In other words, Charlotte didn’t talk about helping the less fortunate, she took action. “I can increase her allowance.”
The duchess whirled on her husband, her skirts nearly knocking over the hearth set. “You most certainly cannot, Percival. She’ll spend every penny on wayward laundresses or straying chambermaids. I would far rather you encouraged Sherbourne’s suit.”
“Charlotte deserves more than a preening Welsh nabob with a penchant for gaudy waistcoats. If more people had her ingenuity and practical sense of generosity, we’d not be hearing of corn riots and Luddites.”
Esther took out a handkerchief and polished the base of the brass candlestick on the mantel. “Do you recall Lord Hennessey’s youngest boy?”
When the Duchess of Moreland took to dusting, the topic was worrisome. “The fair Adonis? Hard to forget a man cursed with such a name, even if he was a good-looking young devil. At one time, I thought he’d earned our Jenny’s notice.”
“Be glad he was nothing more than an aesthetic curiosity for Jenny. He got the Wapshot girl in trouble. Her mama whisked her off to tour the great capitals—which everybody knew the Wapshot family could ill afford—and a child was born somewhere in the vicinity of Rome.”
The duchess had an intelligence network that beggared description. Decades in polite society resulted in a web of connections more complicated than even German royalty could fathom.
“Charlotte and Miss Wapshot were cordial as I recall.” Charlotte hadn’t made any real friends in recent years, but as a younger woman, she’d been cordial to others near her age.
“Precisely,” Her Grace replied, taking a swipe at a second candlestick. “Adonis was found in the fountains behind Carlton House, dead drunk and wearing not one stitch of clothing. His curls had been shaven off, and his legendary physique was revealed to be a result of well-tailored padding.”
“I recall the talk now—the hilarity. I hadn’t known about the Wapshots’ daughter.” That put a different light on what had appeared to be the sort of prank young men played on each other when they weren’t waving dueling pistols about.
“Lady Hennessey was beside herself,” the duchess said, rejoining her husband on the couch. “A note had been tied about the young man’s…tied where he was likely to find it: Provide for your offspring or next time you’ll wake up missing more than your curls.”
Percival managed not to guffaw—barely. “And did he?”
“Assuredly, though the young woman is still ruined and always will be.”
True enough. Men were castigated for sowing wild oats, but suffered serious criticism only if they did so without providing for the resulting progeny.
“You suspect Charlotte had a hand in this mischief?”
“I know not how, but yes. The Wapshots have no sons, and Mr. Wapshot would never undertake such folly. Do you recall a Mr. Charles Aldman?”
Percival took his wife’s hand. “Banker’s son. He was cutting a dash several years ago, though I haven’t seen him about for the past few seasons.”
“He got a maid with child. Charlotte shot his hat off his head at some archery tournament, and the hat, along with his hairpiece, landed at his hostess’s feet. He acquired the nickname Baldman.”
No more cutting a dash for Mr. Aldman. “Charlotte has devilish good aim.”
“Charlotte has devilish poor sense. Viscount Dearing got an arrow in the fundament at the last tournament Charlotte was invited to.”
“Another chambermaid?”
“I did not inquire, but if I’m invited to a social gathering that includes an archery contest, I decline out of concern for the profligate rakes of proper society.”
A truly proper society ought not to have profligate rakes, much less an abundance of them.
“Why are you telling me these anecdotes now, Esther?” Percival inquired not to accuse his wife of withholding intelligence, but because the duchess had reasons for speaking and reasons for keeping silent.
“I had hoped Charlotte was done being the conscience of Mayfair’s randy bachelors. I haven’t known her to take on a charitable project for months, and Arabella said Charlotte’s behavior at the summer house parties was exemplary—for Charlotte.”
“You hoped to marry her off before her schemes came to light.”
“I still do.”
“Then we must wish Mr. Sherbourne luck.”
And courage, to go with the speedwell and snowdrops in his bouquet.
*
“He’s here, miss,” Tansy said. “Give your cheeks a pinch, and do try to let him finish his speech. Gentlemen set great store by their courting talk.”
Tansy Luckett was Charlotte’s lady’s maid, and she looked honestly pleased to be sending Charlotte to greet Mr. Sherbourne. Perhaps Tansy was tired of trips to the pawnshops.
“I’m not hopeless isn’t much of courting speech,” Charlotte replied. Though the other part—I will honestly try to make you happy—had haunted her.
She checked her appearance in the mirror: hair in a tidy bun, dress reasonably free of wrinkles, smile nowhere in evidence.
“He’s had three days to pretty up that sentiment,” Tansy said, “though I’ve always admired a man who can get his point across with few words. You do look pale.”
Charlotte had been up late penning love letters from a man who didn’t exist. She had managed a half dozen progressively ardent epistles to Miss Higgins before falling asleep at her desk. Even the most skeptical parents ought to be convinced by Charlotte’s prose, particularly when she’d also equipped the lady with a gold ring, widow’s weeds, and five pounds that “dear Mr. Wesley” had managed to put aside for his wife before he’d fallen so tragically ill—or been struck down by a runaway fishmonger’s wagon.
Mr. Wesley’s various sad fates had all begun to blend together.
Five pounds was a pittance to some, and yet, the lordly bounder who’d got Sharon in an interesting condition had spared her exactly two shillings and a warning never to contact him again.
“Mr. Sherbourne brought you flowers,” Tansy said.
“Roses?” Red roses were the symbol of true love, though never had Charlotte been offered roses.
“Nothing so predictable. Go down and see for yourself. Best of luck, Miss.”
Tansy was small, but she packed a substantial push. Charlotte left the safety of her room and took a moment at the top of the steps to gather her resolve.
If she married Lucas Sherbourne, she’d remove with him to Wales, where she’d bide for months if not years before returning to London. From Wales, Charlotte could maintain her correspondence with the various Mrs. Wesleys, but where would London’s unfortunates go for help if Charlotte left town? The foundling hospitals were a dodgy bet and usually full. The Magdalen houses were little more than an excuse to make a profit by working hopeless women to death.
Nobody helped. Many sniffed and passed judgment. Even more took advantage of women who’d already been exploited. Some politely regretted the plight of gullible young ladies, but nobody helped.
If Charlotte accepted Mr. Sherbourne’s proposal, she wouldn’t be able to help anymore either.
She did not pinch her cheeks—what would be the point? By the time she reached the formal parlor, a maid was already wheeling a tea cart down the corridor.
“We won’t need the tea tray, thank you,” Charlotte said. “Mr. Sherbourne’s visit will be quite brief.”
The maid bobbed a curtsy. “Very good, Miss.”
Charlotte tried for a dignified gait as she entered the parlor, neither hurried nor reluctant, but she was no duchess, and she almost tripped on the carpet fringe.
“Mr. Sherbourne, good day.”
He stood by the window, the sunlight burnishing his blond hair to gold. He was a Viking in Bond Street tailoring, and Charlotte was about to send him back to his long boat.
Why must he be such an attractive Viking?
“Miss Windham.” His bow was correct and his waistcoat quietly exquisite.
“Shall we be seated, sir?”
He gestured to the sofa, and Charlotte took a seat. He sat immediately beside her, not a decorous half-yard away.