Princes of Charming (9 page)

She leafed through the pages, studying each name. Surely one of these society gents must have a daughter they wouldn't object to marrying off to the heir of a vast fortune. If not she'd be reduced to plucking a woman out of thin air.

Polly was going through the wardrobe that evening, finding any old garments that her mistress might want to donate to the poor, as she did every winter.

"What about this peach silk, ma'am." The maid held up a ruffled evening-gown—the very first extravagant frock Drusilla had ever owned— with a daringly low-cut curaisse bodice and a train edged in white Alencon lace. The style was several years out of date and since she'd been in mourning black for six years, Drusilla had no chance to wear it anyway. But she'd kept it in her wardrobe because it was so beautiful and she couldn't bear to part with it.

"Perhaps, ma'am, if you don't want to let it go completely, I could use the material and make something new for you."

"That's a very kind thought, Polly." Drusilla watched from her bath as the maid held the silk gown up to herself and looked in the mirror. "That color does look exceptional next to your skin. Try it on."

"Oh, I couldn't ma'am."

"You certainly can." She smiled thoughtfully. "Indulge me. Go behind the screen and put it on."

While the maid disappeared, Drusilla turned her gaze back to the notebook, skimming over names, dimensions and the specifics of each client's preferences. Unfortunately it was very difficult to concentrate on the task when her mind was so full of her own preferences—  and the afternoon of debauchery she'd just enjoyed in Brandon Wilder's hotel suite. How kind of him to indulge one of her fantasies, she thought idly.

"That handsome young man who came looking for you today, ma'am." Polly peeped around the screen. "He was very rude. Needs taking down a peg or two, if you ask me."

"Nicholas? Yes, he certainly does require a set down."

"Barged his way in, demanding to know where you were. I was about to clap the side of his head with a saucepan."

She chuckled. "I'm not sure he would have felt it, Polly. He has a very thick head."

"Threatened to sit and wait for you in the parlor, whether I liked it or not."

Drusilla turned a page of her book and ran a finger over the names. "How on earth did you get him out? Did you have to call Martha down?"

"Oh, no. I dealt with him meself. Shooed him out with the broom, ma'am. Brushed him out with the dirt he brought in on his big feet."

"Good for you."

The screen trembled and Polly stepped out. "Here I am."

Drusilla looked up.

"What do you think, ma'am?" The girl grinned, twirling playfully, her cheeks slightly flushed because she knew instinctively, without even glancing in the cheval mirror, that she looked pretty. It was something a woman knew right away when she tried on the perfect gown and magic occurred.

In the mellow gaslight her little maid was transformed from girl to woman.

Drusilla snapped her book shut. "I think, Polly, we've found our Princess of Charming."

Why not? It hit her like a thunderbolt. But could she carry it off? Could Polly?

Surely no society debutante was more deserving of a lucky break. None sweeter, more natural and unspoiled than Polly, who rose from the pumpkins and the ashes to make a better life for herself. All she needed was a few lessons in deportment —and the girl had already shown herself to be a fast learner with a mind like a sponge.

She was looking at Drusilla with wide eyes, not understanding yet, of course.

It would not only be a good deed for Polly, it would be a wonderful trick to play on the folk who lived their lives in snobbery and hypocrisy. Daily Drusilla witnessed wildly inconsistent behavior among the upper classes. She saw not only the outside veneer, but also what went on behind closed doors. Yet her access to those circles was only as a ghostly figure. Madame Pantoufle was allowed in, but kept on the fringe, a dark secret of society's elite. Meanwhile, widowed Mrs. Kent, proper and respectable, was too lowly for the upper echelons among whom naughty Madame Pantoufle, the very opposite of respectable, plied her trade.

There was no cause more worthy, no idea dearer to Drusilla's heart than the improvement of circumstances for the poor and neglected. Wherever there was injustice or an imbalance in the world, she should find a way to right it.

The more she tested the idea in her head, the more intriguing it became. Polly, she thought mischievously, would be an even greater creation than that of herself.

But then there was Nicholas. An insolent young man who, as Polly had dryly observed, needed taking down a peg. Was it fair to unload him on this girl?

"You thought Master Wilder handsome, Polly?"

"Before he opened his mouth," came the swift reply.

Drusilla smiled, leaning back in her bath, damp locks falling to her shoulders. "The same might be said of a great many men."

Polly checked her reflection in the mirror, standing in her stockinged feet, hands on her waist. "I haven't got enough to fill it out," she muttered.

"It just needs taking in at the bodice." Drusilla tapped her fingers on the edge of the bath. "Master Wilder will be very rich one day." At least he had the grace to attempt an apology for his outrageous conduct in that carriage by sending her chocolates and flowers. Although he probably did not have to pay for the chocolates; it was the thought that counted.

Or was she being soft?

The maid was unimpressed. "Pity he can't buy himself some manners then with all his money."

Drusilla laughed. He would certainly never get one over on Polly. She'd be good for the boy. "Wouldn't you like to marry a rich man?"

"I don't know, ma'am. I never thought of it."

"Think of it now then...more gowns like that one. You'd never have to clean out another pan of ashes, never have to blacken another grate. Never have to peel another potato. You would have nothing to do all day, but float about leisurely and look beautiful."

"Sounds a bit dull, ma'am."

"But in the evenings you would attend grand dinners and balls, visit the opera house and the theatre." She knew Polly adored the music hall. There was something else she knew Polly loved too. "And you would have all the chocolate you could possibly eat."

That, it seemed, was the deciding factor. "Oh then, I'd say yes," Polly exclaimed, breaking into a big smile that dimpled her cheeks. "How could a girl refuse an offer like that, ma'am?"

"Indeed, what girl could?"

She's almost made it sound irresistible to herself. Good thing she wasn't in the market for a husband.

Eight in the Morning

November 23rd

He swept through the tiled hall of his grandmother's town house, following the footman, trying to shorten his stride, which was naturally long and inpatient. They paused at the door of the breakfast room, where the footman tapped smartly and entered.

"Mr. Brandon Wilder, ma'am."

It was a bright room facing east, with tall, narrow windows and light furnishings. He remembered rarely being allowed in this room as a boy. It was his grandmother's special retreat, where she spent her first hours of the day in peace and tranquility, surrounded by her favorite objects and waited on by a footman who wore cloth slippers to ensure he made as little noise as possible in her presence. His grandmother insisted on two large bouquets of fresh flowers in the room, even in winter, and the carpet had to be turned regularly to avoid faded marks from the sun. All her ornaments and paintings were handled by only the most trusted housemaid and the cushions on her chairs had to be plumped up and placed just so—one discovered at the wrong angle could cause her to have a very bad day, and thus cause the entire family and staff to have the same. Her breakfast room was not, therefore, the sort of place in which a child was welcomed, particularly not a clumsy boy who had dirty hands more often than not.

Elinor Charming sat at a small, round table, looking out on the wintering, walled garden while she ate her kippers. Twisting around in her chair, she summoned Brandon closer with one languid wave of her arm and a flutter of lacy frills danced from the sleeve of her day gown.

"So you return at last. Come, stand in the light so I can see."

He stepped cautiously over her carpet and the footman backed out, closing the door with a quiet click. "Grandmama. How pleasant to see you again." Reaching for the hand she offered, he bowed over it and kissed her knuckles. Her skin was soft, almost powdery, wrinkled like crepe paper. Oddly enough, he never remembered it any other way.

"Don't lie, Brandon. I'm sure you're not particularly pleased to find me still living. Most people are waiting for me to die."

When Elinor Charming admitted it, she was eighty five and not quite five foot tall. What she lacked in stature and youth, she made up for in presence and sheer bossiness.

"You're larger than I recall," she exclaimed.

"Well, it has been more than twenty years."

She motioned to a chair across the table and he sat.

"Whatever you think, grandmama, I
am
happy to see you. I have missed our weekly talks all these years."

"Yes, well," she waved her hand again, weak winter sunlight made bolder and brighter as it sparkled on her rings and the bracelet she wore, "that's enough of that foolishness." She sat back in her Hepplewhite chair and took him in with two stern eyes that were still surprisingly clear and not, he suspected, in the least short-sighted. "Have you seen the boy yet?"

"I have."

"What do you think of him?"

Brandon scratched his cheek. "He's young, of course. Much to learn."

"You mean he's a naughty, mischievous little chit who gets away with too much, too oft."

He smiled slowly. "I suppose so, grandmama."

"All your fault."

"Mine?"

"Your father was always very strict with you and when he saw how you turned out, he used opposite tactics with Nicholas. Only to achieve the same result. The man's a milksop fool, of course. I told my daughter that when she married him, but was I listened to? Oh, no." She lifted the tall silver pot by her plate. "Coffee?"

"No hot chocolate, grandmama?" Since it was the drink upon which the roots of their vast fortune had begun, he remembered practically being force fed with hot chocolate every morning as a child.

"Good lord, no. I never could stand the damnable stuff." She shuddered elegantly.

"Isn't that sacrilege?" he teased.

"More than likely. I've become rather good at blasphemy and irreverence over the years. Why should you men have all the fun in life?"

He chuckled. At her age, she could get away with a great deal, but she'd always been outspoken, so even if she claimed it was a recent development he knew otherwise.

"My grandfather, Elijah Charming, began selling hot chocolate in his tea room simply because he thought it was a perfect alternative to alcohol," she muttered, pouring out her coffee. "He was a Quaker, as you know, and believed liquor was the gateway to ruined morals and poverty, thus to Hell. Chocolate, therefore, would save the world."

"It certainly saved him from poverty," Brandon remarked dryly.

"Curiously, it did not save his family from alcohol however, or the gates of Hell. Every generation since has heartily enjoyed the Devil's beverage." She shot him a look that curled the tips of his collar. "And your son is no exception."

Brandon nodded. He'd seen the jaundiced color of his son's eyes yesterday. The boy was heading for a slippery slope, as he was once too. Oddly enough the scandal of the century had actually saved him from the descent he was embarked upon in youth and set him on a new track. When he left the country and his family, he had to learn to fend for himself. He sobered up pretty quickly—even if it wasn't a complete reformation.

"Now what do you think of this matchmaking business?" she demanded.

"Nick is too young to marry." He thought of Drusilla Kent—as he had done at least once every half hour since yesterday. It was clear that his son encouraged Captain Wilder to hire her because he wanted to get under her petticoats. Nothing to do with wanting a wife at all. She was going along with it for the money. Brandon was sure they'd met; whatever she said, his son was far too keen for their rendezvous yesterday and too disappointed when it was thwarted. He couldn't blame Nick for that; he'd be furious if someone spoiled his plans with that woman too.

"I do not agree that he is too young," his grandmother replied, after some consideration. "But what he needs is a strong woman to keep him in line. Once again, naturally, my opinion is overlooked and your father must hire this ...woman...this Mrs. Kent...to find a bride for Nicholas, when I might have done the service for free." She sipped her coffee. "Marriage might be a very good thing for the young man, make him settle and put his mind to more worthwhile pursuits."

Brandon frowned. "I thought you wanted me here to stop the matchmaking, grandmama? I thought you didn't approve of Nick marrying yet. Isn't that why you wrote to me after all these years?"