Chapter 7
Charlotte woke with the distinct feeling she was being watched.
She sat up in an overstuffed bed, enveloped in layers of soft, sweet-smelling bedclothes. The room was enormous, bright, and tastefully decorated; it was not even a little bit like Somerton House, which was more of a mausoleum crossed with a pirate ship.
It was her first morning waking at Hollystone Hall, and her surroundings were so different from her experience, she had to take a moment to get her bearings. She had been so tired after the hours-long journey the day before, she had collapsed into bed after supper and introductions. Now she was a guest at a spectacular estate in the countryside, surrounded by more titles than a bloody library. She had no hope of remembering them all. She knew she was at a disadvantage as a person of no birth with a reputation that was more than a little scandalous, but she hoped she would not unknowingly disgrace herself.
Again, the feeling she was being watched.
Charlotte frowned and glanced around the room, half-expecting to find an especially silent servant waiting in the wings.
She gasped as she spotted the cat.
A tiny ball of black and white fluff, he was a precious little thing, staring at her from the desk with a pair of huge blue eyes. Who had let a kitten into her room?
“Hello, baby,” she called to it in a sweet voice. “Where did you come from?”
The kitten reached forward with an uncertain paw, too large for his body. He lurched forward, his hindquarters shaking, but stopped short of leaping. After another attempt, he finally jumped and hit the foot of the bed, scrambling up the covers with his claws.
“What a good kitty!” she praised him, reaching for him as he padded across the bunched up bed clothes. When he was close enough, she gingerly drew him into her lap, stroking his fine, soft fur. He swatted the ends of her hair and she giggled.
She played with the kitten until a maid arrived with a pot of chocolate. The maid greeted her with a pleasant smile. “Good morning, Miss Halfpenny. I see you’ve found your kitten.”
“My kitten?” she asked, hope rising in her chest. She had never had a pet before.
“Oh, yes. There are quite a few of them running around. Lord Somerton thought you might like one. He left it for you this morning.”
Charlotte grinned, holding the kitten protectively. Of all the things that came with being a countess, the kitten was her favorite. “How kind of him. Where is he?”
“I believe he’s out riding with the gentlemen,” she said, pouring her a hot cup of drinking chocolate. “Would you like to write him a note?”
Charlotte nodded and accepted the chocolate. “Thank you.”
The maid pulled open a drawer in the desk and withdrew a quill, ink, and paper. “I’ll leave these here for you.” She set them out on the table beside the bed. “Shall I send someone to help you dress?”
Charlotte blinked. She had been dressing herself her whole life without any assistance to speak of. Still, some of the new items she had purchased would require more help than she was accustomed to. “Yes, please.”
Once the maid had gone, Charlotte frowned over the paper, trying to word her note of thanks to her intended.
Dear Apollo
The kitten swatted the end of the quill and Charlotte laughed in delight. She drew the end of the feather over the kitten’s ears and he whacked it, opening his mouth to bare his tiny teeth. He was so precious she felt as though her heart might burst just to look at him. Would she feel the same about the baby when it came?
She waved the quill in front of the kitten’s nose and giggled as he snapped at it, her glee going some way toward relieving her anxiety at spending two weeks with influential people who had every reason to distrust her.
The kitten caught the quill between its paws and kicked at it with his back legs. She smiled down at him. “At least I’ll have one friend.”
Charlotte looked into her empty tea cup with some regret. She had passed an awkward afternoon attempting to converse with some of the young women in attendance, regretting her decision to leave her room a little more with every passing moment.
As the daughters of lords, they projected good breeding with every movement, every courtesy, every accent and vowel until Charlotte had felt like a river rat in comparison.
Few had offered more than the briefest greeting. It took two failed jokes before Charlotte realized they had likely been warned away from her. She might be engaged to Somerton, but they were not married yet. Until that time, she was little more than a woman of ill repute, and one to be avoided at all costs.
Defeated, Charlotte sat alone beside the fire with a book for company. She attempted to appear imperious, then relaxed, and finally indifferent as she shuffled through the pages, not really reading so much as drowning in insecurity.
The young ladies’ conversation drifted through the room, laughter tinkling like tea spoons in porcelain cups. They spoke of school, frocks, and gentlemen she’d never met, the language and the subject matter a world away from the revelations she’d been a party to in her local pub. She had never been in the presence of such gently-bred innocence for an extended period of time and she found it to be so cloying it was almost noxious. Much longer without hearing something stronger than ‘blast’ and she would have been suffocated by it.
Fortunately, they left when they had finished their tea, fluttering away like flower petals in a strong wind.
Charlotte heaved a sigh of relief. The girls had made Charlotte uncomfortable in a way she had never experienced.
She was intimidated.
Everything about them was perfect. They held their cups with a schooled artfulness they no doubt took for granted. Charlotte tried to imitate it, pinching the handle just so, but good as she was, she knew anyone with eyes would be able to see she was more comfortable with a bottle.
Her despair gathered into a migraine between her eyebrows. How was she going to do this?
A young woman shuffled into the room with an endearing uncertainty, and Charlotte recognized her at once as the hostess’s relative. They had met briefly the previous evening before the girl had been called away to some drama in the kitchens. She was quietly pretty and, Charlotte suspected, secretly running the party. In the few hours since she had arrived, Charlotte had spied her bustling from task to task with ruthless efficiency, unnoticed but almost certainly indispensable.
She did not seem as aloof as the others. Perhaps she would try again to make friends. Charlotte ventured a small smile. “Cedrica, was it?”
“Miss Halfpenny, it is a pleasure.” Cedrica pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose. “Is everything to your liking?”
Charlotte laughed. “I’ve never been so comfortable in my life,” she assured her, though it was far from the truth. “You are kind to see to everyone’s wishes, but I hope someone is seeing to yours.”
“I am well. Thank you for asking, Miss Halfpenny.”
“Charlotte, please.” She gave the Cedrica her best smile. “Won’t you join me for a cup of tea?”
Cedrica glanced at the table and Charlotte could almost see her counting the cakes. As a small frown creased her brow, Charlotte poured two cups to distract her from any tasks on her mind.
“Sugar?”
Cedrica shook her head. “I should not… I cannot resist Monsieur Fournier’s petit fours. If I do not cut back somewhere, I’ll be made of sugar by the new year.” She accepted the tea cup and carefully chose a cake from the tray with an odd little smile.
Charlotte took one for herself and sat down with her tea, Cedrica joining her before the fire. The cake was tiny and perfectly square. It was covered on all sides in a thin coat of hard icing so smooth it could have been painted on. They were topped with delicate sugar flowers.
In the space of three days, Charlotte had ascended to dizzying heights from stale currant buns in Bankside to tiny cakes too perfect to be real.
She poked the sugar flower and a petal cracked and fell off.
Cedrica nibbled her cake slowly, and Charlotte caught a flicker of ecstasy on her face before she suppressed it. Curious, she bit into her own cake.
The icing was good, but the cake inside was spectacular; light as air and flavored with lemons and something else she could not quite place. She devoured the rest in a single great bite, yellow crumbs spotting her new skirt. No wonder Cedrica was so fond of them. Without asking, Charlotte went back to the table and returned with two more.
Cedrica accepted one with an endearing smile. “Thank you.”
“I’ve never had such a thing before,” Charlotte confided. “They’re marvelous. If this Monsieur Fournier is half as handsome as he is skilled, we’re all in trouble.”
Cedrica sipped her tea, her cheeks faintly pink.
Charlotte nearly choked on her cake as she noticed it. “He is?”
“Monsieur Fournier is very skilled,” Cedrica agreed, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. It was all she would say.
Charlotte sipped her tea, intrigued. Perhaps these ladies were not as well-behaved as she had feared.
Cedrica cleared her throat delicately and changed the subject. “I wish to congratulate you on your engagement. Lord Somerton appears to be a fine gentleman.”
Charlotte felt her heart speed up at the mention of her engagement. Stage fright, she told herself. “He is. Thank you.”
“May I ask you something… importunate, Miss Halfpenny?”
Charlotte’s grip tightened on her tea cup as she braced herself for whatever the young woman deemed impolite. “Of course.”
She lowered her voice. “Is it true you ensnared Somerton with naught but your gaze?”
Charlotte’s laugh erupted from some place between surprise and hysteria. Clearly she had chosen the right gossip in Mrs. Laird. “Indeed it is,” she confirmed, as if such a thing was possible.
Cedrica coughed nervously. “Teach me?”
The girl fiddled with her skirt, obviously nervous. Cedrica was young and tolerably pretty, but clearly did not have the innate confidence of one at ease with her place in the world. By virtue of their birth, the other ladies at the party were sure to have more suitors than they could ever want, but she suspected Cedrica, like herself, would have to rely on her wits.
Charlotte smiled. “Of course. What is it you’d like to know?”
The poor girl paled. She opened her mouth, but the words did not immediately come out. “Anything. I am forthright and calm, but I suspect I lack charm. I do not know how to speak to a man as anything other than… myself.”
Charlotte smiled. “I assure you, you are quite charming as you are. Perhaps you ought to seek one who admires you without artifice.”
“Certainly, but how will I speak to him? That is, if I find such a man?”
“There’s nothing to it. I’ve known a great many men and I can assure you, very few of them are concerned with words.”
Cedrica’s eyes widened.
“Men have a short attention span and they like to be entertained. You don’t have to dance for them—although I’ve never known a man to refuse the offer—but try to engage them in conversation. If you are uncertain as to what they like to discuss, try to make them laugh.”
Cedrica blinked, holding her cake midway to her mouth. “How?”
“Witty observations, a sense of the ridiculous. Never laugh at another’s expense, mind you. You don’t know if they are close with the person you slight. At best, you will seem rude, and at worst, unforgivably cruel. Do not comment on people, but situations, current events… you can laugh at your own expense, but not his. That rarely goes over well.” Charlotte sipped the last of her tea.
“I have heard you ought to touch gentlemen, but I cannot fathom how one would do this without being too forward,” Cedrica confided.
“You can, although as you say, it would be rather difficult as a lady in polite society. Actresses have the advantage that being forward is expected and they will drape themselves over any lap that takes their fancy.” She laughed.
“Is that how you caught Somerton’s attention?” Cedrica asked in a tiny voice.
Charlotte flushed, rather liking the image brought to mind by the suggestion. “I did not,” she answered with some regret. She would, given half the chance. “Touching should be limited to accidental brushes or small gestures to remind them of your presence that can be interpreted innocently should your feelings not be reciprocated. Most importantly, hypnotize him with your gaze.”
Cedrica frowned. “That sounds difficult.”
“It’s easy,” Charlotte promised. “If you happen to catch his gaze, hold it for a moment longer than strictly necessary. When he does not look away, smile. It’s an intimacy no one else should notice, and it will feel like you have a secret between you. If he returns your feelings, he’ll try it again. If he does not, he’ll avoid your eyes.”
Cedrica took a deep breath as if she could take on all this new information through her lungs. “Did Somerton return your gaze?”
“Eventually. He likes my monologues.” Charlotte smiled to herself. “With others, it was my hair, my bust, or my backside, but Apollo was the only one who liked to listen. Is it any wonder I chose him?”
Cedrica sighed. “You’re most fortunate, Miss Halfpenny.”
A snort from the doorway interrupted their conversation. “She’s well aware of that. Aren’t you, Miss Halfpenny?”
Cedrica rolled her eyes at the intruder. “Weasel,” she said under her breath.
Charlotte frowned. She didn’t remember meeting the man. Was he called Weasel, or was that what Cedrica thought of him?
The man sidled up to her chair and she spotted his intentions a mile away. She’d met many like him over the years. “We’re all aware of precisely how fortunate. Would that I were so fortunate—” He dared to run a finger down the length of her arm. “—for perhaps an hour or two?”
Charlotte shuddered. “An hour? Please, child. I doubt you could be so blessed for more than five minutes.”
Weasel flushed a brilliant scarlet at the slight, though Cedrica did not seem to notice. “Cedrica, my room is in need of fresh water and a good dusting. Would you be so good as to send a servant up?”
“Certainly,” she agreed, shoulders sinking.
“Run along, then. I can’t imagine Her Grace would like to hear you were in here alone with such an infamous woman.”
Cedrica lifted her chin, clearly irritated. “Miss Halfpenny was invited.”
“Cannot be helped, I suppose.” He returned to the door, expecting her to follow. “At your convenience, Miss Grenford?”
Cedrica rose, resigned. “I beg your pardon, Miss Halfpenny. It was lovely speaking with you.”