She sank lower in the tub and tried to think what to do. She did not want to feel anything but hatred and loathing for Freddie Dewhurst. He was a warrior and would never allow himself to feel anything for her. Not to mention, he was British, and as such, he was not entitled to any of her softer emotions—dislike, antipathy, aversion. She would not allow an Englishman, who just happened to know how to use his tongue, to sway her from that conviction.
She sighed. There. The matter was settled. She would not think of Freddie again.
Freddie . . . the name suited him. It had a charming, boyish sound that reflected his personality. She wondered what he would do, what he would say were she to whisper, Freddie in his ear.
“Dash it!” She sat up again. “Goddammit! Now he’s got me saying it!”
“Miss Charlotte?” Addy called from the other side of the partition. “You need help?”
“Oh, I’m fine, Addy! I’m almost done in here.”
“No rush, Miss Charlotte.” Addy’s low voice wafted through the partition. “That skinny necked fool thinks he owns this tub. No how. No way. We’ll keep it as long as we like.”
Charlotte sighed. Thank God Cade was close because she couldn’t take much more of this war between Addy and Wilkins. Cade. She had to focus on Cade. Dewhurst and his cousin claimed he was a spy. Was it possible?
Charlotte sighed. She knew it was, but she owed these Brits no loyalty. Had she been in Cade’s place, she might have done the same. Her goal from now on would be not to think of Dewhurst at all. She would find Cade and warn him about the dangers awaiting him. But first she had to get through tomorrow night.
THE OPERA TURNED OUT to be no small affair. The box Middleton had acquired for them was to be occupied not only by Dewhurst, his cousin, and her, but also Dewhurst’s mother and sister Lydia. Charlotte had worn her green dinner dress again as she had no opera gown ready, but Dewhurst had not commented, so she supposed she did not look too unsuitable.
Hester, Dewhurst’s maid, volunteered to style Charlotte’s hair, and Charlotte reluctantly agreed, hoping the maid had more of an aptitude for hairdressing than she did for cleaning. Hester, lazy and usually rude, had found her forte as a hair-dresser, and for the first time Charlotte thought her red hair looked pretty. Not that the dress or the coiffure would survive the night.
It started on the way to the opera. She was squeezed next to Dewhurst in his gleaming black Town coach, which, although spacious, was overcrowded with five passengers—Charlotte, Middleton, and the three Dewhursts.
Quarters were so close, she had practically been forced to sit on Dewhurst’s lap. He was in full dandy persona, and while she tried to forget her discomfort, he complained endlessly about the possibility of her crushing his cravat. She had wanted to thump him over the head with her reticule, came very close to it in fact when he told her she looked “all the crack.”
Lydia assured her he meant it as a compliment, but Charlotte had seen his eyes dip to the low-cut bodice of her dress. She’d wanted to wear a wrap to cover the excess cleavage spilling out, but Freddie had snatched it away, remarking that it was not at all the thing. Charlotte had asked if catching her death of cold was more fashionable, but her husband had been unperturbed, flashing his lazy smile at her.
Despite Freddie’s comment, in the end Charlotte had been glad she’d left the shawl at home. She was not cold; in fact, the opposite was true. The heat from being jammed in the carriage and then crammed tightly in the crowds once they reached Covent Garden was almost too much. No wonder the British women never wore wraps despite the cold weather; there were simply so many people about that they packed up against one another and generated heat that way.
When they finally made it through the crush, as Dewhurst had called it, and arrived at the box reserved for the evening, Charlotte took a deep breath and slumped in her chair. She was exhausted, and the evening had barely begun.
But as Charlotte gazed about the theater, all her fatigue melted away. Covent Garden was absolutely the most beautiful place she had ever seen. The stage was large, hidden by a rich crimson drapery, and ornamented by an elegantly paneled arch. On each side of the arch rose two female figures represented in relief, who looked as though they had just stepped out of an ancient Grecian temple. Above her, the elaborate ceiling of the theater was painted to give the appearance of a cupola, the painting depicting an ancient lyre. Just looking up at the vast domelike ceiling made her dizzy.
When Charlotte had her fill of what was before her, she began to marvel at the wonderful boxes the upper classes were beginning to fill. There were tiers and tiers of boxes, one on top of the other, with intricate carving on the wood between. The seats were covered with a light blue cloth, and even though it seemed these Brits preferred being crushed together, the theater boxes were quite spacious. Separated from its neighbor by gilt columns, each box was illuminated by chandeliers of cut crystal suspended from the tops of pillars. To Charlotte, the chandeliers sparkled like tiny stars against the sky blue background of the boxes.
A refined, charming city in its own right, Charleston had its share of beautiful feats of architecture, but Charlotte had never seen anything to rival this. She turned absently to the person seated beside her to comment breathlessly on the splendor before her and was discomfited to find her husband seated there.
Of course he was, but, oh, why could she not get away from him!
He was watching her closely, a strange look on his face. And when their gazes met, the look in his dark green eyes sent heat rushing to her face.
Charlotte did not know how long they stared at each other—it seemed like an eternity—before his mother leaned over and inquired what she thought of the theater.
Charlotte tore her eyes away from Freddie’s and answered, “Oh, it’s just stunning, madam. Quite grand.”
“I am sure you have nothing in Charles Town to match this,” the woman said smugly. Charlotte smiled, letting the woman have her moment of glory. It seemed to mean so much to some people that others were impressed by their grandeur. She saw no harm in giving Dewhurst’s mother a moment’s pleasure, especially when Charlotte was finally impressed.
But the mention of Charleston also brought Cade into her thoughts, and Charlotte turned her attention back to the theater with a new purpose.
She began scanning the patrons, looking for his black hair. She turned to scan the boxes and in so turning, Charlotte again met Freddie’s lingering gaze.
George! The man was still watching her! What could he find so interesting? Knowing him, he was probably adding up every mistake she had made so that he could fully enumerate them later.
“Mr. Dewhurst,” she began, intentionally omitting his title. He gave her a look of annoyance, and she began to wonder what else she could she say to keep that searing look from returning to his eyes. “Are there many officers in attendance this evening? I have seen several red coats.”
His eyes scanned the theater with affected ennui. “Suppose I see a few officers. Worried?”
Charlotte shrugged. “A British officer might not like the idea of an American, the enemy so to speak, in such close proximity.”
