Three Schemes and a Scandal (6 page)

“I shall declare that you were with James and me, and thus we were chaperoned. Thus, there need not be any forced marriages,” Charlotte said. Thus, the problem would be solved.

“But that’s not true. You were alone, quite alone, with a gentleman for three quarters of one hour. I am assured that is plenty of time to be ruined.”

“How do you know that, Harriet?”

“I overheard it in the ladies’ retiring room at a ball once. I had pretended to faint because I was trapped in conversation with Drawling Rawlings,” Harriet explained and Charlotte nodded in absolute agreement. Lady Drawling Rawlings had been a notorious conversation monopolizer and one made every effort to avoid her. “I was taken to the ladies’ retiring room, and in no rush to resume my wallflowering in the ballroom, so I feigned an epic swoon. Lady Layton and her friends thought I wasn’t listening to their shocking conversation. But I was, Charlotte,
I was
.”

Charlotte sat down next to Harriet and poured herself a fresh cup of tea.

“You must tell me everything, Harriet.”

And she did.

One hour later, Charlotte was much more interested in marriage and marital relations, in particular. Apparently one could be ruined in less time than it took to drink a cup of tea and this was lamentable. Allegedly, ruination could also last all night and happen again in the morning.

There was much to consider but later, in private.

“I shall just inform Lord Hastings that James and I were only together for a mere, fleeting moment and will hope that he overlooks that detail. Now, you and I must determine how to unsuspectingly lure the gentlemen into a private chamber where I shall await them to explain that they needn’t be angry at each other.”

“Should we just send them mysterious, unsigned notes?” Harriet suggested.

“I fear notes are too easily intercepted,” Charlotte said, frowning. “Remember what happened with The Tattooed Duke.”

“That was an epic disaster,” Harriet said, shuddering as Charlotte cringed at the memory. That was the incident which had led to Brandon’s seven-hour lecture (or so it felt) upon the imperative of minding one’s own business and not meddling with fate, destiny or anything at all. It was at the end of such a brutal set down that he’d extracted her promise:
No more schemes.

Charlotte dismissed this thought.

“We need something devious,” she said. “Something that cannot be traced back to us. What do we know about James?”

“He’s handsome as the devil,” Harriet said quickly. Charlotte stifled a shocking and confusing flare of
jealously.
Did Harriet fancy him?

But that was her private emotion to puzzle over later.

Instead, she shrugged her shoulders and replied, “I suppose,” in a casual sort of voice.

“How do you
suppose
such a thing? He is undeniably utterly handsome. His hair, his eyes, the way his breeches cling to his well-muscled thighs,” Harriet said dreamily and Charlotte was aghast, but had to concede the truth. Then, peering curiously at her friend, Harriet said, “Anyone would agree.”

“That is beside the point,” Charlotte declared. “What else do we know of him?”

“You’re the one who grew up with him,” Harriet pointed out.

“We hadn’t spoken for years,” Charlotte said bitterly. For no reason. He stopped talking to her for no real reason. She sucked in a sharp breath because it still hurt, especially given the knowledge that they were speaking now only because of her own instigations. He had not sought her out. She so wished he would.

“Might I point out that you were locked with him in a folly for the better part of an hour,” Harriet said. “If you didn’t converse, Charlotte,
what did you do?
”

“We endeavored to escape because someone forgot to come with the key at the appointed time!” Charlotte took a deep breath when Harriet looked affronted. “Never mind all that. James is like all men of his ilk—”

“—Devastatingly handsome, ruthlessly charming rakes,” Harriet said breathlessly with an enchanted smile and dreamy sigh.

“Yes, that. He likes drinking, wenching, wagering, pissing contests—”

“—Ravishing maidens in dark, secluded parts of the garden lit only by the light of a full moon …” Harriet carried on.

“Wagers!” Charlotte exclaimed.

“You said that already, Char,” Harriet pointed out.

“We just need to concoct a wager that will send him to the library,” Charlotte said confidently. Men never could resist a wager. Golly, this would be child’s play!

“And Lord Hastings?”

“I know just the gossip that will attract him,” Charlotte said, grinning wickedly.

“You have that look in your eye again, Charlotte,” Harriet said. “The one that makes me nervous.”

“Like I am struck by my own brilliance?”

“I was going to say maniacal,” Harriet replied.

“That may very well be, Harriet. But I shall be a maniacal, brilliant young woman who will engineer a truce between two warring factions. Peace shall reign in London once again …”

“Are there any more biscuits?” Harriet interrupted. “All this scheming has made me quite famished.”

The Eversham Motif was the newest, most au courant architectural detail ever to grace an English home, and therefore the world. Lord and Lady Capulet were the very first to incorporate the incomparable, revolutionary, stunning Eversham Motif into the construction and decoration of their London home.

Everyone who was anyone knew that. Presently, Charlotte was the only one who did. But that would soon change.

“Lady Tweetley, you must have seen it,” Charlotte murmured directly into the ear of London’s biggest, fastest gossip.

In a moment, Charlotte would confide in her. Harriet was stationed on the far side of the ballroom. They both watched the clock, as they timed how long it took information related to Lady Tweetley on one end of the ballroom to reach the other. It was a party game they frequently played for diversion at tedious society events.

No wonder they were not married.

“Have I seen what, my dear?” Lady Tweetley asked, inclining her head. Her hair was an unusual shade of orange, suggesting some unnatural effort, and it was incredibly frizzy.

Charlotte looked around conspiratorially, suggesting with just her gaze that the information she was about to impart was secret, confidential, scandalous and utterly salacious. Lady Tweetley actually licked her lips in anticipation.

“The Eversham Motif. It’s the very latest thing in home decoration,” Charlotte said.

“Stunning, isn’t it? I saw it in the drawing room last Thursday. Old news!” Lady Tweetley replied. Charlotte smiled, truly smiled. Nothing amused her more than the ton’s desperation to seem in the know, which meant that they often agreed to anything—especially if it was suggested by the dear sister to a duke and his fashionable duchess.

Charlotte’s other favorite party game was to suggest outrageous things and see what people would agree to. Once, she had the Duchess of Richmond swearing to a correspondence with Lady Millicent Strange, who did not, in fact, exist. Nor had Lady Strange suffered her hand being bitten off by a wild boar, as Charlotte had claimed and the duchess lamented.

“Last Thursday?” Charlotte echoed. “Oh, then you haven’t seen the very latest. A new Eversham Motif has been chiseled into the library this very afternoon! It’s supposed to be a secret until the drawings and the secret history are revealed in an exclusive article for
The London Weekly
. Wouldn’t you just die to have a peek before anyone else in London?”

“Goodness!” Lady Tweetley exclaimed, snapping open her fan and waving it quickly. “One does love to be ahead of the curve. Sneak peek! First glimpse!”

“Of course. Such a rare honor that would be for one lucky person,” Charlotte said. “But do you know what is even more thrilling, in my humble opinion, that is?”

“What, dear?”

“I just love being the one to tell everyone. Sharing exciting news is just so thrilling, don’t you agree?”

“Oh very much,” Lady Tweetley concurred. And then she lowered her voice. “Who, pray tell, have you told, Lady Charlotte?”

“Just you, Lady Tweetley, just you,” Charlotte said, smiling mischievously.

“You are such a darling girl,” Lady Tweetley said, smiling and patting Charlotte absentmindedly on the arm. And then off she went, sashaying through the ballroom, bending the ear of anyone who would listen.

“Have you seen the Eversham Motif? It’s the latest, the very latest, in home architecture and it is on display in the library. First Glimpse!”

Charlotte remained in her spot, watching as news of her invented architectural motif was spread around the ballroom.

And then she caught James’s eye. He stood twenty paces away. Yet she saw that he raised his brow, curious and questioning, as if he knew she was up to something. That was the thing about James: He knew her. And he wasn’t afraid to question her.

Everyone else foolishly fell for her schemes again and again. No one ever tried to stop her, or even better, outsmart her at her own games.

But James … he knew just by looking at her from halfway across the ballroom.

Three minutes after Charlotte’s conversation with Lady Tweetley, Harriet arrived by her side, breathless.

“The news has officially reached the other side of the ballroom. That was fast, even for Lady Tweetley! Who knew anyone cared so much about an architectural thingamajig.”

“The ton never ceases to amuse,” Charlotte said, linking arms with her friend. “Onward to phase two, Harriet!”

Arm in arm they proceeded to the card room where they sought out the lamentably named Mitchell Twitchell. He was predictably found wagering more than he could afford on dreadfully bad hands of cards in a game with the nefarious, despicable pet-eater, Lord Dudley.

The two girls stood behind him and began their strategic conversation.

“I overheard the most fierce wager,” Charlotte said to Harriet loudly. “I literally staggered when I heard it. And then I swooned.”

“Oh? What fierce wager did you overhear? I am all agog to know. I shall perish if you do not tell me this instant,” Harriet said. She dramatically draped her palm across her brow.

“It’s highly confidential,” Charlotte said.

“It must be immensely fascinating,” Harriet replied loudly.

“A fortune is at stake! All over a one of a kind treasure,” Charlotte declared.

“What’s this wager you speak of?” Mitchell Twitchell cut in, pushing back from the card table and leaning back to better converse with them.

“Oh, it’s the most fascinating thing, Mr. Twitchell. Lord Derby has wagered with the Earl of Sandwich that Lord Capulet possesses the very first book from the very first edition of
The Hare Raising Adventures
of George Coney
. It’s a salacious memoir.”

“A book? How dull.”

Charlotte smiled benignly. She had anticipated that Mitchell would find a book boring. She doubted he even read his IOUs. However, James would find the book interesting, and it was James they sought. Mitchell would talk.

“Yes, well everyone is talking about it,” Charlotte told him. “I am assured all the most sporting gentlemen will gather there to witness the unveiling. If I were a gambling man, I would hate myself for missing it.”

“Really, how would you live with yourself if you missed it?” Harriet questioned sharply.

“I couldn’t. I simply could not go on,” Charlotte said gravely.

“Do you feel faint just thinking about it? I feel quite faint,” Harriet rasped.

“Let us retire to the ladies’ retiring room and restore ourselves with smelling salts.”

In fact, they proceeded directly to the library for phase three.

The scene in the library was just delightful. At least two dozen party guests tromped through the room, bumping into all the furniture and each other because their necks were craned as they sought the Eversham Motif.

Lady Inchbald declared it a marvel.

Lord Talleyrand bumped into an occasional table, knocking over a crystal decanter of brandy, which shattered on the parquet floor.

Lord Hastings stood lecturing a small gathering on its cultural significance.

Lord Capulet stood in the center of it all, mopping the sweat from his brow. Charlotte could tell he was torn between protecting his newly constructed and decorated library and disavowing sole possession of the single most fantastic architectural detail in the world.

Which, she did not point out, did not exist.

James sidled up to her and she felt a spark of pleasure, like the first flame from a dried leaf under a magnifying glass on a hot day. He leaned in close and murmured something only she could hear.

“I’m not quite sure what you are planning, Charlotte, but did it really require most of the party tromping through the library, much to the dismay of Lord Capulet?”

“Oh, hello there, James,” she replied. “Have you come to see the settling of the wager over
The Hare Raising Adventures of George Coney?”

Charlotte glanced to the right, where the Earl of Sandwich was combing the bookshelves in search of the elusive tome.

“The Eversham Motif, actually,” he said. And she saw it—the tug of a grin. A spark of pleasure settled into a smoldering fire in her belly.

“I hope you are not disappointed,” she remarked.

“To the contrary. I am surprised to find I am impressed,” he said softly. She knew that it was a compliment; that he was impressed with her. Someone, finally, had noticed her cleverness. She was glad, deeply, that it was he.

“I thought you would be more interested in the first book of the first edition of
The Hare Raising Adventures of George Coney.”

“I would be if such a thing existed,” he said softly, tilting his head slightly. She did not want the game to end just yet.

“Oh, did they review the volume already? I hope you did not wager overmuch,” she said, appearing vitally concerned for his bank accounts lest he had gambled his last farthing on the existence of a fictitious book.