“We ought to sue her for defamation,” Felicity said, “now that we have a lawyer practically in the family.”
Charlotte ignored her words. She’d said something similar three years earlier when Amity was engaged to a solicitor, and that had come to naught. Thank goodness! A duke was infinitely better than a solicitor. But a viscount who was also a barrister — he was a fish of a different scale!
“We ought to sue that charlatan masquerading as a builder,” her father chimed in instead of calming her mother further.
Charlotte knew she’d best get a plan of action before her parents started litigation against everyone. They had not taken kindly to the loss of the Great-Western Hotel account either, but at least that wasn’t a prosecutable offense. She hoped.
“Everything depends upon us getting the shop reopened,” Charlotte pointed out.
“Our daughter is correct,” Armand said. “I know where to find a professional carpenter, but good ones aren’t usually available upon short notice. We’ll see what we can do.”
“If Lord Jeffcoat remembered,” Charlotte told them, “then he was going to ask his butler about getting a builder.”
Silence blanketed the table. Then her parents laughed.
“He’s going to ask his butler!” her father exclaimed.
Charlotte frowned. “It was nice of him to offer. After all, if a nobleman needs work done, he asks his butler to find someone to do it, and they probably find people falling all over themselves to do so.”
“Our daughter is correct again,” Felicity said. “But I think you should look, too, my love,” she told her husband. “Just in case, the viscount doesn’t follow through.”
“If he’s trying to win Charlotte’s heart, I’m sure he will,” Armand declared.
Both her parents turned to her for confirmation. She merely shrugged, unable to keep the smile from her lips.
“Ha! I knew it,” her mother said. “What have I told you all about that back room?”
The romantic back room in which she’d nearly become engaged.
“You’re sighing,” her mother said.
“Am I?” she asked.
A sudden knocking noise from down the hall had her father on his feet. After a moment, she heard him say, “Not at all. Come in, do come in.” The prickling at the back of her neck left her in no doubt who it was, even before Lord Jeffcoat appeared behind her father.
Their eyes met, and for a moment, it was as if they were alone. In the next instant, she felt the strangest sense of belonging, as if Charles was already her man, her beloved, her intended. She wanted to rise to her feet and let him take hold of her hands, as if greeting her own husband.
As proper, he greeted her mother first and then Charlotte, wishing them each a good morning, before her father gestured for him to take a vacant seat at their table. Charles declined.
“As I said to Mr. Foure, I apologize for intruding before polite visiting hours, but I wanted to offer my services in seeking out Edward and his uncle. Also, my butler gave me the name of a reputable builder.”
She and her parents eyed one another, and her mother nodded meaningfully to her father as if this sealed the impending wedding nuptials.
Then Charles slid his calling card onto the table with a name scrawled upon it. “The carpenter’s availability is, naturally, unknown, but I would be perfectly happy to lend my name if it will speed up the building of your staircase.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Felicity said.
Charles made a wry face. “As you may be aware, even in this day and age, after two great nations have had revolutions for freedom, it is still the case that here in Britain, a nobleman is given preferential treatment by the exact class that ought to seek out equality.”
Charlotte blinked. “How self-aware of you, my lord. My sister Beatrice would approve.”
“And what about you, Miss Rare-Foure?” He fixed his rich blue gaze upon her.
“I am simply grateful for your help. I fear I’ve made a mess of things—”
“No, not at all,” three voices said at once.
“You did well under the pressure of having neither of your sisters to help and a pushy landlord, pressuring you.” Her mother said this with obvious pride.
