could hardly say so. "Of course. Though perhaps after Lady Charlotte, I could share the next verses? They're about?—"
"We'll find you," Edward said pleasantly, and smoothly manoeuvred his horse to put himself between Lord Ashby and me.
We rode ahead slightly. Aunt Caroline was deep in conversation with Lady Pemberton and didn't notice our departure.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
"For what?"
"You know for what."
"I simply needed advice about Eleanor's birthday."
"Which isn't for three weeks."
"I like to plan ahead."
I looked at him. Edward, who sat a horse with the same quiet confidence he did everything else. Who had appeared in Hyde Park at precisely the right moment to rescue me from terrible poetry.
"You're following me," I said.
"I'm not following you. I'm riding in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour. As is everyone else in London."
"You hate the fashionable hour."
"Do I?"
"You spent a season avoiding it before you left for the Continent."
Edward's lips curved. "Perhaps I've changed."
"Have you?"
He looked at me then, and something passed between us. Something that made my breath catch.
"Charlotte—" he began.
"There you are!" Aunt Caroline appeared, slightly out of breath. "Lord Ashby was worried he'd lost you. Come, he has more verses to share."
I wanted to scream.
Edward gave me a look that was pure sympathy. "Good luck with the poetry," he murmured, and fell back.
I returned to Lord Ashby and his terrible verses about moors and twilight.
But I could feel Edward behind me. Watching. Ready to rescue me again if I needed it.
Friday: Hatchard's Bookshop, Piccadilly
Friday found me at Hatchard's bookshop, ostensibly browsing new arrivals.
In reality, I was being ambushed by Mr Waverton.
Aunt Mary had "happened" to mention I’d be at Hatchard's at eleven o'clock. She'd "happened" to suggest I might enjoy the new political philosophy section. And she'd "happened" to arrange for Mr Waverton to be examining the same section at precisely the same time.
I was beginning to hate the word "happened."
"Lady Charlotte!" Waverton greeted me with the kind of enthusiasm that suggested he'd been waiting. "What an extraordinary coincidence. Are you interested in political economy?"
"Among other things."
"Splendid! I was just reading Burke's latest. Quite thought-provoking, though I confess I find some of his arguments rather overstated. The question of reform, for instance, requires a more measured approach than Burke suggests. One must consider?—"
He was lecturing me.
Actually lecturing me, as though I were a student requiring instruction rather than a person capable of forming my own opinions.
"Burke's arguments about gradual reform have merit," I said carefully. "Though I'd argue his resistance to franchise expansion is short-sighted given the changing economic landscape."