“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” said Wrexford as he moved to the sideboard and splashed the last of the whisky into a glass. “You thrive on challenges. This one will be no worse than those that have come before.”
The coolness of his voice nettled. “That is oh-so easy for you to say. You’re not having your life blown to flinders.”
Candlelight caught in the swirling amber spirits, sending shadows skittering over his face as he lifted the glass to his lips. “As I recall, you used those exact words to describe your elopement.” A quick swallow. “Without a smidgeon of regret, I might add.”
“Stop being the Voice of Reason,” she muttered. “It’s quite annoying when you insist on being so infuriatingly logical.”
He laughed.
“I won’t give up my pen,” she added. “If I have to disappear—yet again—I will do so after Nicky’s situation is resolved. London is a large city. I’ll find someplace within its neighborhoods where I can slip back into anonymity.”
“Of course, that can be done, if you so choose,” he answered, “but I don’t think it will be necessary. These days, there are more Bluestockings within thetonthan you might think—ladies who prefer intellectual pursuits rather than the superficial swirl of tea and gossip. If you choose to attend salons that cater to intellectual discussions rather than the endless circle of balls and soirees, Society with quickly deem you an eccentric—or, more politely, an Original—and promptly lose interest in you. Especially when the next scandal or juicy bit of gossip rears its ugly head.”
Wrexford gave another swirl of his glass. “And as you know well, there isalwaysa new scandal or bit of gossip to make people forget about last week’s news.”
“So you’re saying that even within theton,it’s possible to live hidden in the shadows?”
“Yes. They’re simply silkier and scented with a more pleasant perfume than the ones in your past.”
She blew out her breath, only to have it end in a grudging chuckle. “Thank God for your biting cynicism. Without it, I’m not sure I’d have the nerve to take the next step.”
“You’ll find a way,” said the earl.
“Aut inveniam viam aut faciam,” she murmured. I will either find a way or make one.
For a long moment, Wrexford appeared distracted by a ripple of light in his whisky. He then quaffed the dregs and set his glass down beside the empty bottle. “Have you arranged a meeting with Lady Peake?”
“Not yet. I sent my letter this afternoon suggesting we meet for a stroll in Green Park and am awaiting a response.” Charlotte grimaced. “A neutral location seems wise in case . . . in case things don’t go well.”
“You could always employ a spot of blackmail if the dowager proves difficult,” drawled Wrexford.
Charlotte let out a dismissive snort. “And just what sort of power do you imagine I have over her?”
“A. J. Quill,” he answered. “Tell her you’re acquainted with the artist and a refusal to help you will result in a highly unflattering series on her quarrel with the Duchess of Berryhill.”
“First of all, I would never stoop to such pettiness—it would be unethical to use my art for personal reasons,” retorted Charlotte.
“Yes, but she doesn’t know that.”
“And secondly,” said Charlotte, ignoring his quip, “since you are always so pragmatic, allow me to point out that to my knowledge, thereisno quarrel between her and the duchess.”
His lips twitched. “Everyonehas a quarrel with the duchess. She’s a sharp-tongued, dull-witted battle-axe.”
Charlotte pressed her fingertips to her temples. “Go away, Wrexford,” she muttered, unsure of whether she was about to laugh or cry. “My head is beginning to ache.”
“Very well. Good night, Lady Charlotte.” As he moved for the door, he paused to smooth an errant curl back from her brow. A fleeting caress, so quickly done that perhaps she had merely imagined it.
And yet, as Charlotte watched his dark-on-dark silhouette meld into the shadows, its warmth seemed to linger.
CHAPTER 15
Charlotte stared down at the pristine piece of paper, its crisp folds sealed with a scented wafer of rose-colored wax. The faint perfume—a sudden reminder of long-ago sunshine and laughter—tickled her nostrils as she set aside her marketing basket and made herself pick it up from the tray on the side table.
Dare she hope her memory hadn’t deceived her?Aunt Alison had always stood out as a bold splash of color amid the unremitting greyness of the rest of her family. An unconventional intellect, an iron will, a tart sense of humor, a sly delight in refusing to fit the pattern card of propriety . . . Charlotte knew that even her stiff-rumped, autocratic father was intimidated by the dowager.
With good reason. Alison didn’t suffer fools gladly.
But people changed, she reminded herself. Her own seventeen-year-old self felt as strange and distant as the Man in the Moon.
