His Mistress by Morning (17 page)

But he did. With his entire heart.

As she did him.

And that made everything that was so very improper, so very wrong with this mixed-up life Quince had fashioned for her, pale in comparison to the heady warmth that now sparkled within her soul.

Q
uince tried time and time again over the next fortnight to catch a moment alone with Charlotte, but the lady was nearly impossible to corner.

Even for someone of, say, Quince’s particular talents.

If it hadn’t been for Milton’s looming ultimatum, she might have been immensely proud of how Charlotte’s wish had turned out.

Oh, yes, there were a few stray threads of time here and about that needed tucking in, but over all, one look at Charlotte’s shining face and it was obvious she’d bloomed.

She and her handsome Sebastian were nearly inseparable—evidence, she told a glowering Milton, that this wish was fated—proved over and over again with lazy picnics in the countryside, late-night suppers of shared tidbits and kisses, watching the fireworks at Vauxhall Gardens, creating their own explosive passions whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Which, in the case of Charlotte and her lover, proved to be often—in the afternoon while Finella was out shopping, during the long drive home from the countryside, through the wee hours of the night and into the morning until they were both spent and exhausted.

It wasn’t that Quince was spying, per se, but even she had to admit to being surprised by the explosive heat that sparked between Charlotte and Sebastian at the least bit of provocation.

And in truth, the world was none the worse for it—for when had true love ever been a bad thing?

At least for the time being…

A carriage rolling down the street roused Quince out of her reverie, especially when it stopped in front of No. Four, Little Titchfield Street.

The driver went up and rang the bell, then returned to the curb to await his mistress.

The door opened shortly thereafter, and as luck would have it, Charlotte came down the steps with only her maid, Prudence, in tow.

Quince glanced at Charlotte’s dress—a beautifully trimmed muslin gown and a Tyrolese pelisse in green velvet that fell to her knees. Atop her head was a wonderful hat with a great ostrich plume and green satin ribbon.

Lovely,
Quince mused before looking down at her own drab gown. A bit of long-forgotten vanity got the better of her, and for a moment she envied Charlotte her fancy silks and glorious gowns.

Oh, but it was no use wishing for what she’d given up. And, worst of all, there was this wretched task before her. “Now it is,” Quince muttered, gathering up her basket and hustling toward her quarry.

“Lottie, my dear girl,” she called out, catching Charlotte’s arm and pulling her back from the carriage. “We need to talk.”

“Away with you, you old crone,” the driver said, shooing her back. “Get yer dirty hands off ’er!”

Charlotte stopped him. “That’s enough, Mr. Gallagher. I know this woman. ’Tis my good friend, Mrs. Quince.”

Quince shot a look of triumph at the cheeky fellow. “As she says, I’m her good friend.” She shifted her basket and tugged at Charlotte’s arm again. “Can you spare me a moment?”

Gallagher displayed his disbelief with a pair of furrowed brows and a loud snort. “Friend, my arse. Another bleeding charity, I’d say,” he muttered under his breath. “Now away with you.”

He eyed Quince with a narrow, assessing glance that sent a shiver down her spine.

Irish,
she surmised. Troublesome lot, all of them. Still had enough fey in their blood to be wary.

No, this would never do, she realized, glancing around for some way to distract the man.

“Your horses look a bit restless,” she said, waving her hand toward the pair of blacks. Even as she spoke, the horses began trotting forward.

“What the bloody hell!” Gallagher spat out. “I set that brake.”

“Not as well as you thought,” Quince offered as he chased after the carriage looking only too embarrassed.

“Who are you?” Charlotte asked, her gaze flying between Gallagher and Quince.

“Oh, we haven’t the time for that right now, my dear.” Quince pulled her a bit down the street, out of earshot of
her maid and especially out of Gallagher’s hearing. “I fear I neglected to tell you something the other day when we met in the park. It was terribly remiss of me, but given your state of distress, you’ll understand why it slipped my mind.” Quince patted her arm and looked around to make sure no one was nearby. Like Milton. “There is one thing more you need to know.”

“More?” Charlotte asked. “I don’t need anything more.” She laid her gloved hand on Quince’s sleeve and smiled. “You’ve given me my wish. My heart’s desire. I don’t know how to thank you.”

Quince felt a bit of panic frisson down her spine.
Oh, this didn’t bode well at all.
“It’s just that you must understand—”

“Whatever it is, I’m sure it can wait,” Charlotte told her. She patted the lady’s forearm again and turned toward the carriage in which Gallagher was now returning.

Given the stubborn set of his jaw, Quince knew he wouldn’t be so easily distracted again. Blast his Irish hide.

“But you must listen, my dear girl,” Quince insisted, chasing after her, that bit of panic now blossoming into full-fledged alarm.

The maid had climbed into the carriage, and Charlotte was about to join her.

“You can go back,” Quince blurted out.

This stopped Charlotte in her tracks. Ever so slowly she turned around. “Go back?”

Quince nodded. “Yes. I should have told you before, but you were in such a terrible way, and then you saw Lord Trent…”

She watched the play of emotions on Charlotte’s fair
features, waiting breathlessly to see which one landed, like a ball in a roulette wheel.

To Quince’s dismay, it wasn’t the one she’d wagered on.

“Oh, you dear thing! You’ve been worried about me. I know I was upset at first, but…” A sweet pink blush stole across her pretty features. “He loves me,” she gushed. “Certainly this isn’t quite the life I had in mind, but as long as I have Sebastian…” Her sigh added volumes to what she’d already said. “I have you to thank for everything.”

“Me-e-e?” Quince stammered, definitely hoping Milton wasn’t anywhere near enough to hear this.

“Oh, yes, you,” she enthused. “Thank you ever so much.” Charlotte turned and with a spry step climbed up into her elegant carriage in a thrice.

Unable to stop her, Quince rose to the tips of her toes and stuck her nose into the window. “You need to know this. You must know now.”

Charlotte tossed her head back, the plumes fluttering elegantly about her pretty face. In an instant the once demure Miss Wilmont disappeared, replaced by the indomitable Lottie Townsend. “For heaven’s sake, Quince, whyever would I want to do that?”

As if on cue, Gallagher clucked his tongue at the horses and the carriage took off down the street at a smart clip.

Oh dear, that didn’t go well at all,
Quince thought. She glanced nervously up and down the street, half expecting to see an elegantly clad Milton stalking toward her.

But it seemed she had a bit of luck left, for there was no one in sight. Seen or unseen.

Not willing to tempt fate, she bustled down the street,
wondering where in London she could hide from him—for at least a decade or so, since there was little chance he’d stop or, saints be praised, forget about that accursed ring.

The only thing left was to hope that Charlotte discovered that even a perfect wish had unforeseen consequences and changed her mind.

Quince’s revelation echoed through Charlotte’s thoughts like a discordant note for the next few hours.

Give up my wish?
Charlotte thought indignantly.
What utter madness!

Then to add to her dismay, her perfect afternoon of shopping hadn’t turned out anything like she’d thought it would. She’d planned on going with Corinna Fornett, for it seemed she and the lady went shopping together once a month, or as Sebastian referred to it, their monthly assault on the delighted and willing merchants of Bond Street. Much to Charlotte’s disappointment, the lady had sent a note around at the last minute stating she would be unable to go. Despite this setback, Charlotte had persevered, especially since she had money to spend freely, a carriage, a driver, and a maid to see to her needs, and the freedom to choose whatever her heart desired. And she had—shopped without a care for the price, or whether she truly needed another hat—yet something was missing.

So much so that finally she’d sent Prudence off to the carriage with the packages and had been about to join her, when she’d stopped in at a ribbon shop that she and Hermione had often frequented.

How much more fun it would have been to spend the afternoon choosing silks and trimmings and hats with…

The bell over the door jangled and a young lady entered the shop. “Mother, I want to see if they still have that braided silk I saw the other day.”

Hermione!

Charlotte opened her mouth to greet her, then clamped her lips shut and stumbled back behind a display case.

Greedily she eyed her best friend, realizing how much she missed her. Why, before there hadn’t been a day go by when she and Hermione hadn’t gone walking, or shared books and confidences. Besides, if it hadn’t been for her friendship with Hermione, she’d never have met Sebastian.

On more than one occasion she’d had to stop herself from asking Sebastian questions about his family. How was Griffin’s time machine progressing? How was it that his father had never gone to the South Seas? Why wasn’t Cordelia in Bath with their Aunt Davy? What trouble had Viola caused this week? Looking across the shop at Hermione, Charlotte realized how terribly she ached to spend just one afternoon in the Marlowes’ noisy, eclectic, haphazard house.

An impossible notion now, not so much because of who she was but because her wish had taken all that, and so much more, away.

Just look at Hermione! Charlotte felt no small measure of guilt as she beheld this dour, plainly clad version of her colorful friend.

It didn’t seem fair that she, Charlotte, should have gained so much when so many others had lost their passion, those unique qualities that had made them stand out in her eyes.

Hermione wandered through the shop, stopping finally to pick up a roll of trim. She bit her lip as she turned it
this way and that, considering the lovely, bright length of embroidered silk.

“Now I have exactly what you were looking for—” the shopkeeper was saying as she came out of the back room.

Charlotte shook her head at the woman and slunk back further into the shadows.

The good woman, used to the oddities and peculiarities of London’s
ton
—and most likely its demimonde—didn’t say anything else but turned her bright smile toward her new customer until she spied who it was.

“Lady Hermione,” the lady said through clenched teeth.

Hermione took a deep breath and held up the silk. “How much is this?”

Charlotte almost laughed. When had Hermione ever considered a price when she’d gone shopping?

Fashion is an essential and price a secondary concern
had been her friend’s motto.

Then, to Charlotte’s horror, the shopkeeper said something truly dreadful. “The price matters not, my lady. Unless you intend to pay cash.”

Hermione blushed crimson and hurriedly dropped the ribbon back down on the table. “No, I had only hoped—”

The bell jangled again, and this time Lady Walbrook and Lady Cordelia entered. “There you are, Hermione. Did you get your ribbon?”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, my lady,” the owner said, sounding anything but sorry, her arms crossing over her chest. “I was just explaining to your daughter that I can’t give you or your family any further credit until what is outstanding on your account is paid. In full.”

Charlotte felt Lady Walbrook’s, and moreover Hermione’s, shame right down to the tips of her own outrageously expensive slippers.

Lady Walbrook’s lips flapped in outrage as she obviously struggled to find the right words for such an awful scene. Then she glanced around the small shop in a moment of panic, and Charlotte ducked down to avoid being seen. She hardly wanted to embarrass the countess further by letting her know there was a witness to this humiliation.

“Do you know who I am?” Lady Walbrook said in a level, elegant voice. Behind her, Cordelia, Sebastian’s eldest sister, stood with her eyes downcast, her expression unreadable.

“Yes, my lady, but—”

“How dare you stand there and—”

“Never mind, Mother,” Hermione interjected, gathering together no small measure of grace and using it to separate herself from this growing scandal. “I don’t think the ribbon is the right shade after all.”

No one believed her, especially when a tear of mortification welled up in her green eyes.

Charlotte’s heart sank that her best friend should have to suffer so.

Well, they weren’t friends currently, but that mattered not to Charlotte. Hermione
was
her friend. Always would be. Really, there was nothing left to do but…

“No, wait,” Charlotte said, the words bursting out before she could stop them. “I’ll pay for it, Hermione. Whatever you want.”

Every pair of eyes in the shop turned and fixed on Charlotte, who had risen from her hiding spot. In an instant she
knew she should have held her tongue and stayed safely ensconced behind the counter.

For instead of gratitude, Lady Walbrook’s features came into sharp relief. She sucked in a deep breath of indignation before she barked out, “Hermione! Cordelia! Await me outside!”

The sisters scurried from the shop, the bell over the door jangling in a discordant flurry.

A deep voice rose above the cacophony, paying respects to the Marlowe sisters as they fled, but Charlotte hadn’t time to pay it any heed for suddenly a furious Lady Walbrook stood before her.

Even the shopkeeper possessed the good sense to retreat to the safety of her storeroom.

“How dare you!” the countess erupted.

“I only meant to—”

Lady Walbrook raised her hand, and Charlotte thought for a moment the woman meant to slap her. The dreamy and flighty woman she’d known was nowhere to be seen, replaced by this all-too-virtuous and outraged matron.