Miss Charity's Case (19 page)

Charity stood. “No.” She forced a smile. Mayhap it had been nothing more than her great-aunt's determination to ascertain that Charity received no missives from Oliver. As if Oliver Blackburn would write her a honeyed note professing undying love!

“Then all is well.”

Wishing she could share Hélène's optimism, Charity sat in a chair overlooking the street while the abigail went into the dressing room. Night was sifting into London, and work had halted on the renovation across the square. The quiet brought the peace of the country. She tried to recall the last time she had heard a bird singing without the undertone of wheels upon the road.

She closed her eyes and let her thoughts drift back to Bridgeton. Every small building emerged from the mist of memory, and she could see the square steeple of the small, stone church where her father had preached. But, if she were there, she would not remain in the village. She would go to enjoy the afternoon sun glinting off the sea. The strand was vibrant with the song of the sea birds and whisper of the waves. Barefoot, she laughed as the sand curled around her toes.

An answering laugh, far deeper than hers, rang through her mind. Oliver! He took her hands and spun her about in the sunshine. When he framed her face with his hands, she welcomed his kiss. He leaned her back onto the silken warmth of the sand, his lean body caressing her.

A shadow blotted out the sunshine. Even in the midst of her dream, fear strangled her. A man stood by the rocks along the strand, his face lost in the storm clouds rising up out of the sea. He strode toward them. Without speaking, he raised his hand to Oliver, who stood.

She held her hand out to Oliver. He looked from her to the shadowed man. Pushing aside her hand, he walked away. The man disappeared, leaving her alone as the distant rumble of thunder heralded a storm of anguish.

Charity jerked awake, staring out into the fog that still twisted around the streetlamps. She clutched the arms of her chair as a trickle of icy sweat ran along her back. How could she have forgotten
him?
Not Kerry Field, but the man who first had betrayed her. Even in the midst of seeking her sister, she should have known this pain would not vanish after haunting her for all these years. It would not allow her to escape that easily.

She shivered. She must find Joyce. Then the two of them would retire in shame to Graystone Manor … alone.

“You seem faraway, Miss Stuart,” Myles said as they watched the dancers in the center of the grandest room of the Hoyles' home on Hanover Square.

The chamber was in prime twig with its larger than life murals and the generous use of crystal and gilt. Candlelight reflected in mirrors around the room and on the black marble floor. Double doors at the far end were closed, waiting Leatrice's request that they be thrown open to allow the guests to go into the dining room.

“Forgive me.” Charity forced a smile. “It has been a most eventful day.”

“And what events filled your day?”

She was tempted to tell him the truth, but she suspected the considerate duke would be overmastered by the tale. When he turned to select a glass of champagne for each of them, her smile became more genuine. She wondered again, as she had before, why Thyra was so enamored with this man. Mayhap it was nothing more than his gentleness which contrasted with Oliver's self-assured ways.

“Much the same things that fill any lady's day,” Charity said, taking the glass. “The best part, without question, was a look-in on Lady Thyra.”

His eyes brightened. “Ah, Lady Thyra. I trust she is well.”

“Very, and she speaks with great regard for you, Myles.”

Red scorched his ears, and he took a hasty gulp of the champagne. “Is that so?”

“I would never lie to you.”

“Even when you told me Lady Thyra wished to dance with me?”

“Have you asked her?”

“My courage fails me in her presence.” He flushed again. “Miss Stuart, you must forgive me for speaking of her when I have escorted you here tonight.”

She smiled. “At Lady Eloise's request.”

“True, but, Miss Stuart, you must not think I do not have the highest regard for you.”

Standing on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek. “Myles, I hope to count you always as one of my dear friends, just as I do Thyra.”

“And Lord Blackburn?”

Warmth rose in her face, and he smiled. She started to reply, then realized the smile was not for her. He was staring across the room. She turned, and her heart halted in mid-beat as Oliver entered with Thyra on his arm. As always, they were the perfect combination. Thyra so bright with her golden beauty complemented by her lovely
eau de Nile
gown and the earl a dangerous phantom in somber black coat and white breeches.

From the opposite side of the room, Charity heard Lady Eloise's voice fade in the middle of a word. Her great-aunt must be astounded to see these guests at Leatrice Hoyle's party. Charity knew
she
was shocked. Leatrice risked her patroness's fury with this invitation. When she saw Leatrice rush to greet Oliver, her astonishment grew. Leatrice was flirting openly with him. Mayhap Leatrice thought she might gain his attentions now that Thyra had revealed her interest in the Duke of Rimsbury.

When Myles grasped Charity's hand and drew her with him toward the door, she wanted to urge him to caution, for she had seen a side of Oliver that afternoon that had been only hinted at previously. When he had held that pistol against the thief's neck, neither the lad nor she had doubted Oliver could have fired without hesitation.

“B-B-Blackburn!” said Myles loudly enough so his voice reached to every corner of the room. She wondered if he were cockle-brained to mallet about when he stuttered over Oliver's name.

“Rimsbury,” Oliver answered.

Thyra was silent. Her quick glance toward Charity warned she was as fearful of trouble between the two men.

“Please remember where you are,” Charity said, not risking a glance at Leatrice, who was trying to watch what was happening while she hurried to answer Lady Eloise's beckoning finger. “There is no need for angry words tonight.”

“Charity is correct,” Thyra added. “We should enjoy this evening.”

Myles said, “Ladies, you will understand I have your best interests at heart when I say that this discussion is between Blackburn and me.” His voice grew stronger and held barely a hint of a stutter. “It has come to my attention, Blackburn, that you have the wrong dinner partner this evening, and so do I.” His smile returned as he offered his arm to Thyra. “I trust you agree, Miss Stuart, and you, Lady … Thyra.”

Charity stared at Myles in amazement. She never had heard him use such a forceful tone. Seeing Thyra's eagerness, she smiled. “Of course, I agree,” Charity said as Thyra put her hand on Myles's arm. “Don't you, Oliver?”

“It appears my vote on this decision matters little.” He smiled and bowed his head toward the duke.

Thyra whispered, “Thank you, Charity.”

“Yes, thank you, Miss Stuart. And thank you, Blackburn.”

As the two walked away, already lost in the rapture of new love, Charity heard a muffled laugh beside her. She turned.

Oliver's eyes twinkled with merriment as he held out his arm. “I would say we are dinner partners by default, Charity.”

“If you had wished it otherwise, you needed only to say so.”

“It takes a man with more pluck than I to stand in the way of Thyra's plans.” He gave an emoted sigh. “I daresay I have lost my escort for good, if Thyra has her way.”

“Now you shall find yourself afflicted with scores of eager mothers who wish to foist their eligible daughters off on you.”

Putting his hand over hers on his arm, he mused, “'Tis enough to send me riding
ventre-à-terre
to sea. But, for tonight, at least, I have you to stand between me and those eager misses.” He chuckled as he stroked her fingers. “Mayhap you would take Thyra's place by my side. You have said frequently you have no wish to be part of the Season. We might develop an
amitié de convenance
.”

“A friendship of convenience?” She laughed softly. “I fear Lady Eloise would find nothing convenient about such a relationship.”

“But what of Miss Charity Stuart?”

Charity looked up at his face, which was softened so slightly by his smile. Oliver was a man who would open himself to very few, but he was being honest with her. Putting her other hand over his, she whispered, “Miss Charity Stuart would enjoy being your friend.”

“I think friendship would be an excellent place to start.” His fingers brushed a stubborn strand of hair back from her face.

The motion sent pleasure swirling through her with the speed of her heartbeat. To be speaking to him like this when her great-aunt was watching was madness. To allow him to touch her in public—even this chastely—went beyond that, but she could no more imagine telling him to desist than she could have urged her heart to slow its furious pulse.

“Shall we go into dinner, Charity?” he said in the same low voice meant only for her ears.

She smiled as she realized the double doors had been thrown open to reveal the wood-paneled dining room. “We should not delay the others from enjoying their repast.”

Charity was unprepared for the curiosity about the change of partners. Every head turned as Oliver walked with her toward the head of the table where Booth Hoyle was staring in open-mouthed shock. Charity kept her eyes on Thyra, who continued to stare at Myles as if she feared if she took her gaze away for even a moment he would disappear.

When Oliver reached for the chair next to where he was to sit, Leatrice pushed forward. She jabbed a finger at the name cards by each plate. “Lady Thyra is to sit with you, Lord Blackburn.”

With a laugh that dared her to rebuke him, Oliver reached across the table and switched the small pieces of porcelain. “Now Lady Thyra is to sit with the Duke of Rimsbury.”

“Impossible!” The young woman stretched to replace the markers as they had been. “You do not want to disrupt the order I worked so hard to assemble, would you, my lord?”

Charity noted the tears filling Thyra's eyes. This skimble-skamble was absurd. “Leatrice, you would not want to insult the
Duke
of Rimsbury, would you?”

Leatrice recoiled. To say nay to such a highly placed guest might mean the end of her prestige as a hostess. Glancing at her patroness, she blanched when Lady Eloise looked in the opposite direction. If Leatrice fell from favor, no one else wanted to be dashed upon the crags of her despair.

Dampening her lips, Leatrice said in a choked voice, “Of course, I wish all of you to enjoy yourselves to the utmost while under my roof. I suspect we all shall find the new seating diverting.”

“Most diverting,” Oliver said.

Charity winced when Leatrice's angry glare remained on her. Charity turned to thank Oliver for seating her. Glancing toward the head of the table, she discovered both Leatrice and her great-aunt were separated from her by an ornate candelabra. She smiled as she relaxed against the lyre back chair.

“That was not so horrible as I had feared,” Oliver said as he handed her the glass of the wine which had been waiting on the table. He smiled at Myles and raised his glass in a silent salute. “I believe we all shall survive our small infraction in etiquette without a further
crise de nerfs
from our hostess.”

“At least until I return to Grosvenor Square.”

He smiled. “It sounds as if you anticipate a scold.”

Charity lowered her glass to the table. “Lady Eloise will be very displeased with this turn of events.”

“Ah, yes, for she had planned on you being a duchess.” He tapped his cheek as he screwed up his face in a caricature of thought. “There must be another duke about who is looking for a wife.”

“She will be satisfied with nothing less than a duke, I fear.”

“Knowing that, your commitment to seeing Thyra and Rimsbury together is even more exemplary, Charity. He is not the worst of the lot.”

She smiled at the young footman who was ladling soup into her bowl. When the servant continued along the table, Charity said, “I give my attention completely to projects that interest me.”

“Like finding your sister?”

“I wish that could end as quickly and as satisfyingly as bringing Thyra and the duke together this evening.”

He lifted his spoon. Without looking at her, he said, “I have trusted men doing all they can.”

“I know.”

“Just promise me you shall not pursue any clues. That you will send for me instead.” He caught her hand in his and pinned it to her knee out of sight of the other guests. The intensity of his whisper did not match his studiously serene expression. “Promise me, Charity.”

“I promise I shall seek you out before I seek out Joyce.”

He chuckled softly. “I should have guessed you would not accede to sense. You must be part of this search.”

“I would as lief have nothing to do with any of this.” Hearing Thyra's lyrical laugh, she smiled. “But tonight is not the time to speak of such things.”

“No, tonight is for speaking of how lovely you look.”

“What a nice thing for one friend to say to another.”

He grimaced, then leaned toward her to whisper, “Remember that I suggested friendship as a place to start.”

Myles's question from across the table halted Charity's answer. Not that she had been sure what she could say. Her dream this evening had been a warning. Even though Oliver considered himself an outsider to the dictates of the
ton
, these people were his friends. His reputation was only a façade, so she must not inflict her past on his future.

Meringues were being served for dessert as the orchestra began to play in the adjoining room. Light, charming melodies drifted to them.

When Myles and Thyra rose, Oliver pushed back his chair and assisted Charity to her feet. “Charity, it would be regrettable to waste that music.”