To Love a Tormented Earl - Bridget Barton Page 0,66

boy. I have a scheme. We shall expose my enemies, and put everything to right. You will see.’

‘You appear most determined, Milton. But what the devil do you mean?’

‘Allow me to explain, Roberts. Yours shall be an important role in the plan.’

***

Didier finished unbraiding the fancy chignon she had styled for Charlotte that evening for supper. She had designed it with looping braids so as to suggest a large bow. ‘Did you like it, my lady?’ her lady’s maid inquired. Charlotte noted that Didier had altered one of her older gowns to wear—as Didier had a far thinner, bonier frame, the dress did not suit her as well as it had Charlotte herself. The latter found this most satisfying.

‘Yes, but I think I shall want something even more elaborate tomorrow night,’ Charlotte replied. ‘Feathers, perhaps, or silk flowers? Mama has combs with pearls. We shall have to try several arrangements.’

As Didier continued to remove pins from her hair, Charlotte, her spine straight and unmoving so as not to hinder the maid’s work, opened the right drawer of her dressing table and took out paper and an inkwell. Wetting the quill-pen she began to write a hasty note to Jones, her father’s man. Hers, now.

I have quite enraptured Lieutenant Roberts, she mused. I must tell Jones that the time has come to give his threats to Maximilian more substance.

The quill-pen scratched over the paper.

Didier brushed out her long, thick hair without interrupting Charlotte’s thoughts.

If Jones can convince Maximilian to leave at last, and I can convince Roberts that we should be married as soon as is agreeable, I shall therefore be absolutely safe.

Charlotte added some language to the note to express the urgency with which she hoped Jones would proceed.

And if Maximilian will not go? Or will not remain abroad, what then?

Charlotte folded the letter thoughtfully.

Her heart quailed at the direction of her thoughts. She wished not to harm Maximilian; only to secure herself in her position.

And what of Lord Ferriston? He seemed a faithful sort. She had but to arrange a moment’s privacy, and she felt certain he would propose. Perhaps that was the path she had better take. To become a baroness with a moderate fortune was no small victory.

Didier finished brushing her hair, which flowed around Charlotte’s shoulders like a mantle of gold. She thought herself very lovely as she gazed on her reflection. Too lovely to settle on life as a baroness, when she might instead be Countess of Ceastre.

Gazing at the letter, Charlotte thought, when a correspondent addresses me, once I am married, I might be the Right Honourable Lady Ferriston. Or I might be the Right Honourable Countess of Ceastre. The latter pleases me far more.

Didier pulled up a small stool, removed Charlotte’s slippers and stockings, and began to clip Charlotte’s toenails.

Charlotte looked at her own reflection again. She admired her graceful nose, her fine eyebrows, her curved lips. Hers was a countess’s face, not a baroness’s.

And it was certainly not the face of a common gentleman’s daughter.

Her mind was made up. It would be Roberts, not Ferriston. And whatever it took to remove Maximilian from her path, she must face it bravely.

She simply would not settle for anything less than Ceastre. There could be only that distinguished life for her.

Handing the note to Didier when the latter finished her task and stood, Charlotte said, ‘Have this sent off at once.’

Jones shall push Maximilian to depart, Charlotte thought. And if Maximilian reveals himself too stubborn for good sense...

Then we shall see.

Chapter 22

At Clark & Debenham in Camden, they sold ready-made suits. It was a very new development, and one largely frowned upon in polite society as lacking in good taste. However, Maximilian must be properly dressed to attend the ball at Ceastre, and he had no time for a tailor. As it was, the fitting and alterations took over two hours.

Max had chosen a fine black wool tailcoat, and as he gazed at his reflection in the mirror, he thought it would not be plain to see that he had chosen it from off of a rack. The black waistcoat had nothing unique to promote it, however nor would it catch the eye of anyone discerning enough to identify it as ready-made. That was all to the good.

The black trousers were skin-tight, showing how fit Max’s legs were, and would fit with the most fashionable gentlemen’s choices. His shirt with its high collar broke the dark of his ensemble with pure white. He had a