Do You Want to Start a Scandal

At least, that was what she hoped. But she would feel much better having confirmed it.

She could hear the footfalls as Mama paced the room. “You heedless girl. A fortnight. Do you know that’s two whole weeks?”

Yes, Mama. I’m familiar with the definition of a fortnight.

“What if he changes his mind?” she wailed. “You’ve left him every opportunity to wheedle out of it. He could pack his things in the middle of the night and flee.”

Charlotte tossed the pillow aside. “Your confidence in me is so inspiring, Mama.”

“This is no time for that insolence you call humor. The marquess was engaged once before, you know. He put off the wedding for eight years, and then the girl married his brother instead.”

Yes, she recalled hearing gossip about it. “That betrothal was a family arrangement. They were young; they changed their minds.”

“You had better hope his mind has no further changes. If he calls off this ‘understanding,’ you will be ruined. This is your life, Charlotte.”

“Oh, I know it is.” She sat up on the bed. “And it’s entirely your fault that I’m in any danger.”

“My fault?”

“You encouraged the scandal and forced Lord Granville’s hand. All that talk of him being overcome with passion.”

“I might have encouraged it, but you began it. You’re the one who cuddled behind the draperies with him.” She sank into a chair and flicked open her fan. “For the first time, one of my daughters gave me cause to be proud. I was hoping you’d snare a duke on this holiday, mind. I thought the area was called the Dukeries, but I was grievously misled.”

“It is called the Dukeries. That doesn’t mean it works like orangeries. Did you imagine dukes would be growing on trees?”

Mama harrumphed. “At any rate, a marquess is the next best thing. You were very clever to snare him.”

“I wasn’t trying to snare him at all!”

“Now that you have him, you had better keep him. You must be on your best behavior for the rest of the fortnight. A model of etiquette. Watch your posture. None of that slang, or wit. Talk less, smile more.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes. No amount of smiling was going to make her into an ideal bride for Piers.

“Find every occasion to be alone with him. Sit near him at dinners and in the drawing room. Ask him to turn pages for you at the pianoforte. No, wait—don’t play the pianoforte. That will drive him away.” She smacked her thigh with the fan. “I always told you to be more diligent with your music practice.”

“Mama, stop this. If this ‘understanding’ does become a betrothal”—and I will make sure it does not—“it will have nothing to do with my accomplishments or manners, and everything to do with Lord Granville’s character. My charms weren’t what caught him. It’s his own sense of decency that has him snared.”

Mama exhaled her breath in a huff.

“He’s an honorable man,” Charlotte said.

She refrained from adding, One who kisses like an unrepentant rake.

Her mother seemed to think on this. Then she stood and made ready to leave the room. “Just as insurance, we will lower the necklines of all your frocks. I’ll speak to the lady’s maid about it directly.”

“No.” Charlotte leapt from the bed and blocked her mother’s path. “Mama, you can’t. You can’t tell anyone about this.”

“But—”

“You mustn’t breathe a word. Not to the servants, not to Lady Parkhurst. Not to the neighbors, your correspondents, or even the walls.”

“I don’t talk to the walls,” Mama protested. “Often.”

She knew her mother all too well. If left unchecked, she would drop hints at luncheon. Insinuations at teatime. By the time they gathered for after-dinner sherry, she would be boasting of the imminent marriage and writing letters to all her friends.

There would be no escape, once that occurred.

“Lord Granville has asked for the understanding to be kept private,” she went on. “He is an important man, and he values discretion. He would be most displeased to be the subject of gossip.” An idea came to her. “In fact . . . I wouldn’t be surprised if this is a sort of test.”

“A test?”

“Yes, a test. To see if we can be trusted. If you speak a word of this to anyone, he will know. And then he is likely to withdraw his suit altogether.”

Mama gasped and bit her knuckle. “Oh, Charlotte. Perish the thought.”

Charlotte put her hands on her mother’s shoulders. “I know you can do it, Mama. All your years of encouragement and mothering, hoping your daughters would marry well . . . It has all come down to this. You must hold your tongue. Bite it. Cut it out, if need be. Everything depends upon your silence.”

“Yes, but it’s only—”

Charlotte cut her off with a look. “Silence.”

Mama whimpered, but sealed her lips.

“Good,” Charlotte said, patting her mother’s shoulders in praise. “Now go to your bedchamber and rest. I have letters to write.”

She herded her mother out of the room, then latched the door behind her and collapsed against it.

Oh, dear. Who could tell if her warnings would last a full two weeks? She needed to identify the true lovers, and quickly.

She went to the small writing desk and dipped her quill in ink. She hadn’t been prevaricating; she did have letters to write.

One letter, to be accurate.

The letter C.

With a bold swoop of the pen, she inscribed the letter on paper and sat back to ponder it. She had a mystery to solve, and this was her first—perhaps only—clue.

Chapter Four

Piers leaned forward, closed one eye, and lined up his shot.

Billiards—like so many sports—was an exercise in applied geometry and physics. If the equipment was standard and the playing surface smooth, the only element of variation was the player’s skill.

Success was all about concentration. A narrowing of focus. Dulling the senses, ignoring emotion, weeding out any human frailties—until all that remained was one’s body, a target, and intent.

With a swift pump of his arm, he made the shot, sending the white cue ball cracking into red, both balls spinning across the green felt in perfect, predictable trajectories.