Charlotte glanced at her friend, then looked more closely. “Is that a new shawl you’re wearing?”
Addy merely smiled. “Maybe it is. You going to get up or loll in bed all day?”
“I suppose I had better get up and, um . . .” What did she have to do when she got up? “See to the servants and the dinner menu,” she finally said.
Addy harrumphed. “Every day you say you’re going to look at the menu, and every day I hear you arguing with that Mrs. Pots because she ain’t showed it to you.”
Charlotte glared at her. “Thank you for pointing that out, Addy.”
Mrs. Pots was proving quite stubborn, but Charlotte had no doubt she’d come around. After all, Charlotte had won the other servants over. Now that Hester was no longer simply a maid but also a hairdresser, she was far less lazy, and Wilkins hardly ever grumbled about sharing his starch with Addy anymore, and Charlotte had even convinced Freddie’s cook, Monsieur Julian, to experiment with some of her American favorites.
Everything was falling into place. Everything except Freddie and Cade. To rid herself of one, she’d need to contact the other.
With Cade safe and her thousand dollars in her reticule, there’d be nothing to stop her from going home. Home. Where she and her heart would be safe.
FREDDIE’S EBONY WALKING stick made a pleasant clicking sound as he made his way through the thinning crowds on Bond Street to Gentleman Jackson’s Rooms. Freddie was fond of pugilism and he wasn’t bad in the ring, but he had no intention of participating that night. His first order of business was to find Sebastian and hear his report.
Freddie nodded to Lord Yarmouth, who was exiting Gentleman Jackson’s as he entered. The rumor was that Yarmouth was the latest recipient of Josephine’s ample charms. Freddie frowned, suddenly realizing that he hadn’t thought of Josephine for days. He hadn’t thought of any woman save one: Charlotte Burton.
Dash it if the hellion hadn’t intrigued him—no, bewitched him—with her charms last night.
Wilkins had had to query three times which riding boots Freddie preferred this morning, and he had no idea how many times his housekeeper, Mrs. Pots, had inquired if his breakfast was satisfactory. Freddie couldn’t even remember what, if anything, he had eaten for breakfast.
Two things played upon his mind constantly. One was that he had to have Charlotte Burton. He wanted her in the biblical sense of the word certainly, but he also feared that he might feel the need to have her in a more permanent way as well. As a mistress?
No, she would never agree to that.
Which left only—Freddie shuddered and endeavored, for perhaps the fiftieth time, to pretend the idea had never crossed his mind—marriage.
Leg-shackled. Tied the nuptial knot. Buckled.
He didn’t know where such a thought came from or how to rid himself of it. He could only hope this irrational need to possess her would wane. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. Never before had he even considered marrying a woman of his acquaintance. He was fond of the ladies he knew and courted, but he felt no great affection. Then there were his paramours, of course, but none of them would have made a suitable match. And neither would Charlotte, he reminded himself sternly.
And he’d be dashed if he couldn’t imagine the tittle-tattle when Charlotte vocalized her very American political views again. He could not hope to keep her silent on that point. Of course, her loyalty was commendable, and Freddie knew without thinking that she was fiercely loyal to her family and friends. What might it be like to be the recipient of such devotion? For a man who had made a career of trusting no one, the idea was almost inconceivable. Could he trust Charlotte?
That brought him back to reality. What of Charlotte herself? Could he trust her to uphold her end of their bargain concerning Pettigru? And what of the money she demanded as payment? Was she just a mercenary, a money-grabbing chit like so many others he’d known?
Freddie’s hand clenched around the gold lion’s head of his walking stick. He did not want to think of Charlotte in those terms. It was much more pleasant to dwell on the memory of her lush body pressed against his. He knew enough of women’s bodies to know that hers would mold perfectly to his. That he could easily lose himself in her satiny skin, her velvet curves, and the heady scent of honeysuckle. He imagined her cherry hair splayed on the white of his pillow, her sherry brown eyes half closed in pleasure, her—
Freddie’s roguish smile was still on his lips when he saw Alex signal to him from across Jackson’s Rooms. He made his way to his friend, who was lounging next to Sir Lumley Skeffington, odd pairing that, and belatedly realized the two were engrossed in a boxing match between Middleton and Lydia’s beau, Westman. Gentleman Jackson, the retired pugilist and owner of the establishment, was shouting encouragement and directions.
Freddie took the empty space next to Skiffy, who then remarked, “Zounds! Middleton is giving Westman a beating. Poor chap. I never thought that chitty-faced fop had it in him.” Freddie smiled crookedly at Skiffy’s characterization of Sebastian as a fop. He could smell Skiffy’s strong perfume three feet away and endeavored not to take note of the yellow satin suit he wore or the face paint.
Freddie glanced at Alex, but he seemed more engrossed in the fight than usual. That was to say that his jaw was clenched and his arms crossed. The day Selbourne shouted encouragement to one of the pugilists would be the day Almack’s opened to the general public.
“What’s got Selbourne all agog, old man?” he asked Skiffy, wincing as Westman threw a low right that hit its mark.
“Oh, he’s got a monkey on this mill. Middleton, of course.” Sebastian swung at Westman, but the punch went wild and Westman easily sidestepped it.
“And you haven’t risked any of your own blunt?”
“Zounds, no, sir! I’m in dun territory as it is. Can’t a fellow have a look-in on the Corinthian Path without having his windmill dwindled to a nutshell?”
Just then Sebastian brought up his left, and, in a move Freddie knew well from experience, feigned a punch, then floored Westman with his right. The fight was over.
Alex uncrossed his arms and turned to Freddie. “Drinks are on me tonight.”
“In that case, may I remark that I have always admired you, Selbourne,” Skiffy exalted. “Always said you were the best of men.”
