Chapter 8
The dowager was lying in wait when Charlotte returned to the town house.
“Don’t bother to take off your gloves, darling,” she called the moment Charlotte stepped into the foyer. “You promised to spend time on your own reputation and I’d like that time now, please. We’re heading to Hyde Park to run the gauntlet.”
Charlotte straightened her spine. “All right, Gran.”
Running the gauntlet meant taking a slow turn in an open vehicle through the park during the fashionable hour to judge—or in this case, be judged—and it wasn’t long before Charlotte and Lady Alice were nestled into the pale velvet squabs of the family landau.
Lady Alice squeezed Charlotte’s hand as they approached the crush of carriages on Rotten Row. “Will you be all right?”
Charlotte returned the squeeze, trying not to notice how knobby Gran’s knuckles had grown. “Of course, Gran. I was born to weather scandal. And in case we need to stab someone, I brought my embroidery basket and all my sharpest needles.”
“Good. I sent missives to all our friends to meet—” The dowager sat up straight and plastered on a smile. “Chin up, darling. We’re attracting stares already.”
The Baroness Angelbrecht, two carriages over, was the first of their acquaintance to notice them.
She was a stout, disapproving woman, although she wasn’t always sure what she disapproved of.
For instance, did she disapprove of Charlotte?
From the purse of her lips, it was clear she’d heard about the scandal and itched to snub their carriage.
Yet Lady Alice was both popular and powerful, and the baroness couldn’t quite muster the courage to snub her.
What to do? What to do? The Baroness was still racked with indecision as their landau sailed past.
Next came Mr. Charles Pickerton, riding a fine-boned roan across the way. Charlotte counted him a friend, but he dearly loved to gossip. She dropped a stitch into the linen on her embroidery hoop and held her breath as he made his choice.
“Lady Charlotte’s a bit wild, but there’s no real harm in her,” Pickerton announced in a loud voice to Lord Huffington, riding along beside him. “In any case, she’d never take up with Dumbarton. How is a man with so little style still allowed in the Horse Guards?”
Charlotte flashed him a smile but sucked in her breath as Lady Dalrymple’s carriage, wide as a boat, lumbered by.
Lady Dalrymple and the dowager loathed each other, and Lady Dalrymple made a big show of staring Charlotte up and down and then lifting her sharp nose and turning away.
The dowager gave a wide yawn and patted her mouth, letting her gaze drift placidly on.
Dowager wars, as Charlotte knew well, were often fought with gestures alone.
Something over Charlotte’s shoulder caught Gran’s attention, and she brightened. “Look, Charlotte! Here come our allies!”
Lady Skeffington, Marby’s mother, had packed her landau with three of her daughters, with the fourth, the Honorable Miss Alexandra, riding alongside.
All of them waved vigorously, their carriage a froth of pastels and lace.
Dame FitzHerbert and Maharani Singh came together, both sitting bright-eyed and alert across from Sir FitzHerbert, a notorious grump, who forgot to nod to the dowager’s carriage until Dame FitzHerbert gave him a sharp kick.
Lady Cardiff’s barouche passed by at a vigorous trot, and she nodded briskly at the dowager’s carriage as if nothing about the day was the least bit out of the ordinary.
However, she’d cracked the enormous Cardiff Brooch out of her vault, putting on such a dazzling show of diamonds that no one could possibly miss her.
Last of all came Mr. Frith. He didn’t have nearly the clout of the others, but he wore a bright yellow rose in his buttonhole, with a bright yellow waistcoat to match, and called out, “Good afternoon, my dear Lady Alice! Good afternoon, Lady Charlotte!” with great good cheer.
The dowager beamed. “Mr. Frith is such a dear friend. Look at his curricle shine—he must have had it polished freshly. Isn’t that lovely of him?”
Charlotte fixed her grandmother with a look. “Gran, you think everything Mr. Frith does is lovely. In fact, the true scandal in our family is how many times I’ve caught the two of you alone together in the orangerie.”
“That’s enough, Charlotte,” said the dowager tartly, though her papery cheeks went pink.
An enormous landau inched into view, powder blue with gold scrollwork and a whacking great crest on the side and pulled by two showy white horses.
The dowager gripped Charlotte’s arm. “The Duchess of Lewes! And look who’s sitting next to her.”
A woman’s voice, high and pretty, rose above the crowd. “I didn’t attend the Hervey masquerade, of course, but I wouldn’t put it past Lady Charlotte to throw herself at Major Dumbarton. One need only look at her to see what kind of woman she is.”
Heat flashed through Charlotte but she refused to show her anger.
“It’s only Mary Pennington,” murmured the dowager. “She’s of no account whatsoever.”
“Except she has the ear of a duchess.”
What was especially hard was that Mrs. Pennington had been at the masquerade, one of the few deep in disguise who’d powdered her shining blonde hair and kept her mask on after midnight.
Charlotte had only recognized her by the grating quality of her giggle as she’d streaked up the stairs toward the bedchambers, holding the hand of her sister’s husband.
There was a scandal. There were so many real scandals in the ton, and people paid attention to all the wrong ones. What of the Prince Regent’s behavior? The dreadful man had the gall to put his wife on trial for adultery while he trotted his own many mistresses up and down London.
The rules were so different for women.
A flame burst to life in Charlotte’s chest as she stabbed her embroidery hoop again, white silk on white linen so no one could tell she was stitching a pattern of daggers. “I don’t care to be judged by these people, Gran. I don’t care to be judged by anyone.”
“I know, darling, but keep a cool head. We must win today, or—” The dowager let out a cry of delight. “Oh heavens, how wonderful. Warrick’s come and he brought the cavalry!”
Sometimes it was good to be a duke.
Not often, because Wolfgang never forgot that he was raised to be a second son, and the dukedom came to him only because his older brother died.
Even at John’s funeral, some people had said, “I’m sorry for your loss,” with eyes that rolled around Stoke House, taking in the frescoes, the marbles, the masterpieces.
They spoke of loss, and yet all they saw was gain.
But today, Wolfgang wanted as much sucking up, toadying, and obsequious Your Gracing as possible. He would have even slapped on the ducal crown and rolled up in his ermine-trimmed coronation robe if he could have summoned them from Stoke House in time.
Instead, he’d summoned his men.
Wolfgang and four of his former officers rode down Rotten Row abreast, at a slow pace of utter unconcern, taking up the whole of the carriage path and paying no mind to the vehicles backed up behind them.
No one dared holler or complain, because Wolfgang was a duke and flanked by members of the Seventh Queen’s Own Hussars in their blues, proud chests weighted down with rows of heavy gold braid, with tall fur shakos and curved cutlasses.
Wolfgang had sold his commission when John died, so he wore only a plain cravat and morning coat, but he rode with the same steely purpose that had propelled him through eleven full charges at Waterloo.
Women stopped their carriages and stared.
Fathers nudged their daughters. Every eye tracked the men as they made their slow, straight-backed way to the dowager’s carriage.
It felt almost like the hush before a battle, the indrawn breaths before the signal came.
If Wolfgang still wore his cutlass, he would have rattled it and bared his teeth.
When it came to war, he was ready.
When it came to Charlotte, however, he was a bloody mess.
He swiveled his head and snuck a glance at her, bracing himself to see her looking miserable, or defiant, or, worse, wobbly and uncertain, as she had for one awful moment in her grandmother’s salon. He’d rather grab the nearest cutlass and run himself through than go through that again.
But no—her eyes were clear, brilliant even, and he felt a surge of respect.
Say what he would about Charlotte, she didn’t lack backbone.
She raised her dark eyebrows at him and lifted her handkerchief to her forehead, as if to press away the heat of the afternoon. For just an instant, so fast he could barely see it, she flipped her hand over to show him her palm in a secret salute.
Wolfgang’s mouth reluctantly curved. He tried to flatten it back into a line, but the corners of his mouth must have taken their cue from Charlotte—they refused to behave.
The men drew up alongside the dowager’s carriage.
“Well met, Lady Alice, Lady Charlotte,” called Lord Lysander Latham, a lieutenant in the Hussars, known most affectionately to Wolfgang as his younger brother. “Shall I show you what I’ve taught my horse?”
“Yes, please,” called Charlotte.
Few could resist Lysander, splendid on his bay, as tall as Wolfgang but lankier, like a wolfhound pup whose bones had grown faster than the rest of him. He used to have the enthusiasm of a pup, too, before Waterloo.
Forgive me, Lysander. Each time you rode the charge, I did my damnedest to ride in front of you.
Lysander wheeled his horse in a tight circle, dropped his hands, and clicked the command. The horse tossed its glossy black mane, stretched back on its slim forelegs, and lowered its head in a bow.
“Honi soit qui mal y pense!” Lysander boomed out in his deepest officer’s voice. “Evil upon him who evil thinks!”
“Honi soit qui mal y pense!” Wolfgang and the others shouted back, their voices rolling like thunder over the crowd.
It was the Seventh Hussars’ motto, but Wolfgang knew no one would mistake their meaning. Lady Charlotte had the full support of a duke and his former regiment.
Lysander’s horse bobbed its head one more time and straightened.
Wolfgang gave the carriage a brusque nod, and he and the Hussars rode on.
“A duke and a war hero,” he heard the dowager whisper as he passed. “What a useful man.”