“Oh, yes, and that paltry gesture came far too late. We suffered one grievous insult after another.”
“If you hate the British so much, my lady,” Alvanley interjected with a mischievous glint in his eyes, “then might I inquire as to why you are in our country and married to an Englishman—our Dewhurst here?”
Charlotte’s mouth shut quickly.
“Ah,” Freddie said straightening his cravat. “Thank you, once again, Alvanley, for putting your two pence where it is not wanted. But, as usual, you have the situation all wrong.”
Alvanley raised his quizzing glass in curiosity, and even Charlotte wondered what the man could have gotten wrong. It seemed to her the plump man had the situation exactly right.
“You see,” her husband went on, “it is not Charlotte’s views toward England that have changed, rather it is my own views toward the United States.”
Alvanley’s brow rose above the quizzing glass, and Lucia reached over and pinched Charlotte excitedly.
“What the devil do you mean by that statement, Dewhurst? By God, it’s a pile of rubbish if I ever heard one,” Lord Brigham blustered.
“I only meant,” Freddie said, his air casual and unconcerned, “that my dear wife has a point. The United States did win the war—that is a fact, no matter how much we seek to deny it. And they have reason to oppose us now—or at least they did before we revoked the Orders in Council. There is a new world order, gentleman, and that order advocates equality and liberty for all. England would do well to take note. We can no longer dictate policy to the rest of the world. We can no longer keep such a sharp, unwavering focus on foreign affairs. We have our own issues— riots, poverty, inequality—right here at home.”
Charlotte blinked. Had Dewhurst just defended America? Even worse, had he just defended her? Why? Did the man realize how much harder this would make it for her to hate him? The small party stood in silence for a moment, presumably digesting Dewhurst’s discourse, then Lucia—apparently adept at smoothing over the rough moments—stepped in.
“Well,” she began, clapping her hands together. “Charlotte, I simply must introduce you to the Duchess of Richmond. She can be quite . . . amusing.” Lucia grabbed Charlotte’s arm, and Charlotte stumbled ungracefully away with her.
When they were well away from Freddie, Alvanley, and Brigham, Lucia grabbed two glasses of champagne, handed one to Charlotte, gulped her own, and then began to laugh. Charlotte merely stared, her glass untouched. “Why are you laughing?”
“Oh, it’s not at you, dear Charlotte. I have not seen my father so flabbergasted in a long time, and for once it wasn’t with me. Oh, and Freddie! Did you see his face? He was furious! I loved it!”
“Furious with me!” Charlotte retorted.
“Nonsense. If there’s one thing I know about Freddie, it’s that he’s loyal to the last. He’s one of the best men I know.”
Charlotte’s jaw dropped. She had begun to trust Lucia’s judgment in these matters, but now she began to wonder if Lucia was altogether sane. “Lucia, he’s an arrogant, egotistical, spy!” Charlotte seethed. “I abhor him!”
“Of course you do.” Lucia laughed again. “Now have a sip of the champagne. Champagne always makes everything seem better.”
Chapter Thirteen
Charlotte took Lucia’s advice and sipped her champagne. Now that her temper was cooling, she regretted her words to Lord Brigham. She’d never been very good at keeping her emotions under control when arguing politics. She took after her own father too much, and his motto had been “My way or no way.” She downed the champagne, and Lucia, smiling, fetched her another.
By her third glass of champagne, Charlotte was also able to laugh at Lord Brigham’s shocked expression when she’d countered him and at her own overreaction. She wasn’t yet able to laugh at her defeat and subsequent salvation at the hands of Freddie Dewhurst, but she could smile ruefully. When Lydia, Freddie’s sister, joined them, Lucia left in search of Lord Selbourne.
“I have just been dancing with Lord Westman,” the young girl squealed breathlessly. “He dances divinely.”
“I am very glad to hear it,” Charlotte said, at a loss for any other comment. Had she ever acted as silly and excited as Lydia? She sighed. Probably she had, but it seemed a lifetime ago. Charlotte watched the forms of the dance on display before them and tried to conjure a carefree feeling of excitement. Perhaps if she could regain that lost freedom, then she’d stop worrying so much and just enjoy herself.
Lydia sighed dramatically. “Westman is so handsome. He’s the eldest son of an earl, you know.”
“Oh. Is that good?”
Lydia sighed impatiently. “Yes, that’s good. It would make me a countess if we married.”
“Oh, yes. I always have trouble with that one.”
Lydia’s pretty blue eyes clouded in confusion, but Charlotte wasn’t really paying attention. The champagne was making her head swim, and the music and the swaying dancers all seemed a bit too much suddenly.
Lydia clutched Charlotte’s arm, forcing her to focus. “Here he comes!” Charlotte frowned. How long was she to stand here, smile, and pretend interest? And where was Dewhurst?
“Excuse me, Lydia,” she said. “I need to—” She needed to what? She didn’t finish, but Lydia was focused on Westman and didn’t seem to notice.
Charlotte made her way to the open windows of the ballroom. She had drunk too much champagne, and she knew she walked a little unsteadily. But if she could just step outside for a moment, she would be in the fresh air, away from the music and the crowds. She was exhausted— mentally and emotionally—and no matter where she turned she was surrounded by the enemy. And despite the crowds, she’d never felt so alone.
