Neither victim to be pitied nor a villain to be feared—just a man. And it was…intoxicating. Every bit as much as the liquor would have been.
Christ.How was he meant to find a woman like her, of a similar mind, of a similar temperament, when therewasno other woman like her?
And then a thought occurred. Barely-formed, half an idea at best. She didn’t want to be a duchess; he knew that much at least. He’d be the beast everyone already thought him if he tried to keep her against her wishes, and he owed her better than an unwanted marriage that she’d long thought she’d escaped besides. She was happy as her own woman, free of any entanglements,legal or otherwise, and he owed it to her, that freedom she’d attained and for which she had striven for so long.
But perhaps he might prevail upon her for her assistance. Prevail upon her knowledge of those things, those social situations to which he had never much been exposed. How to find that woman who would inevitably replace her as his duchess, how to seek out the sort of woman who could see the man behind the wounds. How to gain her favor, how to win her heart—how to please her well enough tokeepit forever after.
∞∞∞
Twice inside of a week, Charity found herself calling upon a duke. The note had arrived only this morning, politely requesting her company—after nightfall. From anyone else, in any other situation, she might have assumed that there was some offense meant within the words, that a woman of her station and of her dubious reputation was unwelcome to pay a call in the daylight hours, when her presence might be seen and noted by others.
From him, she suspected only that it was to both of their benefits not to be seen more than necessary in one another’s company, and to subvert any gossip which might arise if a notorious former courtesan were to be spotted visiting the household of a duke who was meant to be in mourning.
The butler, Redding, admitted her at once upon arrival, but rather than directing her to the elegant drawing room where he had placed her upon her last visit, instead he said, “Captain Sharp requests the pleasure of your company for dinner, if you would be so kind, Miss Nightingale.”
“For dinner?” Inthishouse, with all of its occupants? “I couldn’t possibly.” The dowager duchess’ glowering alone would put her off her appetite, and that was to say nothing of his sisters-in-law. How were they meant to hold what by all rights ought to be a private conversation amidst so many people?
Redding cleared his throat. “Captain Sharp is dining upstairs in his study this evening. I’m given to understand that his nieces were expected down from the nursery to dine with the family.”
With the family. Notably, without their uncle—as if he were some sort of unwelcome interloper. Not family, certainly. At least not any family worth mentioning. “They are frightened of him,” she said, her fingers flexing at her sides.
“They arevery young, Miss Nightingale,” Redding said, the even cadence of his voice disguising whatever feelings he might have had on the matter. “Miss Hattie is not yet seven. Miss Evelyn is only four.”
“Children are often frightened of things”—and people—“they don’t understand. They will never grow accustomed to him if they are kept away from him.” As if they required protection fromhim. And what a sad state of affairs it was for him; to be perpetually excluded from his own family over something so shallow, so superficial as his appearance.
“I do but follow Captain Sharp’s instructions, Miss Nightingale,” Redding said, and Charity thought that the faint twitch of his mustache might convey some manner of agreement. Probably Redding was the closest thing to an ally that Captain Sharp had within his own home at present. At the very least, he had chosen to honor Captain Sharp’s preferred appellation, and that said something of his character.
Redding led the way up the stairs, and Charity curled her hand around the banister lining the staircase as she followed after him. As she ascended, there came a soft hum of conversation from somewhere on the ground floor, evidence of a meal undertaken absent one who by all rights ought to have been included. A strange sense of sadness assailed her as the sounds faded, the diners unaware that they had been overheard—indeed, unaware even that they had been judged cruel for the isolation of one of their own.
“Dinner has already been delivered,” Redding said as he reached the landing and continued down the hall. “If it is not to your liking, or if you require anything further, you have only to tell me, Miss Nightingale.”
“I’m certain that won’t be necessary,” Charity said. “You needn’t treat me as the lady of the manor, Redding. I assure you, my tenure will be a short one.”
“You are an honored guest of Captain Sharp’s, Miss Nightingale. Naturally you will be afforded every courtesy.” He paused at last before the door of the same room to which Captain Sharp had taken her on her last visit. The study, with its walls of books and its magnificent portrait of what had once been a happy family, which had since gone to ruin. Redding scratched at the door and announced, “Captain Sharp, your guest has arrived.”
From beyond the thick door, Charity heard the distant call of, “Enter.”
With a nod and a bow, Redding turned to leave, and Charity was left to let herself in.
Captain Sharp sat behind the desk across the room, engaged in a solitarymeal. “I began without you,” he said between bites, and gestured to the chair set before the desk, at which another tray had been placed. “Probably that was rude of me. Would you care for something to drink?”
“Thank you, no,” Charity said as she crossed the room. “I hadn’t planned on a meal, so you needn’t harbor any guilt over beginning without me.” She sank into the chair, lifted the silver cover that concealed her plate. “Do you not eat with your family?”
“Rarely.” He shrugged as if it did not much matter to him one way or another, when she knew it must trouble him very much indeed. “My table manners occasionally offend. I have lived too long outside of polite society to have had much use for them.”
Her plate was still warm, but he had demolished at least half of what had been laid out upon his already. Meals were often long, drawn-out affairs, especially in households like these, but he must have plowed straight through his dinner like a starving man. Alone as he was, there was no need to linger over a meal, no conversation to entertain. It had become sustenance to him, and nothing more.
It surprised her, how badly she wanted to make some remark, to suggest that perhaps he ought not to humor such unkindness. It was not her place to do so, she reminded herself as she reached for her silverware and cut off a small slice of roast duck. The tender, delicate flesh practically melted in her mouth, savory and seasoned to perfection. “Your cook is wonderful,” she said.
“I suppose,” he said, and shoved another cut of meat into his mouth, chewing too rapidly. A task to be accomplished rather than a meal to be enjoyed.
“Yousuppose?”
“I’ve never paid much attention.” Between bites, he gestured with his fork, as if he might wind back the clock with it. “You recall what it was like, don’t you? Food on a campaign.”
“Substandard at best.” Edible, mostly, but only just.
“Yes. But one does what one must. If the food was not palatable, it was at least filling. Provided one could eat it swiftly enough to ignore the taste.”
