“Are you certain?” Dewhurst asked. “Have you seen him?”
Middleton glanced at her, and she quickly directed her gaze to the floor. Try to look uninterested, she told herself. Pretend you don’t care.
“I have it on good authority that he is in Town, and looking for Miss Burton. The best authority.”
Charlotte bored a hole in the rich burgundy carpet with her eyes. They were talking about another spy—they had to be. And they didn’t want her to know whom. But Cade was in London, and that was the most important thing. Middleton was right. It was time to stop playing at teacher and student and seize the opportunity to find and warn her friend.
But Dewhurst was shaking his head. “We need more time. We haven’t discussed how to approach him, where to approach him, and Charlotte hasn’t yet established herself in Society.”
“Society,” Middleton scoffed. “Pish-posh. She’s the hottest topic since Wellington at Vittoria. If you don’t bring her out soon, our demure Society ladies will storm your door.”
That at least elicited a smile from Dewhurst. He took a seat on the couch and leaned back. He appeared resigned to his cousin’s plan. “Very well. Do you think the opera is the best place for her entrée? Pettigru is unlikely to be there.”
“True,” Middleton said, coming around to the couch opposite Dewhurst and seating himself in it. “But it will give credence to the rumors that the Miss Burton he knew in America is the same Miss Burton who married you. And we might use the opportunity to establish a rendezvous more amenable to our purposes.”
Charlotte had slowly sunk back, out of the light and the men’s vision, but now she pressed forward again.
“Very well.” Dewhurst nodded. “What do you have in mind?”
“We make it widely known Charlotte will be attending a ball.”
“Which ball? I have a pile of unopened invitations—”
Middleton was shaking his head. “No need. I have already acquired an invitation for both of you.” He extracted a slim, creamy white card from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to Dewhurst.
Dewhurst read it, then raised his eyes until they met hers. “This will do very well,” he said. “Queer that the ball is in two days’ time, and I hadn’t received an invitation until now.”
Middleton shrugged. “You might say this is a special ball, contrived to suit our purposes.”
“But Lady Brigham? She’s hardly capricious enough to pull this off. She goes into hysterics if she is even five minutes late. This tardy announcement is not like her.”
Middleton smiled. “Perhaps the beau monde will assume her flighty daughter put the idea into her head.” The two men exchanged glances full of meaning, but the language was incomprehensible to Charlotte.
“You’ll attend, then?” Middleton asked.
“It’s a start,” Dewhurst said. “And not a bad one, though I do have my concerns.”
Charlotte took a deep breath. The look he was giving her reminded her of Miss Crudsworthy again. It was the same look her primary school teacher had given the class when she was about to call on one of the students to recite in front of the class.
Oh, no. Much as Charlotte wanted to stay and hear any additional tidbits Dewhurst or his cousin might drop, she decided to flee and cut her losses before they became insurmountable.
“Excuse me,” she said, backing toward the doors. “I am feeling a bit tired, and I believe I shall retire.”
Both men stood and bid her good night. Dewhurst’s gaze rested on her a bit longer than she found comfortable, and for a moment she thought she detected a flash of the ardor she’d seen in his eyes when he held her in his arms. She fled through the double doors, up the stairs, and into her bedroom.
A half hour later, she was sitting in warm, soapy water, listening to Addy hum as she prepared Charlotte’s room and nightclothes. Charlotte closed her eyes. Cade was close now. For some reason, knowing he was so near made her pine for home.
In her mind, she saw the long pastel piazza from her house in Charleston—her favorite spot. She’d curl up in her favorite chair and watch the last rays of the afternoon sun filter through the trees, extending long, dying fingers to touch the petals of flowers in the high-walled garden below. The garden had been one of the finest in Charleston—at least she had thought it so.
The garden had been surrounded by wrought-iron gates so covered with verdant foliage the metal appeared to be alive. She remembered walking beside that gate, her parasol brushing the honeysuckle blossoms when she paused to admire pink roses with blooms as big as her hand.
She remembered standing under one of the old magnolia trees, its shade a welcome relief from the heat of a summer day in Charleston, and she recalled James Huger. He’d put his hand on the tree trunk behind her, then leaned forward and kissed her, his tongue igniting a passion in her that she’d never known existed.
She remembered pulling away from James, then clutching his coat and pulling him back. She looked into his face—those lovely emerald eyes, that lazy smile, that tousled blond hair.
Charlotte sat up so suddenly water sloshed from the tub. James had had brown eyes and chestnut hair. George Washington! She was thinking of Dewhurst again.
She had to put him out of her mind, but every time she did so, the thought of the heat in his eyes, that sensuous mouth, the feel of his tongue when he flicked her nipple, made her achingly aware of him again. She looked down to see her nipples standing out, hard and erect. She might try to forget him, but her body would not.
