Page 30

“Man proposes, but God disposes.”

—Thomas à Kempis, The Imitation of Christ

C harity rose from her bed with great care, concern for her ankle foremost in her mind.

It gave a twinge of complaint, but no longer pained her fiercely.

She took a few tentative steps over to the pull to ring for her maid.

But before she could tug the cord, the bedroom door swung open and her maid bustled in.

“I will take a tray in here—presuming, that is, that there is not someone downstairs demanding my attention.”

“Not this morning, Your Grace,” Miller assured her. She studied her mistress with a critical eye, noting Charity’s hesitant steps, and then offered her an arm. “You must keep your foot elevated, ma’am. I will ask Cook to prepare a poultice.”

“Nothing odorous,” Charity requested. “I intend to receive callers this afternoon, and I cannot be surrounded by a cloud of camphor.”

Miller returned in short order, holding a bundle-filled basket in her hands, and trailed by a footman bearing a tray.

The footman deposited the tray on a side table and then shifted it to be within easy reach of Charity, removing the metal cover to reveal a plate of eggs and toast, along with a fresh pot of tea.

Meanwhile, Miller knelt down, sorting out the contents of her basket.

She had a ceramic pot filled with some kind of pale paste and thin bandages.

“This bread and milk poultice will draw out the swelling,” she explained as she smoothed it onto Charity’s foot.

“Cook added a bit of rosemary in the mix, just for the healing—and no sharp smell, I promise.”

No sooner did she finish her breakfast than Pritchard rapped on her door. “Letters for you, Your Grace,” he said, holding out a silver tray covered in folded parchment. “They began arriving first thing this morning, and there is no sign of them stopping.”

You are the most sought-after guest in London, her mother’s voice purred from the recesses of her mind. Finally, society is giving you your due.

Though her mother might have been right, Charity was not foolish enough to believe it was her charms alone people sought.

The first pile of messages consisted of probing notes from society’s most notorious gossips.

Implied was that the polite twenty-minute call would be insufficient for their needs.

“Set these on my desk,” Charity said, passing the stack to her lady’s maid. After all was said and done, such contacts would be useful in clarifying her future plans. For now, she had little desire to submit to their inquisition.

Next came the embossed cards inviting Duchess Atholl, plus guest , to other public events.

These Charity reviewed with greater care, considering which events would serve their needs.

She focused specifically on events where the guest list was likely to be wider than the ton .

Lord Cavendish was not the only person in town who was willing to dance in the grey area that separated the aristocrats and the wealthy.

Rubbing elbows with the men and women of means might be useful in their investigations.

The morning passed in a rush, penning the appropriate responses.

Twice she had to stop and rub her wrist as it grew stiff from all the writing.

Luncheon was again a cold tray in her room, and then Miller helped her to dress.

There was only the slightest twinge of pain in her ankle.

Tightly laced boots were sufficient to protect against further harm.

“I suppose I should descend to the drawing room now,” she said, checking her reflection in the mirror.

Her day dress was a pale rose, bordered with ribbon in a deeper shade.

When Miller had suggested it, Charity had half feared it would make her look like a debutante.

Now, however, she noted how the colour lent warmth to her cheeks.

The pink on her cheeks deepened to a deep scarlet as she recalled some of the more dizzying moments from the previous evening. Like how Peregrine had swept her into his arms and carried her. Or how he had made sly jokes that filled her head with ideas and put her pulse to racing.

“Is aught amiss, You Grace?” Miller asked, coming out of the dressing room with a necklace in her hands. “Are you feverish?”

“No, no,” Charity stuttered. “I stood up too fast, that is all. Too many hours spent sitting this morning.”

“If you say so,” Miller said. Her narrow gaze confirmed Charity had done little to dispel her suspicion. By the time she finished closing the clasps to Charity’s favourite string of pearls, Charity’s flush had faded. “Do you require help descending the stairs, ma’am?

Charity refused, instructing her maid to see if anything could be done to save her gown from the night before. Between the bloodstains and the tears, it was likely an impossible task. But so long as Miller was occupied with it, she would not be around to notice any further emotional foibles .

Truthfully, the boots provided enough support for Charity’s ankle, and she made it to the front drawing room with a minimum of pain.

A footman positioned a footrest in front of her preferred chair, and then retrieved her sewing basket from the cupboard.

Thus ensconced, Charity waited to see who would visit first. A friend of her mother’s?

Someone from Charity’s own circle of acquaintances?

Or would it be one of the ton ’s battleaxes, coming to warn Charity off any thoughts of misbehaviour?

It was not, however, a woman who showed up on her doorstep. Instead, a half-French dandy strode into her drawing room without waiting to be announced. Charity tucked her sewing into the side of the chair and shifted her feet back onto the floor.

Lord Ravenscroft dropped into a deep bow, an obeisance he usually reserved for the royal family. “Your Grace. I hope that you have had a chance to take out your anger on the canary. I am here now to humbly beg for your forgiveness.”

Charity did not roll her eyes but it was a close thing. Logic dictated that she should forgive him immediately, given how things had worked out. But for once, she decided to give her mother’s voice free rein.

“You do not know the meaning of the word humble, my lord, and your delay speaks volumes about concern for my forgiveness,” she said with a sniff.

Ravenscroft remained bent over, but dared to lift his head to check her expression. “My time is not my own, Your Grace. Prinny has dictated my every action and provided me not even a moment of spare time until now.”

“And yet, the elaborate knot in your cravat suggests you had time enough to spend with your valet,” she pointed out drolly. Her face remained a mask of composure, though a single measured blink conveyed just enough displeasure to make the man falter in his words .

“Well. I could hardly present myself here in a state of dishevelment?—”

“Had you rushed here in the early morning hours like Lord Fitzroy did?—”

“Then I would have interrupted what was clearly a private time,” Ravenscroft countered, straightening up with a wink.

He smoothed the lines of his purple coat and added, “All of London is ablaze with talk of your courtship, Your Grace. Perhaps instead of offering apologies, I should be asking for thanks for providing an excuse to mend your relationship .”

“You are quite daring!” she stuttered, her eyes narrowed.

“It is my role. To dare where others fall short.” Despite his words, he clasped his hands, the picture of supplication. “Come now, I acted with the most honourable intentions. You are a valued ally and I will be utterly bereft if you cannot find it in your heart to forgive me.”

Charity drummed her fingers on the armrest, her eyes narrowed in the Queen’s own heavy-lidded stare. Her impersonation was so precise, Ravenscroft shuddered.

“ Mon dieu , you are nearly as terrifying as she is,” he moaned.

“Then you have some inkling of what I experienced when you and Prinny left it to me to explain that article to Queen Charlotte. I will forgive you, but on two conditions. The first is that if you ever put me in that position again, and do not bother to even send a note of regret for doing so, I will have your head on a platter. The second is that you owe me a boon.”

“Make it two,” Ravenscroft replied. He collapsed into the nearest chair and covered his face with his hands. “Or three. In fact, you may have all the future favours you like if you will agree to assist me now.”

The man was a picture of dramatic misery. Charity could not find it in her heart to make him suffer further. “Oh, what is it?”

Ravenscroft wiped his hands across his face and then lifted his head to meet her gaze. “It is the Grand Duchess of Oldenburg. She has driven Prinny to the brink.”

“She has? What has she done now?” Charity asked.

“She took exception to his choice of orchestra and demanded they cease at once, claiming the violins were giving her a megrim. This, mind you, after she forced him to plead—on bended knee, I suspect—for permission to have the national anthem sung at the ambassador’s dinner.”

Charity goggled, unable to believe her ears. “Why does he not refuse?”

“Because she collapses in a dramatic swoon the instant anyone contradicts her. It’s rather like dueling with a chaise lounge.

And as the room inevitably fills with ministers and matrons flapping like hens, the poor man caves every time.

If anyone can coax Her Imperial Hysteria into sparing what remains of the Prince Regent’s hairline, it is you.

Now let us go to her hotel, before he starts tearing it out in tufts. ”