Miss Charity's Case (14 page)

“Now, don't give Charity the wrong idea.”

“I would say you have given her all the right ideas already.”

Charity relaxed and smiled. Their gentle teasing bespoke the deep friendship Thyra had described. This more than anything was a testament that Oliver was not as evil as rumor named him. “Dissuading Oliver from a course of action seems a futile exercise.”

“Have you settled your crisis?” Oliver asked, guiding Charity back to the settee.

“It was nothing but a small fire.” Thyra touched the pot. “Drat, the tea is cool, and I doubt if the kitchen will be able to brew more until the smoke is gone.”

“Fire?” gasped Charity. “I had no idea.”

Thyra laughed lightly again. “I think your mind was otherwise occupied.” Looking at Oliver, she said, “I trust you have enjoyed your call.”

“Is that my dismissal?”

“Charity called so
I
might get to know her better.”

He chuckled. “You are a shameless baggage.” He turned to Charity. “Do think of joining me for a tour of one of my ships soon.”

“It might be unwise.”

“But deliciously fun.” He kissed her with swift passion before bussing Thyra on the cheek. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

Charity stared after him until she heard the door to the street close. Had she taken a maggot in the head? She had gone into his arms with the eagerness of a cyprian. Mayhap she needed a chaperon more than she had guessed.

She did not recall what she said to Thyra in the wake of Oliver's departure. While she was being driven home to Grosvenor Square, her brain remained unsteady with the rapture that had suffused it when his eyes had bewitched her with the promise of more pleasure. Was she being a complete sap-skull to be taken in by Oliver's smooth seduction? Joyce had never been less than honest with her in important matters, and she could not discount her sister's assertion of Oliver's dissolute ways.

Her knees were wobbly when she was handed out of the carriage by Thyra's groom. She mumbled her thanks and turned to go up the steps to the door. Every motion was as slow as if she were caught in the midst of a dream.

That dream became a night horror when Charity entered the house, and Hélène rushed up to her, grasping Charity's hand. “
Mademoiselle
Charity, thank the dear Lord you are home.
Mademoiselle
Joyce has vanished again. I fear for good this time.”

Nine

“Joyce gone for good?” Charity pulled off her bonnet. But, Hélène, how can you know that?”

“Come with me.” The abigail put her finger to her lips as she led the way upstairs to Charity's bedchamber.

Charity found Joyce's new dresser, Gillson, weeping inconsolably. The older woman's eyes were red, and teardrops dotted her simple gown.

“What is it, Gillson?” Charity asked.

The woman's gray head did not rise.

Hélène plucked a slip of paper from Gillson's hand. Holding it out, she said, “This is addressed to you,
mademoiselle
. We found it on her bed.”

Taking the sealed note from the abigail's quaking fingers, Charity wondered what Joyce was planning now. She slit the seal and read the letter.

Dearest Charity
,

Do not worry about me. I am doing as I must. I know you must think me the worst skimble-skamble for leaving like this, but I have no other choice. The gentleman who has touched my heart has assured me there is more danger than you can guess. Stay close to Lady Eloise's house and far from Lord Blackburn until I can return to explain everything. You are such a dear sister, and I am doing this to help you. Pray think of me kindly, for I shall think of you often until we can be together again
.

“‘Your devoted sister, Joyce,'” Charity finished in a whisper. Tears burned in her eyes. How could Joyce be so caper-witted? Danger? Joyce must be queer in the attic. No danger could be so close that her sister should have hied off like a debtor avoiding the banker.

“When did she leave?”

Hélène nudged Gillson with her elbow. The dresser took a steadying breath, then murmured, “A carriage stopped in front of the house shortly after you left for your call, Miss Charity. I assumed it was Miss Joyce on her way to the
modiste
. But now …”

“You saw no one?”

“No.”

Charity squared her shoulders. “Lady Eloise must be informed at once.”

Hélène put her fingers over her lips as she moaned, “Her ladyship shall be in an uncommon pelter over this. Can we not try to find your sister again,
Mademoiselle
Charity?”

“I have no idea where she might be.” She turned to leave the room, then paused. “Do you?”

Both women shook their heads sadly.

In less time than Charity guessed possible, Lady Eloise had the staff turning the house inside out, but no hint of Joyce's destination came to light. Only fifteen minutes passed before Prentiss came back to tell his mistress that Miss Joyce was nowhere to be found. Lady Eloise dismissed him with a curt order to continue the search in the stables and garden.

“I should have guessed she would be as much of a flibbertigibbet as her mother,” grumbled Lady Eloise before affixing her glare on Charity.

“Mama fell in love with—”

“The wrong man, as your sister apparently has. Can you guess another reason why she would not have written his name in her letter?”

Charity dabbed at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. “She has done this because she believes she is protecting me.”

“From what?”

Leatrice entered the room and chuckled icily. “Mayhap you should ask from whom. Lord Blackburn's attentions to Charity have been upsetting to her sister.”

Lady Eloise refused to be diverted from her diatribe. “Charity, I forbid you to mention that chit's name in this house again. Do you understand?”

“But she is my sister! We must make every effort to find her.”

“Every effort shall be made, but it is too late. She is ruined. I will not have her name connected with yours.” The old woman glared at Leatrice. “You will say nothing of this, as well.”

With a satisfied smile, Leatrice said, “I would never think of saying anything. You know I hold you in too high a regard for that.”

Lady Eloise turned back to Charity. “I wash my hands of your sister's brass-faced ways.” She raised her chin. “
You
shall be the one to overcome this family's shame, Charity. I shall see to that.”

When Charity assisted Lady Eloise to a chair in the spacious box overlooking the stage at the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden, she was glad the shadows concealed the tearstains on her cheeks. Below the bejeweled assembly buzzed with gossip.

“Sit down, Charity,” ordered Lady Eloise. “To stand there gaping as if you have never had the opportunity to be in gracious company is deplorable.”

Charity flushed. Her great-aunt's rebukes seemed to be coming more often along with her demands. Although Lady Eloise had denounced Joyce, she insisted Charity obey the request in Joyce's missive. Charity was to remain close to her great-aunt and far from Oliver Blackburn. Lady Eloise had devised a tale of Joyce visiting a distant, conveniently unnamed relative. Charity agreed to say nothing to put that tale in question, because she dared to hope Joyce would return before her reputation was in tatters.

“You can see quite well from anywhere in here,” added Leatrice Hoyle as she stepped past her brother so she could sit next to Lady Eloise at the front of the box. She spread out her skirts as she turned to watch Mr. Hoyle offer Charity her choice of the chairs near the red velvet curtains at the back of the private box.

“I hope so,” Charity said. “I never have had the chance to be in a real theater before.”

“There is no reason to parade your ignorance before all of us,” chided Lady Eloise.

Silence served Charity well. Before the first act of
The Merchant of Venice
, an operatic piece dissolved into farce when the lead actor missed his entrance. The audience talked through the whole piece, so the man suffered little embarrassment. Charity's hope that they would pay more attention to the play was futile. They continued their bibble-babble as if nothing were happening on the stage.

At the intermission, Charity clenched her hands in her lap beneath the shadow of her brightly colored Kashmir shawl. A parade of Lady Eloise's friends flowed in and out of the box. As Charity listened to the false story about Joyce's whereabouts spread with the ease of the truth, she fought her frustration. When Lady Eloise stood with Leatrice's assistance, Charity started to rise.

“Sit, child,” she said, patting Charity on the shoulder. “There is no need for your evening to be brought to an end because I sicken.”

Charity's cheeks grew cold. “Are you ill? Send Mr. Hoyle for the carriage. We must return you home posthaste. We can send for the doctor.”

Lady Eloise adjusted her cape around her shoulders and smiled, astonishing Charity, for Lady Eloise did not appear ill. “Stay and see the second act,” her great-aunt urged. You have been delighted with this poor performance. You just see it through so you can compare it to good acting.”

“But I should be with you.” Charity did not add she had no way to judge the skill of the actors when she had not heard a single word.

“Nonsense.”

“And I should not be here alone.”

The old woman smiled. “I see you are learning, Charity. I am sure I can find a friend to sit with you. Do as I tell you, and sit.”

Charity stared after Lady Eloise as she went with Leatrice and Mr. Hoyle out of the box. Mayhap her great-aunt was truly ill. There could be no other explanation for her suggestion that Charity remain here alone, unless …

The door clicked open, pushing the red curtain aside. A man stepped inside and bowed his head to her. Her first thought that he might be the box attendant bringing tea vanished when the candlelight shone off his white waistcoat. She had seen this tall man with bird-like features before. His golden hair and long nose teased her memory, but no name appeared in her jumbled brain.

“Good evening,” he said.

“Good evening to you, sir.” Her smile wavered as the door closed with another click. A single shriek would bring help from the neighboring boxes. She hoped the blond man realized that as well.

“I have heard you have been abandoned by your companions, Miss Stuart.”

He knew her, but who was he? She was sure she had seen him before, but he had made too weak an impression for her to recall that moment.

“Lady Eloise is …” To speak the truth would prove she was want-witted.

His smile was boyishly charming, especially when she noted that the tips of his ears were reddening with what appeared to be nervousness. “Lady Eloise herself suggested I join you here.”

“That is very kind of you, sir.” Why was she unable to recall his name? She must discover it. “Do you know Lady Eloise well?”

“She has been as thick as inkle-weavers with my family since she and my grandmother were young.” He shuffled his feet against the carpet. “That friendship became more secure when she sponsored Mother during her first Season.”

Charity suspected her great-aunt had overseen the Seasons of half of the peerage. After making wonderful marriages for her friends' daughters, she had been disappointed by her niece who had eloped with a mere country parson.

“Lady Eloise has put herself quite in a straw about you being alone,” the man continued with a warm laugh. “I trust your wishes do not conflict with hers. I would not wish to presume upon you.”

“You are welcome, sir.” Charity could not imagine what else she might say. The excellent cut of the man's coat announced it had been made by a talented tailor, and the signet ring on his left hand, rubbing his right one nervously, told her he was of high rank.

“Miss Stuart, you seem uneasy.”

Charity was tempted to respond she was not the only one acting self-conscious, but did not want to disconcert him further. She decided only the truth would suffice. It would be wondrous to speak it after hearing so many bangers in this box. “I find that I am at a loss to bring to mind your name. It puts me to the blush, sir.”

His smile lengthened the long line of his chin. “Then I just endeavor to make you easy. I am Myles Hambleton, Miss Stuart.”

A betraying heat climbed her cheeks.
The Duke of Rimsbury!
How could she have forgotten a duke? “Forgive me for failing to recognize you, Your Grace.”

He smiled as he sat next to her, his long fingers settling on the edge of the box. “There is no need to apologize. We met only once and had no chance to do more than speak a greeting, but I hope you will allow me to presume on that scant friendship to say I would enjoy watching the rest of the evening's program from here.”

“Of course, you are welcome.” She relaxed. He seemed sincere, and, in the aftermath of sitting through Lady Eloise's attempts to avoid questions about Joyce's absence, she appreciated that.

By the time the performance ended to indifferent applause, Charity discovered the Duke of Rimsbury was charming, although quite shy. She wondered if that shyness as lief as indifference had kept him from approaching Thyra. He was gentle, so gentle Thyra would soon dominate him, but Charity guessed the duke needed someone to look after him.

“I thought the play quite well performed,” Rimsbury said, as he stood. Graciously he assisted her to her feet. He fumbled with her shawl, but set it on her shoulders. “May I offer you the use of my carriage to Lady Afton's
soirée?
”

“That is not necessary.” Charity adjusted her bonnet ribbons under her chin. “I have no plans to attend.”

He smiled shyly and offered his arm, but his words sounded like a command. “Miss Stuart, I was implored to bring a dinner companion. You would not wish me to disappoint Lady Afton, would you?”