The Seduction of Lady Charity: The Baxendale Sisters Book Four (3 page)

“There’s much to do, Franklin. I shall depart for Northumberland tomorrow. I’ll return after the funeral and the reading of the will. Tell my valet to pack enough clothes for several weeks.”

Robin considered Harwood Castle. So far as he remembered, it was a confusing maze of stone passages and barn-like rooms with cavernous fireplaces, but he’d been ten years old when he’d last visited. His fondest memory of the place was salmon fishing in the river.

Chapter Two

Tunbridge Wells, Two Months Later

As a rule, Charity wasn’t keen on dancing, but she did take a few steps around her studio. Three of her landscape paintings had sold at auction. Her success, while still modest, was growing. One eminent personage had expressed the wish to sit for her since she’d painted Chaloner and Lavinia, whose children she was now capturing on canvas.

“You must be thrilled. I’ve heard your work spoken of in London,” Hope had told her before she and Daniel returned to their chateau in France.

Charity was cautiously pleased, especially as Father had ceased his nagging. Her mother, however, had not let go of the notion that Charity would follow her sisters into wedlock.

“My dear girl. It is natural for a woman to want a child. I don’t believe you to be any different,” she’d repeated this morning at breakfast. She had cast Charity a sly glance. “But I daresay it will be pleasant to have an unmarried daughter to care for us in our dotage.”

Charity grinned. “Oh Mama, you won’t often be here. You will be away visiting my sisters, or attending the balls in London.”

Left alone after her mother went down to the kitchen, Charity stirred her tea and frowned. Her art had occupied a good deal of her thoughts for years. She liked babies, especially Lucas, Honor and Edward’s baby. A bonny boy with his father’s black hair and his mother’s brown eyes, he’d laughed and gurgled up at her and was perfectly adorable. As were Chaloner’s children, Freddie particularly, who was a bit of a devil. And she did want babies of her own one day.

She poured herself another cup of tea as Mercy wandered into the room, yawning. “I’m off to the home farm after breakfast.” She placed a muffin on her plate and reached for the teapot.

“Not more experiments, I hope.”

Mercy still bore a tiny scar on her chin from an explosion when developing one of her skincare creations, which had gone awry. It was more like a charming dimple.

“No, I’m finished with experiments. I’m going to see the foal with the four white fetlocks. He gallops around the paddock so fast Father’s groom says he will make a good racehorse. His grand dam ran second in the Oakes in ’15. Father is considering sending him to Tattersall’s for auction. You must come and see him before he goes.”

“I will, later.” There was no doubt her younger sister would marry, even though the man would have to accept her menagerie of spoiled pets and other unusual interests. And that would leave the family sadly depleted. The thought was unpleasant, and Charity shoved it away.

Returning to her studio, Charity pinpointed the troublesome dissatisfaction with life that marred her recent success. She missed Robin. Her triumphs seemed hollow when she couldn’t share them with him. He was her best friend, who had treated her as an intelligent female. He never guarded his language around her or paid her flowery compliments, although she was prepared to accept a few from him. They’d spent many a satisfactory evening playing cards and chess while enjoying a good laugh. There was no one to take his place now that her older sisters had left because Mercy preferred to write,
Health and Beauty for All Ages
, a book based on her creations that she planned to publish one day under the pseudonym, Madame Véronique.

Before Robin, now the Duke of Harwood, had left for Northumberland, he’d promised to write every week. And for a while, his letters had arrived like clockwork, describing the daunting task ahead of him, the staff, society, the house, the gardens, and the climate in Northumberland, with which she was unfamiliar.

She slipped on her smock. Robin had not replied to her last letter. That had been almost three weeks ago. She knew he must be dreadfully busy, but it made her wonder if he’d found someone who sparked his interest. A lady who might have pushed any thoughts of their friendship from his mind. Should it be so, it would be extremely foolish of her to resent it.

Charity pushed back her hair with her arm and leaned over to squeeze more white paint onto her palette, suddenly aware of an inexplicable tightening in her chest.

****

Harwood Castle, Northumberland

“Your Grace?”

“I am here, Manners.” Robin looked down from the top of the ladder in the library.

His efficient steward had found him, despite Robin’s attempts to avoid him for a few hours.

“Franklin has asked me to inform you that the Marchioness of Boothby and her daughter, Lady Katherine, have called,” Manners said, gazing at him from below.

His uncle, the former duke, had had surprisingly diverse tastes, Robin thought with a smile as he replaced the book of ancient erotic art on the shelf and climbed down. He’d debated whether to refrain from entering Northumberland society until he’d gained the upper hand with his other duties. But he soon realized that his uncle had been a popular, social man, and he was expected to follow in his footsteps. Despite his abhorrence of being made the subject of speculation by the mothers of debutantes, he decided to grin and bear it and even make it work for him, for he might find his future wife amongst them. He paused to examine his cravat in the ornate gilt mirror then raked his fingers through his curly hair.

“Where has Franklin put them?”

“In the small salon, Your Grace. It’s less drafty there and warmer with the fire lit. Tea has been served.”

He could do with something stronger, Robin mused, as he descended the curved stone staircase. Franklin had been more at home in the smaller house in Tunbridge Wells. He was feeling his knees these days, and it might be kindest to offer him retirement and employ a new butler. His uncle’s butler had taken his pension after his master died. Perhaps butlers aged faster in this vast house, although there was a small army of servants scurrying around behind the scenes. Reaching the bottom, Robin made his way along a chilly corridor. The warmth of a late summer’s day had failed to penetrate the thick stone walls of the castle. Autumn was almost upon them, and large areas of the house would be impossible to heat.

Two ladies sat together on one of a pair of sofas covered in blue and gold damask in the small salon, Robin’s favorite room, which opened onto a terrace with a pleasant view of the topiary garden. Lady Boothby, wearing a colorfully plumed hat, eyed the dark green velvet coat slightly worn at the elbows that Robin preferred to wear when at leisure. He cursed under his breath; he should have taken the trouble to change. Her daughter—called Kitty by her mother—was a petite, dark-haired young woman in pale pink. She offered him a tremulous smile.

“How delightful to have such decorative company,” he said, making his bow.

Lady Boothby stretched her neck as if it pained her. “I do trust you haven’t forgotten that you invited us to call this afternoon, Your Grace.”

With difficulty, Robin dredged up a memory of Lady Boothby inviting herself when they’d spoken at the Draycotts’ dinner party. He took the wing chair opposite. “As if I could.”

She looked mollified. “We have several afternoon calls to make,” she said briskly, as though he’d detained her unnecessarily. “We shall not remain above fifteen minutes.” She turned to her daughter, “Well, speak up, Kitty. You are here to invite His Grace to your come-out ball, are you not?”

A macaroon dropped from Kitty’s nerveless fingers onto her plate, her eyes registering panic, her cheeks flooded crimson.

“No need to say another word,” Robin said hastily. “I shall be delighted to attend your ball, Lady Kitty.”

“It is to be held in three weeks, Your Grace. A formal invitation will be sent.” With a look of satisfaction, Lady Boothby added a jam tart to her plate and regaled Robin with the latest gossip of which she was remarkably well informed. After she’d run through the gamut of Northumberland’s secrets, and he’d put down his cup, she gathered up her gloves and stood. “It’s been a pleasure, Your Grace. Come, Kitty.”

When the door closed on the two women, Robin approached the fire to warm the chill that had settled in his chest. He wondered vaguely if he was sickening with something. Not surprising in this cold house.

Kitty was by far the prettiest of the daughters paraded before him. He had yet to visit London, as most of the
beau monde
had returned to their country estates for grouse shooting. The metropolis would not come alive until parliament sat again. Robin returned to the sofa and sat, selecting a small cake from the plate. Despite his excellent, efficient secretary, he’d been slightly fazed by the frenzy of invitations and morning calls that had plagued him every day since he’d arrived. There seemed only one way to get his life in order. He must become engaged. He thought over the young women he’d met. None had interested him, but it might be that the young women failed to show their true natures when scrutinized. Certainly, none were as vital and interesting as Charity. Tamping down the rush of disappointment that thought had caused him, Robin brushed crumbs from his coat and went in search of his secretary.

He entered the airless office, where Spencer sat scratching notes in a journal. He leapt up and bowed. “Your Grace.”

“I wish you would not stand on ceremony, Spencer. I intend to pop in and out regularly, and you will exhaust yourself in no time.”

Spencer sank down again and settled his glasses on his nose. “While you are here, Your Grace,” he said with a smile, “there are several papers requiring your signature.”

Robin sat and scanned them before grasping the quill and signing his name. He replaced the pen in the standish while Spencer took the pounce pot then sprinkled each document.

“I intend to hold a ball,” Robin said as he affixed his ring seal to the heated wax. “Will you organize it? I’ll advise you of the guest list.”

“Certainly, Your Grace. It shall be dealt with. Er…when might your Grace be thinking of?”

“I shall write and invite my sister, Lady Miller, to assist you. Shall we say in a month’s time? Lady Katherine’s come-out ball is next on the social calendar.”

While pleased that he’d taken steps toward solving the problem, he still felt unsettled. Perhaps he was in need of quiet reflection. He was about to leave the room, after deciding on a spot of fishing, when Spencer raised his hand.

“There’s one other matter in need of your attention, Your Grace.”

“Yes?”

“Custom dictates you have your portrait painted and hung in the portrait gallery.”

Robin stared at him. “I see.”

“Shall I comprise a list of celebrated portrait artists that you may wish to commission?”

A tiny flame of possibility warmed the cold knot in his chest. “No need, Spencer. I shall see to it.”

Chapter Three

Charity tucked the miniature of her father, which she was painting as a surprise for his birthday, out of sight.

In the corridor on her way to luncheon, her mother approached her with a letter.

“This arrived in the post for you.”

It wasn’t from Robin. Disappointed, Charity took her seat at the dining table. While the salad was served, she sliced the letter open with her butter knife and quickly scanned it. She gasped.

“Really, Charity, could that not wait? Just because your father isn’t dining with us doesn’t mean we should fall into bad habits.”

“Mama, it’s from the Scottish baron, Lord Gunn. He has asked me to call at his London home to consult him about a portrait.”

Her fork halfway to her mouth, Mama’s eyebrows rose. “That man? He’s spoken of in hushed tones in drawing rooms. It’s said he’s a rake.”

“What is a rake exactly?” Mercy asked.

“I shall explain later,” Mama said in a brisk tone. “Suffice to say Gunn’s is one portrait Charity will not paint.”

“But, Mama, I can’t refuse to see him. Father already made me turn down the invitation from James Lonsdale to become his pupil.” Her eyes watered again at the recollection. “Lonsdale painted the Queen Consort as well as other important personages. Should I ever be fortunate enough to be invited to exhibit at the Royal Academy, I don’t expect Father would approve of that either.”

“I wouldn’t wish Lonsdale to paint me,” her mother said. “That painting of Caroline of Brunswick made her look like she’d been without sleep for months. Well, she wasn’t a beauty, God rest her soul.”

“I can see I’ll gain a reputation for being disobliging,” Charity said miserably. “My work will suffer.”

“Your life will suffer if that man gets you alone,” Mama said, removing a slice of cold beef from the platter.

“But I need never be alone with him. Not if you accompany me. Please, it means a great deal to me.”

Her mother sighed. “Oh, very well. But I don’t intend to leave your father for long, not when he’s unwell.”

“Gunn expects me on the tenth.” She searched her mother’s face hopefully. “That’s next Monday.”

“Why does he remain in London? The city is insufferable in high summer! And we have only a skeleton staff in the Mayfair house.”