That afternoon Monsieur Pamplemousse arrived and before Charlotte had time to think about it, her long hair was lying in little sheaves around her dressing-room chair.
“Regardez,” said Monsieur Pamplemousse excitedly. “You are an Incomparable!” He kissed his fingers. “Ah, my scissors are made of gold!”
Charlotte stared at herself in the mirror. Her hair was curling in artful abandonment and her head felt light, as if it were a balloon about to float away. Freed from all the hair, her lips looked larger and her cheekbones were immense.
“Lady Charlotte,” said Marie earnestly. “You look more beautiful than I have ever seen you. You will start a rage!”
Charlotte smiled back at her in the mirror. Monsieur Pamplemousse was fussing about, showing Marie how to adjust a band around her mistress’s head, if she would like, although—he pulled himself up importantly.
“Lady Charlotte must summon me for any important occasion.” He was fully engaged for the following day, for the Duke of Clarence’s ball, but he would make a special exception and arrive at Calverstill House at four o’clock.
“I do not wish my creation to be marred,” he said, with a tremendous frown at Marie. Marie quailed and broke into French protests that Monsieur Pamplemousse ignored, flapping his hands at her.
“I must go, I must go!” he said in his marked accent.
Charlotte smiled to herself. It hadn’t escaped her that Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t respond to Marie in French; in fact, although he dropped foreign words into his speech, they were not all French. He seemed to be using Italian as well. She looked at herself again. It didn’t matter whether he was from the South Pole: He did have scissors of gold. She—Charlotte—felt beautiful, really beautiful, for the first time. To be honest, she felt exuberant. She was beautiful, and desirable, and exquisitely dressed. Why should she feel any shame? She couldn’t wait for the Duke of Clarence’s ball!
And that was why when Alexander McDonough Foakes, the new Earl of Sheffield and Downes, stopped in at his club on his very first evening back in London after three years in Italy, all anyone seemed to be talking about was a delectable heiress named Charlotte. Two gawky boys were practically threatening to duel each other over the question of which of them she had liked the best; his old friend Braddon Chatwin looked miserable when she was mentioned. In the two weeks since Charlotte appeared at the Duke of Clarence’s ball, the male half of London had fallen hopelessly in love with her.
Alex and Braddon settled down together in a quiet corner of the library, legs stretched out before a warm fire. Alexander fingered his brandy, listening absentmindedly to Braddon’s tale of woe … he’d asked her to marry him; she’d said no; last night she danced twice with … Lord! Why didn’t he remember how boring all of this was! He didn’t care who this arrogant little snip danced with. He looked at Braddon darkly.
“Cut rope, Braddon,” he drawled. “She must be a complete twit. Who would turn down an earl? It’s not as if you have seventeen children or something.”
“What do you know about it, Alex?” Braddon said hotly. “You always have luck with women….” But he trailed off uncomfortably. Suddenly Braddon remembered something awful, something he’d forgotten in the excitement of seeing his old friend stride into the club after three years.
Alex didn’t seem to have noticed his pause, Braddon thought, stealing a peek over his brandy snifter. His heart quieted down. Alex looked just the same. He didn’t limp or anything. Braddon shuddered slightly and took a huge gulp of brandy. What would Alex do with his time now? Why, all gentlemen did was box, and bet, and—and wench. Alex never liked gambling, and now he couldn’t wench, apparently.
He cleared his throat. “Ah, so, are you back for good?” Braddon asked.
“Yes,” Alex said absentmindedly, not even looking up from his glass. “You know, my father died eight months ago, and I couldn’t come back just then, but now I … Well, the estate takes some running, and—”
He looked up and fixed Braddon with his disconcerting black eyes. “I missed England after a while. Italy is splendid, but Maria, my wife, died and so I decided to return.”
“But …” Braddon was bamboozled. “I thought … everyone thinks that you aren’t married, that Maria, ah, annulled your marriage.”
Alex looked up, his eyes dark. “She did,” he said briefly. “She remarried, and then she died. Of scarlet fever, a month ago.”
“So you, you stayed in touch?” Braddon hazarded.
“No. But she summoned me when she was dying.” Alex looked up again, and caught Braddon’s gaping expression. Poor old Braddon! He always was a slowtop.
“Enough of this!” Alex said, tossing off his brandy. “Didn’t you say there’s some sort of a ball tonight?”
“Yes,” Braddon said, “but you can’t go like that! You’re not even dressed.” He cast an accusing look at his friend’s buckskin pantaloons. “Besides,” he blurted, “why on earth would you want to go? You always hated those things, even before—” And he caught himself again.
“I plan to attend the ball for the same reason you will, Braddon,” Alex said gently. “I need a wife.” He stood up and hauled the silent earl to his feet. They stood, eye-to-eye, in the empty library.
“Why?” Braddon asked bluntly.
Alexander turned and strolled toward the door. “I have a daughter,” he threw back over his shoulder. “She needs a mother. Come on, Slaslow. I’ve got my coach outside; we’ll stop by my house and I’ll change and we can have some dinner. Then we’ll go find ourselves wives.”
Braddon followed him dumbly. He had a daughter? Everyone in London knew that his wife had annulled the marriage on grounds of impotency. And that Alex hadn’t contested it. He’d never find a wife … well, of course he would, Braddon thought. Plenty of women wanting to marry earls; he could attest to that himself. But Braddon didn’t understand, he just didn’t. If Alex was impotent, how did he have a daughter? And if he had a daughter, why was his marriage annulled? And if … Braddon’s head was reeling.
The carriage pulled up in front of Sheffield House. Black swags still hung on each window, although they were getting a bit frayed now, eight months after Alex’s father died. Braddon trotted after Alex, thinking furiously. He couldn’t work it out, and he couldn’t get it straight without asking about the impotency business, and he wouldn’t do that, not under any circumstances.
It did cross his mind that it might be a little sticky, bringing Alex around to Lady Prestlefield’s ball. She was an awfully high stickler for morals and things like that; why, she’d barred Lady Gwenth Manisse from entering her house one day, just because poor Lady Gwenth was so disastrously and famously in love with a married archbishop. But then, Alex was an earl. And what’s more, he wasn’t divorced, exactly, and how could you turn someone away from a dance because they were—disabled, so to speak? Which brought Braddon around again to wondering about the problem of the daughter. Where did that daughter come from?
He’d better just forget it, Braddon thought finally, and pretend that he knew nothing about the whole annulment business. His head was aching trying to think it out. He’d get one of his clever friends, like David, to explain the whole thing to him later. If he just remembered not to mention any women, even that luscious little singer he’d just met at the opera, there wouldn’t be any uneasiness at dinner. Well, particularly he must forget the singer, because she was Italian, or she said she was. Brad-don brightened. Horses were obviously the trick! Nothing risky in talking about horses.
Braddon always had a remarkable ability for putting things out of his head (to the great annoyance of his mama, his tutors, and every logical person who came in contact with him, especially his personal secretary, his estate manager, and his butler). And so he thoroughly enjoyed his meal, and had no idea how much he bored Alex by giving him a point-by-point description of each and every horse in his stables.
After dinner Alex excused himself and ran upstairs to get changed. But fi
rst he walked softly into the chamber adjoining his and tiptoed over to the crib. Nestled into the sheets, his daughter was curled on her side, her face resting on one hand, the other flung above her head. She looked so angelic asleep, not at all like the demon who had turned his life upside down in the last month.
He reached out and traced the shape of her arching eyebrows: his eyebrows. His heart thumped again with rage. How could Maria have kept her from him? He’d lost a whole year of Pippa’s life. Alex took a deep breath and pulled the sheets snugly up around her small round body.
In her sleep, Pippa didn’t look sad; she was smiling faintly. She never had the nightmares the doctor forecast. It was only when she was awake that the loss of her mother showed. Damn you, Maria, Alex thought fiercely. If he’d known … well, Maria would still have died, wouldn’t she? Someday Pippa would stop missing her mother. At least Maria had summoned him when she knew she wouldn’t live. And now Pippa was here, and safe. He bent down and kissed her forehead.
“Don’t worry, pumpkin,” he said softly. “I’ll be back by the time you wake up.”
They arrived at Prestlefield House just a little after eleven o’clock, when the ball was in full swing. Braddon’s fears regarding Alex’s reception were for naught because Lady Prestlefield had just closed the receiving line when they entered the house and by the time they reached the ballroom she was energetically swinging through a country dance.
The Prestlefield butler’s chest swelled out a bit with pride as he ushered in not one, but two earls. His voice boomed over the crowded ballroom: “The Earl of Sheffield and Downes, and the Earl of Slaslow.”
There was no pause in the chattering noise that filled the room like an aviary. But everyone’s eyes darted up the steps and saw the two young men descending into the room; and everyone’s thoughts flew to tales they’d heard from Italy; and they all bent their heads a little closer to their partners, or longed agonizingly for the end of the dance so they could seek out better, more informed companions.
Charlotte didn’t even hear the announcement, because she was busy being gloriously indiscreet on the balcony. In the month or so since she had unveiled her new wardrobe, she’d found that looking gorgeous made her feel gorgeous, and feeling gorgeous translated into feeling daring. In fact, she’d rather given up the idea of finding a husband. She was having too much fun just flirting.
At the moment she was leaning back against the balcony, smiling up at Lord Holland. His eyes were sparkling, looking back at her. He was standing in front of her, just a fraction of an inch from her thigh, and she knew he was doing it on purpose. He put his hands on the balcony railing on either side of her. Charlotte tapped his chest with her fan.
“Ho, ho, sir,” she said. “Not too close.”
“What am I doing?” Will complained. “I’m not even touching your sleeve.” He leaned a trifle closer.
“I think you have an insect on your face,” he said seriously, with just a tiny quirk at the side of his lips.
“Oh?” Charlotte said. “What kind of insect?”
“A bee,” he breathed, very close to her lips now. “Do you want me to kill it?”
“I’m not sure,” she said, smiling.
“Think of it this way,” he said. “Your lips are honey and mine are the bee—” But wherever that rather strained metaphor was going, it was rudely broken off by Lady Sophie York, the daughter of the Marquis of Brandenburg.
“Charlotte!” she said, elbowing Lord Holland to the side. “Your mother is coming across the ballroom as if she were parting the Red Sea. You’d better go back inside and draw her fire; I’ll stay with Will for a minute and you pretend you were just taking air.”
Charlotte grimaced. She said, “Thank you, Sophie!” and slipped past Will’s shoulder through the curtain, without even a farewell glance.
Sophie looked up at Will, her eyes wide and innocent. Even though he felt a little cross, he had to smile back. She was such a perfect little person—probably not much over five feet tall, and delectably shaped.
“Oh, Will,” Sophie said mournfully. “Don’t tell me that Charlotte’s lips are as honey-sweet as mine….” She looked utterly dejected.
Will looked at her suspiciously. He knew Sophie York by now. “Well, you know how it is, Sophie. I did adore you, but then I saw Charlotte and she’s so tall, so willowy and statuesque, and somehow small girls just faded—” He stopped suddenly as a small fist punched into his stomach.
“Come on, Sophie! Give over!” he demanded, pulling a fragrant armful into the crook of his right arm.
“Your lips,” he said, looking deeply into her eyes, “are sweeter than honey grown by Tasmanian bees.”
She gurgled with laughter. “Are you sure I’m not the bee, Will? I did sting you, didn’t I?”
“Tasmanian bees in the Alps,” Will insisted, laughing back. He was thinking how much he liked these new French dresses. Sophie might be small, but her body was perfectly rounded, and he liked having her pressed against his side. His eyes darkened.
“Oh, no you don’t, Will,” Sophie said, seeing his intent. She nimbly turned out of his arms and pushed the heavy brocade curtain aside. “We had our kiss in Kensington, remember? Oh, surely you didn’t forget, Will?” She pouted slightly, her eyes glinting. Will’s groin tightened. He didn’t think he’d ever meet such an alluring pair of women as Charlotte and Sophie, this side of the demimonde, that is. Sophie twinkled at him, and slipped into the ballroom.
Lord Holland stood for a moment, braced against the balcony. If Charlotte and Sophie were so lovely, why did they jointly make him feel like such an idiot? And more important, how was he going to get one of them to marry him? He knew in the pit of his stomach that he had to have one of these girls. Even if they had been poor. But luckily they weren’t, he remembered cheerfully.
Sophie paused on the other side of the balcony curtain. Charlotte was just to her left, talking to her mama and a group of dowagers. Sophie smiled. Charlotte needed rescuing again. She drifted gracefully toward the group.
“Charlotte,” she said in dulcet tones.
“Excuse me, Mama,” replied her friend, turning gratefully toward Sophie.
“I feel a trifle déshabillé” Sophie complained, waving her fan before her perfectly arranged hair. “It’s so hot in here, don’t you think, Your Grace?” She smiled at Charlotte’s mother.
Adelaide smiled back in spite of herself. Sophie’s smile was entrancing, even though Adelaide wasn’t entirely pleased with Charlotte’s new friendship. She wasn’t quite sure why. Sophie was perhaps a trifle wild, but everyone knew that she would never really step beyond the bounds of propriety. It was just that she seemed so unlike her serious, nonfrivolous daughter. But then, what was her daughter like? In the last few weeks Charlotte had become the toast of London. From being someone who had received eight offers of marriage in three years, she received more than that last week alone.
“Oh, Sophie,” Charlotte laughingly chided. “You shouldn’t say you feel déshabillé: That means you’re only half dressed, doesn’t it, Mama?”
Adelaide nodded. That comment was just the kind of thing that made her wonder about Lady Sophie. She knew for a fact that Sophie’s French was flawless, given that her mother was French and she had had a French nanny. Whatever was the girl doing, suggesting she felt undressed? Really! Her sense of humor … it was a little outré, a little improper.
And Charlotte and Sophie went everywhere together now. The sight of Charlotte’s shining black curls bent close to Sophie’s strawberry-blond locks was common in Hyde Park; even more astonishing, Charlotte was actually painting Sophie: her first life portrait. Perhaps I am a little jealous, Adelaide thought.
Suddenly she started. “Oh, no!” Adelaide half-shrieked. “Wax!” The little gaggle of women jumped back, looking up. Sure enough, they were standing directly under a chandelier, and hot wax was dripping from the candles.
“Charlotte,” Adelaide commanded. “And Sophie, of course,
” she added. “We shall retire for a moment. Come, girls.” And she plowed imperiously through the crowds, heading for the ladies’ retiring room.
Sophie and Charlotte followed, rather more slowly. Sure enough, Adelaide did have a white waxy streak down the back of her gown. She would probably have to remove the gown and let the maids iron off the wax.
Charlotte’s eyes were glowing. She was wearing one of her new gowns, made of dark green silk. She loved the way the fabric slid smoothly over her legs as she danced or walked.
“So, are your lips made of honey?” Sophie whispered to her as they walked along, automatically returning smiles and salutes. “And is that a honeybee you left back there on the balcony?”
“Oh, no,” Charlotte wailed in mock despair. “Don’t tell me that you are going to ruin another perfectly good flirtation! I liked that honeybee story!”
“I am not!” Sophie replied. “I thought Will was a lovely honeybee. And,” she said with some indignation, “it’s not fair to suggest that I ruined your flirtation with Reginald last week—all I did was ask how many times he adjusted his toupee while you were sitting out the dance with him. I am right, you know! It’s a perfect indicator of desire. When his wife has a headache she’ll learn to dread his fidgeting with his wig.”
Charlotte laughed at her, half shocked, half delighted. How could Sophie say such outrageous things?
“I suppose,” Charlotte replied, “that his hands are constantly on his head whenever you sit out a dance with him!”
“Naturally,” Sophie drawled. “I should consider myself in very poor form if he didn’t jiggle his wig at least every other minute. And you know,” she said more reflectively, “maybe one of us should take him up seriously. He’s not at all bad-looking.”
They wove their way up the stairs, a laborious task given the throngs of gossipers positioned halfway up, still thinking about Sir Reginald Petersham.
“Of course, he’s only a baronet,” Sophie said.