A lady’s social calendar must be filled at all times, even when it isn’t.
—MISS PENCE
June 14
Beck House, London
“An invitation?” Charlotte slid down the banister and landed beside Grandfather’s houseman in a most inelegant fashion. But Grandfather was napping and Gennie had gone to the milliners for a fitting, so what happened unobserved did not have to be admitted.
She snatched the note off the tray and slipped into Grandfather’s library. It was the one she’d hoped for, the queen’s garden party on the castle grounds. And she’d been included along with Gennie and Grandfather.
Charlotte danced in circles across the carpet then fell onto the settee, the invitation clutched to her chest. The viscount had proven himself a man of his word.
Even if he was a grump.
Were he more agreeable, Charlotte might have asked Viscount Hambly how he managed to convince his refined mother to don an Indian headdress and allow herself to be transported across the arena sidesaddle behind one of Red Shirt’s warriors. Charlotte had heard from the colonel that persons of high character were now lining up to take their turn in the show. Which meant she could stop fretting about losing not only her social standing but also her freedom. Surely Papa would not hold against her what had been so artfully and cleverly repaired.
A sound at the door alerted her to the houseman’s presence. “Miss Beck, there are others.”
She grinned. “Put them on Grandfather’s desk, and I’ll sort through them.”
The servant returned with a basket filled nearly to the top with calling cards and notes, then hastened to answer the doorbell. The queen’s invitation tucked safely aside, Charlotte upended the basket and watched as its contents landed in a pile.
“What have we here?”
Charlotte swiveled to see Uncle Edwin watching her.
“Aren’t you popular?” he said as he moved to the window. Curtains green as the baize on the gaming table Grandfather hid behind the folding screen blocked all but a sliver of the morning light.
As Edwin lifted the heavy fabric to peer out, Charlotte noticed the lines of his face made her miss Papa all the more. But while Papa wore his handsome features as if he had no idea he possessed them, Uncle Edwin seemed very aware of the Beck charm.
“Are you unwell, Uncle?”
“Unwell?” He stepped away and allowed the curtain to fall back into place. “Nothing of the sort. Though I am a bit confused by something.”
She dropped Lady Stanton’s invitation for tea back onto the pile. “What is that?”
His stare was even, his face expressionless. And yet something about his posture made Charlotte sit a little straighter in her chair.
“How is it that you’ve gone from social pariah to London’s darling, Charlotte?” He moved toward Grandfather’s chair then chose the settee, where he sprawled across the length of it. “Just this morning I read in the Times that your shameless Wild West performance is now the behavior to be copied. And I must wonder, is it a coincidence that the first to imitate you was Hambly’s mother? Who did you influence? I guess it was either the heir or his spare.” He lifted his head to look at her. “Your charms are considerable, though you’re a bit young to begin using them to your benefit. Especially when it involves possible control of our companies being handed over to a Hambly.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Uncle Edwin!”
He shifted positions to stare at the painting above the mantel, a decently done oil of the Beck ancestral home Charlotte had painted on her last visit. It was a much better piece than her image of the night sky over Denver that Grandfather insisted on hanging in his bedchamber. Strangely, she’d always been drawn to capturing the constellations in paint but as yet had never quite managed to satisfy herself that she’d done them proper justice.
“Never mind,” Uncle Edwin said. “But you did something. Paid someone off.”
“I paid no one. I promise.”
“And yet you got exactly what you wanted and without lifting a finger to achieve it.”
Charlotte pretended to study the gilt edge of the nearest invitation as her mind sorted through several possible responses to the statement. Before she could settle on one, Uncle Edwin began to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” she managed as she attempted not to look relieved.
He sobered but continued to stare at the painting. “I was just thinking how like the father the child has become.”
“Thank you,” she said sweetly, “but I wonder how much like my mother I am.” Charlotte held her uncle’s gaze, praying her direct request for information might actually gain her some insight into the mysterious mother she barely remembered. “No one seems to want to talk about Georgiana Beck. Do you know why, uncle?”
When he merely returned her stare, Charlotte warmed to the topic. “When I was very small, I thought that perhaps Papa was trying to deflect me from my grief by refusing to discuss my mother. As I grew older, I suspected perhaps it was his own grief he’d been deflecting.”
Uncle Edwin gently tugged at his collar.
“But you and Grandfather …” She shrugged. “What possible reason could—”
“Enough, Charlotte,” he snapped. “Let it go.”
Silence hung heavy between them. Retorts Charlotte longed to say mingled with the petitions she sent heavenward to form a jumble of words and thoughts that made little sense. All she could manage was a sigh as she pretended to sort the invitations that now swam beneath a shimmering of tears.
After a few minutes, Uncle Edwin sat up and rested his elbows on his knees. “How old are you?”
Charlotte glanced up sharply at the odd question. “I’ll be eighteen soon.”
He nodded. “Older already than your mother was when you were born.”
She froze. “I didn’t know that.”
“Sixteen, she was, or possibly no more than seventeen. At least that’s what I recall.” His brows rose. “Pretty thing, too. Common of birth but most uncommon of countenance.” Uncle Edwin paused. “You resemble her. Still, you’re a Beck through and through.”
And then her uncle’s interest in the taboo topic waned, or perhaps his mind had wandered to memories he’d rather not discuss. Whatever the reason for his silence, Uncle Edwin appeared to know Mama quite well. Charlotte sat very still, hoping he would continue.
Unfortunately, the far away expression dissipated, and Uncle Edwin’s normal mocking scowl returned. He gestured to the bookcase. “I see how you devour Father’s books on business. I fear Mr. Smith’s theories are mostly beyond my comprehension, though there are a few concepts I find intriguing.”
“Such as?” she asked, hoping to engage him in this conversation in order to somehow turn back to the former one.
He easily warmed to the topic of the systems of political economy, pausing only when she smiled. “Ah, so you did not believe me?”
“Forgive me,” she said. “It’s just that very few find my interest in … never mind.”
“No,” he said. “I am interested in what you think.”
She shook her head. “Honestly?”
“Yes. For instance, what is your opinion on the consequences of the individual’s pursuit of his own gain? Smith has his opinion, which of course you know.”
Charlotte shrugged. “Yes, well, I tend to agree with Mr. Smith that the self-interest of individuals can cause certain biases.”
“Indeed. And would you also agree that it can blind a good businessman”—he paused to nod in her direction—“or business woman, causing them to make mistakes?”
“As do I. Take, for example, Father’s friend the Earl of Fensworth.” Her uncle paused only a moment. “The Hambly family has made no secret of wanting ownership of our Northumberland mines. Their properties to the north and south of the mine aren’t producing as well as ours, and the earl doesn’t take that sort of loss in competition well. Then there’s the Leadville issue.”
“Leadville issue?”
“The earl, your friend Hambly’s father, got to Summit Hill before your papa did. He snatched up what he thought was prime property and went to work mining it. Daniel saw the value in that location and bought a piece of land adjacent to it.”
“And?” Charlotte said.
“And ever since, the old man’s had nothing but trouble and Daniel’s had to fend off numerous claims that he’s somehow taken the silver off Hambly land. Not sure how he might have done that, but the claim’s been made. Trouble is, now neither plot’s worth much. Seems a little pointless to squabble over something that’s got no value, doesn’t it? Especially since the issue came between Hambly and Father. They were close friends once, but your grandfather doesn’t take kindly to outsiders who pose a threat to his family.”
Interesting, especially given the fact she’d been told all the nonsense between the families had been over some racing bet. As much as she did not want to believe Uncle Edwin, a business issue seemed more logical than trouble over gambling. And it certainly explained Grandfather’s adamant refusal to attend the Hambly event.
“I fail to see what that has to do with me.” She shrugged. “I’ve no interest in such things.”
“You should develop one,” Uncle Edwin snapped. “What belongs to you will, upon your marriage, be under the control of your husband.” He shook his head and rose. “Just stay away from Hambly and his sons.”
Charlotte went back to her work. “No reason for concern. I’ll not be seeking out either of them. Any association will be purely social and only when unavoidable.” She set two invitations aside. “You have my word. Now I wonder if I might extract a promise from you.” Charlotte continued to shift the letters around on the desk though her thoughts were no longer on them. “Promise me someday you’ll tell me more about my mother.”
Uncle Edwin looked down at her. “I know very little.”
“That’s more than I know.” Charlotte pushed away from the desk and stood, fortifying her courage and squaring her shoulders. “No, that’s not true. I have memories. Nonsensical thoughts about things that might have happened.”
“I’m the last person you should ask about Georgiana.” Uncle Edwin moved toward the door. “That woman cost me my inheritance.” He stomped out of the library.
“Edwin,” Grandfather snapped from a distance. “A moment of your time. Upstairs, please.”
When her uncle’s footsteps ceased and a door closed somewhere on the second level, Charlotte crept up the stairs, avoiding the third step. Finding the room where the men had gone was easy. She merely followed the sound of angry but unintelligible voices. Pressing her ear against the door, Charlotte tried to understand some of what was being said, but the words carried no meaning when filtered through the heavy wood. Uncle Edwin’s voice was the louder of the two, but Grandfather seemed to speak more.
Charlotte yanked on the knob, but the door refused to budge. “Let me in,” she called, her heart racing.
When Uncle Edwin finally opened the door, she pressed past him to see her grandfather sprawled on the floor beside his bed. Contents of a breakfast tray lay in a broken mess beside him, and shards of a ruined plate littered the carpet. One of the curtains surrounding the ancient canopied bed had been torn loose and hung in uneven crimson folds.
“What happened?” she asked, but neither man answered. Heedless of the broken china, Charlotte ran to her grandfather and fell to her knees beside him. “Get help,” she shouted to her uncle as she cradled Grandfather’s head in her lap. When she turned around, Uncle Edwin was gone.
“Fensworth,” Grandfather said as his eyes fluttered open. “Bring him to me.”
“The earl?”
He managed a nod then closed his eyes. Charlotte took a deep breath to calm her racing heart. “Don’t be silly,” she said, smoothing his silver hair back from a nasty knot rising on his temple. “Uncle Edwin is fetching your physician.”
At least she hoped he was.
Her grandfather wrapped his fingers around her arm. “Fensworth must come. Tell him that.”
She regarded her grandfather in silence. Mama had taken to speaking in circles and making nonsensical requests just before the sickness took her. That much Charlotte did remember, though through the filter of the understanding of a five-year-old.
Pressing her ear to Grandfather’s chest, she heard the strong, even beat of his heart. Don’t take him, Lord. Please.
Her name rumbled against her cheek as Grandfather tugged on her arm. “Charlotte,” he repeated when she did not immediately respond. “Look at me when I speak.”
Now that was the grandfather she knew. Charlotte lifted her head to see him regarding her with the beginnings of a smile. Though the color in his cheeks did not resemble his normal appearance, neither did he seem to be heading for the grave.
“Darling,” he said slowly, “I assure you I’ll not be making my amends before Jesus just yet.”
Charlotte swallowed hard then affected what she hoped would be a convincing smile. “Good,” she said lightly, “then you’ll not mind helping me clean up this mess. You’ve been quite naughty.”
“Indeed I have.” He attempted to rise to his elbows but only succeeded with Charlotte’s help. “Though I warrant you are the only one in my household to use the banister to shortcut the stairs today, which puts us at an even standing on the naughty list.”
Her face flushed. “I’ll neither admit nor deny this.”
“Spoken like a true Beck.” He struggled into a sitting position. “Now, about this request of mine. Shall I send a servant to do what I’d prefer my granddaughter would?”
The clock on the mantel ticked loudly, while a street vendor’s call from the road below drifted through the curtained window. Charlotte shifted positions and felt broken china crunch under her skirts.
“But Grandfather,” she said gently, “might I inquire as to why?”
His brows gathered. “You may not.”
“But you and he haven’t spoken in years,” she offered. “Why—”
“Charlotte, I’ve no patience for questions. If Fensworth’s unable, bring his son. Alexander, not Martin. Wouldn’t give you one whit for Martin.” Grandfather leaned back against the edge of the bed and wiped a speck of his breakfast from his trouser leg. “That Martin, he’s unwell. More unwell than even Fensworth knows. But then a father likes to believe his son’s not …”
A door’s slam and a commotion on the stairs alerted Charlotte that someone, perhaps the physician, had finally been summoned.
“Ignore my ramblings.” Grandfather looked past her to the door, then shook his head. “Before they come to fuss over me, I need to know your answer. Will you take my message to Fensworth?”
“Yes, of course.” She leaned back on her heels to rise, mindful of her recent promise to the aforementioned Hambly. “Perhaps a note is in order. Shall I fetch writing paper for you?”
He shook his head. “He will come.”
“And if he is reluctant?”
Grandfather smiled and once again reached for her. She knelt again, allowing herself only the slightest wince as a sliver of Grandmother’s best breakfast service jabbed her.
“You’re a Beck, Charlotte, and you’ve a better head for figuring than even I do.” He winked. “I’m sure you’ll manage to convince him. Just promise me you’ll not return alone.”
She bit her lip, then nodded. “I promise.”