Lady Whistledown Strikes Back (23 page)

“Very good, sir.”

Having paid his window fee, he returned to the view while the clerk wrapped up his purchase. Charlotte and her small entourage were still inside the milliner’s, Beetly no doubt making perfectly staid fashion suggestions and Charlotte politely ignoring every one of them. It amused him that he’d decided he could read her character well enough to deduce the points of her conversation. He wondered what she would select, and whether she would wear it out of the shop.

Now that he’d begun his imaginings, though, his mind wasn’t content with guessing the color of her hat

or her hair ribbons. He was seeing her removing them, her expressive brown eyes watching him as he watched her undress, her skin warm and radiant in dim candlelight. And he was hearing her soft moans and cries of ecstacy as he taught her a few things that a tall, propriety-minded chit who thought Lord Herbert her best prospect wouldn’t know.

Xavier swallowed.
Jesus.
He collected his tea cakes and strode back out into the rain. On the alley corner a small group of urchins huddled against a wall, their usual enthusiasm for begging and picking pockets dampened by the weather. Giving a short whistle to get their attention, he tossed them the package of pastries.

Obviously he needed to go home and look over his marriage plans in a more serious light. Sympathizing with an absurdly straitlaced chit who was completely opposite his usual taste was one thing, but this was rapidly beginning to feel like an obsession. And that was extremely troubling.

“I thought we were here for hair ribbons,” Herbert said, his face folding into an impatient frown.

Charlotte looked up from the rack of paste jewel necklaces sitting in the corner of the shop. “We are.

I was just looking. Don’t you think some of these are pretty?”

In particular, she kept fingering the necklace with an intricate silver chain and a dewdrop-shaped emerald in a delicate silver setting. It was only worth a few shillings, and the length was too long to wear with anything she owned, but she liked it.

“It’s worthless,” Lord Herbert returned. “And a bit tawdry, don’t you think?

Whatever would you do

with it?”

“Mm,” a female voice cooed from the doorway. “Tawdry is the point.”

Charlotte leaned around a hat stand to see who had spoken. Dark eyes in a face pale and smooth as porcelain gazed back at her. “Lady Ibsen,” she said, inwardly cringing.

Speaking with Lord Matson twice in two days would get her in enough trouble.

Conversing with Jeanette Alvin, Lady Ibsen, would likely get her locked in her room for a week. The young wife of the late Marquis of Ibsen had once been respectable, Charlotte was sure, but since her husband’s death she’d become known for holding wild parties and for keeping company with any number of gentlemen, both single and married. Her latest, according to rumor, was none other than Lord Matson.

“Miss Charlotte,” the marchioness replied, shaking water droplets off her shawl and handing her parasol

to her maid. Herbert’s face had reddened the moment Jeanette had appeared behind them. “My lady,”

he blurted, tugging at his cravat.

<> So even proper gentlemen couldn’t quite control themselves in Lady Ibsen’s presence. Hm. Herbert

never blushed around
her.
It didn’t help that on several occasions Charlotte had wished to have the marchioness’s reputation—and her popularity with handsome young men.

“Why is tawdry the point?” she asked, mainly because she felt contrary. Lady Ibsen glided to the rack of necklaces and lifted one in long, delicate fingers. “It draws one’s eye,” she said, lifting
a faux
ruby bauble so that it caught the lantern light.

“So would any real gems,” Charlotte returned.

“Ah, yes, but it isn’t merely the sparkle.” She fastened the clasp behind her neck and drew her hand down the length of the chain. The ruby hung squarely between her breasts, glinting. “It’s also the length.”

“Oh, my,” Lord Herbert whispered, and for a moment Charlotte was concerned he might faint.

With a low chuckle, Lady Ibsen returned the necklace to the rack. “And see how effective,” she murmured, flicking the ruby to send it into a slow, glittering spin.

Charlotte couldn’t help a smile. “I see.”

She went back to the hair ribbons as Lady Ibsen purchased a surprisingly tasteful blue hat and swept

out of the shop. Herbert made quiet clucking sounds of disapproval the entire time, but neither did he remove his gaze from the marchioness’s petite, buxom figure.

With a sigh she brought her ribbons to the counter. When Herbert sidled to the window to gaze after the departing Jeanette, Charlotte swiftly leaned over and snatched the emerald necklace. Indicating with a lifted eyebrow that she wished to include it as part of her purchase, she dropped it into her pelisse pocket.

Nodding, the clerk put the ribbons into a small box and handed it over. “Eight shillings, my lady,” she said, amusement in her voice.

Charlotte paid for and collected her package, handing it over to Alice. As they left the shop, Herbert

sent a frown back in the clerk’s direction.

“I say, I don’t think you should patronize that shop any longer. Eight shillings for two ribbons is scandalous.”

They returned to his coach, and Charlotte couldn’t help looking over her shoulder for any sign of Lord Matson. “Scandalous,” she repeated softly, fingering the necklace in her pocket.

Gossip seems to tell that the splendidly wicked Lord Matson might be looking for a wife, but

it is difficult to credit these rumors. After all, what marriage-minded man would turn to Lady Ibsen for advice?

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS,
3 JUNE 1816

Viscount Halloren was late. Xavier checked his pocket watch for the third time, then sank back into the edition of
The London Times
he’d supposedly been reading for the past forty minutes.

At half past noon, White’s club was crowded. Understandable, then, that the head waiter didn’t look overly pleased at holding a table for only a single occupant who’d requested one glass of port and refused to order luncheon.

Xavier, however, wasn’t in an accommodating mood, and he wasn’t going to budge until he’d had a chat with William Ford, Lord Halloren. He and William were distant cousins, and although he’d only met the viscount once before his current venture into London, his relation was proving a valuable source of information—particularly since the damned
Whistledown
column seemed obsessed now with the theft

of Lady Neeley’s bracelet, and was giving minimal space to the parade of eligible females prancing about Town this Season.

And he needed to find a bride. Quickly. This hunting about, clueless, was making him insane. So much

so that for the past two nights he’d dreamed of a tall, dark-haired chit with fascinating eyes and an apparently very capable mouth.

“Matson.”

Finally.
He looked up from the paper, gesturing for his cousin to take a seat.

“Halloren. Glad you

decided to join me.”

“I almost didn’t. With this damned muck of weather we’re having, nobody’s walking anywhere. I swear I’ve never seen such a crowd of coaches on the streets in my life.”

“So this isn’t usual?”

“Good God, no. When’s the last time you were in London?”

He actually had to think about it. “Six years ago, I believe. Right before I left for Spain.”

“Six years in the army. No wonder you’re so set on finding a female now that you’re back.”

“Five years in the army,” Xavier corrected. “One year back at home trying to figure out how to be a landowner.”

Halloren nodded, his gaze surprisingly sympathetic. “Knew your brother. I don’t think Anthony ever let me pay for a meal.”

Hm. If that was a hint, he would accept it. He’d invited the viscount for an interrogation, anyway. He might as well feed the man.

They placed their order, and Xavier saw to it that Halloren had a brimming glass of port. It had occurred to him this morning that asking a confirmed bachelor about a list of prospective brides seemed a bit odd, but the viscount remained his best source so far.

“Why is it that you’re unmarried?” he asked anyway, deciding that if the answer was too unsettling, he’d skirt the subject and muck on by himself.

Halloren guffawed. “I’m not married because I have no fortune and because, well, look at me. I’m the size of an ox. Frightens off the young chits, I think.”

Xavier chuckled. “But you’ve kept an eye out for a possible wife, anyway.”

“Of course. Marrying a chit with money is my only hope.” He tilted his glass back, draining half its contents. “Unlike you, you lucky bastard.”

Xavier fiddled with his own glass. “It’s not luck,” he returned. “Not good luck, anyway. I would rather have had my brother than his title and money.”

“I meant your hideous appearance, actually. You ain’t exactly been lonely since you came into Town.”

Yes, apparently everyone knew about himself and Lady Ibsen, again thanks to that damned gossip column. “A fellow does what he must,” he said. “But that brings me to my point. I’ve met… several young ladies, and I thought you might give me a more circumspect opinion of them than I’ve been able to form on my own.”

Halloren burst into laughter, attracting the attention of the diners at several neighboring tables. “Oh, I

wish I kept a journal,” he snorted.
“You
asking
me
for advice on women.”

“Not advice,” Xavier countered, frowning. “An opinion. You know more about their family backgrounds than I do, and I want to do this right.”

Do it right.
That particular thought had haunted him from the moment he’d walked through the door

of Farley and realized that it had all just become his responsibility—the house, the land, the tenants,

the crops, and the title and its future.

“All right, all right. Who’s your first prospect, then?” The name on his lips wasn’t that of anyone from his list, and he clenched his jaw against it. For God’s sake. “Melinda Edwards,” he said instead.

“Ah, she’s a diamond, ain’t she?” The viscount sighed. “Barely looked once at me. Her family’s good enough; her granddad’s the Duke of Kenfeld, you know.

Her brother’s got a weakness for fast horses, but nothing you can’t afford, I’d wager. Ha ha. Wager.”

“Very amusing. What about Miss Rachel Bakery?”

“You have an eye toward the pretty ones, don’t you?”

“I’m exploring all my prospects.”

“Well, that one’s got her cap set at Lord Foxton.” Halloren gazed at him for a moment. “You could probably change her mind.”

They went on for another twenty minutes, and without exception he’d apparently picked a set of well-bred, beautiful, amiable females, any one of whom would love to or could easily be persuaded to become the Countess Matson. And he still wanted to ask about Charlotte Birling. It was nothing serious, of course, just curiosity, so what was the harm? She was an unmarried female, and dumped in with the other chits on his list, hardly conspicuous. Xavier took a breath—and a drink of port. “Charlotte Birling?”

“Who?”

“Birling. Charlotte Birling. Lord and Lady Birling’s daughter.”

“Oh, yes, yes, yes. Tall chit, doesn’t say much.” Halloren lifted an eyebrow.

“Really, Matson?”

Xavier shrugged, doing his best to look uncaring and slightly bored. “Just curious.”

“Well, don’t bother. She’s first cousin to Lady Sophia Throckmorton. You know, the chit who married Easterly twelve or so years ago. He did something dastardly—don’t remember what—and left the country. Terrible scandal.” The viscount leaned forward. “And the Birlings ain’t going to let any such thing happen to their daughter. They’re probably glad she ain’t a great beauty, because that way she don’t attract all the rakes. They’ll marry her off to some safe old dullard before long. Anything to avoid another scandal. With Easterly suspected in that Neeley bracelet fiasco now, they’re all aflutter, no doubt.” He chuckled again. “So it’s not as though they’d let the likes of you anywhere near her.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Come on, lad. Everybody knows you’ve got Lady Ibsen smiling. And that’s no easy feat.”

With a lifted eyebrow, Xavier dug into his plate of baked ham. He wasn’t disposed to comment, no

matter whose private relations were being discussed. Besides, a few things about Charlotte Birling abruptly made a great deal of sense. No wonder her mother had seemed so skittish when he’d

approached them.

He should have been relieved. Though he disagreed with Halloren’s appraisal of her looks, she wasn’t his usual sort of petite, buxom prey. And with her parents’ hysteria over scandal, no wonder the rest of the men could take a glance, call her less than stunning, and dismiss her as too much trouble. But he wasn’t relieved. Not a bit. Her beauty lay deeper than most, but he’d seen it. And somehow the knowledge that she was unattainable made her even more desirable. Yes, he wanted her, wanted to touch her warm skin and wanted to know what she would be like with her concern over propriety removed—along with her conservative gown and proper bonnet and overly-tight hairpins.

“So you’ve narrowed it down to a half dozen, then?” Halloren was saying.

Xavier shook himself. “Yes.”

“Good choices, I have to say,” his cousin agreed. “Difficult thing will be to decide on just one.”

“No doubt.” Except that he had apparently narrowed it down to just one already—and he had no idea how he might win her.

Taking a long swallow of port, he motioned for a refill. He had the abrupt urge to become very, very drunk. Jesus. It was laughable, except that he wasn’t laughing.

“Oh, do come with me,” Melinda Edwards cajoled the next morning, tugging on Charlotte’s hands to

pull her toward the door. “It’s not raining, and I’ll just perish if I don’t take a breath of fresh air.”

Although she felt the same way, Charlotte hesitated. Her mother had allowed her to visit Melinda, but she’d made it quite clear that she was only to stay for an early luncheon and then return home. Miss Edwards was known to have gentlemen paying visits in the afternoons, and heaven forbid that Charlotte should be there to bask in her friend’s reflected glory and meet someone of possibly tarnished reputation.