Several other guests drifted over to join them. Charlotte had noted that most of the select group were wealthy widows or ladies known to wield great influence with their rich husbands. Indeed, as her gaze surreptitiously followed Taviot, she saw two packets—investment funds, no doubt—discreetly passed to him.
As for the smattering of gentlemen, there was a trio of distinguished guests present—an admiral, a well-known member of Parliament, and a governor of the British Scientific Society—their black evening clothes standing out in stark contrast to the colorful gowns of the ladies. It was, mused Charlotte, a clever strategy on the part of the consortium to use its charter investors to encourage others to buy shares. Ladies of the ton were naturally inclined to give a prominent gentleman’s words of advice great gravitas. The evening would likely be a very profitable one for Taviot.
But not for long . . .
“Forgive me for being slow to return with your champagne,” apologized Lady Kirkwall. “I was obliged to stop and chat with several acquaintances about the consortium.”
The lady next to Charlotte raised a question, and the conversation turned to all the ways Britain would benefit from having oceangoing steamships. The talk continued for an interlude, and Charlotte found her attention wandering as she considered how to get a look at the rear of the house. Were there a garden and a back terrace that would allow access to the outer doors of the kitchen and scullery?
“I take it that you don’t have as keen an interest in science as your husband.” Lady Kirkwall’s pointed comment pulled her back to the present moment and the fact that the other ladies had moved away.
“No, it is not a passion,” answered Charlotte.
“Oh?” Her companion eyed her with an inscrutable look and allowed several moments of silence to slide by. “And what does stir your passions?”
“I find art more compelling than machinery.”
The answer elicited a strange smile. “Then we have something in common, Lady Wrexford. I, too, am passionate about art, and painting in particular.”
Charlotte took a sip of champagne, the effervescence prickling like dagger points against her tongue. “Our tastes align.”
“Do you prefer landscapes or a focus on the human form?” inquired Lady Kirkwall.
“I admire Turner and Bonington’s depiction of the natural world,” she answered. “But portraits are my primary interest.”
“Indeed? I, too, find myself fascinated by faces.” A hesitation. “They tell us so much about human nature.”
Had a ripple of emotion stirred beneath Lady Kirkwall’s lowered lashes? Charlotte wasn’t sure.
“It so happens that we have a rather fine collection of painted portraits by Van Dyke and Hans Holbein the Younger in the picture gallery downstairs. Would you care to see them?”
“Very much so,” replied Charlotte, seizing the chance to reconnoiter the rest of the townhouse. Besides, she was curious about this sudden peek beneath the mask of impenetrable reserve. In every previous interaction, Lady Kirkwall had given no hint of her personal interests or feelings.
“Excellent.” Lady Kirkwall glanced around. “Give me a moment while I inform my brother of our intentions.”
While she moved off to confer with Taviot, Charlotte looked over to where the dowager was sitting on the sofa, deep in conversation with two of her Bluestocking friends.
There was no need to disturb her, decided Charlotte.
“Please follow me,” said Lady Kirkwall on her return. She led the way through a side salon out to the corridor, where two sharp turns brought them to a rear staircase.
“Actually, I’m not surprised to hear that art is your passion, milady,” she continued as they began to descend. “I’ve heard that you were married to an artist and spent time in Italy before becoming the Countess of Wrexford.” A pause. “Word is there’s a touch of scandal lurking in your past.”
Charlotte hesitated. Few people knew anything about her past. Her family had taken pains to cover up the truth about her elopement, and she herself was very guarded about the details of her marriage to Anthony Sloane. If anyone looked too closely at his activities on returning to London, they might uncover more than she wanted to reveal.
Which raised the question of how Lady Kirkwall appeared to know more than she should.
However, Charlotte chose to disguise her unease by responding with her own challenge. “As there is in yours.”
“True,” agreed Lady Kirkwall. “Any intelligent female who has the audacity to flaunt her cleverness and imagination is considered scandalous. Women are expected to submit to a life of dull and dutiful drudgery. Those who refuse to be corseted in rules threaten the hierarchy that men have created.”
A throaty laugh. “We frighten them.”
The lady’s sentiments echoed her own. And once again, Charlotte sensed a quicksilver flicker of elemental connection between the two of them. Such sardonic wisdom about women and the world had not been won without a number of battles. And the scars that went with them.
“Rather than frighten the gentlemen,” replied Charlotte, “I would prefer to change their thinking.”
“Good Heavens, what an optimist you are.” Lady Kirkwall’s voice held a note of mockery.
