“The wrinkled look is all the go in the city these days,” Dewhurst said jauntily. “Haven’t you heard?”
“No,” the man said, looking horrified. “You cannot possibly be serious, my lord. That coat is ruined.”
Dewhurst shrugged. “Even so.”
Charlotte couldn’t suppress a smile. Poor man. Dewhurst was—what had he called it on board ship? hoaxing?—Dewhurst was hoaxing the man, and the gullible servant believed it.
“Lady Dewhurst, meet Wilkins, my valet. He keeps me in top form.”
Charlotte held her hand out to the servant, but the man simply gaped at her. “Lady Dewhurst, my lord? Whatever can you mean?”
Dewhurst smiled, that lazy smile that gave him so much charm. “Congratulations are in order, Wilkins. I’ve taken a bride.”
Wilkins gasped, gave her a look rife with disapproval and disbelief, then took a full two steps back. Charlotte glanced down at her dress. She didn’t look that unkempt. Did she? She searched for something to say. It was important to have the support and loyalty of the servants if her time here was to be tolerable. She settled on complimenting the house.
“You have a lovely home, Dewhurst,” she said, glancing at the black and white marble stairs and the gleaming chestnut banister. The chandelier itself sparkled as though covered with a million diamonds. How much was it worth? How much were the paintings on the walls worth? And what of the rest of the house? There were doors on either side of her, stark white, but closed so that she couldn’t glimpse their treasures. She had best not become too used to living amid such elegance. It would not last. “You are to be commended, Mr. Wilkins,” she finished.
Wilkins stared at her, then turned to Dewhurst. “My lord?”
“No, Wilkins, she’s not British.” He grinned at her, taking her hand in his. Charlotte was suddenly glad of the solidarity between them.
Though it was nothing more than a sham, it was all she had.
“Scottish, my lord?” the valet continued, as if she weren’t standing there.
“American,” Dewhurst said, and the valet put a hand to his throat. If possible, his pale face turned paler. “Now might be a good time for you to pay the hack’s driver, Wilkins.”
“Of course, my lord,” he said, voice sounding thin and reedy. He turned to the door, still standing open, and promptly screamed like a little girl.
“Lord Almighty. What is the matter with that man?” Addy asked, stepping into the foyer. “That noise’s hurting my ears.”
“Wilkins,” Dewhurst said, raising his voice to be heard over the din. “Stop that infernal noise. This is Miss Addy, Lady Dewhurst’s maid.”
“That”—Wilkins pointed to Addy—“that giant will be living here, my lord?”
“And she’s to be treated with all due respect,” Dewhurst said. Wilkins swallowed, took a step forward as though to greet Addy, then fell on the floor in a heap.
“Oh, good God. This is intolerable.” Freddie turned to Charlotte, expression looking weary and frustrated “You—you’ve felled my valet.” He gestured to the fallen man in accusation. “What now, madam? Midnight rides? Yankee Doodle? Tea parties on the Thames? Dashed upstart colonists.” And he strode away.
Chapter Four
Charlotte watched her “husband” retreat. Even though he must be as exhausted as she, he held himself with undeniable aristocratic bearing. Arrogant, imperialistic, condescending: her “spouse” was everything she’d always hated about the British. And more. She let out a small, inelegant, decidedly unaristocratic snort. British nobles and their misguided sense of honor. She’d been in England all of one day and his house not twenty minutes, and the so-called nobleman was already abandoning her. So much for honor.
Well, she wasn’t going to stand for it. Lord Dewhurst was about to have a minor American rebellion right here under his roof. She lifted her skirts, prepared to follow him, when a small but redoubtable-looking woman stepped into the foyer. The petite, iron-haired lady looked Charlotte up and down and up again, then said, “I am Mrs. Pots, milord’s housekeeper.”
“Hello,” Charlotte said and tried to scoot around the woman, but the housekeeper blocked her path. Charlotte tried again, but when she went right, the woman followed, and when Charlotte went left, the woman bounced in front of her again.
“And who are you?” the woman asked. She gave Charlotte a dubious look that reminded her of the look Addy gave stray cats begging for scraps at the back door of the house in Charleston.
Charlotte tried one last time to skirt around her, but Mrs. Pots was having none of it, so Charlotte mustered a smile and introduced herself. “Charlotte Burton.” She held her hand out, trying to look friendly and sweet and pathetic all at the same time, as those were the traits that had generally won the cats’ favor. Mrs. Pots, however, did not appear swayed, so Charlotte went on, “I am Lady Dewhurst now.”
“Ridiculous,” Mrs. Pots replied, shaking her head so that her gray bun bounced.
“Rid—” Charlotte blinked. No wonder her father’s generation had seen the need to forcibly expel these British from American soil. Even their servants were insufferable. “Now look here, Mrs. Pots—”
“No, you look here, young lady,” the housekeeper interrupted. “I don’t know who you are, or why His Lordship has brought you here.” Her gaze scoured Charlotte from head to toe again. “Though I can probably guess.”
Charlotte’s jaw dropped, and she tried to speak, but only a sputter came out. If one more of these people accused her of being a loose woman . . .
