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“I cannot say I am eager to see him,” Charlotte murmured, voicing her fears aloud. “Gamston, I mean to say. Anyone would think he had only my father for friendship, though I suppose the same could be said of Papa.” She paused. “It is so strange to think the man had been like a second father to me for so long. He has known me since I was in pinafores. He taught me to play chess, to read Shakespeare, for heaven’s sake! That he should be my prospective husband…” She shook her head in revulsion.
“Well, my lady,” Josephine replied, “It’s not so strange to me. A man is a man, no matter the blood running through him. You are the perfect lady, and the Duke of Gamston has no children. If you’ll pardon my saying, you know better than most what the world thinks of us women.”
There was nothing to forgive, for Josephine was not wrong. The Duke had shown no interest in making a wife of Charlotte, not until his father had suggested the sordid thing when she turned six-and-ten. It did not mean he had not been thinking about it.
“I suppose it will do me no good to consider the matter now. I have bought myself a pocket of time. Rather, those dratted brigands did.”
Charlotte supposed she owed the bandits a great deal. Without them, she may have been married by now or dead in a ditch in Italy. She didn’t quite know which of the two sounded more promising.
She looked back at Josie, who was putting the finishing touches on her coiffure. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but I don’t know how you manage to joke about what happened. If it were me, I’m not sure I would ever be able to live normally again. Were you notterrifiedof the bandit?”
Charlotte breathed a laugh. “I was at first, I shall not lie, but he seemed to have no interest in causing me harm—quite the opposite, actually. By the end of it, I pitied him more than anything else.”
“Pity?” Josephine echoed in disbelief before laying the thick, French plait over Charlotte’s shoulder. Her fringe had been coiled in ringlets. “Of all the things he deserves, my lady, pity is not it—irons, more like it.”
“I have no doubt those are precisely what they were fleeing. The debtor’s prison, or something of the sort. Not that it matters now.” She smiled and shifted in her seat. “No, I would take my chances with those assailants over Gamston any day. What a frightful prospect…” she said through a laugh, and Josephine looked at her as though she had lost her marbles before giggling as well.
The girl moved over to her armoire, and she followed. “Oh, my lady… Frightful though it may be, unless we can secure a match for you before the month is up, it may be quiterealas well.”
Charlotte sat on her bed and reached over to her side table. She pulled open its top drawer and sneaked a sugar plum, leaving one aside for Josephine. She took a bite from it as she said, “I can hardly be blamed for rejecting all those who have asked for my hand when they are all so terriblydull. The Marquess of Hexam almost bored me to tears at his house party last week, and his son was no brighter.”
Josephine sighed and walked over to her, carrying Charlotte’s gown for the evening. It was a gorgeous affair of peach silk, with white puffed sleeves and lace along the bodice. Pearls had been dotted down multi-tiered skirts, and Charlotte had to suck in a breath at the sight of it.
She may have detested being a duke’s daughter for reasons beyond number, but she would never tire of the gowns—or the sweetmeats.
“If this does not do the trick, I truly do not know what shall,” she joked, and clapped in delight. She primed her arms as Josephine lifted the gown over her head. The maid had to stand on the very tips of her toes, as Charlotte was quite a bit taller. She turned so Josie could fasten the back, looking herself over in her brass standing mirror.
“Do you know who’s attending this evening, my lady?” Josephine asked as she worked her way down her back.
Charlotte brought a hand to her bosom, quite enamored with herself. “The Earl of Singberry is hosting, which undoubtedly means his horse-mad sons shall be there. Matthew mentioned his friend Ambrose will be in attendance—though he’s as tolerable as Matthew himself, which means he isn’t tolerableat all. Father mentioned something or other about a few prospective marquesses. Naturally, Gamston will be looking to tag along,” she listed off and groaned. “It shall be a fairly large soirée. If nothing else, there shall be plenty to look at.”
“With any luck, someone will catch your eye, my lady,” Josephine said with finality as she fastened the last button of the gown.
Charlotte gave a small turn to admire herself and nodded. “Well, it has been rumored that Lady Singberry is a literary at heart and has invited a few writers along that we might engage in some sort of recital or competition, I’m not sure.” She paused and smiled in earnest. “So, should there be a man in attendance worthy of my heart, that is one way in which he will make himself known.”
* * *
Charlotte hurried down the grand staircase of Richmond Court, the hem of her gown trailing behind her like froth on a stream. Her gloved hand slid down the railing, burning against the varnished mahogany. She looked down over the entrance hall, where her stony-faced sister and brother were waiting for her.
“How long can it take to put on a frock?” Matthew chided as she hit the last step. “I could have sworn I saw Josephine in the hallway a quarter of an hour ago.”
Charlotte struggled to catch her breath as she spiraled past him, hooking young Eleanor under the arm and dragging her along. Her younger sister appeared almost too nervous for words in her bright blue gown, her dark hair piled high atop her head. Charlotte cupped her face reassuringly.
“I got rather carried away with some writing, brother dearest, though I’m not surprised the concept of creative passion is lost on you,” she quipped. “How are you, darling?” she asked her sister, who looked like she could be sick at any moment.
Matthew walked toward the vestibule, snatching his hat from a footman. “It’s the first ball of the Season. How do you think she is faring?”
“I’m not sure I want to attend,” Eleanor moaned. Her dark blue eyes were full of worry, and Charlotte felt her heart feel for her sister. Her sister had attended only four balls since her debut and was fostering a wallflower’s reputation. “What if no one wants to speak with me?”
“That’s what Matthew is for,” Charlotte said, then shot a look at her brother. She was struck by how much he looked like their father in his hat and redingote, with his chestnut hair and hooked nose, albeit thirty years younger. “Is that not right, Matthew?”
Matthew tutted and pulled out his pocket watch. “I suppose. Now would you please—” he groaned and gestured for the doors. “Father is probably driving himself mad inside the carriage. You know how his humors are, as of late,” he added with a pointed look towards Charlotte.
She had to restrain herself from sticking out her tongue at him. He left the two Fitzroy sisters alone, and the vestibule felt suddenly lighter for his departure.
“I really don’t want to attend if I’ll only have our brother for company,” Eleanor murmured. Charlotte had to hold in a laugh. The evening was already turning out to be a lesson in self-control. “I must find a man to dance with. I simply must!”
Charlotte slipped her arms into her cape and shook her head. She tried to remember what life was like at six-and-ten, but the memory of those years was only stained with grief from the passing of their mother. She shook the thought away and held out her hand.
