Shana Galen (5 page)

She gave her maid a weak smile, but she could understand how Addy felt. Would they ever be home again?

“Dash it, girl. Keep your head down.” Dewhurst chastised her again.

Immediately she lowered her head, but only because she did not want to attract attention any more than he wanted her to be seen. She’d meet all his high-brow friends and supercilious acquaintances soon enough.

She wondered fleetingly if her mother had ever been to these docks—if Katherine Abernathy had walked on this same ground before her fateful trip to the colonies, where she’d met and fallen in love with George Burton. Charlotte did not have many memories of her English mother, but she could not imagine the gracious, demure woman she did remember in a noisy, dirty place like this. Perhaps by the time Charlotte had been born, the last festering pus of her mother’s British origins had been extracted.

“Here we are,” Freddie said, indicating an old carriage for hire. He pulled open the door and held out a hand to Addy. “Madam, if you will allow me.” He handed Addy inside, then looked at Charlotte. No frilly words for her. He jerked his head toward the coach, and when she took his hand, he practically shoved her inside before climbing in himself. The driver opened the hatch above them and said something Charlotte could never hope to decipher. Dewhurst must have understood because he replied, “Take us to”—he glanced at Charlotte, considering—“Bruton Street. Number sixty-four.”

“Difficulty remembering where you live, Mr. Dewhurst?”

He frowned at her from across the carriage. “Not any more than you have remembering my title, Miss Burton.” He opened the curtains a bit. “Ah, good. The sun is up. You’ll be able to see the city.”

“I declare, your city holds no interest for me.” She crossed her arms and looked at Addy for confirmation, but Addy was staring openmouthed out the window. Charlotte frowned, then shivered. Now that she was out of the hustle and bustle, she was even more conscious of the damp cold seeping into her bones and pulled her mantle tightly around her. It was late June, and when she’d left Charleston in May, the weather had been balmy. Here it was cold and dreary, the sun Dewhurst had touted invisible behind the sooty clouds.

The weather reflected the city. The coach drove past dingy buildings, dirty streets, and rancid smells. The London sky was darkened by a thick fog, and she had the feeling that it wouldn’t dissipate with the morning. The few shops that were open were lit as if it were perpetually evening.

The hordes of city dwellers off on their morning errands seemed not to notice their bleak surroundings. In all the racket, how could they? Charlotte pressed her palm to her forehead, finding it difficult to take in the press of carriages and horses, the swarms of humanity, and the hollow, haggard faces of the beggars on almost every corner. Then there was the added strain of redcoats. The city appeared under siege from the sheer numbers of enlisted men milling about, waiting to go to war or hoping to avoid it.

“Oh, Lawd,” Addy murmured at the sight of the soldiers.

“Not to worry, Miss Addy,” Dewhurst said. “You are quite safe here.”

Charlotte snorted, and Dewhurst looked at her. “Old friends, Miss Burton?”

She grimaced. “Hardly friends, Dewhurst, but we are acquainted.”

“If you’d like to renew your friendships, I could take you to the daily parade of the Horse Guard from their barracks to Hyde Park.”

“Only if you promise to meet our American boys in uniform. I’d be happy to introduce you,” Charlotte answered with a smile. Dewhurst looked as though he knew the kind of introduction she’d give him—one guaranteed to see him hanging from the nearest tree branch. She allowed her gaze to rest on him briefly—this man who would play her husband—noting that he looked tired and pale. Was he dreading this ordeal as much as she?

A few moments later, the crowds thinned and the streets were quieter and less congested. She caught a glimpse of green up ahead and leaned forward to better see the trees and grass. “Berkeley Square,” he said. “I have friends there.” Charlotte blinked. There were some very fine houses in Charleston but few rivaled these. “Would you like to see Grosvenor Square, Miss Addy? I’ll tell the jarvey to drive us.”

“No.” Charlotte answered for her. She wanted neither Addy nor herself to be impressed by these English. The coach slowed then and the coachman—what had Dewhurst called him, a jarvey?—announced their direction. Or so she assumed for she still did not understand the man.

Dewhurst swung out, first handing Addy down and then taking Charlotte’s hand. She stepped onto the walk and looked up. The house was white and pretty, three or four stories. It was not huge, but neither could it be called modest. She started forward, and Dewhurst grasped her elbow. “Are you ready to begin our charade, Charlotte?”

She gave him an icy glare. “I have not given you leave, sir.”

“I’m your husband. Our marriage tends to imply a certain familiarity. The servants will expect it.”

He was right. She took a breath. “Very well. What shall I call you?”

“My given name is Alfred, but my friends call me Dewhurst.”

“Alfred, then.” She turned back to the house, but he swung her ’round again.

“My close friends, my family, and my mistress call me Freddie.”

Charlotte’s eyes widened. “Mistress?” she hissed. “You said nothing of mistresses!” She glanced at the house. “I don’t know what you were thinking, but I am not entering a house of prostitution.”

He chuckled. Actually chuckled! “Josephine has her own house, and I assure you I will give her a public congé. I suppose I have to if this marriage is to be believed,” he muttered.

“Pray, don’t appear so eager, Alfred. I might not believe you’ve really ended it.”

“It’s Freddie, and I assure you I will end things with Josephine. Just as I know you will bring Cade Pettigru to me.”

She inclined her head. “A fair trade.”

He laughed. “Hardly, Charlotte. Hardly.” Then he bent down and swept her up and into his arms.

“What are you doing?” she cried, squirming to be free.

“Old English custom, Lady Dewhurst. I’m carrying you over the threshold.” He reached forward, undid the gate, and started up the walk. Charlotte could hear Addy grumbling behind them.

“I do not need to be carried,” she said, but the words came out feebly. He had called her Lady Dewhurst. Oh, George. She had not realized how strange it would be to think of herself as an Englishman’s wife. To be a titled Lady, with a lord for a husband. What had he said his title was? Baron? Was that like a prince? And then they reached the landing and the polished black door with its brass knocker opened and a small man with a pale face and dark hair, meticulously combed back, stood frowning at them.

“My lord!” he crowed, sounding like a bird who’d just had a tail feather plucked.

“Wilkins,” Dewhurst said, nodding. Charlotte noticed that though he had just carried her up the walk, he did not sound winded in the least. His color was back now, and if his smile was to be believed, he was enjoying himself indeed. He carried her through the door and set her down with a flourish in a large foyer. He bowed deeply and theatrically, and said, “Your humble abode, my lady.”

Charlotte wanted to swat at him. He was finding far too much amusement in the situation.

“My lord, what happened to your coat?” the man Dewhurst had called Wilkins screeched. He reached out a trembling hand, brushing Dewhurst’s coat with one finger. He shuddered visibly. Charlotte frowned. The coat looked fine to her.

“The wrinkled look is all the go in the city these days,” Dewhurst said jauntily. “Haven’t you heard?”

“No,” the man said, looking horrified. “You cannot possibly be serious, my lord. That coat is
ruined.
”

Dewhurst shrugged. “Even so.”

Charlotte couldn’t suppress a smile. Poor man. Dewhurst was—what had he called it on board ship? hoaxing?—Dewhurst was hoaxing the man, and the gullible servant believed it.

“Lady Dewhurst, meet Wilkins, my valet. He keeps me in top form.”

Charlotte held her hand out to the servant, but the man simply gaped at her. “
Lady
Dewhurst, my lord? Whatever can you mean?”

Dewhurst smiled, that lazy smile that gave him so much charm. “Congratulations are in order, Wilkins. I’ve taken a bride.”

Wilkins gasped, gave her a look rife with disapproval and disbelief, then took a full two steps back. Charlotte glanced down at her dress. She didn’t look that unkempt. Did she? She searched for something to say. It was important to have the support and loyalty of the servants if her time here was to be tolerable. She settled on complimenting the house.

“You have a lovely home, Dewhurst,” she said, glancing at the black and white marble stairs and the gleaming chestnut banister. The chandelier itself sparkled as though covered with a million diamonds. How much was it worth? How much were the paintings on the walls worth? And what of the rest of the house? There were doors on either side of her, stark white, but closed so that she couldn’t glimpse their treasures. She had best not become too used to living amid such elegance. It would not last. “You are to be commended, Mr. Wilkins,” she finished.

Wilkins stared at her, then turned to Dewhurst. “My lord?”

“No, Wilkins, she’s not British.” He grinned at her, taking her hand in his. Charlotte was suddenly glad of the solidarity between them.
Though it was nothing more than a sham, it was all she had.

“Scottish, my lord?” the valet continued, as if she weren’t standing there.

“American,” Dewhurst said, and the valet put a hand to his throat. If possible, his pale face turned paler. “Now might be a good time for you to pay the hack’s driver, Wilkins.”

“Of course, my lord,” he said, voice sounding thin and reedy. He turned to the door, still standing open, and promptly screamed like a little girl.

“Lawd Almighty. What the matter with that man?” Addy asked, stepping into the foyer. “That noise’s hurting my ears.”

“Wilkins,” Dewhurst said, raising his voice to be heard over the din. “Stop that infernal noise. This is Miss Addy, Lady Dewhurst’s maid.”

“That”—Wilkins pointed to Addy—“that
giant
will be living here, my lord?”

“And she’s to be treated with all due respect,” Dewhurst said. Wilkins swallowed, took a step forward as though to greet Addy, then fell on the floor in a heap.

“Oh, good God. This is intolerable.” Freddie turned to Charlotte, expression looking weary and frustrated “You—you’ve felled my valet.” He gestured to the fallen man in accusation. “What now, madam? Midnight rides? Yankee Doodle? Tea parties on the Thames? Dashed upstart colonists.” And he strode away.

C
harlotte watched her “husband” retreat. Even though he must be as exhausted as she, he held himself with undeniable aristocratic bearing. Arrogant, imperialistic, condescending: her “spouse” was everything she’d always hated about the British. And more. She let out a small, inelegant, decidedly unaristocratic snort. British nobles and their misguided sense of honor. She’d been in England all of one day and his house not twenty minutes, and the so-called nobleman was already abandoning her. So much for honor.

Well, she wasn’t going to stand for it. Lord Dewhurst was about to have a minor American rebellion right here under his roof. She lifted her skirts, prepared to follow him, when a small but redoubtable-looking woman stepped into the
foyer. The petite, iron-haired lady looked Charlotte up and down and up again, then said, “I am Mrs. Pots, milord’s housekeeper.”

“Hello,” Charlotte said and tried to scoot around the woman, but the housekeeper blocked her path. Charlotte tried again, but when she went right, the woman followed, and when Charlotte went left, the woman bounced in front of her again.

“And who are you?” the woman asked. She gave Charlotte a dubious look that reminded her of the look Addy gave stray cats begging for scraps at the back door of the house in Charleston.

Charlotte tried one last time to skirt around her, but Mrs. Pots was having none of it, so Charlotte mustered a smile and introduced herself. “Charlotte Burton.” She held her hand out, trying to look friendly and sweet and pathetic all at the same time, as those were the traits that had generally won the cats’ favor. Mrs. Pots, however, did not appear swayed, so Charlotte went on, “I am Lady Dewhurst now.”

“Ridiculous,” Mrs. Pots replied, shaking her head so that her gray bun bounced.

“Rid—” Charlotte blinked. No wonder her father’s generation had seen the need to forcibly expel these British from American soil. Even their servants were insufferable. “Now look here, Mrs. Pots—”

“No, you look here, young lady,” the housekeeper interrupted. “I don’t know who you are, or
why His Lordship has brought you here.” Her gaze scoured Charlotte from head to toe again. “Though I can probably guess.”

Charlotte’s jaw dropped, and she tried to speak, but only a sputter came out. If one more of these people accused her of being a loose woman…

“I draw the line at dishonesty,” the housekeeper warned.

With effort, Charlotte shut her mouth. Thank George Washington, she was not a stray cat. This woman probably scalded the poor creatures with boiling water rather than give a puss the smallest morsel of chicken. Ha! Charlotte thought. She wouldn’t rate even a chicken bone if this continued.

But the formidable Mrs. Pots was not finished with her scalding. “The dowager is the only Lady Dewhurst I know, and you, miss, have a long way to go before aspiring to her class.”

“Be that as it may,” Charlotte said, straightening her spine. “I am your new mistress, and as such—”

Mrs. Pots turned her back. “Now what have you done to poor Wilkins?” she asked, peering at the man still sprawled on the floor. Charlotte exchanged incredulous looks with Addy, while the housekeeper motioned for a girl hovering near the stairs with a basin and linen to come forward. “Hester, dab his face with that water. Lazy girl. Be quick about it. That is sure to revive him.”

Hester followed the order, kneeling beside the
poor valet. A moment later, the man spluttered awake, snapping, “Not the cravat! Don’t dampen the cravat!” He sat up, hands protectively clutching the stiff linen at his throat.

“Ah, back to his old self,” Mrs. Pots said. “Now, what other havoc have you wreaked?” Mrs. Pots said, glancing about.

Addy stepped forward, obviously unwilling to tolerate any further insult to her mistress. “Don’t you talk to Miss Charlotte like that. I won’t tolerate no disrespect.”

Charlotte put a hand on Addy’s forearm. “Addy, let me—”

“Don’t interrupt, Miss Charlotte. I is talking to this woman, and she mighty confused.” Charlotte threw up her hands. Now even Addy was shushing her. “I think you owes Miss Charlotte an apology.”

On the floor, Wilkins whimpered, but Mrs. Pots frowned, puffed her chest out, and rose to her full height, which was at least a foot shorter than Addy. “Addy, is it? Addy, you are mistaken. It is
you
, not I, who are in error.”

Addy crossed her arms. “Fancy talk isn’t worth chicken spit.”

“Oh, dear Lord!” Wilkins cried, shrinking back.

“I ain’t going to hurt you, little man,” Addy growled, then added under her breath, “Unless you give me reason.”

Wilkins made a small sound of distress and
swooned yet again, and Charlotte, worried she might be trapped in the foyer all day if she didn’t take action soon, pushed forward. “Mrs. Pots, I know all of this must come as quite a shock, and I am certain Dewhurst will answer any questions in his own good time, but for now, would you please take me to him?”

Mrs. Pots frowned. “I don’t think—”

“Oh, never mind,” Charlotte said. “I’ll find him myself.” And she started down the hallway in the direction Dewhurst had taken.

“Where are you going?” Mrs. Pots called after her. “Come back here!” Charlotte kept walking, past door after door after door. She paused to stare at the mammoth, polished wood edifices spaced evenly before her. Dewhurst could be behind any of them. She turned in a full circle, noting the fine rosewood ornamental tables and the treasures they displayed. Three of those fine porcelain vases, two gold candlesticks, or one of the antique clocks would absolve her of money worries for a half year or more. As she stared, a blue and gold liveried footman emerged from a hidden door in the wall behind her and, when he saw her, bowed.

Charlotte nodded, and the man began to walk away, but Charlotte called after him. “Wait! Sir!”

He turned back, seeming surprised.

“Can you tell me where—ah, His Lordliness—Lord Dewhurst is?”

“Yes, madam. I believe he retired to his room.”

Charlotte nodded and turned back to the row of doors. “And which door might that be?”

“His Lordship’s room is two floors up, madam.” Charlotte frowned back at the foyer. She had been standing there a moment before, looking up at the high chandelier and the glossy black and white marble steps. The footman seemed to note her confusion. “I believe he took the servants’ stairs to avoid the”—he followed her gaze down the corridor, where they could hear Addy chastising Mrs. Pots and the housekeeper giving as good as she got—“commotion. Through there, madam,” the man said, indicating the wall panel.

“Thank you, sir,” Charlotte said, grasping his hand.

He smiled. “Andrews, madam.”

“Andrews.” She squeezed his hand, then slipped through the panel and started up the stairs. When she emerged on the third floor, she was staring down another corridor lined with towering doors. George Washington, but this place needed street signs! Well, there was nothing for it but to try each door and hope she didn’t intrude on anyone. She took a deep breath and started walking, pausing at each door to try the handle. The first three were locked, but the fourth turned.

“Success!” she whispered and pushed the door open.

“Do you always sneak about other’s houses, opening doors without knocking?”

Charlotte jumped, slammed the door shut again, and spun around. Dewhurst was standing across the hall, leaning on a doorjamb, his expression a cross between amusement and exasperation. Her first impulse was to apologize, but she didn’t give in. She’d done nothing wrong. Instead she said, “I was not sneaking around. I was looking for you.”

He inclined his head. “You’ve found me.” And she had. Her heart was only now slowing to a pace that allowed her to take him in. George Washington, but he was magnificent. He wore a dark blue double-breasted coat, buff pantaloons, and polished Hessian boots. His shirt was fine white linen with a frill at the neck and collar. The points of his stand collar almost grazed his ears, and his cravat was stiff and intricately tied. Even his golden hair had been tamed and pulled back into an artfully careless queue, and his jaw was clean-shaven. How in heaven had he had time to wash, shave, and dress?

Her heart thumped heavily in her chest. How was it possible that a man—an Englishman—could be so sinfully handsome? He really did appear every inch the archangel. It was so unfair—beside him, all her faults felt so keenly apparent. She’d never been a beauty, and even
with the most exquisite coiffure and the finest clothes, she would never measure up.

“In the future,” he said, interrupting her examination, “I’d appreciate it if you confined your snooping to your room or the drawing room. The rest of the house is mine.”

Already on the defensive, Charlotte bridled. “Need I remind you that in the eyes of the rest of the household, this is my house as well as yours? I have every right to any and all rooms.”

He gave her a long, hard stare, then stepped back. “Very well, then, come in. But I warn you not to become too comfortable. You’re not staying.”

“You couldn’t pay me to stay,” she retorted, stomping in after him.

“No? Then I shall pay you a thousand pounds to go.”

Charlotte knew she had walked right into that one, but she might have thought of a biting rejoinder anyway, except that she lost all vestige of cogent thought as soon as she saw the room.

His
room.

Her first impression was that she had taken a wrong turn and stumbled into the royal palace. The room was that sumptuous. All crimson and gold, Dewhurst’s suite dripped dignity and majesty. In the center of the room, large but by no means overpowering the capacious suite, was a tester bed, which looked to be antique. The headboard was paneled walnut, intricately carved, and
the foot posts were supported by pedestals, which in turn supported the heavy velvet weight of scarlet bed hangings. Charlotte supposed that had she been more familiar with the English design periods, she could have placed the furnishing as from the era of Henry VIII or Louis XIV—or was Louis from France?

On the far side of the bed, in a corner, were a cheval mirror and mahogany clothespress. The mirror was freestanding, decorated with ormolu, and had what appeared to be adjustable candle arms on the posts. Behind the clothespress were large windows overlooking the garden, the red and gold damask drapes tied back to allow the pale gray light into the room.

Charlotte took another step inside and peered ’round behind her. On this side of the room were the fireplace, a high-backed, rounded chair, and a small kingwood urn table on which stood a bottle stand with cabriole legs and paw feet. The stand was full, and there were two additional decanters beside it. Farther along the wall, Charlotte took note of a satinwood house desk and a Chippendale chair with claw feet. The room was not carpeted, instead there were various fine rugs interspersed throughout. But the last items in the room stood on the gleaming wood floors—a large mahogany washstand with a bowl and pitcher.

Charlotte looked back at Dewhurst in his perfectly tailored clothing and his carefully tousled
hair. Here in this ornate, ostentatious room, she realized again that he was everything she detested about the British. He was the embodiment of her disgust for a nation that had tried to exploit and suppress her own for purely selfish reasons. Unfair, crippling taxes, restrictions on trade, unlawful seizing of ships and sailors. The British and their misguided sense of superiority!

Dewhurst gave her a lazy smile, and she was tempted to cross the room and smack it off his full, sensuous lips.

She gripped her skirts, forcing a grip on her thoughts as well. He was a handsome man. That could not be denied. Neither could she allow it to cloud her senses or make her forget her purpose here.

“Well?” he finally said, making a sweeping gesture to encompass the room. “Is it all you’d hoped when you were sneaking about, trying every door handle?”

She glared at him. “I was not sneaking about. I was looking for you, Mr. Dewhurst. A task that would not have been necessary had you not abandoned me downstairs with that ogre of a housekeeper.”

“It’s Lord Dewhurst,” he said and arched a brow. Charlotte’s gaze flitted to his eyes and was caught. His brows, just a shade darker than his golden hair, framed his eyes—amazing dark green eyes that had so captivated her even on
their first meeting. Eyes half hidden under his heavy eyelids and framed by thick lashes, he watched her as a cat does its prey. His gaze was slow, unhurried, and distinctly predatory. He would not be rushed. This was a man who preferred to tease his quarry before giving the deathblow.

Charlotte blinked, unnerved at the train of her thoughts. He was a powerful man, indeed. She had seen past the puffed-up clothing and overdone suite to the warrior underneath. She would have to be careful. Charlotte cleared her throat. “Mr. Dewhurst,” she began, averting her attention from his eyes. “I—”

“It’s
Lord
Dewhurst,” he said again.

“I know. I don’t choose to use it.” She waved her hand dismissively, and he shot to attention.

“My title is not a luxury to be used when the mood strikes. It is an absolute. As are all the titles of the aristocracy. If you wish to damn this venture before we even begin, then by all means, continue to disregard my rank.”

Charlotte wrinkled her nose. “Very well, I shall make more of an effort to remember.”

“No.” He shook his head. “Not good enough.”

“I beg your pardon?” Charlotte said indignantly.

“Unless you intend to insult half the people you meet and alienate me from my friends and acquaintances, you must learn the order of precedence inside and out. Backward and forward. If
this ruse is to work, you must know it as well as your own name. As well as—”

“I take your point, Alfred.”

“I believe I suggested beginning a lesson on titles aboard ship. Are you a bit more amenable to the idea now?”

“Not if you continue to behave as an arrogant jackass. Pride is one of the seven deadly sins.”

“Ah, but if you were not already so prejudiced, you might realize that pride—where there is a true superiority of character or society—is not distasteful a’tall. So the question, then, is are you willing to put aside your ill-conceived judgments and see our society through neutral eyes?”