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It was that Harper had the power to let Charlotte knowexactlywhat type of man Benjamin was
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
All things considered, it seemed rather absurd to be attending a party at a time like this—what with Vauxhall confessions, the looming threat of blackmail, and an ever-bubbling desire for a man she should fear above all else. Really, sorting an attire for a masquerade ball was the verylastof Charlotte’s concerns.
Josephine had other ideas. Round and round she went setting feathers into order where they sat along her neckline. She smoothed out the pleated skirts of Charlotte’s gown, polishing the diamantes along the corset when she thought her mistress wasn’t looking. After about an hour of primping, the maid finally tore herself away, and Charlotte was able to see her gown in all its glory from where she stood before the mirror.
It was a little gaudy, to say the least. Another lady might have called itdecadent, her modiste certainly had, but it made Charlotte feel too much like a walking dessert. She looked more like a blackbird than she did a tart regardless.
Just about, anyway.
Itwasabsurd, needless, and vulgar in the face of all the ill in the world—on their doorstep. She would have passed on the invitation altogether if not for the twisted importance of the night.
For that night, she and Benjamin would bring their ruse to an end—and with its ending came a host of other things Charlotte had spent far too many sleepless nights already considering—and with its endingcame her compromise.
“Is everything all right, my lady? Only, you’ve been quiet all evening…”
It was Josephine’s voice, though she could hardly place it through the mist of her fretting. Her maid stood by her dresser sorting her matching reticule and mask. Poor, loyal, darling Josephine. Charlotte wondered whether her opinion of her mistress had much changed for the lady’s misdeeds, but she quickly dismissed the idea, not wanting to wring herself out further.
“I must be,” she lied, lips catching they were so dry. She gestured for the carafe of water on her night table, and Josephine hurried over with a cup. The drink ran down her throat like shards of broken glass as she took a gulp.
“If you are feeling unwell, my lady, I’ve no doubt His Grace would allow you to excuse yourself from the ball.”
She wanted to if it would mean forestalling her doom. “No, everything is fine.” She finished the rest of her water and pressed the crystalline tumbler to her neck.
“I take it Mr. Huxley will be there, my lady,” Josephine said, her brow arching. Still, Charlotte didn’t know whether Josephine was ignorant ofHuxley’strue nature—she wasn’t about to find out by asking her. “I suppose it’s a blessing that he arrived when he did.”
Charlotte stilled. “What do you mean by that?”
“Well…” Josie’s cheeks flashed red. “After so many Seasons on the shelf, and with His Grace’s proposal hanging in the balance, I only meant…” She shook her head. “Forgive me.”
“You meant meeting Huxley could not have come at a more opportune time.” Charlotte smiled for the irony of it all—a silly, self-serving little smile. “Josie… what exactly do you believe is going on between us? Between Huxley and me?”
“Oh, I really shouldn’t say—couldn’t say!” Charlotte pressed her with a look. “Whatever I might believe… I do not think any less of you for it. And I would never spread a word of gossip! I swear it on my life.”
She believes me an adventuress. She believes our meetings have been most lustful in nature.
“It is all right, Jo. I know you would not think to betray me.” She brushed the girl’s cheek with the back of her fingers, wondering whether all ladies held their maids in such high confidence. “I always want you to speak plainly with me. I find it is one of the only ways I can sift through my feelings.”
Josephine took the glass from Charlotte. “Then… might I ask… have you found your love match in Huxley?”
The question should not have been as painful as it was. Charlotte thought back to her pleading in Vauxhall, and her cheeks colored for her embarrassment. Her lust was without question… butlove? The concept seemed ludicrous. Benjamin was not a peer nor a gentleman. He had no money, no genteelness. He was precisely the sort of rake over which women like Charlotte were cautioned against knowing. And yet…
And yet,she repeated inwardly. The words were answer enough.
“I have found all I need in Huxley for the moment,” she said, thinking,Better she believes me an adventuress than a liar.
Though she supposed, by the end of the night, she would be both.
Charlotte watched the town crawl by from the window of their carriage, past the Palace Garden, past Westminster too, until finally, the gig lurched into Chelsea. She rested her fingers against the glass of the box feeling as though if she could onlytouchthe immaterial city before her, it might make sense.
She looked across to her father, her breath having left the imprint of her fingers on the window. He seemed none the wiser, smiling to himself or perhaps dozing off. It would be only the two of them that night—and Gamston, of course, for he was hosting. She had persuaded both Eleanor and Matthew that the ball was not worth their coming, her sister having been much more difficult to dissuade than her brother, and they had gone off to a less extravagant affair. Truth be told, Charlotte could not bear the thought of embroiling her siblings in a plan that made her sick, of having them witness her tryst with a poet libertine first-hand.
Even her father, despite his forcing of her hand, felt too gentle a soul to subject to such depravity. Second thoughts would not save her now—their deception was too far gone.
Her eyes welled with tears as she observed him, and she reached out to place a hand on his knee across from her. “What are you thinking, Papa? What delights you so?”
Her father stared back at her, his eyes surprisingly youthful beneath his white lashes as if a traveler of time. “Was that you speaking, Poppet?”
