To Love a Tormented Earl - Bridget Barton Page 0,33
aware of what transpired between her and the footman, much less that I had witnessed it. But perhaps he did know, and took matters into his own hands.’
‘How troubling,’ Roberts said, putting down his quill. ‘A powerful man such as he...imagine the scandal.’
‘If’tis he, we can expect that he shall fight very hard to remain the earl,’ Max said darkly.
‘Your decision to continue as Mr. Milton, rather than end your anonymity, seems wise,’ Roberts said. ‘At least until we know more.’
‘Agreed. And that is why I sent my card round to Miss Whitmore’s.’
‘Did you? And what of your concern for her reputation, and the gossip that might ensue?’
Max shifted his weight uneasily, leaning a palm on the window frame. ‘It can’t be helped. There is no time. I must have answers.’
Roberts stood from the desk. ‘Right then, old chap. I suppose we must be on our way at once, then.’
Lady Charlotte
Didier, Lady Charlotte’s lady’s maid, was indisposed due to some ill fortune with the servants’ breakfast. With her mother away, Lady Charlotte could not receive male visitors, much to her annoyance. It could not be helped—she should have insisted on Papa hiring a companion for her, or that he should remain at home in the afternoons, at least, so she might receive someone such as Baron Ferriston, when he wished to call.
The baron had sent a note around that morning, and Charlotte had been forced to write with her apologies. It was unbearable. Today might have been the day she so eagerly awaited. He might have asked to speak to her in private. Now she must wait until after the ball at Ceastre, for she knew him to have travel plans in between. It was a detestable turn of events. Maximilian Emery would have several days to make mischief and ruin everything.
She was incapable of keeping her attention on any task. She put away her quill-work and ignored the pianoforte and the shelf of novels, standing instead at one of the windows in the drawing room, cursing her Papa for going out and leaving her there alone.
Her mother would be rushing about Ceastre, attending to all of the little details that were required of planning a ball. Charlotte had, of course, assisted in the writing of invitations some weeks before, and then more recently to please Miss Augusta Emma D’Este and her preposterous whim of inviting Miss Emilia Whitmore.
Charlotte hoped her other guests would not judge her too harshly for doing as Miss d’Este asked, but she supposed she might hear some complaints about it. Justifiably so. It had occurred to Charlotte to refuse to honour the request, for many of the nobility of England would be shocked to mingle at a ball with some title-less gentleman’s daughter and her frumpy companion.
Miss Whitmore had little to recommend her. No title, no fortune, no influential relations. But Miss d’Este never forgot a single one of her whims, and in the end, Charlotte feared her displeasure more than some gossip and complaints from the rest of the guests.
Securing Miss d’Este’s friendship, trying though the process of doing so might be, was Charlotte’s crowning social achievement. Confidante to the natural granddaughter of His Majesty the King—it was a distinction few ladies of Charlotte’s rank could claim, and she was loath to endanger it by disappointing Miss d’Este.
Charlotte traced a finger along the edge of the window pane. It was another lovely day, but she could not go out. Really, it was most vexing.
Unless she told Didier, her lady’s maid, to accompany her. Certainly Didier must be quite recovered by now.
That was a thought.
Charlotte found it vulgar to use one’s lady’s maid as a companion, but desperate times called for desperate measures. If only she knew where Lord Ferriston might be, for she had gleaned that he would not leave London before tomorrow morning. If he was riding down Rotten Row, as he had told her he liked to do, she might engineer a meeting somehow, mightn’t she?
Turning with resolve, Charlotte crossed to exit the drawing room and find Didier, when Nicholas appeared in the doorway.
He was a dark-haired man with pale grey eyes and a fine, square jaw. His shoulders were strong and his countenance as pleasant as one might hope for in a footman.
Charlotte froze, and for an instant her expression betrayed the wild effect his presence had on her heart. The moment passed as the lady pressed a hand to her bosom, willing her heart to calm.