The Chronicle of Misadventures Collection

Chapter 1

ONE

CHARLOTTE

To live near the most frequented inn outside of London was to be an observer—whether willing or unwilling—of both pomp and prestige.

On a day when many of the country’s most wealthy and powerful were making their way to Town for the opening of Parliament, the spectacle was something indeed to behold.

Charlotte Mandeville walked side by side with her two sisters and Mama toward the village of Stoneleigh, pink magnolia blossoms fluttering around them in the breeze.

The flowers lent their sweet scent to the air, marred only by the dirt kicked up by passing carriages and carts, most of them familiar to Charlotte.

She glanced at the chaise drawing near, and her eyes fixed on it curiously.

It had no crest, but it boasted a fine, glossy black body, gilt detailing, and a pair of matched bays.

The man within stared ahead, dark brow furrowed, the frown on his face just visible in the shadow of his top hat’s brim.

He was as handsome as his carriage—and every bit as intimidating.

He turned his head, catching eyes with Charlotte for a moment before the equipage’s progress took him out of view.

“Is that Lord Scarsdale?” Charlotte’s younger sister Tabitha asked as the four of them passed into the village.

“No,” Charlotte answered immediately.

Her mother and both sisters looked at her, all six brows raised in surprise at her firm answer.

The three of them were a great deal alike, with hair of varying colors but fair complexions and soft features.

If the months since Papa’s death had not added so many wrinkles and a sprinkling of gray hair to Mama’s golden head, she might have been thought a fourth sister.

Charlotte’s fingers tightened on her reticule—a guilty gesture if ever there was one.

Thankfully, none of her family seemed to notice.

“Did you not see the young man who glanced through the window?” she asked, hoping to cover her overconfident response; the breadth and depth of her knowledge of the haut-ton was not something she wished her family to know of.

But everyone knew that Lord Scarsdale was an old man, and the surly gentleman she had seen within the carriage could never be described in such a way.

On the contrary—he was in his prime. And unhappily so, it seemed.

“His son, perhaps?” Lillian, the eldest and fairest of the three Mandeville daughters suggested.

Certainly not, Charlotte thought, for the earl had only daughters, not to mention the fact that his chaise had a large, scarlet crest on both doors. Rather than betray such knowledge, though, she said, “Perhaps.”

“Do you think the post has come?” Mama asked, looking toward the inn with a crease in her brow.

Charlotte and Lillian shared glances. Mama was becoming almost obsessive about the post. All of them were nervous for the time when the letter would arrive, but none more than she.

Little wonder, for though its contents would affect them all, they would affect Mama most nearly.

She alone was responsible for her three daughters now, and once the estate’s heir was located, they would be obliged to leave their beloved Bellevue House.

It often felt as though they were living on borrowed time there now.

“I have a letter to post,” Charlotte said. “I shall go find out if anything has been received for us.”

“You shan’t discover anything at all if those people have aught to say on the matter,” Tabitha said, nodding toward the inn.

Apart from the ostlers and carriages in the bustling inn yard, a host of people stood before the windows, blocking the entrance as they vied for their turn to look at whatever was holding everyone’s interest in the glass panes.

“There must be a new caricature,” Tabitha said, going on her tiptoes as though, from such a distance and with such a small frame, that would be sufficient to enable her to see.

Charlotte tried to strike an expression of mild interest, while her hand clutched the strings of her reticule more tightly.

She hated deceiving her family, but she hated the alternative even more.

She would not see them reduced to penury while she had the ability to ensure otherwise, whatever the risk to her reputation.

Papa had always encouraged them to be enterprising, had he not?

“Do you think it is Rowlandson doing the caricatures?” Tabitha asked.

Charlotte hid a smile, unable to be anything but flattered at being compared to one of the country’s finest caricature artists.

“No,” Lillian said definitively. “They say the art is original, not produced en masse, as Rowlandson’s is.”

“Then why send them to Stoneleigh, of all places?” Mama asked. “Would they not be better suited to London?”

Charlotte’s jaw ached from clenching her teeth, and she forced herself to relax. She should be accustomed to these discussions by now. It was different, though, to hear her own family speculate on the identity of the artist while remaining silent.

“If the rumors are true,” Lillian said as they stopped on the corner across from the inn, “it may be someone local.”

Tabitha turned to stare at her. “Surely, we would know if that were the case.”

“Whoever it is,” Lillian said in her reasonable voice, “he is bound to bring himself trouble. It seems spectacularly unwise to cross such an array of powerful people.”

Charlotte’s heart fluttered nervously. Why did it feel as though everyone’s eyes were upon her when they were not?

She could not defend the art without the risk of betraying her secret, though, so she chose the alternative.

“I, for one, cannot understand what the fuss is. They aren’t particularly skillful drawings, are they? ”

“Not particularly, no,” Lillian agreed, making Charlotte’s brows draw together in offense.

“I quite admire them,” Tabitha said. “They are witty and diverting. Did you see the one about Prinny last week?”

Charlotte turned her head to hide the smile of satisfaction that stole across her lips. She was not immune to praise, after all. “I think I shall try my luck with the crowd. You go on ahead without me. I need no ribbons.”

Mama nodded, and Charlotte parted ways with her family, crossing the street after a cart while the others made their way toward the haberdasher.

She was obliged to excuse herself multiple times as she gently shouldered her way to the door of the inn, keeping her gaze away from the caricature.

It was not as though its contents were a mystery to her.

The mystery, rather, was why it was drawing such attention.

This particular piece had been a grasp at straws, for there had been no substantial gossip garnered all week.

Charlotte had been obliged to settle for a drawing of Sir Charles Perrington in his conservatory, hands covered in dirt, exotic vegetables popping out of the ground like fireworks while he smiled maniacally.

She had nearly groaned when she had handed the drawing to Mr. Digby, the innkeeper, and the pinching of his lips told her he knew it was unlikely to cause the type of stir he sought.

Apparently, they had both been wrong. Plenty of people were finding it interesting enough to stare at for a great while. What would they do if they knew Charlotte held in her reticule the caricature that would appear in the window in a week’s time?

It was the irony of Charlotte’s secret that it not only attracted more and more of the people she so disliked, but it also made her reliant upon everything she most despised about their world—corruption, greed, and invincibility.

Without it, she had no material, and without material, she had no money to save against her family’s uncertain future.

Charlotte pulled open the inn door, and the buzz of conversation within joined that of the people without until she tugged the wooden door closed.

A maid named Mary appeared, holding a tray with three tankards and a plate of bread and butter. A few loose blonde hairs escaped from her cap, complementing the harried look on her face. She glanced at Charlotte, then back again.

Charlotte held up her reticule, and Mary nodded, putting up a finger to signify she would return shortly.

Charlotte nodded and took a seat at the nearest empty table in the corner, setting her reticule beside her.

She might be the artist behind the caricatures, but without Mary listening for gossip at The Crown and Castle, she would have very little material at all.

Charlotte gazed around the room, identifying a few familiar faces. Familiar, that was, to her. Lord Marchwood and Mr. Jameson wouldn’t know her from Eve.

“Miss Mandeville.”

Charlotte knew to whom the voice belonged without having to look the innkeeper in the eye, but she did so despite that out of politeness. With his ruddy complexion and dark though receding hair, Mr. Digby smiled at her.

“I hoped we would see you today,” he said. “Have you brought . . .?”

She nodded, glancing around to ensure no one was listening.

“May I see it?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Charlotte opened her reticule and pulled out a folded paper, trying not to betray her nerves as she handed it to him.

If he disliked the last drawing, he would loathe this one: Mrs. Gattenby surrounded by a crowd of both dogs and husbands.

The woman seemed to collect and lose both things at an alarming rate.

Mr. Digby took it and unfolded it. He seemed far less concerned than she with the chance someone might be watching them, but at least with the way he angled his body, no one could see the paper over his shoulder.

His brow furrowed, and his gaze flicked to Charlotte for a moment before he refolded the artwork. “Hardly thrilling, is it?”

She lifted her chin at the insult to her work. How dared he agree with her? “I rather think today’s specimen goes to show how hungry people are for ton gossip, however inconsequential it might seem.”