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 sorryfor 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 obsequiousYour Gracingas 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 throughthatagain.
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 ausefulman.”
CHAPTER 9
“Do you think…” Charlotte’s eyeswere round as marbles. “Could that possibly be the worst of it?”
Their landau turned at the end of Rotten Row and prepared to make its stately way back through Hyde Park. Charlotte took a deep breath and realized it was her first easy one since she’d picked herself up from Lady Hervey’s parquet floor, clutching her shirt to her chest. “It seemed almost a bit too simple, but at least we can focus on Mother again.”
