Page 19 of Pride & Petticoats

“Never,” Selbourne said, not managing to hide a smile. “Though I will admit I prefer our roles reversed. It’s been some time since I’ve seen you all sentimental over a woman.”

“Sentimental? Ha!” Freddie barked. “Emotion has no part in this. It’s business.” He placed a hand over the breast pocket of his tailcoat and extracted a paper. “See this list? It proves I’m in complete control of the situation.”

Alex creased his brow but held out a hand for the paper. He unfolded it, read it, then erupted into howls of laughter. Freddie gritted his teeth. “Something funny, old boy?”

“No, no,” Alex said, snuffling the last of his chuckles. “This is priceless. Rules for dealing with your wife. Oh, I approve it wholeheartedly.”

Freddie smiled. “Ah, then you think I shall succeed?”

“Oh, I didn’t say that. You’ll fail miserably, but I’ll enjoy watching you stumble.” Alex reached for the bottle of gin, but Freddie snatched it away.

“Not so fast, Selbourne. I’m not feeling inclined to share.”

“Is it my fault you’re smitten with the girl?”

“Smitten? I don’t care in the least—”

Alex slipped the paper from Freddie’s hand and pointed to a sentence. Freddie read it over, then blanched with horror. “Slip of the pen,” he said, crossing the mistake out ruthlessly. “Doesn’t mean a thing.”

“Glad to hear it.” Selbourne rose as though the matter were settled. “In that case, we’re for home.”

“Home?” Freddie said, appalled. “It’s still early.”

“Early for a bachelor.” Alex grinned. “But we besotted husbands actually enjoy being home with our wives.”

Freddie frowned. “I’ll be bored out of my mind.”

Alex slapped him on the shoulder. “Welcome to domesticity.”

NOT LONG AFTER DEWHURST—Lord Dewhurst, Charlotte amended—left his bedroom for a visit to his mistress’s boudoir, Mrs. Pots appeared and pointed Charlotte to her own room. It was the next door down from Dewhurst’s room, a locale that equally thrilled and annoyed her. George, but she had never felt so low, so uncouth and common as she had these past hours in Freddie Dewhurst’s house. Standing outside what was to be her room for God knew how long, Charlotte took a fortifying breath. She had to remember who she was and where she had come from.

Certainly her family had fallen from favor. Whereas once she’d never wanted for anything and her house had been, if not as grand as Dewhurst’s, nothing to sneeze at, all she had now were her wits and the clothes on her back. She touched the emerald necklace she wore hidden beneath the high collar of the black gown. The mourning gown was the last memory of her father and brother, and the necklace a dim reminder of her long-dead mother. Everything else had been auctioned, sold, or abandoned.

But for a promise made by a man—a British man at that, and one she didn’t know or trust— Charlotte and Addy had nothing.

Mrs. Pots seemed to relish keeping Charlotte in her place. She refused to call her anything but miss, scoffed when Charlotte asked if she could see the menu and the household accounts, and resolutely placed Charlotte and her needs at the bottom of a long list of other tasks, beneath even the feeding of Dewhurst’s two large dogs. Finally the woman saw fit to show Charlotte to her room, which if Charlotte had known was not fifteen paces from where she’d been arguing with Dewhurst, she would have found herself.

“Here you are,” Mrs. Pots said, opening the door. “Miss Dewhurst decorated the room, so you’ll note the abundance of white.”

Charlotte nodded, pretending she knew who Miss Dewhurst was and why the color white should be associated with her, then stepped into the room. Mrs. Pots closed the door behind her, and Addy turned from a small nightstand, which she’d been dusting with her handkerchief.

“Here you are,” Addy said, putting her hands on her hips.

Charlotte nodded. “Yes, here I am.” There seemed to be a fog as persistent as that hovering over London, and her senses were as gray and cloudy as the buildings of the city. The room was large—far larger than she’d been used to in recent years—and for a moment she wondered if she’d been shown to the wrong suite. She stared blankly at the bright walls and unfamiliar furnishings, feeling as though her life were a bad dream.

What finally woke her senses was the sight of the bed in the center of the room. It was not nearly as large as Dewhurst’s but it would certainly be the largest bed she’d ever slept in. The most beautiful as well. Fluffy and white as a summer cloud, the counterpane was the color of milk, turned down to reveal a froth of vanilla silk sheets. From an open canopy, ivory drapes of the thinnest silk descended in a V past the abundant pillows and lightly dusted the floor. It reminded Charlotte of the mosquito nettings she was so used to at home, and she stepped forward to finger the fine material. How many dollars—rather, pounds—had this material cost?

She might not be married to His Baronship in truth, but she certainly felt like a princess. The room was a suite fit for royalty—luxurious but tasteful and decorated in the Greek style. There were not many furnishings, as it appeared the room was rarely occupied, but what was there was of the best quality. Overall, the effect was rich without being ostentatious, understated without being too austere.

Whoever this Miss Dewhurst was, Charlotte had a feeling she’d like the girl immensely. She had taste—in furnishings, if nothing else. Charlotte looked about her, admiring the contrast between the dark cherry woods and the pale bed coverings and bright light streaming through the windows; the disparity between the simplicity of the naked, gleaming wood floor and the intricate style of draping over the large windows; and the austere white color scheme paired with rich, sumptuous, textured materials.

Charlotte glanced at Addy, who smiled knowingly. “I knew you would like it,” she said. “Reminds me of the house of Legare Street. Before.”

She didn’t need to say before what. Their fall from grace was too painful a subject to be spoken of directly.

But now Charlotte began to hope that perhaps their luck had turned. What couldn’t she accomplish with the thousand dollars Dewhurst owed her? She might restore the house in Charleston. Buy back the family business. Buy Addy a servant so the woman who had worked so hard for Charlotte and her family could finally be taken care of herself.

Charlotte sat on the bed, then lay back, feeling the plush mattress sink deliciously under her weight. She rolled over, snatched a pillow, and hugged it to her. For the first time in months—in years—she began to feel hopeful. She reminded herself again that it would not do to become too used to Dewhurst’s home or Dewhurst himself. But she could enjoy it for the moment. “Addy, come lie here with me. It feels heavenly.”

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