Page 21 of A Baron’s Most Inconvenient Marriage (Delightful Lords and Ladies)
Chapter 21
“Gone to the theater? Tonight?” Sebastian’s voice carried an edge of disbelief as he stood in the marble-floored entrance hall of Lady Blackthorn’s London residence, the journey’s dust still clinging to his greatcoat like memories refusing to be brushed aside.
The butler inclined his head with precision. “Indeed, my lord. The Royal Theatre.”
Sebastian’s jaw tightened, the muscle visibly flexing beneath his skin. “Thank you, Walmsley,” Sebastian replied, already turning toward the door. “No need to inform Lady Blackthorn of my arrival. I shall... surprise her at the theater.”
Sebastian paused, suddenly aware of his appearance—the travel-worn clothing, the shadow of stubble darkening his customarily clean-shaven jaw, the faint but unmistakable aroma of horseflesh and roads that clung to him like an unwelcome companion.
In his haste to reach London before Charlotte’s departure, he had forsaken the meticulous attention to appearance that typically characterized his public presence. But there was no time
As he stepped back into the chill London evening, Sebastian paused momentarily, orienting himself before striking out with purposeful strides toward his next destination.
Colin Fairfax, Charlotte’s youngest brother, occupied lodgings near the Inns of Court where he pursued his legal studies with the same blend of intelligence and occasional irreverence that characterized all the Fairfax siblings.
The modest but respectable building stood in stark contrast to the palatial townhouses of Mayfair, its practical architecture reflecting its inhabitants’ focus on intellectual rather than social pursuits.
Sebastian climbed the stairs with impatient energy, each step bringing him closer to the ally he required for the evening’s delicate campaign.
His knuckles rapped against the wooden door with more force than strictly necessary, the sound echoing in the narrow corridor like distant artillery.
“Bash?” he exclaimed, blinking as though Sebastian might prove a scholarly hallucination brought on by excessive concentration. “Good God, man, you look as though you’ve been dragged behind your horse rather than riding atop it.”
“A not entirely inaccurate assessment,” Sebastian acknowledged, stepping past Colin into the modestly appointed sitting room without awaiting formal invitation. “I require your assistance on a matter of considerable urgency.”
Colin closed the door, his curiosity evidently piqued by this dramatic arrival. “Must be urgent indeed, to bring you to London looking like a highwayman fallen on hard times.”
“This concerns your sister.”
Colin’s expression sharpened instantly, fraternal concern replacing casual curiosity. “Charlotte? What’s happened?”
“She has terminated our courtship based on manipulations and misunderstandings that I can no longer allow to stand unchallenged.”
He produced Diana’s letter from an inner pocket, extending it toward Colin with a gesture that somehow conveyed both authority and entreaty. “Read this. It explains what your sister could not—or would not—tell me directly.”
Colin accepted the letter with a puzzled frown, his eyes moving rapidly across Diana’s careful script. “Good God,” he muttered, looking up with newfound respect in his gaze.
“Your sister and my mother are at the Royal Theatre. I mean to intercept them, but propriety suggests I should not approach their box unaccompanied. Your presence would provide both legitimacy and support.”
Colin’s response was immediate and characteristic—a quick grin transforming his scholarly countenance as he tossed the pen onto his cluttered desk with cheerful abandon.
He moved toward his bedchamber with purposeful strides, calling over his shoulder, “Give me five minutes to make myself presentable. One of us should uphold the family dignity, and you currently resemble a particularly distressed romantic poet after a fortnight’s wilderness contemplation.”
Within no time, the two men had made their way to the theatre. Lady Margaret Barrington and her mother stood in conversation with several fashionable acquaintances.
“We should pay our respects,” Sebastian decided, calculating that the Barrington’s’ box would provide superior vantage for locating Charlotte among the theater’s tiered galleries.
They approached with measured steps, awareness of Sebastian’s dishevelment lending an edge of constraint to his typically fluid movements.
Lady Margaret noticed their approach first, her eyes widening fractionally as she registered Sebastian’s unusual appearance.
“Lord Blackthorn,” she greeted him, “What an unexpected pleasure. Though if I may be permitted an observation, you appear somewhat... distressed.”
The delicate emphasis on the final word transformed it from mere description into gentle inquiry, her expression conveying concern beneath its social polish. Sebastian executed a bow that managed to remain elegant despite his travel-stained attire.
“Lady Margaret, Lady Barrington,” he acknowledged them both, his voice pitched to carry no further than their immediate circle. “You are perspicacious as always. I find myself in pursuit of a matter that cannot wait upon the niceties of proper appearance.”
“This matter,” Lady Barrington ventured, “would not concern my niece, would it?”
“It does, Lady Barrington.”
Colin stepped forward, adding his voice to Sebastian’s with fraternal conviction. “My sister has been maneuvered into breaking her connection with Lord Blackthorn through circumstances that misrepresent both her feelings and his intentions. We seek to prevent her imminent departure for the Continent.”
“Charlotte and Lady Blackthorn occupy a box on the second tier, eastern side,” she informed them with precision that suggested careful observation rather than casual notice.
“They have not yet seen us, I believe. You are welcome to join us in our box, which provides an excellent view of their position. The performance begins shortly. Perhaps we might continue this conversation from a more advantageous position?”
Sebastian offered his arm with automatic courtesy, his thoughts already racing ahead to the confrontation that awaited.
As they ascended toward the Barrington box, the theater’s interior revealed itself in stages—crimson velvet and gilt ornamentation combining in opulent harmony, the rising murmur of aristocratic voices creating an acoustic backdrop as complex as any orchestral arrangement.
The Barrington box, situated in the dress circle with excellent sightlines to both stage and surrounding galleries, represented the family’s solid position in the social hierarchy—neither ostentatiously prominent nor relegated to inferior viewing angles.
“There,” Colin murmured, indicating a box across the theater where three female figures had just settled. “Charlotte is the one nearest the curtain.”
Sebastian’s gaze found her instantly, as though drawn by some invisible connection that transcended physical distance.
Beside her, Diana sat with the careful composure of one navigating unfamiliar territory, her occasional glances toward Charlotte betraying concern beneath her social mask.
Lady Blackthorn, resplendent in burgundy silk that proclaimed her aristocratic status without resorting to ostentation, completed the trio.
The sight kindled Sebastian’s anger anew, though only the tightening of his jaw betrayed the emotion to external observation. “She has drained all the light from her,” he murmured, the words emerging with quiet intensity.
Lady Margaret, seated beside him, followed his gaze with thoughtful assessment. “Yet the canvas remains sound,” she observed.
The house lights dimmed gradually as the performance prepared to commence, cloaking the audience in theatrical twilight broken only by the stage’s illumination.
The performance unfolded with exquisite artistry, though Sebastian registered little beyond the technical excellence of the actors.
His attention remained fixed upon Charlotte’s distant figure, watching as she sat in perfect stillness—a comportment so unlike her natural vivacity that it seemed a cruel parody of ladylike behavior.
Midway through the first act, Charlotte, turned slightly to accept a program from Diana, and glanced across the theater directly toward the Barrington box.
Her gaze, traveling across the assembled aristocracy with casual observation, halted abruptly as it encountered the Barrington’s box.
“She’s seen you,” Colin murmured unnecessarily, his expression reflecting concern. “And appears to have drawn precisely the wrong conclusion from your presence in the Barrington box.”
Sebastian’s hands tightened imperceptibly on the velvet-covered balustrade before him. “Of course she has,” he replied, his voice low with frustration
The interval arrived with choreographed precision, the crimson curtain descending upon the stage as applause rippled through the theater like wind across a wheat field.
Sebastian rose with controlled urgency, his body coiled with potential energy like a spring compressed beyond its natural tension.
“I thank you for your assistance,” he addressed the Barrington’s with formal gratitude that nevertheless conveyed genuine appreciation. “Your kindness this evening will not be forgotten.”
Sebastian departed with Colin close behind, navigating the crimson-carpeted corridors with purposeful strides that parted the interval crowd through sheer force of aristocratic determination.
They positioned themselves strategically in the grand lobby, selecting a vantage point that commanded view of the staircase descending from the second tier.
“There,” Colin murmured, indicating three female figures descending with measured steps.
As the trio reached the lobby’s marble floor, Sebastian moved with decisive purpose, his path intersecting theirs with the inevitability of celestial bodies drawn into alignment.
Lady Blackthorn noticed him first, her expression transforming from placid satisfaction to momentary discomposure before aristocratic training reasserted control.
"Sebastian," she acknowledged, her tone suggesting mild surprise rather than alarm. “What an unexpected pleasure. I had no idea you intended a journey to London.”
Charlotte’s head snapped up, her carefully maintained composure fracturing at the sound of Sebastian’s name.
Their eyes met across the diminishing space between them, and Sebastian observed the conflicting emotions that warred for dominance in her expression—surprise, confusion, pain, and beneath it all, a flicker of something that resembled hope before being ruthlessly suppressed.
“Mother,” Sebastian replied, his voice pitched to carry no further than their immediate circle despite its underlying intensity.
He executed a formal bow, the gesture rendered impressive rather than ridiculous by the absolute conviction he brought to each movement. When he straightened, his gaze fixed directly on Charlotte, deliberately excluding his mother from his focus.
“Miss Fairfax,” he continued, his tone softening perceptibly, “might I request the honor of calling upon you tomorrow?”
Charlotte’s composure wavered visibly, uncertainty transforming her features. Before she could respond, Lady Blackthorn interjected with smooth precision.
“I fear Miss Fairfax’s schedule tomorrow is quite full, Sebastian. Perhaps after our return from the Continent, though that would be some months hence.”
Sebastian did not spare his mother even a glance, his attention remaining fixed on Charlotte with singular focus. “I address my request to Miss Fairfax directly, as she remains at liberty to determine her own engagements.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened fractionally. For a moment, she appeared caught between competing loyalties—her promise to Lady Blackthorn warring with the unmistakable urgency in Sebastian’s manner.
“I—" she began, her voice uncharacteristically hesitant.
Colin chose that moment to step forward, fraternal affection evident in his easy smile as he addressed his sister.
“Charlotte! What extraordinary luck to encounter you here. Lord Blackthorn and I were just discussing your imminent departure. A rather sudden decision, was it not?”
His casual inquiry, skillfully designed to provide Charlotte momentary reprieve from direct response, achieved its purpose. She turned to her brother with visible relief, though her fingers continued their nervous arrangement of her evening purse’s silk drawstrings.
“Colin,” she acknowledged, genuine warmth briefly illuminating her features before decorum reasserted control. “I had no idea you would attend the theater this evening.”
“A spontaneous decision,” he replied with the insouciant charm that characterized the youngest Fairfax brother. “Much like your Continental plans, I understand.”
Lady Blackthorn’s lips thinned almost imperceptibly at this implied criticism. “Hardly spontaneous, Mr. Fairfax. Our arrangements have been meticulously coordinated to provide Miss Fairfax optimal opportunity to develop her artistic talents.”
Charlotte’s gaze dropped to the marble floor, the submissive gesture so contrary to her natural demeanor that Sebastian felt renewed anger surge through his veins like molten metal.
This diminished version of the vibrant woman who had brought laughter back to Blackthorn Hall stood as testament to his mother’s manipulative skill—and to Charlotte’s devastating capacity for self-sacrifice when convinced it served those she loved.
“Miss Fairfax,” Sebastian interjected with quiet authority that drew her reluctant gaze back to his face, “you have not answered my question. May I call upon you tomorrow?”
A moment of suspended tension followed. Charlotte’s internal struggle manifested physically—the slight tremor in her fingers, the momentary compression of her lips, the almost imperceptible straightening of her spine as some decision crystallized within her.
“Yes,” she said finally, the single syllable emerging with unexpected clarity. “You may call tomorrow.”
Lady Blackthorn’s expression hardened, though her voice remained perfectly modulated as she addressed her son. “Sebastian, a word in private, if you please. Diana, perhaps you and Mr. Fairfax might escort Miss Fairfax to procure refreshment?”
The suggestion, delivered with aristocratic authority that brooked no opposition, achieved its immediate purpose.
Colin offered his arm to Charlotte with exaggerated gallantry while Diana accompanied them with visible relief at escaping the tension between mother and son.
“What precisely is your intention?” His mother demanded the instant Charlotte moved beyond earshot, her aristocratic composure fracturing to reveal genuine anger. “Have you taken complete leave of your senses, arriving in such a state and creating this spectacle?”
Sebastian turned to face his mother fully. “I might ask you the same question, Mother. Diana has informed me of your… deal with Charlotte.”
Color drained from his mother’s face before flooding back in an angry tide. “Diana had no right—”
“Diana had every right,” Sebastian interrupted, his voice low but carrying an authority that momentarily silenced his mother’s protest.
The dowager baroness drew herself up with regal indignation that might have impressed observers less aware of her recent machinations. “Everything I have done has been with your best interests at heart. The Whitmore lineage—”
“Will end with me if such is the price of maintaining it through loveless alliance,” Sebastian stated with quiet finality.
“Tomorrow morning, I shall ask for Charlotte Fairfax’s hand in marriage. You have two choices before you, Mother—accept this decision with grace and make genuine amends for the pain you’ve caused, or remove yourself to the dower house at Blackthorn Hall permanently."
The ultimatum, delivered with aristocratic precision that matched Lady Blackthorn’s own formidable manner, rendered her momentarily speechless.
“Is it so wrong to desire the best for one’s child? The girl is hardly suited to—”
“Charlotte possesses qualities far more valuable than the polished artifice valued in London drawing rooms,” Sebastian interrupted, his tone softening slightly at the glimpse of vulnerability beneath his mother’s formidable exterior.
“If you have not come to recognize at least that during our courtship, then I have little hope you ever will.”
Lady Blackthorn gazed at her son with dawning comprehension, as though seeing him clearly for the first time in months. “You truly love her,” she stated rather than asked, the realization carrying traces of both surprise and reluctant respect.
“Yes,” Sebastian confirmed, the simple declaration carrying more weight than elaborate protestations might have achieved.
“Perhaps,” she acknowledged, her voice barely audible above the ambient murmur of the theatrical crowd, “I have allowed grief to distort my judgment in certain matters.”
Sebastian recognized the admission for the significant concession it represented—Lady Victoria Whitmore rarely acknowledged error in any form.
He extended his hand toward the refreshment area where Charlotte stood in conversation with Colin and Diana, her posture still unnaturally constrained yet somehow less brittle than before.
“Shall we join them? You might begin making amends this very evening, should you choose that path.”
Lady Blackthorn hesitated briefly before inclining her head in regal acquiescence.
As they moved through the crowd toward Charlotte, Sebastian observed how his mother subtly adjusted her bearing—shoulders relaxing infinitesimally, expression modulating from defensive hauteur to something approaching genuine civility.
The transformation, though far from complete, offered hope that reconciliation might eventually prove possible.
Charlotte glanced up as they approached, her blue eyes widening with apprehension as she registered their united approach.
Sebastian offered a reassuring smile that conveyed volumes across the diminishing space between them—a promise of explanation, a request for trust, an affirmation of devotion that transcended the manipulations and misunderstandings threatening to separate them.
Tomorrow, he would speak plainly of love and intention, clarifying the tangled web of miscommunication his mother had woven around them both.
Tonight, he contented himself with reclaiming proximity—a first step toward rebuilding the connection that circumstance and calculation had nearly severed beyond repair.