“Starch,” she supplied. “A lot.”
“A lot of starch if you give me a bit of information on your mistress.”
Addy crossed her arms and stuck her lip out. “Oh, no. Miss Charlotte’s like my own child. I couldn’t betray her.”
“Oh, I’m not asking for any information like that. I just want to see that we get along better and make sure she’s happy here.” And that was all it was, wasn’t it? There was nothing to his request. He simply wanted to make their sham marriage appear more real. “I just want to know what she likes,” he continued. “What flowers and jewels does she prefer, for example?”
“Hmpf. You won’t get far offering her jewels. She wears that necklace her mamma gave her, and she don’t ever take it off.”
Freddie nodded. “Good to know. I think you earned yourself some starch, Miss Addy. Now what else can you tell me?”
Addy gave him a long hard look. “I like you, Mr. Dewhurst. Lord knows why because you dress prettier than most girls I know. But I think you’re good for Miss Charlotte.”
“Then you’ll help?” Freddie smiled. Now this was the effect he was used to having on women.
“Oh, I’ll help,” Addy said. “But you are going have to give me more than starch.”
She lifted up a corner of her ragged shawl, and Freddie sat back to listen.
CHARLOTTE HEARD THE carriage wheels clatter over every cobblestone in the streets between Bruton and Berkeley Square, where Lord and Lady Brigham lived. It was the night after the opera, and they were en route to the Brighams’ ball. It was a short distance, but the crush of traffic slowed their progress to a crawl, and by the time they arrived, Charlotte’s nerves were frayed and she was ready for the ball—the entire charade—to end. But she’d frozen that polite smile on her face, and she would not remove it until she found Cade.
But as soon as she and Dewhurst stepped over the threshold of the Brighams’ spectacular town house, Charlotte realized the charade had only just begun. Here all of London was on stage. Dewhurst led her deep into the foyer and through the receiving line, pausing before a tall woman with short, springy platinum curls.
“Signora Brigham,” Freddie said bowing gracefully. He was deep in his element now.
“Buona sera, Lord Dewhurst,” Lady Brigham said so loudly that Charlotte almost stepped back. The woman had a high-pitched tone that must have carried into every room of the mansion. “And who is this lovely signorina?”
“Lady Brigham, may I present Lady Dewhurst, my wife. Charlotte, Viscountess Brigham.”
Charlotte curtseyed. “Good evening, madam.”
“Oh!” The woman’s eyes widened. “But you’re not English.”
“Lady Dewhurst is from Charleston,” Freddie supplied.
“Charleston?” Lady Brigham’s blond brows furrowed. “Is that near Norwich?”
Norwich? Charlotte was appalled. How could this woman not know where Charleston was? “Certainly not, madam. It’s—” Charlotte began.
“Near the Scottish border,” Dewhurst finished for her. She gave him a sharp look, and his jade green eyes glinted playfully. Now what game was he concocting?
“Mamma mia! Lord Dewhurst, I had no idea you were acquainted with anyone who lived so far north.” Lady Brigham fluttered her fan rapidly. Charlotte opened her mouth to protest, but before she could do so, the party was interrupted by Dewhurst’s cousin.
“Dewhurst. Fashionably late as usual.” Middleton strode into the foyer. He had obviously attempted to put his Elizabethan dress aside for the evening, but now he wore wide, baggy mauve trousers, lavender waistcoat, and a green tailcoat. It hurt Charlotte’s eyes to look at him.
“Good God, sir,” Dewhurst said. “Did you fall and hit your head? You look like a zany.” Freddie took his cousin’s arm. “Do sit down. You might have a concussion.”
Middleton grinned and shook off Freddie’s arm. “I hear the ladies like bright colors. ’Sides, I don’t care a fig if Beau Brummell’s here. I’m a connoisseur of love, not fashion. It’s the ladies I want simmering with lust when they spy my Cossack trousers,” he added in a conspiratorial whisper.
“Simmering with lust, eh?” Dewhurst muttered.
Middleton turned to Charlotte, who was still trying to understand the appeal of such a vibrantly colored outfit. “Lady Dewhurst—” Undoubtedly he was about to spout Shakespeare, but his words were lost in the loud gasp her husband let out. A few guests had gathered to watch the antics of these pinks of the ton, and Charlotte saw more beginning to crowd around.
“Selbourne, old boy. Has someone died?” Dewhurst called.
Charlotte turned to see Lord Selbourne—she rarely had trouble remembering he was a lord— and Lucia, arm in arm, approaching. Lucia was smiling, but Selbourne scowled. “Don’t start, Dewhurst.”
“But, I say, the last time I saw so much black was at the funeral of my great-aunt Agatha. You remember, Sebastian?”
