Royal Regard (7 page)

Charlotte ignored the question of the ominous
clouds and sharp breeze, and Bella’s request for a quieter
environment in which to visit, turning away from the window without
closing it an inch. Charlotte’s claret-colored merino-wool day
dress was far warmer than Bella’s gown of Indian cotton, chosen for
a quiet—or not-so-quiet—day at home before a fire. She pulled the
shawl closer.

Bella had hoped for contemplation, not
conversation, but of course, she had forgotten Charlotte’s
incessant need to analyze every word and every deed of every lady
and every gentleman at every party. Or rather, she had hoped in
vain Charlotte might have outgrown it.

“What is all that awful banging?” Charlotte
asked.

The servants’ entrance from the mews behind
the house, where merchants’ deliveries were now nearly nonstop,
sounded like Cheapside at Yuletide, and there was no room in the
house left undisturbed. The workmen clattering and shouting were
giving Bella headaches.

“A great many things that require hammers and
nails and bashing holes in the walls. Heated water, gravity
showers, Argand lamps, voice pipes. Carpentry and plasterwork. It
should only be this intolerable another few days, I’m told.
Meanwhile, I am choosing furniture and cushions.” She indicated the
boxes of samples on her writing desk.

For the moment, her private sitting room
walls were yet covered in dank, water-stained, lavender-flowered
wallpaper above the chair rail, tattered lemon-yellow silk below,
all grimy with twenty years of uneven sun-bleaching and dust.
Although all of the colors complemented her skin tone, to Bella’s
taste, it looked like a dyed Easter egg left to decay on a shelf
for a decade; an elderly spinster dressed in desiccated debutante
finery.

Bella picked up an embroidery hoop and laid
it on her lap while she sorted silks. “If you don’t mind, I would
much rather discuss the appointments for my home than the notoriety
attached to my name.”

Charlotte maintained, “We have weeks to
decorate your house, but only one
morning-after-your-first-party-in-London.”

Bella pursed her lips. She should have known
better.

Charlotte flounced over to sit next to her
cousin on the
de Cuvilliés
sofa, upholstered in a
once-cream-colored tapestry, woven with fist-sized purple flowers
of a genus and species Bella had never seen. Bella winced and
Charlotte started at the sound of another long tear in the
fabric.

The upholstery of all the furniture had
dry-rotted under the dustsheets that had covered it for fifteen
years—themselves replaced twice—but no servant was so impertinent
as to sit in the baroness’ chairs, so the shredding only became
apparent once she had. Now everything was dripping horsehair and
wadding. The wood, of course, had all been cleaned and polished
with beeswax before Bella and Myron returned.

With less reaction to the problematic
furniture than Bella had expected, Charlotte pulled at the rumpled
lace on Bella’s coral morning dress. “This is a lovely color, but
your abigail is hopeless with an iron. You must let me find you
someone new.”

“I have no lady’s maid. I am the one hopeless
with an iron,” Bella frowned.

Charlotte sniffed, “
Pressing your own
clothes
. It’s like you were raised by a pack of wild dogs.”

“I was raised by your mother.”

Charlotte patted her knee. “Touché.”

“Self-reliance is a virtue in places no
competent servant will go, and wrinkles are not such a tragedy in
other parts of the world. I can even arrange my own hair.” Bella
hoped it was early enough in the day that it wasn’t yet falling
from its pins. With her tiny sewing scissors, she clipped a ragged
end of grey-brown silk at an angle, threading it carefully through
the needle, and began to fill in the outline of a robin
redbreast.

Charlotte frowned at Bella’s
coiffure
.
“Whoever told you that was playing you false. I can easily find
someone proficient. An advertisement will be placed this
afternoon.”

“You are no longer responsible for my
deportment. And you might look to your own house. You are running
to fat these days.”

Charlotte’s nostrils flared and her nose
wrinkled as she made an unidentifiable sound in the back of her
throat. It had been years since Bella had needed to determine her
cousin’s moods by ear, but this was suspiciously like the noise
Charlotte made when she might begin to cry, so Bella conceded,
showing Charlotte it was a tease with a small smile.

Emotions once more in check, Charlotte
responded with a slight chill. “As long as you won’t have a care
for your appearance, I will, and my figure is my husband’s concern,
not yours. I’ve given him two children, and he likes me the way I
am.” She punctuated her comment with a hard nod. “You, on the other
hand, will need a new husband in no time at all. Your suitors may
as well be handsome and rich, considering your new title and all
you’ll inherit. Just as easy to wed a handsome man as a hideous
one, all fortunes being equal.”

“Charlotte! Mind your tongue!”

“Why? Myron looks like his legs will go out
from under him any second.”

“Please do not make me a dowager before my
time, nor wish my husband dead. And there is no way to know whether
the king will confer a title. He is changeable, and Myron and I
know it better than anyone. If we had a guinea for every time he
sent us someplace we didn’t intend—”

“Don’t you, though?” Charlotte asked,
shrewdly. She leaned in closer, lowering her voice, looking around
to ensure no servants were in the room. “Before the Brewster’s
ball, you will be the Countess of Huntleigh. Myron will receive the
Writ of Summons tomorrow, and the king intends to hand it to him
personally.”

Bella touched the back of her hand to her
lips. “As soon as that?” When she realized she was staring
wide-eyed, she schooled her expression to something more
appropriate than the look of a little girl given a new doll.

“Alexander has it from Lord Pinnester, who
was there when His Majesty gave the order.”

“I must admit,” Bella relaxed her mouth and
her shaky hands, picking out a short row of bad stitches. “I am so
proud of Myron. He has given his life to the Crown, almost
literally on more occasions than I care to consider. He deserves to
be recognized for it.”

“Myron’s valet must be informed right away.”
Charlotte removed a tangled skein of violet thread from Bella’s
sewing basket and began to work out the knots. Bella took the silk
from her hand, replacing it with hopelessly snarled dark green that
matched the outlined leaves on the robin’s branch.

Bella wiped her eyes clean of both anxiety
and satisfaction, leaving her face untouchable. “He has no valet,
Charlotte. We travelled very simply in three rooms on the frigate.
I was his valet; he was my lady’s maid.”

“No valet?” Charlotte’s voice grew shriller
with every lapse. “And an audience with the king tomorrow? Heavens.
I’ll send Alexander’s man back here as soon as I arrive home, and
place two advertisements.” She looked around again and dropped her
voice. “And never again refer to the Earl of Huntleigh as a lady’s
maid.”

Bella dropped her sewing into her lap. “We
need no—”

“You have no idea what you need. My maid will
keep you from appearing before the king in men’s trousers and clogs
with your hair looking like…” Charlotte’s eyebrows turned in intent
on Bella’s appearance, “like
that
.”

“Charlotte, you cannot—”

“I can. I will. I will outrank you even once
you are a countess, so simply say, ‘Yes, my lady. Thank you, my
lady,’ and consider it done.”

“I will hang myself from London Bridge before
I call you ‘my lady,’” Bella said, as she pulled the thread through
the linen.

Rather than jabbing Bella with a witty
remark, Charlotte used a far more effective weapon, forging ahead
with her version of the prior night’s events. Bella poked her
finger with the needle when Charlotte said, “Lord Malbourne would
have cut off a limb to dance with you, and if not for your eternal
scowling and hiding yourself every time I walked away, you would
have had dozens of partners.”

Bella took up a spare scrap of cloth to
stanch the minor bleeding. “Will you refer to him properly, as
though you have a semblance of good breeding?”

“He has been Lord Malbourne for thirty years.
No one calls him ‘Your Grace’ outside his own servants.”

Charlotte scowled at the errant lace that
wouldn’t lie flat on Bella’s gown and tried to tack up a wayward
strand of her hair, until Bella yanked herself away, setting the
shawl askew, cold air from the window raising gooseflesh on her
arms. If only to keep Charlotte from rummaging through her wardrobe
and giving things away to the maid, Bella let herself be drawn into
the conversation.

Pulling her shawl tight, she admitted, “I am
quite relieved he was the only man to offer, with Myron so
ill-tempered.”

Bella decided if she were forced to engage in
this ridiculous exchange, she would at least be comfortable doing
so. She crossed to the window to close it, then drew the heavy
velvet curtains and added a log to the fire, breathing in the scent
she remembered from her childhood. Coal required coin her father
never had, but wood from her uncle’s forest cost only her brothers’
labor and her uncle’s displeasure. She held her hands out to warm
her icy fingers, rubbing her upper arms on the way back to her
seat.

Once settled, she added, “Never in our lives
has he refused a partner on my behalf, especially not that rudely.
Myron is never rude, certainly not to a duke.”

“Why is it he so dislikes Lord Malbourne?
Just because he’s French?”

While she continued trying to warm herself,
rubbing her hands against her dress, Charlotte took the opportunity
to stab a hairpin into Bella’s scalp, ignoring the yelp of pain.
The flurry of action tore another rip in the seating.

Bella spoke only after slapping Charlotte’s
hand away and rearranging the pin.

“I have no more information than you. As he
told us all last night, my husband believes the duke did not act
the gentleman where his late wife was concerned.”

“Yes, but what did he
do
?”

Bella took the green thread from Charlotte’s
lap, measuring out a strand as long as her forearm, as much as she
could without untangling more, then picked up her needlework once
again.

“I know you find it incomprehensible I don’t
discuss the latest
on-dit
with Myron, but he has asked me to
defer to his judgment, and I shall. We have many other concerns to
occupy our time. For instance, it will be better for everyone if I
can convince him to rusticate to the new manor house His Majesty
has provided near Bath, so Myron can take the waters, but it has
been like the trials of Sisyphus thus far. I have to assume we will
be staying here for the nonce, and even our dishes are rented. The
housekeeper seems to think it’s my fault.”

Charlotte jabbed, “Is it not?”

Bella glared at her, “For that, you will not
be going with me to Piccadilly while I make us presentable. You
might have noticed what furniture we have is hopelessly
moth-eaten.” She demonstrated by pulling her fingertip through
another few inches of intact upholstery, “which is the
housekeeper’s fault, while we are assigning blame. I had thought to
start this afternoon, searching through the things we’ve sent home
all these years, but shopping is a certainty.”

“You cannot go out this afternoon.”

Bella finally achieved the insouciant
expression she’d attempted unsuccessfully the entire night at
Almack’s.

“Why ever not?”

Charlotte stared, unrepentant. “You told at
least a dozen ladies you would be receiving today.”

Bella looked across her embroidery hoop and
down her nose at Charlotte. “Did I? How unfortunate.”

She reached over to the bell pull, bringing
the housekeeper into the room. “Mrs. Jemison, can you please
arrange the carriage and one of the footmen for me at half past
twelve? My husband will insist I not drive in Town, so it had
better be Benjamin—”

Charlotte yelped, “Drive?! Why in Heaven’s
name would you drive? Have you somehow overcome your fear of
horses?”

“I have overcome my fear of many things,
Charlotte.” Bella turned to Mrs. Jemison and continued, “It will be
helpful if the young man knows the shopping districts, as I am no
longer familiar.”

“Of course, my lady.”

“If you make a list, I will ensure you have
adequate china, linens, and silver by the time you serve supper
this evening, and I will send an upholsterer to inventory the
furniture.” The housekeeper almost permitted herself a small smile.
“And since Lady Firthley clearly refuses leave, you may as well
bring tea. No cakes, though, as she is getting to be as fat as a
sow in milk.”

Mrs. Jemison gaped for only a moment, quickly
blanking her face.

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “You mustn’t tease
Mrs. Jemison, Bella. She is not yet familiar with your waspish
disposition, and I’m sure she is the only person in London, barring
myself, who can keep you from social ruin. Mrs. Jemison, please
bring us tea and cakes. Cakes for ten, in fact.” Charlotte nodded
decisively as the housekeeper stared helplessly at Bella.

“Only enough cakes for nine, please, as I
won’t be having any, and Lady Firthley must have already eaten. You
may go now, before she decides to invite herself to nuncheon and
leaves you nothing in the larder but lettuce.”

Once the housekeeper had left, shaking her
head, Charlotte quickly continued the irritating line of
conversation, while Bella ran the end of the thread under the
stitches on the back of the cloth, tying a knot to hold it firm.
Once finished, she clipped the thread and ran her fingers over the
design, ensuring her stitches were even.