Noble Destiny (5 page)

***

Four nights later the moon was rising full, shedding its cold, mercurial light down upon the city of London, setting a ghostly glow upon the lamplighters who clambered up and down their short ladders as they lit the new gas lamps along the Pall Mall, casting the paving stones into variegated pools of black and silver through which carriages and horses plodded heedlessly as they went about their way, washing pale the portly figure of a man dressed in early Elizabethan garb as he climbed over the solid stone and wrought-iron fence surrounding the garden belonging to Lady Jersey. The moon, had she been able to express an opinion about what she saw from on high, would have no doubt commented that the portly man in costume was by his very actions suspicious. Rather than entering the garden through the gate as most people chose, the gentleman straddled the fence, vaulting down to the soft flowerbeds below with a distinctly heard, “Damnation! I'll get Caro for this!”

When, rather than strolling the graveled pathways as was the normal means of locomotion in a garden, the gentleman skulked about the shrubberies, racing from one clump to another, dodging behind topiaries shaped as fantastic beasts, finally emerging close to the stone steps leading up to the veranda at the rear of the house, surely any watcher would be well within his rights to express surprise.

Truly, the gentleman was acting in a peculiar manner. From where he crouched next to the steps, he suddenly stood, fluffed up his ruff, tugged his doublet down over a pronounced belly, pulled a handkerchief out of his codpiece and brushed the dirt from his dainty white hands, and finally, after a quick look around to make sure no one was looking, hiked up his Persian silk stockings. What anyone would have been driven to say when this same portly man was arrested in midstep by the sight of a dark-haired young woman bursting from the house and hurtling down the stairs is lost to us, but certainly the conversation that followed, hushed and whispered though it was, in all likelihood was not what would have been expected.

“Caro,” the gentleman intoned urgently as the young woman dashed by him. Lady Caroline stiffened at the repeated hiss of her name, turning slowly to give the beruffed figure a cold and cutting glare.

“Sir, I do not have the honor of your acquaintance.”

“You most certainly do. You piddled in my sand pit when you were only three. I remember quite distinctly how Matthew laughed when Nurse blamed me.”

The silent, still figure of Lady Caroline, dressed charmingly in the wide panniers, rose silk, and silvered lace of her mother's era, came to life again under the influence of that familiar, if annoyed, voice. “Char? Is that you?”

The portly man moved from the shadow of the balustrade onto the middle of the steps. “Yes, it is me, just where the devil have you been? I waited at that gate for an eternity! You were supposed to unlock it at half of midnight, Caro! It's well after midnight now!”

“I'm terribly sorry, but dearest Algernon insisted on having a waltz with me. Charlotte”—Caroline squinted to make out her friend's face in the shadow—“I thought your costume was to be of Good Queen Bess? You appear to be dressed as a man.”

“Yes, yes, I changed my mind. I thought I would be less conspicuous if I were dressed as Henry VIII.” She twanged the leather protrusion curving gracefully from her groin. “No one who knows me would ever expect to see me in a codpiece.”

“No, indeed,” agreed Caroline with alacrity. “Say what you will about your propensity for shocking the
ton
, codpieces are simply not part of your everyday apparel.”

“And yet, in fairness,” Charlotte admitted, “I must say it is very handy. Because I was so late waiting for Mme. Beauloir to deliver my costume, I did not have time to dine at home. Tremayne Three was kind enough to give me one of the horses' apples, which fit quite snugly in the codpiece. It is of no wonder to me that men wore them for so many years—they're much handier than a reticule!”

The two women considered that piece of male apparel in silence for a moment.

“Why do you suppose they call it a codpiece?” Caroline asked. “It doesn't look anything like a fish. Yours looks like…well, rather like an overly ambitious squash.”

“It was the finest codpiece Mme. Beauloir had,” Charlotte answered with dignity, stroking the smooth leather and brass object that, she had to admit, did somewhat resemble a squash. She was about to defend her codpiece's honor further, but the noise and light spilling out as a verandah door was opened returned their attention to the circumstance at hand.

“Take my arm,” Charlotte demanded, “and pretend I'm a gentleman.”

“You don't walk like a gentleman,” Caroline objected.

Charlotte stopped at the top of the steps and pulled Caroline to the side where an urn erupted in a screen of greenery, providing a modicum of privacy. “What are you talking about?”

“No one will believe you're a man if you walk like a woman. Surely you must realize that. It's just common sense. Men don't sway their hips when they walk.”

“Some do,” pointed out Charlotte, squirming slightly as she adjusted her codpiece. “Drat the thing, it's tickling.”

“True, but those aren't gentlemen we are supposed to know. What are you doing now? Char, you can't do that in public, someone will see you!” Scandalized, Caroline hurried to stand between her friend and the nearest group of people enjoying the cool night air.

“I can't help it,” Charlotte muttered, her chin jammed against the starched linen of the ruff. “This codpiece is most uncomfortable. It's…moving.”

“WHAT?”

“Shhh,” Charlotte hissed, glancing around quickly before returning her attention to her nether regions. “It's as if there's something in there. Something other than my handkerchief, that is.”

“Moving?” Caroline asked through her teeth, smiling a bit wildly at a couple dressed in red dominoes as they strolled past. “What do you mean moving? What could be in there that could move?”

“I don't know.” Charlotte grunted, trying without success to unattach the buckles holding the polished leather piece onto her costume. “But I suspect something claimed occupancy while I was hiding in the bushes outside the gate waiting for you to let me in. Thus it is quite clearly all your fault that my codpiece is now rife with wildlife.”

“Don't be ridiculous, what could climb into a codpiece? There's no room in there for anything but an apple!”

“Caroline,” Charlotte snapped, turning abruptly so the codpiece whapped her friend smartly on the hip. “A family of dormice could have set up shop in this dratted thing and I'd be none the wiser, so if you don't mind, I'd appreciate a little help evicting them from the premises so I can fulfill my destiny and become Lady Carlisle, something I simply cannot do if I have rodents inhabiting my groin!”

“Oh, good heavens,” Caroline moaned softly. “We're doomed!”

“It's not that bad,” Charlotte answered, placing both hands on the protuberance of the codpiece and tugging. “I just need help getting it off. The buckles seem to be frozen or caught on something.”

Caroline, her back to Charlotte as she attempted to block the sight of her friend's codpiece-related actions, reached behind to tug at Charlotte's arm. “Char, stop,” she whispered in an anguished, choked voice, trying as she did to summon up a smile. She raised her voice in a clear, “Good evening, Lord Carlisle.”

Charlotte, for once alert to the nuances around her, froze and peered over Caroline's shoulder as she bobbed the earl a curtsy. “Damnation.”

Dark, midnight-blue eyes met hers.

“Quite,” Dare replied.

“I…er…if you'll excuse…my husband is waiting for me,” Caroline murmured apologetically, and with a worried glance at her friend, hurried off to rejoin the ball.

One of Dare's eyebrows rose as he studied Charlotte's costume. “Henry VIII?”

“Yes, how very clever of you.” She turned as if to gaze in contemplation at the darkened garden, rubbing the codpiece on the railing in an attempt to force it loose. It didn't help. With a quick sidelong glance at the handsome man staring out into the garden next to her, she tugged at the obstinate bit of leather with what she hoped was unobtrusiveness.

Dare's second eyebrow rose as she realized she would need to practice her unobtrusive codpiece tugging skills in the future. Clearly this was one of those times when it was more prudent to admit her folly than to encourage the man whose children she would someday bear into thinking her the type of woman who would stand in darkness on a balcony and grope at her codpiece. “There's…I think there's something in there,” she whispered, nodding toward the leather protrusion.

Dare pursed his lips.

“Something alive,” she added, trying not to squirm under both his look of disbelief and the surety that it was hundreds of tiny little feet that were brushing against her sensitive flesh. Overwhelmed by the need to explain further, lest the earl think she was ten cards shy of a deck, she added, “I think something crawled in while I was hiding in the shrubbery.”

He blinked.

“Perhaps you would be kind enough to extract it for me? Lady Beverly assures me there is a private room at the end of the hall we could use briefly.”

“Madam.” Dare finally spoke, but in tones so frigid Charlotte expected ice to form upon his manly lips. “The contents of your codpiece do not interest me in the least.”

“I understand,” Charlotte answered somewhat ruefully. “I'm out of apples. I'm afraid I only had room for the one, you see. I didn't know you'd want one, too, and a two-apple codpiece just seemed a bit too extravagant.”

She smiled, wondering briefly about the wild, dazed look about his eyes, finally putting it down to too much champagne. Gentlemen always had too much champagne at masquerade balls. In fact, she counted on that very fact to aid her in drawing him into her net. Her smile brightened as his look of confusion increased. He was no doubt so well oiled by now, she'd have no difficulty in proceeding as planned.

***

Dare paused in the doorway and scanned the ballroom for his sister, all the while he called himself every sort of fool. Try as he might to heed the warnings of the sane voice in his head, he was unable to resist the thought of spending a few moments in private with Charlotte. The predicament she was in was so ludicrous, so utterly Charlotte, that despite the harsh words he had spoken to her, it would take a group of strong men and quite probably several draft horses to keep him from the explanation of what she was doing dressed as Henry VIII with an animal stuffed down her codpiece. He couldn't begin to imagine what her explanation was, but he was certain it would be the most entertaining thing he had heard in a long time.

He spotted his sister standing on the fringes of a group of giggling girls. As he strode toward her, he justified his interest by pointing out to his doubting self that Charlotte was a widow, after all.

Rendezvous with men at balls were no doubt requisite in her set. A few moments spent alone with her would do her reputation no harm at all. There was, however, the matter of
his
reputation, and it was with an eye to that grisly relic he took the precaution of murmuring a few words into his sister's ear.

“Where's Mrs. Whitney?”

The small, dark-haired woman dressed as the infamous pirate Anne Bonny turned and smiled at her brother, her dark eyes sparkling with happiness. “She's dancing with David. Isn't this a lovely ball? I'm so pleased you agreed to let us attend, although it wouldn't have hurt you in the least to wear a costume. What are you looking so worried about? It's not me, is it? Dare, I'm perfectly capable of standing here by myself while David dances with his aunt. Unless, that is, you wished for me to join the set with you?”

Dare tweaked a dusky curl nestled next to Patricia's ear and ignored the teasing glint in her dark brown eyes. “Minx. I detest
ton
parties, as you well know. The only reason you're here is because I couldn't stand the incessant grizzling about not having anyone attend your wedding if you weren't present tonight, not that I see the connection between the two events. However, even if I wished to dance with you, I am not free. I have an appointment I must keep. I want your promise you'll stay here and await Mrs. Whitney's return.”

“Oh?” With one eyebrow cocked in the manner of her brother at his most quizzical, she looked him up and down. He was an impressively austere man in his dress blacks, there was no disputing that, but he had about him an unexpected air of suppressed excitement that intrigued her. Dare was so seldom excited about anything other than his steam engine, surely if something—or
someone
—had caught his attention, it behooved her to learn more. “What, pray tell, do you have an appointment to do? You're not gaming, are you? No,” she answered her question before he had a chance to protest her accusation. “No, you wouldn't do that, you're much too careful with your money to be throwing it away on nothing. Hmmm. Perhaps you are meeting with a gentleman who wishes to invest in your steam engine?”

Dare glanced nervously toward the door. He hated leaving his sister alone, especially since his entire future hung upon the goodwill of the woman acting as her chaperone, but he had promised Charlotte he would be with her momentarily. The thought of what might happen should she stroll into the crowded ballroom and announce that she was awaiting his help with her codpiece made his flesh crawl. “I must leave. Give me your word you'll stay here and wait for Mrs. Whitney until I return.”

“Not a gentleman investor, I think.” Patricia ignored his request, her eyes laughing as she tipped her head to better consider him. “For if you had an investor, it would not matter to you in the least whether or not Mrs. Whitney recommends you to her husband, and thus you wouldn't be so worried about placating her. Not to mention keeping your scandalous past from her ears.” She tapped a finger to her lips, her eyes growing bright with interest. “If it's not gaming and it's not an investor, then it must be…good heavens, Dare, you're not intending to have an assignation with a woman, are you?”