A lady’s steps should be slow and purposeful, but certainly not giving the impression she might actually be going anywhere of any great importance.

—MISS PENCE

June 11, 1887
Beck House, London

The third step on Grandfather’s wide staircase always made a peculiar sound, so Charlotte tucked the leather-bound volume of The Wealth of Nations under her arm and skipped over it. Unfortunately, the help had been generous with the furniture wax, and she lost her footing and skated the rest of the way down the stairs on her posterior.

“What’s all the commotion?” Grandfather called from his library.

“Just me,” she said sheepishly as she scrambled to her feet. “I missed a step.”

“More likely danced over the third one.” Her grandfather appeared in the door, a gray-haired but well-aged version of her beloved Papa. “There’s a reason I don’t allow that plank to be properly nailed down.”

Charlotte smoothed back a stray curl then hurried into her grandfather’s embrace. “Good morning,” she said. “Is there tea enough for me?”

“Always.” He released his hold on her. “Come and join me, dear. We’ve something to discuss.”

She followed him into the library and inhaled the familiar scent of oak and leather that seemed to permeate every inch of the cozy space. While Grandfather’s London home was as grand as any other on the exclusive block, Charlotte doubted the others held a room quite so cozy.

Despite the June temperatures, a fire had been laid. She returned the book to its place on the shelf, then took a seat, leaving her slippers on the floor and tucking her feet beneath her. Grandfather tamped down the flames until only the orange glow of embers remained.

“They think I’m so old I must freeze even in the summer.” He turned to her, blue eyes twinkling. “Don’t get old, Charlotte. It’s ever so bothersome.”

“I promise.” She grinned.

“Now, to get right to the heart of the matter.” He settled into his favorite chair and reached for a folded copy of the London Times. “I don’t suppose you’ve read the paper today.” Without giving her a chance to respond, he continued. “No, you young people have much to do and couldn’t possibly slow down long enough to read about the day’s events. Though I warrant you’d be better for it if you made the attempt.”

“Yes, Grandfather,” she said as she tried to decide exactly what he meant. “I shall endeavor to adopt the habit.”

He leaned forward and thrust the paper toward her. “No time like the present to begin.”

“Yes, of course.” Charlotte opened the paper.

“Start with that headline just below the middle crease.” He pointed to her. “You’ll recognize the subject matter right away.”

“ ‘Society Suicide, Saddle Scandal: Beck Heiress Performs Hair-Raising Stunt at Wild West Performance.’ ” Charlotte gasped. “Oh, Grandfather, I—”

“Please.” He gestured to the paper. “Continue reading aloud.”

“All right.” Her heart hammered. “ ‘The lovely Miss Charlotte Beck, American granddaughter of the Earl of Framingham and daughter of Daniel Beck, the Viscount Balthorp, somehow managed to save herself from sudden peril by vaulting into the arms of a rider atop a careening pony. She then not only fit herself neatly behind the rider, but also retrieved his rifle and shot a hole straight through Colonel Cody’s best hat.’ ”

“Which had, of course, been tossed into the air for the occasion,” Grandfather said as if he’d memorized the passage. “Continue.”

Charlotte swallowed hard and blinked back the tears that stung her eyes. “ ‘This reporter had the honor of speaking with several of the attendees seated in the royal box, and received the same comment from each of the highly regarded persons. One wonders what Miss Beck might have been thinking to consider such wanton behavior in full display of the international press gathered in anticipation of Queen Victoria’s upcoming Jubilee celebration. To quote the Prince of San Renik, “It’s one thing to play at riding in a coach and quite another to ride behind a galloping Indian brave with your skirts flying. I do, however, applaud the young lady for agility and accuracy with a weapon.”

Charlotte looked up, tears rendering her unable to continue. Unlike Papa, who would’ve stomped around the room, making a great show of his displeasure, Grandfather merely sat quietly and watched her.

The gravity of the situation settled on her, and Charlotte ducked her head under its weight. “I’ve made quite a mess of things, haven’t I?”

He nodded, and his image swam in the tears that fell freely from Charlotte’s eyes. She heard them plop on the paper, felt them stream down her cheeks to saturate the front of her morning gown. And worse, she felt the burn of humiliation at being such a disappointment to her beloved grandfather.

What must Papa think? Surely he’d heard of her scandalous behavior by now.

Which meant she must repair the damage.

“Already invitations have begun to be rescinded.” Grandfather shrugged. “Personally I’m happy to be relieved of any reason to dress in my Sunday best and make polite conversation with people I barely know. You and dear Gennie might find the unexpected lapse in your appointments a bit more upsetting, however.”

“Oh no.” Charlotte pushed the soggy paper aside. “Even the garden party at the palace?”

Grandfather shrugged. “I’ve not been so informed. It’s possible that I, as one of Victoria’s oldest acquaintances, might be spared the wrath others will inflict on the Becks. The other hosts, however, will not open their doors to scandal—quite literally—even if it comes from an American.”

Charlotte’s bottom lip trembled. “I must repair the damage.”

Grandfather rose. “Dear, I fear there’s no repair for this. Now, perhaps you should wash your face and then join me for breakfast.”

“What’s this about damage?” Gennie stood in the door, her smile radiant. It disappeared when she saw her stepdaughter. “Charlotte, what’s wrong?”

Charlotte kicked the Times under the sofa with her toe then fell into Gennie’s outstretched arms. Grandfather pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her before making his excuses and fleeing the library.

“Never did like a woman’s tears,” he muttered as he disappeared into the hall.

Gennie took the handkerchief from Charlotte’s clenched fist and dabbed at Charlotte’s cheeks. “What in the world has you so upset?’

Glancing down at the corner of the newspaper, barely visible under the sofa, Charlotte sat and made sure her skirts covered the evidence. Gennie would learn of her humiliation soon enough. “I’m fine, truly,” she said. “Just being a silly girl. I’m sure you remember those days.”

That comment garnered quite a look from Gennie as she handed Charlotte the soggy handkerchief. “I think I recall some of it.”

“I wonder if you might give me some advice.” Charlotte let the handkerchief drop into her lap and sniffed one last time. “About social things.”

Her stepmother looked genuinely surprised. “Of course.”

“When one has done something unacceptable …”

“Such as ride on the back of a horse with your skirts flying? I think that’s how the gentleman from the Times put it.” Gennie reached down, pushed Charlotte’s skirt aside, and retrieved the paper. “Has your grandfather seen this?”

Charlotte nodded.

“And did he seem upset?”

“A little,” Charlotte managed as the lump returned to her throat. “But he also claimed he was relieved not to have as many social obligations.”

Now that I’ve reduced us to pariahs, she didn’t say.

“I see.” Gennie cast the paper into the fire, and the pages began to smoke. When the embers caught and the fire lit, the Times began to curl and turn black at the edges.

“If only you could do that to all the copies,” Charlotte said. “But I suppose that’s not the solution.”

“No.” Gennie sighed. “I’m afraid there’s no remedy for this except to return to Denver earlier than expected.”

“And miss the palace garden party? Your tea with the empress? We can’t.” Charlotte rose and began to pace. “Surely it was obvious to those in attendance that none of what happened yesterday was planned. The colonel does these things all the time. Why back home he …” She stopped and turned to face Gennie. “I promise it wasn’t planned. We were all standing together and Colonel Cody asked me if I’d like to do that trick he taught me last winter when he visited the ranch and I knew you’d not be pleased but we had just argued and I was still somewhat upset so I …”

“Did it anyway?” Gennie offered.

“Yes,” Charlotte whispered.

“For one so rushed to become a woman, you certainly excel at behaving like a child.” Gennie’s sharp expression softened. “However, there’s nothing to be done for it.”

Much as Charlotte hated to admit it, Gennie spoke the truth. She constantly complained about being treated like a child only to prove everyone right.

Until now.

“Maybe there is something that can be done.” Charlotte paused to consider an idea. “Do you recall that when you chastised me after the Hambly party, you said you could only hope that stargazing became all the rage?”

Gennie’s mouth set in a firm line. If she had a response, it likely was not a positive one.

Charlotte pressed on. “As I recall, Colonel Cody was quite well received at the Hambly event.”

“Well, yes, I suppose he was. But then, he’s caused quite the sensation here in London, especially since the queen came out to view the performance last month.” Their gazes met. “Why?” Gennie asked.

“Just thinking aloud.” Charlotte grinned as the idea became the beginnings of a scheme that just might work. “Would you say the Hamblys are well thought of in London society?”

“Very well thought of. Charlotte,” Gennie said slowly, “what are you planning?”

“Nothing at all.” The truth, at least for now. The actual plan would come together somewhere between here and Grosvenor Square. Of this Charlotte was completely certain.