The girl beamed proudly before bashfully ducking her head. “I must go now. Mother is waiting.”
As the lass slipped away, the blonde with the fan chimed in. “Poor Lady Margaret. She seems so lost this Season since she couldn’t participate in last year’s, when she was in mourning for her grandmother.”
“Wasn’t Lady Chattiglen killed by a highwayman?” Lady Fiona asked in a mock whisper.
Lady Charlotte instantly sent the group a quelling look. It didn’t work.
“Oh yes! It was dreadful. I was afraid to travel at night for weeks. I missed so many wonderful balls.” One of the other young ladies sighed with such misplaced sorrow that Matthew could only stare in disbelief.
“I’m still frightened as soon as the sun sets when we’re in my family’s coach,” a different lass said with an exaggerated shiver. “There have been so many robberies on the road as of late.”
“Personally, I wouldn’t mind being stopped by that handsome robber who has everyone gossiping.” The blonde giggled. “I heard it from Miss Upton, who heard it from Lady Anne, who heard it from Miss Lewis, that he is most dashing. The scoundrel possesses an exceedingly comely face—at least what can be seen of it below his half mask.”
“Highwaymen should not be romanticized,” Lady Charlotte said, her voice stern. “Did this conversation not begin with the tragedy that befell poor Lady Chattiglen?”
The blonde tapped her fan quizzically against her lips. “Well, yes, but isn’t there simply something compelling about a man who courts danger in such a swashbuckling fashion? I can understand why your aun—”
“Girls, I believe your mothers are waiting for you.” The Duchess of Falcondale’s voice cut into the conversation. The effect was as sharp as a razor despite her otherwise pleasant, dulcet tone. “Also, please remember to mind the rules of my salon. We do not engage in discussions of such unpleasantries, nor do we exalt criminality.”
A chorus of, “Yes, Your Grace,” and, “We do apologize, Your Grace,” arose from the throng of lasses. Then they quickly dispersed.
The Duchess of Falcondale seized Charlotte’s arm. Although she did so gracefully, Matthew didn’t like how the fabric of Charlotte’s sleeve bunched under her mother’s fingers. How hard was the woman gripping her daughter?
Matthew started to move forward, wondering how to extricate Lady Charlotte without embarrassing her. He had no finesse to handle a situation like this. Instinct told him to just grab her and stroll from the room, but he knew that would cause irreparable social harm.
Fortunately, before he took two steps, the duchess released her hold. No longer needed, Matthew tried to fade into the shadows as mother and daughter bid farewell to their final few guests. Hawley had thankfully long since left. Alexander remained though, and he took up a position beside Matthew next to the potted plant.
“We best stay and rescue Lottie,” Alexander told him softly. “Otherwise, Mother will give her a scolding.”
“Because of those silly lasses waxing on about highwaymen?” Matthew asked as concern whipped through him. “Lady Charlotte is hardly responsible for their foolishness. She even tried to stop the conversation.”
“That wouldn’t matter to Mother.” Alexander sighed as he ran his fingers over the head of his cane where a bronzed Hercules battled the Nemean lion. “She always lectures Lottie at length every time my sister hosts a salon. It is the same with every ball. The few times I have traveled home with them, my mother has used the entire ride to pick apart every single action my sister took. The woman delights in enumerating flaws.”
Matthew clenched his jaw as he watched Lady Charlotte with the duchess. He’d always known that Alexander’s parents had constantly criticized his friend, but he hadn’t realized that his sister had received similar treatment. Frustration and a sense of injustice roared through Matthew. The twins were two of the most wonderful people he’d ever chanced to meet. It was Falcondale and his wife who deserved the dressing-downs.
As soon as the last guest departed, the duchess slowly pivoted to her daughter, the movement graceful yet oddly threatening. When the Duchess of Falcondale spoke, Matthew realized she was under the misconception that she was alone with Charlotte.
“How could you let the situation devolve in such a manner? Do you have any idea how your father would react if he discovered what those wanton strumpets were discussing in his house? Must we remind him of the taint that my sister brought upon our family when she ran off with that pirate? And the subject matter of today’s session? Excrement was discussed. Excrement, Charlotte, excrement. Do you think you’re still a hoyden running about the countryside? I thought I was doing the right thing keeping you away from the influences of London during your childhood, but you cannot seem to shed your country bumpkin ways. Dung is not appropriate in the city.” Despite the waspish choice of words, the Duchess of Falcondale’s voice remained sweet and surprisingly measured, barely rising and falling. Her face stayed eerily serene, like a Madonna in a Renaissance painting.
Guilt stabbed Matthew. Desperate to help Lady Charlotte, he cleared his throat. “Your grace, it is my fault—”
But just as Matthew began his apology, Alexander smashed the ferrule of his cane against the polished floorboards. “Mother, you clearly do not understand how horses function if you think manure is limited to rural life. Have you seen the condition of a London street?”
A very soft, startled sound escaped from the duchess’s barely parted lips. With her usual elegance, she slowly turned. Her gaze flickered over her son, dismissing him, but it lingered on Matthew. She did not allow much emotion to creep into her grass-green eyes, so similar in color to her daughter’s but fundamentally different in every other way. Matthew sensed that she was mentally calculating how important he was and whether his presence was worth fretting over.
“I will not speak of this to anyone,” Matthew said, hoping to forestall any retaliation against Lady Charlotte.
“While I thank you for your discretion, I was simply ensuring that my daughter and the salon display proper decorum.” The duchess allowed her lips to curve ever so slightly into a faint, benevolent smile. “Now if you both will excuse us, Lady Charlotte and I must depart. We have an appointment at the modiste. We are very busy preparing for her imminent engagement and marriage to your elder brother.”
Matthew bowed his head and took his leave with Alexander, even though everything inside him rebelled at abandoning Lady Charlotte. But he had no choice. He was simply a third son. If he tried to defend Lady Charlotte, it would further aggravate her mother.
“I brought along my curricle,” Alexander announced with false cheer that Matthew knew his friend was using to hide his own frustrations. “Would you like to ride with me to the Black Sheep?”
“Aye,” Matthew said, not able to inject as much enthusiasm intohis voice as Alexander. But he did like the idea of escaping to the coffeehouse. After today, he wanted nothing more than the comforts of his familiar haunt followed by a relaxing evening at home by the fire.
Matthew’s day did not proceed as planned. Instead of reading by a cheerful blaze, he was lurking in the fog—a very chilly, exceedingly thick fog. It was the kind of wretched spring night that felt more like unforgiving winter, where the glow from the windows barely managed to seep a foot or two from the glass panes.
It was the perfect atmosphere for skulking though. Matthew supposed he should be thankful for the inky cover. Bright moonlit nights could be dangerous for a man like him.
