His Mistress by Morning (28 page)

He wasn’t changed, he would have told them both. Told
her
. He wasn’t.

Oh, but he was.

Their voices grew fainter, and he found himself straining to hear Charlotte’s dulcet tones just once more.

But it was his sister’s final statement that left him staggering.

“I suppose you know best,” Hermione conceded. “You’re the one in love with him, after all.”

Y
ou’re the one in love with him, after all
.

That simple revelation sent Sebastian hightailing it into the night.

Miss Wilmont, in love with him?

A ridiculous notion, he told himself as he strode through the cold, dark streets of London.

The bracing air had a way of clearing his thoughts, and by the time he looked up to gain his bearings, he found himself in front of White’s. Seeking the sanctuary of his club, he vowed that first thing in the morning he’d make his apologies to the lady and then forget the entire interlude as nothing more than a momentary lapse in judgment.

Love, indeed! He would just put Miss Wilmont and her silken tresses and perfect curves out of his mind.

But escaping the divine little spinster proved to be all but impossible.

Arbuckle’s portrait of Diana hung in the billiard room, and while he’d never paid it any attention before, the
goddess of the hunt now taunted Sebastian from her oaken frame. Gads, it was as if Miss Wilmont had modeled for the artist—the same tresses, the same lines, the same wild, seductive tip of her lips.

He deliberately put his back to the taunting minx.

Then there was the general furor in the room around the betting book. Though he’d never been a man to wager recklessly, if at all, tonight he approached the knot of rakes and Corinthians, suddenly feeling an odd sort of a kindred spirit to their wild and lively bravado and boasting.

“I’ve wagered five hundred pounds that Miss Wilmont will marry before the end of the Season.”

“But to whom?” came another. “Now
that
will make the wager interesting.”

“I’ll marry her,” a fellow called out from a card table. “If you have to be leg-shackled, I say find a bonny bit to take to your bed, and she’s quite the fetching little chit.”

A handful of jests and comments about Miss Wilmont’s attributes, seen and unseen, were bantered about, and suddenly Sebastian’s momentary jovialness turned quite foul.

How could this be? He hadn’t a quick temper. He was a sensible, rational fellow.

“Devil take Rockhurst!” called out the Earl of Lyman. The man waved for his glass to be refilled, though he appeared already well into his cups. “I don’t know how he does it. Discovers the jewels of society buried right beneath our noses.”

There was a general murmur of agreement.

Lyman continued. “I’ll take your bet, Kingston. And I’ll add to it.”

Everyone waited, eager to hear this next challenge.

“I’ll wager I can best Rockhurst and steal the lady’s
affections from him. I’ll taste her lips before Rockhurst can ply her heart with diamonds and other trinkets.”

Laughter and rowdy jests filled the room, while Sebastian felt his mood grow even blacker.
Diamonds and trinkets
.

“Isn’t her mother an Uppington-Higgins?” one of the older fellows was asking.

“Yes, yes, indeed,” another of the aged, bleary-eyed rakes declared. “Blithe spirits those Uppington-Higgins ladies. Flirtatious bits, if you know what I mean.”

“Then my job shouldn’t be all that difficult,” Lyman joked, and a round of rough, masculine laughter followed.

Sebastian never knew what hit him, but just the very thought of Lyman going anywhere near Lottie, least of all this very public denouncement of her virtue, drove him past reason, past sensible.

Never mind that he’d nearly ruined her but an hour earlier, he wasn’t about to listen to this. Not from such a despicable, loathsome lout as Lyman.

Sebastian bolted through the throng and caught the earl by the throat. He continued until he had him up against the wall and dangling in the air.

“Hear me well, Lyman,” he told the man. “You go near the lady and I will personally put a bullet through your heart.”

White’s had never known such a stunned moment of silence.

Lyman gurgled and choked a reply.

Sebastian tightened his grasp. “You will apologize for besmirching Miss Wilmont’s character and then you will leave London.”

Again, Lyman could only choke out an unintelligible answer.

In his blind rage, Sebastian hadn’t realized that someone had come to stand beside him.

Rockhurst.

“I believe you will need to let go of him,” the earl said in his usual cultured and sardonic tones, “if you want him to reply.”

Sebastian’s rage cooled as he glanced from Rockhurst’s smooth demeanor to Lyman’s blue face. He released the man at once.

Lyman sucked in a deep breath, and when he found enough air, his face went from pasty to crimson. “How dare you, Trent.”

Sebastian, who had never been in a fight in his life, let alone a scuffle, wasn’t quite sure what to do next. But one thing was for certain—he didn’t want Lyman anywhere near Lottie.

Oh, demmit, he needed to think of her as Miss Wilmont or he’d be in a worse fix than the one currently staring him in the eye.

“I demand satisfaction for this affront,” Lyman sputtered. “My second will call in the morning.”

“If you can find one,” Rockhurst said, taking a commanding stand at Sebastian’s elbow. “Because when you face Trent here, know that I will be beside him.” The earl turned to Sebastian. “If you don’t mind.”

“Glad to have you,” Sebastian said, surprised by the earl’s offer. Perhaps he’d been wrong about Rockhurst.

Lyman shoved past the two of them and stormed out of White’s in a blind rage. With the man gone, Sebastian found himself the center of attention.

“Damn fine thing, Trent. Defending a lady.”

“Needed to be done, I thought.”

“Steady, good man, as always,” another claimed.

He was clapped on the back, handed one drink, then another, and before he knew it, he and Rockhurst were the heroes of the night.

Rockhurst for his discovery of Miss Wilmont, and Sebastian for the defense of her honor.

And by the next day, the story had grown to epic proportions, and Miss Charlotte Wilmont not only outshone Miss Lavinia Burke as the
ton
’s leading Original; she’d eclipsed her.

When the first bouquet of flowers arrived at Queen Street, Lady Wilmont barely took notice. After all, she was still in a pique over Aunt Ursula’s inheritance betrayal.

After the bell rang for the thirty-third time, and the front hall, morning room, and dining room were filled with flowers, and their once poor and empty salver overflowed with calling cards and invitations, she roused herself from her cloud of outrage and demanded that Charlotte attend her.

Finella stood hovering in the corner.

“What have you done?” Lady Wilmont demanded.

“Nothing,” Charlotte said.

“Nothing indeed!” the lady shot back. “Lady Burke was just here and said you went to the opera last night with the Earl of Rockhurst. Rockhurst, Charlotte! What am I to think?”

“He invited me and Lady Hermione. It wasn’t anything extraordinary. Besides, Lady Walbrook chaperoned us.”

“Nothing extraordinary, she says,” Lady Wilmont shot at Finella. “And did you know that she was going with
him?
”

Finella shook her head, casting an alarmed glance at Charlotte as well.

Lady Wilmont groaned. “And if this deception isn’t bad enough, Lady Burke also said that there is to be a duel fought over your
reputation
.” The way she said the last word implied that Charlotte’s honor was already in question.

“A duel,” Charlotte whispered. Oh, heavens no.

“Yes, pistols, I hear. This is unbelievable, so I will ask again, what have you done?”

“I didn’t—” Charlotte tried to tell her.

“There is nothing more to be done,” Lady Wilmont declared, “but to turn down all the invitations and remain in seclusion until the scandal dies down.”

“What?” both Charlotte and Finella said.

Charlotte cast a glance at her newfound ally and saw a look of despair in her eyes that she knew only too well. It was the same miserable light that had been in her own eyes until she’d put Aunt Ursula’s ring on her finger and made her fateful wish.

“Aurora,” Finella was saying, “I think you are being unreasonable. Perhaps this is Charlotte’s opportunity for a Season.”

“A Season? At her age?” Lady Wilmont snorted, then shook her head. “She has no dowry, nothing to attract a man. Look at her! She hasn’t a bit of Uppington-Higgins to her.”

That last part made Finella color, and Charlotte glanced from the woman she’d always called mother to the woman who had borne her.

For as Quince had said, some things couldn’t be changed. Like her parents. Her true origins.

Meanwhile, Lady Wilmont was taking a closer inspection of Charlotte.

“When did you start doing your hair like that?”

Charlotte’s hand went to the curls and ribbons. “I just thought—”

“And where did you get that gown?”

Charlotte certainly couldn’t explain the boon she’d gained from selling Lottie’s diamonds. “Lady Walbrook gave it to me,” she said quickly. “She had it made for Lady Cordelia but decided the colors didn’t suit her.”

“Harrumph!” Lady Wilmont’s nose wrinkled. “No wonder we’ve a florist shop in here, if you’ve been going about town with your bosom showing like that.” She drew her handkerchief to her nose. “You will send that dress back to Lady Walbrook. I’ll not take such tawdry charity from those Marlowes.”

“But—” Charlotte protested.

“And we will refuse these invitations. I am not going out with you and find myself the subject of every wagging tongue.”

“But I—” Charlotte could see her dream falling to the wayside. She must see Sebastian again. They’d been so close in the library, he’d been ever so rakish, and his eyes, why, he’d looked at her as he had before.

Oh, Lottie…

“Not another word, Charlotte,” Lady Wilmont said, pointing toward the door. “Now go change your gown and keep to your room. Finella, fetch me that salver so I can start sending out suitable replies.”

Charlotte thought of brooking another protest, of telling Lady Wilmont that she had no right to order her about, not at her age, not when she wasn’t even her mother, and
she would have if it hadn’t been for a pleading glance from Finella, who was returning with the pile of invitations.

Please don’t,
her eyes begged Charlotte.

But Mother, I must,
Charlotte wanted to tell her, until she spied in Finella’s apron pocket one notable envelope.

Just like the one she’d seen the other day at the Marlowes.

An invitation to Lady Routledge’s soirée.

Charlotte’s eyes widened. Finella had held it back. And when her gaze rose to meet the lady’s, she found a very Finny-esque sparkle there.

A light of defiance and understanding that gave Charlotte hope.

It was nearly a week before Charlotte was able, with Finella’s help, to sneak out for the afternoon. She went straight to Hermione’s, for she had very little time left to locate Herr Tromler before the soirée. She’d sent a note ahead to her friend asking her to hire a hackney and finagle her brother Griffin’s services as an escort.

“I don’t know where he is,” Hermione declared as Charlotte met her on the front steps precisely at two o’clock. “Fenwick says Grif left an hour ago to fetch a book from Hatchards, and that he promised quite faithfully to be back by now, but he is nowhere to be seen.”

Charlotte pressed her lips together. If she were still Lottie, she wouldn’t have thought twice about venturing about without a proper escort, but now she had Hermione’s reputation, as well as her own, to consider.

“Griffin and his theories!” the girl was saying, now more than annoyed with her brother. “He’ll be there until
the store closes and not remember in the least that he was supposed to help us.” She heaved an aggrieved sigh. “And Sebastian is nowhere to be found. He’s been at his club or off with Rockhurst every day. What with the duel and all, he’s become as popular as you.”

Charlotte was still in horror over the now notorious duel. Heavens, her rakish Lord Trent might have been a crack shot, but what about this Sebastian?

“Mother is in alt,” Hermione confided. “She’s sure the Burkes will never allow his suit now.”

“But what if Lyman were to…” Charlotte couldn’t even finish it.

Hermione waved aside such concerns. “You haven’t heard, have you? Of course not, you’ve been locked up. Lyman’s mother called him home. Apparently, she’s dying.” Hermione laughed. “She’s always on her deathbed when the earl’s disgraceful tendencies and hot temper get him into trouble. It will all blow over.”

Charlotte wasn’t so sure.

“Oh, bother,” Hermione said, her neck craning to look up the street. “Speak of the devil.”

“Lyman?” Charlotte said, her gaze turning in the same direction. She didn’t possess Hermione’s height, so she hadn’t the other girl’s advantage.

“’Tis Sebastian. We’re in a coil now! He’ll never let us go to Little Titchfield Street. Not that he’s ever been there, but I can’t believe he doesn’t know of it.”

Sebastian? Charlotte rose up on her toes. Oh, dear, he would ruin everything.

Or would he?

“He’ll help us,” Charlotte averred.
He must
.

Hermione shook her head. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Her brother’s great stride came to a faltering stop when he looked up the steps and his unsuspecting gaze met Charlotte’s.

“Miss Wilmont!” he said, not even sparing his sister a greeting.

Not that Hermione noticed. “Where have you been?” she asked, even as the carriage came around and stopped before them.

Sebastian looked from the conveyance to Charlotte. “Are you leaving?”

Hermione wove her arm around Charlotte’s and towed her friend down the steps. “We are off on an errand. Good afternoon to you.”

His eyes narrowed, and he stepped into their path. “What sort of errand? And without your maid?”

Hermione shot him an aggrieved look. “What does it matter to you? You’ve been gone for days now.” She paused and took in his attire. “Have you even changed your clothes?”

Charlotte looked at the man who was usually so perfectly dressed and shaved and wondered at his transformation. Not that she minded his rumpled state. Why, he looked as if he’d spent those missing days in her bed, all tousled and scraggly and stubbly.