The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) (3 page)

She had cautioned Viola not to encourage that lecher. Only last season, Charlotte had been forced to “accidentally” bloody the portly baronet’s nose with her elbow when he’d “accidentally” brushed his arm against her bosom four times during a quadrille. However, it seemed her advice to both her friend and her cousin was destined to fall upon deaf ears. She tugged at Andrew’s arm. “Let us find Uncle Frederick and Aunt Fanny, shall we?”

“I must speak with her.”

“Andrew,” she gritted, tugging harder.

He ignored her, drifting toward Miss Darling like a skiff carried by a current.

Deciding she could either let him go or be dragged in his wake, Charlotte released his arm and watched him join the throng of admirers. Quickly, she scanned the room. In some ways, being taller than most men and nearly all other women was a hardship, but there was one way in which it was helpful—seeing across crowded rooms. Very well, two ways, if one counted reaching items on high shelves, but she considered that a minor benefit.

As the throng of guests and Pennywhistle sisters shifted, she saw her aunt and uncle standing near one of the fireplaces, chatting with Penelope Darling, Viola’s cousin. Penelope laughed, the braying noise similar to a panicked goose.

Like Charlotte, Penelope long had been a wallflower, though that had changed last season. She now had a suitor, Lord Mochrie, a ruddy-skinned Scotsman who thought himself terribly amusing. Charlotte disagreed. But, then, perhaps her reluctance to laugh at every bon mot and dull witticism emanating from such an unamusing gentleman explained why she was still a wallflower and Penelope had managed to relieve herself of that particular status.

Now, as Charlotte threaded her way through a forest of pastel silk and black superfine, she calculated the likelihood that this season would be her last. She thought the odds quite good, perhaps ninety percent. She was nearly twenty-three, old enough to be considered on the shelf. Orange hair, freckled skin, and freakish height had deemed her unfashionable and unattractive. A tendency toward clumsiness had resulted in the crushing of many a gentleman’s toes, as well as her culminating humiliation last winter, an incident she preferred to forget. No man, titled or otherwise, was going to offer for her.

Through it all, she had weathered every ballroom indignity, every jeering utterance of “Longshanks Lancaster,” and with planning and care, she had managed to accrue a substantial sum with which to begin a new life. A better life.

Was it enough? She did not know. But her victory over her father was close at hand. It must be. At heart, Rowland Lancaster was a man of business, a tradesman, an American. Surely he would come to understand the futility of selling a product no one wanted.

Halfway to her destination, an enormous shadow loomed, dimming the candleglow in the room. She spun around, flailing as her slippers tangled with one another. A massive hand clasped her arm to steady her. She looked up—a most unusual circumstance—to find her rescuer and the owner of the outsized shadow.

“Lord Tannenbrook.” She laughed in relief, seeing her friend James Kilbrenner’s rough-hewn features and dark-blond hair. “I thought perhaps a mountain had come to life and was hunting me. I see I was right.”

A half-smile curled one corner of his mouth. On anyone else, it would have been a guffaw. James was not humorless, precisely; he simply guarded his sentiments carefully and kept most of them to himself, aside from the occasional disgruntlement. But he had come to her defense the previous November without so much as knowing her name. When an obnoxious boor had insulted and ridiculed her, the Earl of Tannenbrook had taken action, forcing the oaf to apologize. He was honorable, through and through. She liked him, and they had become friends.

He dipped his head politely. “Miss Lancaster, a pleasure, as always. I trust the mount I recommended for you at Tattersall’s is still to your liking.”

“Oh! Yes, well. Yes, indeed, the horse is quite—er, what I mean to say is …”

Sighing, his impossibly wide shoulders slumped. “You sold her.”

Her grimace was an apology. “Really, I would have kept her.
Should.
Should have kept her.”

He shook his head, giving her that quirk of his lips. “My fault for not realizing. I should have guessed. No matter. She was yours to do with as you chose.” He raised a brow. “Tell me you at least garnered a fat price for her.”

With a wide grin, she nodded. “An
excellent
price. More than I paid.”

James’s eyes suddenly caught upon something over her shoulder, and a frown lowered his heavy brow.

She attempted to twist around and get a glimpse, but he stopped her with a hand on her elbow and a sharp, “Don’t. She’ll notice.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. I must go.”

“Oh, well, it was lovely to see … you.” By the time her last word left her mouth, he had turned and shouldered his way past seven people. She sighed. If he hoped to hide, he would need a potted plant the size of this room.

“Charlotte!” Aunt Fanny cried from behind her as though they had not seen one another as recently as breakfast. Charlotte spun to see her aunt, Lady Farrington. She was a pleasant, mild woman who greatly resembled Charlotte’s late mother, willowy and long with coloring more moonlight than sunlight. Charlotte never feared forgetting her mother because Aunt Fanny was nearly her twin. “Miss Darling was sharing the most amusing tale.”

Penelope, whose horse-like features compared poorly with her cousin’s, laughed her goose laugh and waved a hand dismissively. “Lady Farrington is too kind. I was simply reporting what I witnessed this morning as Viola and I returned home from a bit of shopping.” She leaned closer, the pearls laced through her curly coif bouncing comically against her ear. “You have heard of the unfortunate circumstances that have befallen Lady Rutherford since Lord Rutherford’s death, of course.” Penelope paused as though expecting a response. Charlotte hmm’d, but only to force the girl to continue. She did know, but not because she wished to. Honestly, the carnivorous glee of the ton was the thing she would miss least about London.

“Well, as our carriage passed Rutherford House, we saw her standing upon the bed of a worker’s wagon, gathering up her possessions by the armful. One of the men attempted to reason with her, but she was adamant that they were thieves for taking her furnishings. There she was, standing in a wagon”—she honked out a giggle—“in a pink gown, clutching a vase as though it were a babe. I have never seen such a thing.”

Charlotte did not laugh. She frowned. “What became of her?”

“Oh! You know, I’m not certain. Viola said she saw Lord Rutherford—the new one, of course—leaving the house moments later, but our carriage had turned onto another street before I could get a proper look.”

The new Lord Rutherford. Well, Lady Rutherford would receive no help from that quarter. Benedict Chatham, formerly Viscount Chatham, was a reprobate, a rake, a walking scandal. He was as likely to assist his mother as Charlotte was to marry a Prussian prince.

“Rutherford,” huffed Uncle Frederick, a sour expression on his face. “Bad lot, that.”

Charlotte half-smiled her agreement. Uncle Frederick’s signature talent was summing up a situation in as few words as possible.

The new Marquess of Rutherford reportedly had inherited more than a title upon his father’s death. Rumors had been swirling for months that, because of his father’s debts, he’d been forced to sell every unentailed property and possession. Naturally, the ton had relished the downfall of Benedict Chatham, who had spent his life flouting society’s rules and marinating in drink and debauchery.

Charlotte recalled seeing him only last winter, when they’d both been in London and he had still been Lord Chatham. Standing casually in front of a white marble sea god, the dark-haired devil had stared at her across his mother’s ballroom. His hooded turquoise gaze had seized her in one long, internal clench and sent heated chills across her skin. Until that moment, she had not understood why so many women cooed and sighed at the mere mention of his name. To her, he represented the worst of English society—an entitled lord born to privilege and radiating sardonic boredom. She had not altered her opinion. However, his attractiveness was no longer a mystery.

Behind her, she felt gloved hands flatten against the sides of her arms, tapping a delicate warning. “Do not move, Charlotte,” a familiar, feminine voice murmured. “Or he shall see me.”

Charlotte twisted, attempting to see the owner of the voice. “Viola?”

“Shh. He has been avoiding me all evening,” Viola Darling whispered, apparently using Charlotte as her own potted plant. “I wish to catch him by surprise.”

Bemused, Charlotte smiled politely at Penelope, who shot her a questioning glance. “Who?” she asked the girl tucked behind her.

“Tannenbrook.”

Ah, yes. The object of Viola Darling’s relentless affection. Of course, James had not yet returned said affection, but that did not deter Viola in the slightest. “I do not see him. Perhaps he has left.”

“Oh, but he was just there near the window.” Viola nudged her to one side. Then, the petite, raven-haired beauty shifted to stand beside her, raising up on her toes to see past the crowd and sighing with disappointment. “He is gone.”

Charlotte leaned down near Viola’s ear. “Take heart, Vi. Another evening, perhaps. The season has only just begun.” She patted her friend’s indigo-clad shoulder.

“I suppose my Tannenbrook hunt must continue another day.” She smiled up at Charlotte. “Was Cousin Penelope sharing news of this morning’s peculiar sighting?”

“She mentioned you saw Lady Rutherford, yes.”

Viola laughed lightly, the sound resembling a tinkling fountain. Tilted blue eyes sparkled. “Astonishing, really. I do so hope she was able to keep her vase. She appeared quite attached to it.”

“Miss Darling said Lord Rutherford was there, as well,” Aunt Fanny interjected. “Perhaps he was able to help her.”

Someone else nudged Charlotte’s arm from behind, and she stumbled, bumping Uncle Frederick’s shoulder. “Beg your pardon, Uncle,” she murmured automatically.

“Doubtful,” Viola answered Fanny. “He strolled past the wagon without a glance and appeared to pay no mind to her plight.”

“Charlotte.”

She spun around at the hiss of her name, accidentally elbowing Uncle Frederick’s shoulder again. What manner of evening was this, with everyone creeping up on her from behind? It was most distracting. “Andrew?”

Her cousin nudged her arm, his sandy head bobbing and jerking in the direction of the entrance.

“What on earth …?”

“Pryor,” he whispered, eyes flaring.

She swallowed at the mention of her father’s solicitor. “Here?” It could only mean one thing: Her father wished to see her rather urgently. She recalled the letter she had left unopened earlier. Drat.

“You may take the carriage if you wish. I shall distract him,” Andrew offered.

He was a dear, her cousin. He’d long been her champion, from the moment she had arrived in England at age five, motherless and lost in a country not her own. He had called her his “sis,” wrapped pudgy, two-year-old arms around her neck and given her a sloppy kiss.

Now, she laid a kiss of her own upon his cheek. “No need,” she sighed. “I shall see what he wants.”

Moments later, as she descended the stairs into Mr. Pennywhistle’s foyer, the bald, paunchy Mr. Pryor ceased his arguing with the Pennywhistle butler and exclaimed, “Miss Lancaster! I was just explaining to Briggs, here, the urgency of—”

“Mr. Pryor,” she said, her voice clipped. Honestly, the man was the worst sort of pest. “I presume my father wishes to see me.”

He blinked rapidly, then nodded, then rattled off a rapid stream of words that made her long for the mild annoyances of the twins. “Yes, yes, yes. Indeed, he does, Miss Lancaster. Did you not receive my letter this morning? I simply must find a better means of delivery. Those boys I hired are nothing more than pickpockets—”

“Can this not wait until tomorrow? I am attending a dinner, as you can see.” She waved at her plum-silk gown with its black embroidery and silver spangles, and then up the stairs toward the drawing room from which laughter and conversation echoed faintly.

“Apologies, but I would not advise it. Mr. Lancaster is most insistent.”

“It is he who insists I attend these sorts of events, Mr. Pryor. As you have previously noted, my allowance depends upon it.”

The solicitor’s light brows rose along the expanse of his forehead. “Yes, yes, yes. He wishes to discuss that very matter.” He cleared his throat and gave her an odd smile. “Given your displeasure with such obligations, I believe you will be pleased after you have spoken with him. Most pleased, indeed.”

Her breath stuttered, her heart stopping and then kicking in her chest with a painful lurch. He could not mean … was it over? Was her father surrendering to the inevitable? Would he, at long last, grant her the freedom she desired?

Feeling the possibility hit her bloodstream with the force of strong brandy, she staggered toward the solicitor and grasped a handful of the man’s sleeve. “He—he is prepared to …?”

Pryor’s brows rose to new heights at her grip. “Er—I can only say your father intends to present you with an offer.” His small chuckle was edged with nervousness. “If you accept, then this shall be your final season.”