“What a lovely surprise,” said the dowager as she watched him go. “I do hope you boys will become friends.”
CHAPTER 11
Charlotte leaned back against the squabs as the carriage rolled through Mayfair and entered the slightly raffish environs of Bloomsbury. Wrexford had sent word that he would not be home until late, as his meeting at the British Museum had led to one of the curators arranging an evening meeting at White’s with an expert on rare books and manuscripts.
Having finished her latest drawing for Fores’s printshop—another commentary on the plight of soldiers returning home from the wars to find no way of supporting themselves or their families—Charlotte had not been looking forward to an evening alone brooding about the two daunting challenges that she and Wrexford were facing.
Greeley’s death, which had her normally unflappable husband off balance . . . the potential threat to Britain’s economic and military power, an issue that A. J. Quill could not in good conscience ignore . . .The afternoon visit from the dowager and the need to explain about the new set of crimes—even though she had been careful to deny that they were pulling her and Wrexford into a web of intrigue—had only exacerbated her worries.
And so she had been grateful for Cordelia’s last-minute invitation to join her in attending Lady Thirkell’s biweekly gathering for intellectually minded ladies. Or rather, the Bluestockings, which was the less complimentary term used by many gentlemen of Polite Society.
One would assume such name-calling was provoked by fear, she mused. No doubt they felt threatened by females who possessed a brain and the courage to use it.
A smile touched her lips. “With good reason,” she murmured, thinking of herself and Cordelia. The high-and-mighty gentlemen of the beau monde would likely be quaking in their boots if they had any inkling of what power ladies were already secretly wielding in Society, their iron fists daintily disguised in velvet gloves.
However, Charlotte’s humor quickly gave way to puzzlement over why Cordelia was so insistent that she attend this evening’s meeting. It so happened that Lady Kirkwall had been invited to appear as a special guest speaker, and given that Cordelia had clearly taken a strong initial dislike to her, it seemed an odd request.
While I, on the other hand, see Lady Kirkwall in a more positive light despite her steely self-confidence.
Or perhaps because of it. Charlotte understood only too well how difficult it was for a woman to forge an independent life for herself in a man’s world. It took courage and cleverness, for a lady who wished to test her mettle was always dancing on a razor’s edge. The slightest slip could bring disgrace and censure from Society. And so she couldn’t help but admire Lady Kirkwall’s obvious intelligence and was not averse to deepening the acquaintance.
As the carriage turned down a side street, Charlotte leaned back against the squabs and conceded that the opportunity to learn more about the players and ramifications of the race to build an oceangoing steamship was an added reason that she had accepted the invitation.
As for why Cordelia was attending . . .
But perhaps that mystery would become clearer once she had a chance to speak privately with her friend at Lady Thirkell’s residence.
Which was, as Charlotte recalled, an exceedingly eccentric abode.
Her memory was confirmed as the carriage came to a stop in front of a brick townhouse faced with Cotswold limestone that glowed a mellow gold in the setting sun. The main entrance was flanked by ornate Corinthian columns carved from white marble. . . and the front door was painted a shocking shade of fuchsia pink.
Lady Thirkell was just as colorful. Tonight she was wearing an Indian caftan made of shimmering green silk embroidered with tigers and elephants. Atop her silvery curls was a velvet turban festooned with peacock feathers and chunks of unpolished turquoise.
“Welcome, my dear!” Her hostess bustled around the footman who had opened the door. She grabbed one of Charlotte’s hands and gave it a masculine shake in greeting. “It’s lovely to see you here tonight. We’ve all missed your company of late.”
“I’ve been a bit busy,” apologized Charlotte.
“Yes, I imagine that marriage makes a great many demands on a lady’s time.” A mischievous twinkle lit in Lady Thirkell’s eyes. “That’s why I’ve taken pains to avoid it.”
“Understandably so,” replied Charlotte. “I doubt that Horus and Sethos would tolerate another male presence in the house.”
Her hostess let out a peal of delighted laughter. “And given the choice between my Egyptian cats and a Tulip of the ton—”
“Ha, the gentleman wouldn’t stand a chance,” said one of Lady Thirkell’s elderly friends who hurried over to join them. She, too, was attired in an exotic confection of silk and feathers.
“That goes without saying, Hortense,” replied Lady Thirkell. To Charlotte she added, “Come, there’s champagne as well as ratafia punch being served at the refreshment table.”
Charlotte followed the colorful swirls of fabric down the central corridor and into the main salon, whose entrance was guarded by a towering ancient statue of Athena, the goddess of wisdom . . . and of war.
An acknowledgment, she mused,that the ancient Greeks were wise enough to know women understood the complexities and contradictions of human nature better than men.
The room itself was a study in contrasts. The wallpaper and draperies featured muted tones of taupe and cream, a quiet counterpoint to the eclectic jumble of decorative objects. Antiquities from Italy rubbed shoulders with exotic painted sculptures from India and Cathay; formal Meissen china sat next to ancient Aztec gourds; two ornate Louis XIV clocks flanked a simple pinecone from the wilds of America. The effect should have been horrifying.
And yet it wasn’t.
Charlotte vowed that next time she would bring her sketchbook and travel paint box, and try to do the scene justice—
“Ah, there you are.” Cordelia appeared from behind a cluster of potted palms. The trill of laughter and buzz of feminine voices raised in conversation mingled with the clink of crystal. “Shall we go somewhere quieter?” she suggested, indicating the archway that led to the side salons.
