The Temptation of the Night Jasmine

Chapter Thirteen

“Charlotte!” In the mad crush of the Queen’s Drawing Room, Lady Uppington maneuvered her hoops expertly around a broad skirt and a protruding sword to embrace Charlotte. “Your grandmother told me you were at Court.”

Charlotte smiled shyly at her best friend’s mother. “I’m in waiting on the Queen,” she said unnecessarily.

The egret feathers in Lady Uppington’s hair wagged in sympathy. “I was, too, you know, oh, ages and ages ago. Being a maid of honor was quite different in those days, not like it is now. We all lived in the palace, with that dreadful old dragon of a Mrs. Schwellenberg hounding us, just sniffing for the slightest whiff of impropriety. That’s why it was such a scandal when — well, never mind that.” Lady Uppington waved away whatever she had been about to say with a dramatic sweep of her lace-edged fan. “The Queen has been kind to you?”

“Tremendously,” Charlotte was able to say with complete sincerity. “And the King has been all that is kind. He — this will sound very silly, but it was the kindest thing.”

“Yes?” said Lady Uppington encouragingly, as she had when Charlotte and Henrietta were very little and the girls would run to her to show off their drawings.

“I had my battered old copy of Volume I of Evelina with me. His Majesty caught sight of it and asked me if I knew that Miss Burney had been an old friend of theirs. We agreed for a bit on what a wonderful writer she was, and I thought that was all. But then the next day, when I arrived at the palace, there was a package waiting for me, and in it was a splendidly bound set of the books, all done up in morocco leather with my name tooled in gold on the front. It’s so fine that I’m half afraid to read it.”

Lady Uppington tilted her head reminiscently. “That is very like the King. He was always good at the small gestures of munificence.”

Charlotte clasped her hands together over her fan. “He’s given me leave to use his library at the Queen’s House whenever I like. It’s splendid. Thousands upon thousands upon thousands of books.”

Lady Uppington’s lips twitched. “Books always have been the surest way to Their Majesties’ hearts. So you’re happy, then?”

“Ye-es,” said Charlotte, hesitating only a bit. And she was happy, really she was. The Queen asked only that she stand behind her at Assemblies and read to her from time to time; the King had made her up a book in his own private bindery and promised she should have all three volumes of Cecelia, too; and the Princess Mary had promised to teach her how to paint on velvet. It would all be quite perfect — if only Robert were there.

She had imagined his return a hundred times since that night at Girdings. He would come galloping down the alley to Girdings. Swinging off his horse, he would dash up the steps to the entrance. “Where is Lady Charlotte?” he would demand of the first footman to open the door. “Gone to London, Your Grace,” the footman would reply, looking neither right nor left. “To London!” Robert would cry, with visions of rakes, rogues, and seducers wreaking havoc in his breast. Flinging himself right back onto his horse, he would ride ventre à terre to the capital, where he would charge into the Queen’s House, flinging lackeys right and left, and sweep Charlotte up into his manly arms.

Of course, that was only one version. Sometimes, Charlotte permitted him to change his linen before riding to London. Nor did he always storm the Palace. Sometimes, he would be waiting for her in the sitting room of Loring House, where she was staying with Henrietta. “Someone to see you,” Henrietta would say, with that impish Henrietta glint in her eye. She would shove Charlotte into the sitting room, slam the door behind her, and there he would be — ready to sweep her into his manly arms. Many of the details of the daydream might change, but the manly arms bit was always the same.

It worried her, from time to time, that there had been no word from him. While the grand imaginings of his racing to her side were all very well, she would have been just as happy with a prosaic note, even if all it said was, “Held up on business, miss you, back soon. R.” But there had been no note.

Of course, if he had sent her anything, it had probably gone to Girdings, where, for all she knew, it might be gathering dust on her dressing table because Grandmama hadn’t seen fit to send it on. One never could tell with Grandmama. For all that Robert came with both Girdings and one of the most coveted titles in the kingdom, it would be very like her to take it into her head that it would be a mesalliance (“mesalliance” being one of Grandmama’s very favorite terms, applied frequently to Charlotte’s parents). No one had ever gone into details over who Robert’s late mother had been, but it had been made quite clear that she was of a sort who Would Not Be Received.

Even so, the lack of a message did make Charlotte just a little bit squirmy. Penelope’s voice (it was always Penelope’s voice) came at her at odd moments, saying things like, “If he really loved you, would he have gone off like that?” and, “He knows how to use a quill, Charlotte. He would if he wanted to.” That last one was bona fide Penelope, voiced over tea just the other morning.

Technically, like Robert’s late mother, Penelope ought to be on the list of those who were No Longer Received, but the Dowager Duchess considered Penelope her own personal project (or, as the Dowager put it, “Reminds me of me at that age! Good stuff in that gel!”). A twist of the arm — or, more accurately, a well-placed thump of the cane — had elicited a marriage proposal from Lord Freddy Staines; the promise of a title, even if only a courtesy one, had placated Penelope’s mother; and the Dowager’s influence had ensured that the newlyweds would have a comfortable posting in India, where they would make their home until the worst of the gossip rumbled down.

Robert’s friend, Lieutenant Fluellen, had also offered for Penelope, more than once. Penelope remained firm in her refusal. It would be, she said, a nasty trick to drag an innocent bystander down with her just because he was fool enough to fancy himself in love. Penelope had always had her own sort of honor.

Meanwhile, Charlotte couldn’t help but wonder, if Lieutenant Fluellen were back in London, proposing to Penelope every alternate morning and twice on Tuesdays, where was Robert?

Lieutenant Fluellen wasn’t the only one to appear in London. Not only was Lord Freddy Staines back in town, preparing for his imminent nuptials to Penelope, but Martin Frobisher had been seen making improper proposals at an Assembly on Tuesday, and Lord Henry Innes was right in the next room, crammed into knee breeches, in attendance on the King. London, it seemed, was a very popular place at the moment. Except for the Duke of Dovedale.

He wouldn’t have gone back to India, would he? Not without telling her, at least. A transcontinental voyage would, she would think, require a bit more than a two-word “forgive me.”

With an effort, Charlotte dragged her attention back to Lady Uppington. Fortunately, Lady Uppington was just as happy speaking to herself as to anyone else, and was politely taking Charlotte’s glazed stare as a sign of interest rather than abstraction as she reminisced about her own short spell at Court.

“Of course, the Queen was much younger then,” she was saying. “But then, weren’t we all? Ah, but these hoops bring me right back,” she said, patting the protrusions at her sides.

“I rather like them,” Charlotte admitted, swaying a little to make her skirt swish. The sweep of her train against the carpet made a most fascinating sound. Skimpy, faux-Grecian dresses might be all the rage in the streets of London, but to gain entrée into St. James, the old-fashioned hooped skirts of the previous century were de riguer. The full-skirted style suited Charlotte far better than the fashions currently in vogue. Long columns of cloth weren’t terribly flattering unless one were a long column oneself, which Charlotte decidedly wasn’t.

She just wished Robert were there to witness the effect.

“And the men look awfully dashing with their swords, don’t they?” said Lady Uppington wickedly. “There’s nothing like a long blade to lend countenance to a man.”

Henrietta would have been rolling her eyes by now, as she always did when her mother made outrageous statements. Blushing, Charlotte said, “They do look quite dashing.”

“Speaking of dashing,” said Lady Uppington, her green eyes twinkling like a girl’s. “I just had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of your mysterious cousin.”

“My . . . cousin?” Charlotte’s heart began hammering against her stays.

Lady Uppington looked downright mischievous for a woman of fifty-odd. “Tall man, blond hair, ducal bearing? I believe you might be acquainted with him,” she said so blandly that Charlotte knew, just knew, that Henrietta had been telling tales.

But all that was immaterial next to the crucial point. “You mean Robert? Er, the Duke of Dovedale? He’s here?”

Lady Uppington was enjoying herself hugely. “Very much here, all present and accounted for, sword and all. I am pleased to say that he wears his sword with panache. But not too much panache,” she added thoughtfully. “That would be common.”

“Did you — did he ask about me?” Charlotte was craning her neck wildly, knowing that she was behaving appallingly, but not caring in the least.

“Why don’t you ask him yourself? The last time I saw him, he was” — squinting, Lady Uppington peered about the crowd, gave a little nod of satisfaction, and leveled her fan like a cavalry captain signaling a charge — “right through there.”

It was hard to see in the mad crush, with so many wide skirts and plum-colored coats shifting like the pattern in a kaleidescope, but with the fortuitousness of the sun breaking through a crowd, the pattern shifted, the heavens parted, and there was Robert. Or, rather, Robert’s back, but Charlotte was quite sure she could recognize him at any angle. He looked ridiculously handsome in the plum-colored coat and knee breeches that were required of men at court, with dark blond hair neatly brushed and gleaming with hidden glints of gold.

“Charlotte?”

Charlotte jerked abruptly back to life as Lady Uppington nudged her in the ribs with her fan.

“Yes?”

Lady Uppington gave her a maternal shove on the shoulders. “Go.”

Charlotte went.

Heedless of her hoops and train, Charlotte hurried across the room, skirts swishing. Pride had no place in true love. And it was true love, true with a capital T, truest of the true, truer than the truest . . . well, that was the general idea. Charlotte all but flew over a protruding train, dodging sword hilts with love-borne ease. He had come for her! He must have gone to Girdings and heard she’d come to Court and . . .

The man he was speaking to tapped him on the arm and indicated Charlotte, whose precipitous progress was eliciting more than one amused smile behind a fan. Charlotte caught the word “cousin,” and then the man faded discreetly away, leaving Robert to his familial responsibilities.

As Robert turned, his sword turned with him like a compass’s needle — pointing away from her. Charlotte decided to ignore that bit. After all, not everything in life could be accounted an omen. Only the happy things.

“Robert!” Without pausing for breath, she held out both hands, skidding to a stop before him, flushed and happy. “I’m so happy you’ve come!”

Robert bowed, managing his sword with credible prowess. “Charlotte.”

Was it her imagination, or did he seem slightly less thrilled to see her than she was to see him? No matter; men were silly about things like public displays of affection. It was his first time at Court, after all, so maybe he was nervous about committing a breach of etiquette. Not that he would ever admit it. As Henrietta was fond of saying, men were about as likely to admit they were nervous as they were to stop and ask for directions, which was why one found so many hopelessly lost courtiers wandering around the tangled byways of the Palace after a levee, tripping over their own swords and desperate for a chamber pot.

Realizing that she was babbling in her own mind, Charlotte promptly bottled it all up and turned all her enthusiasm on its proper source.

“Did Grandmama tell you I would be here?” she asked breathlessly, beaming all over her face. “I left a message for you at Girdings, but I wasn’t sure if you would see it, especially if your business kept you away longer than you expected.”

“I haven’t been back to Girdings,” he said shortly. “Not since — ”

He broke off abruptly, looking as though he had just accidentally sat on the business end of his own sword.

“Since Twelfth Night?” Charlotte filled in for him, smiling at the memories that evoked. “Are you staying at Dovedale House?”

“No,” he said curtly, looking over his shoulder as he said it. “I thought it best to take bachelor quarters. So that I can pursue, er, my own pursuits.”

“I . . . see,” Charlotte said, even though she didn’t see at all, and Robert knew it. He always knew.

Robert laughed raggedly, as though the sound had been torn out of his very guts. “No, you don’t see, do you, Charlotte?”

“Then tell me,” she said simply.

For the first time, she noticed that there were deep circles beneath his blue eyes, and that the hair that had been brushed so neatly into place framed a face stripped of all its usual vitality. There was a sallow tinge beneath his tan, and lines along the sides of his lips that hadn’t been there two weeks before. Charlotte wracked her brain for where she had seen that look before. It had been, she realized, on second sons, just come down from Oxford or Cambridge, who had found themselves playing too deep in the pleasures of the capital.

Charlotte took a deep breath, her eyes never leaving his face. “Robert, if you’re in some sort of trouble, don’t keep it to yourself. Let me help you.”

“Help me,” he said flatly.

“Yes.” She could feel her high-piled hair weighing her back as she tipped back her head to see him better. “That’s what people who care about each other do. As I care for you,” she finished, a little awkwardly.

Against the granite of Robert’s expression, the sentiment sounded mawkish and flimsy, like rhymes worked by a fifth-rate poet. It had sounded much better in her head.

“I’m sure whatever it is, we can work through it together,” she tried again.

Without saying a word, Robert took her arm and led her through the crush, towards a relatively untenanted window embrasure. It couldn’t by any stretch of the imagination be called private, but it was as private as could be found in the crowded room. Charlotte’s broad skirts provided a flimsy barrier against the rest of the room.

Robert rested an elbow against the window embrasure, the lace on his wrists spilling in an expensive stream along the painted sill. In the unforgiving afternoon light, his face looked unutterably tired. “Charlotte, what happened at Girdings . . .”

Charlotte tilted her head eagerly up at him, already hearing the words she wanted to hear. Come live with me and be my love. She had been waiting for this moment for weeks. Her heart hammered unevenly against her corset. “Yes?”

Robert pressed his eyes shut. “It was a mistake.”

“A what?” Charlotte’s mind refused to process the word. Unless, of course, he meant that it was a mistake to have left so hastily, with which she absolutely agreed. They should, she thought dizzily, have never left the roof. They could have stayed up there and lowered down a rope for food, built a little bird’s nest among the statues, watched the garden start to bloom . . .

“A mistake,” he repeated. “A bit of Yuletide madness.”

“Madness, maybe,” said Charlotte, hating the pleading note she heard in her own voice, “but a very lovely sort of madness.”

Robert looked at her with regret. The expression she saw there chilled her to the bone.

“Lovely,” he said softly, “in its place. Remember what you said about enchantments, Charlotte? You were right. They can’t survive in the workaday world.”

Even now, the sound of her name on his lips sounded like a caress. Charlotte shook her head very hard, so hard, her ears rang with it. “Not all of them, perhaps, but this one . . .”

“Is over,” he said with gentle finality.

It was the gentleness of it that ripped through Charlotte’s composure, piercing her straight to the very core.

She lifted her head, her ostrich plume standing high. “I don’t believe you,” she said, with all the dignity she could muster. “You wouldn’t have” — she twisted over her shoulder and lowered her voice to a whisper. There was no point in being ruined like Penelope — “kissed me if you hadn’t meant it. I know you, Robert.”

“Do you?” That had clearly been the wrong thing to say. Something dangerous flickered beneath the cerulean surface of his eyes, something dark and unpleasant, like a sea serpent stirring under otherwise placid waters. “Do you really, Charlotte?”

There was a barbed undertone to his silken voice that suggested that answering would be a very bad idea.

“How long did we have together at Girdings? Ten days? Twelve?”

“Fourteen,” blurted out Charlotte, a little too quickly. She had counted over each one hundreds of time, thumbing through her memories like beads on a rosary.

“Fourteen,” acknowledged Robert. “A whole fortnight.”

Put that way, it did sound rather paltry.

“A whole fortnight to see directly into someone else’s soul.”

“Sometimes it doesn’t even take a fortnight,” said Charlotte stubbornly. “Sometimes you just know. As I know you. Good heavens, Robert, I’ve known you since we were children!”

“For all of, what, a month? Two months? Twelve years ago?”

“Character doesn’t lie,” Charlotte said doggedly. “You were so kind, so good to me — ”

“Who else was I supposed to talk to? Your grandmother? You were my only option.”

“As I was this time?” Charlotte demanded, making a face at him to underline the absurdity of it all. They had been surrounded by a house party full of people, for heaven’s sake. Admittedly, some of them, like Turnip Fitzhugh, weren’t exactly in the running for an England’s Best Conversationalist competition, but it wasn’t as though anyone had twisted his arm and forced him to seek her out at the breakfast table or sit with her in the library for hours every afternoon.

Robert, however, seemed to miss the humor in it.

He looked at her long and hard, his face as impassive as the guards-men stationed by the doors. “Yes.”

Charlotte could only stare at him, in complete bewilderment. Who was this, and where he had hidden the real Robert?

Robert saved her the trouble of saying anything more. Bowing over her nerveless hand, he said smoothly, “Thank you, Lady Charlotte, for enlivening an exceedingly dull sojourn in the country. I don’t believe our paths need cross in town.”

Over Robert’s bowed head, Charlotte could see his friend Medmenham approaching. What was that Penelope had said, five hundred years ago? Something about the company Robert kept. Penelope had been right. Didn’t animals tend to run with their own kind? So, apparently, did rakes.

In a voice like dead leaves, Charlotte said tonelessly, “So I was simply your country entertainment. Like a mummers’ play.”

“Only much prettier,” he said matter-of-factly. “Ah, Medmenham. My cousin was just leaving.”

Medmenham lifted her fingers lingeringly to his lips. “Pity,” he said.

As if from a very long way away, Charlotte could hear Penelope again, in the ballroom at Girdings. I heard your precious duke tell Sir Francis Medmenham that you weren’t the sort he’d be interested in dallying with. . . . He left you, Lottie. By going off to carouse with Medmenham . . . going off to carouse with Medmenham . . . with Medmenham.

Charlotte could feel color rising in her cheeks, not out of shame, but rage. Two could play at that game, couldn’t they? “Yes, isn’t it?” she said, and her voice had a shrill edge that hadn’t been there before. “Would you walk with me, Sir Francis?”

Medmenham waved a languid hand. “To the ends of the earth.”

“I had in mind the end of the Presence Chamber.” Charlotte smiled winningly at Medmenham, unshed tears making her eyes brilliant. There was nothing like heartbreak to lend color to the complexion. “Will you excuse us, Cousin Robert?”

Even now, when she found she knew nothing about him at all, she knew enough to tell that her erstwhile betrayer was decidedly not happy. Displeasure exuded from the sudden stiffness of his shoulders, the belligerent angle of his jaw. Short of making a scene, however, there was nothing at all he could do.

“All right,” he said smoothly, “but just this once.”

There was something in his tone that said that he meant it.

Charlotte took Medmenham’s arm, holding her head so high, it hurt. So he didn’t want her monopolizing his friends, did he? Well, too bad for him. He wasn’t the only one who might find her “entertaining.” Charlotte’s heart clenched painfully at the memory. At least Medmenham was an honest rogue. He had never pretended to be a knight in shining armor. Charlotte blinked back angry tears.

“Do forgive me, Sir Francis,” she said thickly. “A spot of dust in my eye.”

“Indeed,” agreed Sir Francis. “The Court is confounded . . . dusty.”

“But peaceful,” said Charlotte. It was peaceful, usually. Too peaceful. She thought of the King’s daughters, kept at Court in perpetual monastic confinement, and had to suppress a shiver.

“As the tomb,” agreed Sir Francis. “And you know what the poets say about that.”

“One poet, at least,” said Charlotte. “But not one, I think, of whom Their Majesties would approve.”

“Do you base all your actions on the approval of Their Majesties?”

“When I am under their roof, it seems the least I can do.”

“Roof” had been the wrong word to choose. In the back of Charlotte’s head, drooping nymphs crooned an elegy about the illusions of love. That night on the roof, she had been so very happy, so very sure that Robert had meant everything he said. It wasn’t even so much what he said, since, in retrospect, he hadn’t said so very much, but the way he had looked as he had said it, tenderness written in every line of his open, honest face.

So much for that.

All this while, she had thought she was living out Evelina, where the heroine’s virtue and charm won the admiration and love of the honorable Lord Orville. Instead, she seemed to have dropped into Clarissa, seduced by the rake Lovelace for his own amusement. She had always thought herself able to tell the one from the other. And Robert had always seemed so honorable, so truthful — so kind.

If she let herself start believing Robert didn’t mean what he had said just now, she would go mad. Like Ophelia. There was a heroine she most certainly did not want to emulate.

Medmenham ducked closer. “Is the presence of a roof your sole criteria for the moderation of your activities? What about the royal courtyards? Or the Palace gardens? Would you forebear to gather your rosebuds there for fear of offending your monarch?”

“I believe,” said Charlotte solemnly, “that, like balconies, gardens and courtyards must be taken as extensions of the overall structure, and dealt with accordingly.”

“Your scruples become you, Lady Charlotte.” The glint in Medmenham’s eye said that before the night was out, he would have ten to one in the books at White’s that he could overcome them. He, at least, was an unmistakable Lovelace. And, as such, no danger to her.

Charlotte inclined her head in silent acknowledgment, all that was virginal and aloof. After all, if he was playing Lovelace, she might at least do her bit as Clarissa. Especially if Robert was still watching them.

Medmenham rose to the bait. The more she looked away from him, the closer he leaned. Charlotte desperately hoped that Robert was watching. But why? What was the point? If he were, he wouldn’t care. He had made that quite clear. Charlotte’s head swam with the confusion of it all. Just twenty minutes ago, she had been galloping towards happily ever after, in love and loved; now she was . . . what?

Medmenham was still buzzing around her ear, like a fly. “Do you return to Girdings? Or shall you stay in London to grace the gatherings of the metropolis?”

“As long as Their Majesties are in London, I will be, too. I wait on Her Majesty,” Charlotte explained, pulling herself together. “It’s my three-month turn as maid of honor.”

“I trust, then, that I may wait on you.”

Trust. The word had a bittersweet echo to it. Charlotte could hear herself, like a fool, prattling to Robert in the chapel antechamber, bragging that to trust was to render someone worthy of trust. And Robert, all those long weeks ago, replying, “That sounds like a very dangerous philosophy.”

He must have known, even then, what he had intended to do.

Rotten apples, indeed!

Charlotte busied herself with the leaves of her fan, which had been painted with a charming scene of Richmond Palace. “Never trust, Sir Francis. It’s a dubious venture.”

“Will you, then, give me leave to hope?”

“Shall we say, instead, that you may hazard a visit?”

“That,” said Sir Francis, “would be a wager very much to my taste. For you, dear lady, who could fail to hazard far more?”

One name came to mind.

“I imagine that for a hardened gamester, one wager does as well as another,” Charlotte said honestly. “And that the determining factor would be which first comes to hand.”

If she hadn’t been there, would it have been Penelope or one of the others singled out for the new duke’s attentions? It was like looking at the world reflected in the back of a spoon, everything upside down and out of proportion.

“I had never thought you a cynic, Lady Charlotte.” Sir Francis sounded like he very much approved the change.

Charlotte lifted a hand in instinctive revulsion. “Say practical, rather than cynical.”

“Two words for the same thing.”

“No.” Caught up in the philosophy of it, Charlotte nearly forgot she was talking to Medmenham. “A cynic looks for the worst. A pragmatist merely weathers it when he stumbles upon it.”

“Or she?” asked Lord Francis, a little too knowingly.

Charlotte took refuge behind her fan. “Does it make any difference? Life makes little distinction for one’s sex in these matters, I should think.”

“Radical notions for a member of the Queen’s household, Lady Charlotte,” drawled Medmenham. “Have you any others?”

That almost made Charlotte smile. There was nothing the least bit radical about her. In fact, she was the most conventional creature alive. She believed in true love, and loyalty to one’s monarch, and death before dishonor. It was just that, sometimes, things didn’t quite turn out as one would have wished. In those cases, there was nothing to do but carry on. And on and on and on.

Charlotte smiled achingly up at him. “No, Sir Francis. Not radical notions. Merely practical ones.”