Three Schemes and a Scandal (2 page)

“No, how long do we leave them in the folly?” Harriet corrected. She clutched her reticule tightly. The key to the folly was securely tied in with a ribbon for if it were lost …

Charlotte would somehow procure another one. Surely the butler had a spare and would quietly relinquish it. That’s what pin money was for, after all.

“Oh, well James is scheduled to speak at four o’clock. So we must unlock the door before that. Then we shall join the group at the folly, listen to the speech and all live happily ever after.”

“Perhaps they shall be so grateful to us that they’ll name their firstborn daughter Harriet,” Harriet said.

“Perhaps,” Charlotte murmured through pursed lips, as a gentle breeze stole over the garden, rustling leaves and setting bonnet ribbons aflutter.

M
ost young ladies spent their pin money on hats and hair ribbons; Charlotte spent hers on bribery.

At precisely three o’clock Charlotte sipped her lemonade and watched as a footman dressed in royal blue livery approached James with the unfortunate news that something at the folly needed his immediate attention.

James raked his fingers through his hair—she thought it best described as the color of wheat at sunset on a harvest day. He scowled. It did nothing to diminish his good looks. Combined with that scar, it only made him appear more brooding, more dangerous, more rakish.

She hadn’t seen him in an age. Not since George Coney’s funeral.

Even though the memory brought on a wave of sadness and rage, Charlotte couldn’t help smiling broadly when James set off for the folly at a brisk walk. Her heart began to pound. The plan was in effect.

Just a few minutes later, the rest of the garden party gathered round Lord Hastings as he began an ambling tour of his gardens, including vegetable gardens, a collection of flowering shrubs and a series of pea-gravel paths that meandered through groves of trees and other landscaped “moments.”

Charlotte and Harriet skulked toward the back of the group, studiously avoiding relatives—such as her brother and his wife, Sophie, who were watching Charlotte a little too close for comfort ever since The Scheme That Had Gone Horribly Awry. Harriet’s mother was deep in conversation with her bosom friend, Lady Newport.

A few steps ahead was Miss Swan Lucy herself. Today she was decked in a pale muslin gown and an enormous bonnet that had been decorated with what seemed to be a shrubbery. Upon closer inspection it was a variety of fresh flowers and garden clippings. Even a little bird (fake, one hoped) had been nestled into the arrangement. Two wide, fawn-colored ribbons tied the millinery event to her head.

Charlotte felt another pang and then—Lord Above—she suffered
second thoughts
. First the swan bonnet, and now this! James had once broken her heart horribly but could he really marry someone with such atrocious taste in bonnets? And if not, should the scheme progress?

“Lovely day for a garden party, is it not?” Harriet said brightly to Miss Swan Lucy.

“Oh indeed it is a lovely day,” Lucy replied. “Though it would be so much better if I weren’t so vexed by these bonnet strings. This taffeta ribbon is just adorable, but immensely itchy against my skin.”

“What a ghastly problem. Try loosening the strings,” Charlotte suggested. Her other thought she kept to herself:
Or remove the monstrous thing entirely
.

“It’s a bit windy. I don’t wish it to blow away,” Harriet said nervously. Indeed, the wind had picked up, bending the hat brim. On such a warm summer day such as this, no one complained.

“A gentle summer breeze. The sun is glorious, though,” Harriet replied.

“This breeze is threatening to send off my bonnet and I shall freckle terribly without it in this sun. Alas!” Lucy cried, her fingers tugging at her bonnet strings.

“What is wrong with freckles?” Harriet asked. The correct answer was
nothing,
since Harriet herself possessed a smattering of freckles across her nose and rosy cheeks.

“We should find you some shade,” Charlotte declared. “Shouldn’t we, Harriet?”

“Yes. Shade. Just the thing.” Harriet was frowning, probably in vexation over the comment about freckles. Charlotte thought there were worse things, like being the featherbrain that Lucy was.

Charlotte suffered another pang. She loathed second thoughts and generally avoided them. She reminded herself that while James had once been her favorite person in England, he had since become the sort of man who brooded endlessly and flirted heartlessly.

Never mind what he had done to George Coney.

“We might steal away to the folly. James—Mr. Beauchamp, that is—offered Harriet and me a private tour. Would you like to join us?”

“Oh!” Lucy exclaimed. And then the magnitude of the invitation seemed to register: an opportunity to be with one of London’s most eligible bachelors. Also, there would be shade. She might remove her bonnet and not suffer freckles.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Come along!” Charlotte led the way down a pea-gravel path that crunched under their satin slippers. The sun was shining warmly. The birds were chirping pleasantly. A strong breeze ruffled through the garden. A scheme was in the works—second thoughts be darned. The folly loomed ahead of them: a circular stone structure with pillars and trellises ready for climbing branches of wisteria. The building itself evoked an ancient Roman structure, complete with deliberate signs of “distress” such as an artfully arranged pile of stones or patches of moss nurtured among the rocks.

And then everything went wrong.

There was nothing wrong with the damned folly. James had not believed the footman when he said so, but he had welcomed the opportunity to escape the party. He was at heart a wild man, made for roaming the countryside from atop a galloping horse, not strolling at a snail’s pace through a garden clipped and manicured within an inch of its life. James preferred the raucous atmosphere of a country pub to a London party. His taste was for lusty, loving women not simpering misses. He also thought a building—or a man—ought to have a purpose.

Damned folly.

Damned Gideon, off kissing arse in foreign courts using any one of the seven languages he spoke fluently—not that he could say something interesting in any of them. His elder brother was a part of a select envoy of ambassadors to the continent, appointed directly by the king. Their father only mentioned this, oh, in every other breath.

Their father’s other favorite topic was architecture; or, as James thought of it: math and rocks. Unfortunately that was not an appropriate sentiment to share in the speech honoring his father’s architectural accomplishments, due to be delivered at precisely four o’clock this afternoon. Most unfortunately, that was all he had prepared.

The main use of this folly is to demonstrate how math and stones can work together to create a structure with no point whatsoever.

The speech was doomed. He had tried to prepare by studying the extensive collection of literature on follies to be found in the Hastings library. James even read a few of his father’s articles in
The Exhaustive Digest of Architecture in England
. The problem was that James fell asleep every time he tried to read them. It was the dull subject matter, to be sure, the dim light in the library, the stifling air…

For once—just once—it would be nice to do something for which his father could be proud of him. Oh, he had his talents: taming horses, fox hunting, starting fires, winning all manner of races or feats of physical strength, bringing women to the brink of such pleasure as they had never known …

But these were not things for which his father would be proud of him.

No, James must deliver a thoughtful, informed, poignant speech of this damned folly at four o’clock today or consider himself disowned.

Charlotte had not factored in the weather. In particular, she had not considered the physics of wind, and a wide-brim, unsecured bonnet. Such were the failings of a Proper Lady’s education.

A particularly robust gust launched Lucy’s bonnet, cresting on the wind, right up into a tree, where it became entangled in the branches just out of reach.

“My bonnet!” Lucy shrieked.

Charlotte swore softly under her breath, as one did in such situations. It was so vexing when plans went awry. But one had to adapt. She swiftly examined the options:

Abandon the monstrosity.

Charlotte might climb the tree to rescue it. Climbing trees was all the rage these days, thanks to daring escapades of
The London Weekly
’s advice columnist, Dear Annabelle. Charlotte could do it—she had learned from James ages ago—but it was unlikely her delicate white dress would survive unscathed.

They could go fetch a gallant gentleman for assistance or …

“Lucy, why don’t you go to the folly and see if perhaps there is a rake we might use to retrieve the bonnet,” Charlotte suggested.

She could not help but smirk at her own wit. Lucy would think the rake would refer to a garden implement, when actually Charlotte meant James. Tussled hair, deep blue eyes, rakish James.

“Ugh, I wouldn’t want to go in there,” Lucy said, glancing warily at the folly and then longingly at her bonnet.

“Why not?” Charlotte asked.

“It’s probably dusty and dirty and full of old bones.” Lucy punctuated this with a delicate shudder.

“It’s a folly, not a mausoleum. Furthermore, it’s new. Which is why we are here today. To celebrate a clean, new building,” Charlotte said.

After standing aside and seriously considering the problem, Harriet’s expression brightened. “I know!” she exclaimed.

Charlotte tilted her head, curious, and then her eyes widened with horror as Harriet’s plan became apparent.

Harriet tossed her reticule—
with the key to the folly
—up at the stuck hat in an attempt to free it, however she only managed to prove Newton wrong. What went up did not necessarily come down.

Charlotte groaned, her voice trailing off as she watched Lucy Featherbrains attempt to solve the problems of a hat and a reticule stuck in a tree.

She started to hop in a delicate attempt to reach her stupid bonnet. When that was hopeless, she lifted her skirts and jumped, crouching down low before popping up high. Such efforts were to no avail.

Lucy resorted to lifting her skirts past her knees—Lord help them all if any gentleman should happen upon them—sprinting and leaping into the air.

The bonnet was nearly within her grasp!

And then poor Lucy landed not on the soft grass but on a knobby tree root, which caused her to set down at an awkward and painful angle. And then she collapsed. On the ground.

“Oh! My ankle!”

“Oh no!” Harriet said, rushing to her side. “Here, let me help you.”

“I’ll go get a blasted rake,” Charlotte mumbled as she stomped off to the folly. She would get James to help fetch the troublesome hat and to help carry the troublesome Lucy back to the party.

The scheme was ruined.

Toward the rear of the building was a heavy wooden door. She pushed it open and stepped inside the cool, circular room. Light and wind filtered in from open windows placed high on the walls, almost near the ceiling.

Another evil gust of wind blew the door shut. It swung easily on its new, well-oiled hinges. The lock clicked ominously.

To make matters worse, she heard the sound of an iron latch on the outer door jarred loose as it slid into its holder, probably owing to the force with which the door slammed closed.

Charlotte couldn’t help but wonder if doors locked in a way other than ominously. Perhaps securely. Which meant that she was securely and ominously ensconced in the folly.

With a rake.

J
ames leaned against the folly wall, perched on a stack of old wooden crates. His arms were folded across his broad chest. He did not smile.

“Lady Charlotte Brandon. Causing trouble once again,” he remarked in the cool voice of a practiced rogue.

“Mr. James Beauchamp. Be still my beating heart,” she retorted. But really, if only her heart would
slow down.
It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been alone with James before or even in trouble with James. Granted, they had been children at the time.

James was very much a man now. All large, muscled and overbearing. He glanced down at her as if she were still a naughty child. Nothing irked Charlotte more than being underestimated. People did so at their own peril. As James would soon discover.

And yet she stood straighter, arched her back slightly and adopted a haughty expression.

“Dare I even ask why we are locked in this folly together?” James questioned.

“You presume this was planned,” she replied, tipping her chin higher.

“Are you familiar with your reputation?” he questioned and she gave him a sickly sweet smile in response.

“Oh yes: Sparkling conversationalist, pretty and exquisite manners even with the most boorish company,” she replied.

James leaned forward, his blue eyes focused upon hers.

“Or: Too clever for her own good. Devious. Destructive. Dangerous.” His voice positively caressed the words—
Devious. Destructive. Dangerous
. He couldn’t possibly be talking about her. No, he had to be describing himself.

Also, he did not deny that she was pretty. Which mattered more than she liked. Once again, she willed her racing heart to slow to a less missish pace.

“My goodness. I cannot tell which appeals to me more,” Charlotte said lightly when, in fact, her heart was pounding. “Devious? Or dangerous?”

“Trouble. Definitely trouble,” James muttered.

“If you must know, I came here seeking a rake,” she said haughtily. She did not want him to think she had planned this encounter. Truth be told, she hadn’t planned to be alone with him. She was remembering why: James did not buy her act.

“You found one,” he replied dryly. This pun had amused her before, but it irked her now. Or was it James? He, once so wild and carefree, was now some sardonic, know-it-all rake who lamentably was making her nerves tingle and pulse race.