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“Now be quiet, Lisbet. You are making me get ahead of my story.”
“Yes, master.”
Ignoring her gentle barb, Charlie went on. “Anyway, Father was dead set against my going to London until it was decided you should go.”
“Am I to be your nanny?”
“Silence, Miss Smarty. No, it is just famous. I am to ride escort for you into London... you know how your mother worries about highwaymen. And it could not have come at a better time, for the Southern Cross docks not three days after we arrive.” Charlie finished with a flourish of importance, leaning back in his chair with the air of one who has done a great thing.
Despite her misgivings about Charlie’s possible dampening effect on her career as a Beauty, Lisbet was a little piqued her presence and possible danger were not the primary reasons for Charlie’s elation at going to London. Curiosity won out over her baser emotions, and her reaction was all he could have wished.
“What is the Southern Cross? And pray tell what does it have to do with you?”
“It is a ship—”
“Since it docks I assumed that!”
Glares flashed for a moment until Charlie decided his news was more important than the delights of a spirited debate with Lisbet and said, “Most astute of you. The Southern Cross is a ship coming in from the East. I believe her main cargo is silks and spices.”
“Silks and spices? Are you going into trade?” Lisbet was horrified.
He laughed at her. “No, goose. She also carries passengers. My Uncle Bradford is coming home.”
“Why has he stayed away so long, and where has he been? In the East all this time? Why have we never heard from him?” Lisbet clapped a hand to her mouth in a pretty study of new realization. “Your poor mother. All of Bittermere must be in an uproar making ready for his homecoming.”
Charlie made an impatient gesture of negation. “No, you do not understand. No one at home knows he is coming. I am the only one he’s written to in years and years. It is a secret.”
“And you are not going to tell them? What if he just walks in on them?” Lisbet’s eyes were round.
“He is not coming to Bittermere. Do you not see? No one is supposed to know.”
“But why, if he has been gone all these years?”
“Because he was disgraced and disowned!”
The beautiful blue eyes grew rounder with astonishment. “For what?”
“I do not really know. No one at home has ever mentioned him.”
“You have seen him?”
“No. He wrote me. At school. We have been corresponding for ages. I gather from some of the things he said Bittermere was to have come to him, and it is only because he... left that Father had to give up politics and come home to run the estate.”
Enthralled, Lisbet leaned forward like a conspirator, all thoughts of cool young ladyhood gone. “How fortunate for you. What happened? It must have been over twelve years ago, for it was then you came to Bittermere.... Has he ever said?”
“No, and it most definitely is not the sort of thing one can ask in a letter.”
“And you certainly cannot ask your parents... nor I mine.” The thought of broaching such a subject with her stuffy, disciplinarian father daunted even her youthful enthusiasm. “Wait... I wager Aunt Verity would know. She would not have been much above my age then and I know a scandal bad enough to get him disinherited and exiled would have been known all over the county.”
“No!” Charlie’s firm hands stopped her intended flight, settling her once again on the chair. “No one must know. I only told you because... because I trust you and because I need your support to have me escort you to Town.”
“Is it so very important to you, Charlie?” Lisbet asked gently, then on seeing his impassioned nod, forgot her own worries of Charlie as a shadow and said, “Well then that is settled. I shall not set forth for London unless you go along to defend me from highwaymen and footpads.”
“Splendid. You are the best of comrades.” Charlie grinned, his generous mouth showing a full complement of strong white teeth. With a passionless zest, he bussed Lisbet on both cheeks, called her a stout fellow, and promised by way of return to look in on her a time or two in London. Despite her earlier misgivings, it was a remark which left the beautiful younger Miss Morrison feeling slightly deflated.
He turned at the door. “Remember -- no one is supposed to know about Uncle Bradford’s return... not even you. I am trusting you, Lisbet.”
“No one, not even me,” she repeated, waving the scrap of handkerchief at the closing door.
