Chapter 13

Lottie studied her reflection in the mirror one last time. Everything was as it should be. She looked no different. No more chaotic, no less confident. Yet she must be both those things because beneath the pink gown and smooth curls, the stays and shift, she’d become a howling banshee—all her worry and fear and guilt screaming into the numb void of her body.

Phillipspots had seen a book yesterday afternoon, and he’d sneered, and he’d stormed off. But had he talked? She’d find out soon enough when she arrived at Cora’s for the monthly library meeting. She would not hide. Whatever her fate, she’d face it and do whatever she must to protect her sisters, their futures.

She swallowed the tears and her anger until her reflection smiled, sweet and serene. Perfect. She made her way downstairs, tying her bonnet beneath her chin and—

Found Lady Templeton in the entry hall. Her mother’s friend. Lady Templeton had informed them, after Lottie’s mother’s death, about the secret erotic books, about their mother’s naughty lending library that had become the Merriweather sisters’ inheritance. A round hat trimmed with a rather large yellow ribbon hid well the lady’s brown and silver hair, framing her round face and blue eyes. Displeasure in those pools. Pity, too. Blast.

Lottie pulled the bonnet off, let it dangle from loose fingers. “Good morning, my lady. What brings you here at this hour?”

“Mrs. Garrison is just outside, and the others are coming as well.” Lady Templeton wagged her finger at Lottie. “Don’t you worry, my dear. We’ve come to help.” She took off down the hall without waiting for the butler to take her spencer or her bonnet and settled herself nice and cozy in the drawing room they used to gather in for the monthly meetings.

Lottie followed. “I’m afraid we don’t have any refreshments prepared.”

Lady Templeton waved away her objection as Prudence and two more of Lottie’s mother’s old friends—Lady Macintosh and Mrs. Garrison—stormed into the room in a flurry of ruffled skirts and steel spines. Lady Macintosh’s steely hair and eyes sharpened her soft, plump figure, and Mrs. Garrison who stood tall and bold with white-streaked red hair, her shoulders stiffer, likely, than those belonging to her admiral husband. If all three of Lottie’s mother’s old friends were here, there would be trouble.

Lottie’s pulse panicked at her wrist, but she dropped into a chair, holding her hands loose and her composure tight, showing not a single crack opening beneath her pristine pink gown.

The three ladies did not sit; they descended on Lottie like the Greek fates. Lady Templeton, Mrs. Garrison, and Lady Macintosh stood before her, stout as pillars. But something in their faces crumbled.

Lottie peeked at Prudence, but she’d retreated to a corner, biting a fingernail, clearly pleased to keep her distance. Lottie resisted the impulse to retreat between the cushions of her chair. Little could intimidate her, but these women united could. Last Season, they’d worked together to squash a threat to Andromeda’s happiness. Cunning and powerful, these women could ruin Lottie if they so wished. Or save her.

“We will try our best,” Mrs. Garrison said with the confidence of an admiral’s wife, “to stem the gossip.”

“But,” Lady Templeton continued, “you understand it has already gotten about. There’s not much we can do against the entire ton. Andromeda’s difficulty last Season was simpler. Only a single mouth to silence. Now, with so many having heard the rumors…”

“We risk our own reputations,” Lady Macintosh added, “speaking too loudly in your favor. We risk opening up questions about ourselves. About why we would champion you. Our reputations are the castle walls we hide behind, how we manage to do what we please in private.”

“I understand.” Lottie wrapped her hands tightly around the ends of the chair arms. These women brought hard truths with them, but they did not shy away from them. Neither would Lottie. “I never expected any sort of protection from you. It was my duty to protect your secrets for all these years.”

“Every one of us has a duty to look after one another,” Lady Macintosh said.

“What were you doing?” Mrs. Garrison made a disgruntled tsking sound. “Carrying such a book around in your reticule?”

“We all carry them about in our reticules,” Lottie said. They’d all had bags specially made big enough for a book.

All three ladies before her cast slow glances toward the reticles dangling from their arms, all slightly bigger than fashionable, and then slid their glances back up to Lottie.

“Yes, but”—Lady Templeton sniffed—“we keep ours perfectly secure. At all times.”

Lottie groaned into her palms. “I know, I know.” Only she’d not been particularly careful in Quinton’s phaeton. She’d been reading her book to pass the time, to come by some ideas for seducing him. And then he’d suddenly shown up talking about her breasts, and she’d shoved the book into her reticule as quickly as she could, not bothering to close it tightly. And then everything else had gotten a bit out of control. And by the time they’d reached Hyde Park, she’d had other thoughts on her mind. Prudence, her sisters, possible marriages, a melting ice, a growing megrim.

“I’ve ruined everything.” And she felt hollow about it.

“Not for us,” mumbled Lady Macintosh, dropping into a chair.

“Not for you, and that is my only joy.” Lottie would never reveal the secrets of the women sitting around the room.

Lady Templeton grunted. “Stop being such a wonderful girl. My son is still not married, and I’ll begin to wish I’d let him marry you.”

“Never say so.” Lottie found she could grin. Just a bit. “I’m quite sure I’m not worthy of marriage to your Thurston.”

Lady Templeton preened.

“Who’s Merriweather marrying?” Quinton’s voice sailed into the room before his boots marched through the doorframe. He seemed lean and relaxed and not a bit bothered but for the small crease between his brows.

“What are you doing here?” Lottie shot to her feet. “Go away.”

“No,” he said, leaning a shoulder against the wall next to the door and crossing one booted leg over the other.

“Go away,” the other women in the room said.

“No.” Quinton smirked. The Noble Smirk, cocky and confident and aimed right at Lottie.

Mrs. Garrison marched up to him and poked him in the shoulder. She didn’t even flinch, though she did nurse her hand, likely wounded from the rock of his muscle, against her belly.

“You cannot be here,” she insisted. “This is our private literary salon.”

“It’s only private because it’s naughty,” he said, leaning down so that they were almost nose to nose.

Lady Macintosh gasped and lurched backward, her gaze flying to Lottie, then back to Quinton. Then returned once more to Lottie. “You told him?”

“You’re not supposed to tell them I told you!” Lottie cried.

“Well, I know, so I don’t see why I should keep that secret. Everyone in this room knows.”

Lady Templeton marched up to Lottie and pulled her ear.

“Oh!” Lottie grasped at the woman’s hand, trying to detach it from the vulnerable lobe.

“You’re not supposed to tell men about us,” Lady Templeton said. “Or anyone else. Perhaps you deserve your ruination, girl. To think! I momentarily considered you Thurston’s equal.”

Lottie batted Lady Templeton’s hand away, and Quinton strode across the room, picked the lady up beneath her arms and set her away from Lottie, set himself between the bodies of the two women and scowled at the older one.

“No pinching ears.” He crossed his arms over his chest and stood sentry.

Hardly the time. Or the place. But her body tingled with appreciation, tightening and melting at the same time. It did not help that his backside existed almost at eye level. And his pantaloons fit impeccably, tucked into perfectly buffed hessians. She could see her reflection in them. If she looked south of his backside, which, admittedly, proved quite the difficult task.

Lady Templeton stepped closer, blocking the tempting sight. She pulled herself up tall before Quinton and raised her brows. A challenge. “Leave, young man.”

“I’m not leaving. And I’m not going to tell anyone.”

Lottie peeped around him at Lady Templeton. “I only told him about the books because I’m attempting to convince him to marry me.”

Silence.

Perhaps she should not have said that. Everything in ruins around her, not merely her reputation. How had she become so desperate to have this infuriating man before her that she’d let everything get so out of control? Not just her future at stake but her sisters as well. She wanted to cry. She would not cry. Lady Charlotte never cried.

“Well,” Lady Macintosh said quietly, a voice finally breaking the electric silence, “did it work?”

“Did what work?” Quinton snapped.

“Did she convince you to marry her by telling you that—”

“No.” He bit the word off, one shiny hessian tapping an agitated tempo on the floor.

“Pity,” Lady Macintosh said. “I thought for a moment we were on to something. A revolution in the methods of courtship. They’re a bit bland as they are now.”

“Enough of this nonsense.” Quinton turned on his toe and frowned down at Lottie. “What is all this I’m hearing about you? Gossip all over the city.”

She pressed her body into the cushions. “What are they saying?”

“Don’t tell him,” a symphony of female voices insisted.

“They won’t tell me.” The tapping of Quinton’s toe sped up. “I hear her name, I ask what is being said, and they simply raise their eyebrows and walk away. It’s infuriating.”

“Are you looking at them like that when you ask?” Mrs. Garrison wiggled her fingers at his scowling face.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re going to rip their heads off, boy,” Lady Templeton said.

Quinton’s scowl deepened for a moment, and then it smoothed out. Or attempted to. He didn’t quite succeed. He merely looked less like an angry vengeful bear and more like a bear that had eaten something which did not agree with his stomach.

Lottie sighed. Time to confess. “I dropped a book.”

“A book?” His head tilted to the side.

“The one I told you about yesterday, in your phaeton.”

“With the baguette?” Red crept up from his cravat to spread like honey across his cheeks.

She nodded.

“Oh, I like that one,” Lady Macintosh said. “There’s a particularly interesting scene in a folly.”

“On top of the folly, isn’t it?” Prudence asked.

“Yes, I believe so.” Lady Macintosh nodded enthusiastically. “And… was the roof sloped?”

“Cursed confusing logistics on that one,” Mrs. Garrison said. “How did they get up there? And once they were up there, how—”

Quinton stepped closer to Lottie, towering over her, his imposing frame blocking the conversation behind him, the rest of the world, out. “You dropped the book and then what?”

“Phillipspots saw it. In Hyde Park yesterday.”

He cursed. “What are you going to do?”

“I can’t say.” She flashed a glance at her sister. “I’m not particularly worried about me, but Prudence, the others…” She felt as if every bit of life and light drained from her body, filling up with something red, something violent.

“Is anyone home?” The words echoed down the hall in a deep male voice.

Everyone sitting shot to their feet.

“Who is that?” Lottie hissed.

“It sounds like Mr. Bailey.” Prudence danced in place, wringing her hands.

Lottie’s heart fluttered wildly. “But where’s Mr. Jacobs?” The butler should have answered the door, sent any unwanted company away. They’d hidden this little gathering of women for so long, and it seemed to all be crumbling in a few days, a few hours.

“I’m sorry, Lottie. I sent Mr. Jacobs away,” Prudence said. “We always send him away when the ladies are coming. After that one incident in the hallway last year, we have not wanted to risk it again.”

Just as Prudence finished speaking, two men entered the room. Mr. Bailey and Lord Norton.

Everyone stared at them as a complete and heavy silence spilled over the room like an unpleasant odor.

Then, slowly, the proper way of things popped bit by bit into Lottie’s blank mind. She stood, brushed past Quinton, and dropped a curtsy to the two men standing in the doorway. “My lords. How delightful to see you. Unfortunately, we are engaged in a private literary salon at the moment. No men allowed. Perhaps you could come back later.”

Both men’s gazes shot to a point over her shoulder, and she turned to see what captivated them so. Quinton stood there, scowling.

She turned back to the American and the no-longer-a-vicar. “We make an exception for Lord Noble. But we are not accepting new members.”

Lord Norton stepped forward, twisting his hat in his hands. “We came to check on Lady Prudence.”

“Not together,” Bailey added. “Just happened to end up here at the same time.” A slight growl rumbled through the man’s voice, as if he did not like that he shared an idea with someone else, and they had attempted to execute their plans at the exact same time. He continued forward, stopping before Prudence. “My lady, how are you weathering the scandal? I’ve heard nothing but this morning, and I had to ensure you were well.” One could barely see his lips for the bushiness of his beard. His baggy clothes were wrinkled, and his gloveless hands stained with ink. One side of his hair escaped from his cue.

Prudence took several steps away from him, her face twisted into barely concealed disgust. Did the man stink? Lottie tried a very small sniff. The air smelled no different from usual.

“I will not be scared off, though many tried to scare me off today,” Bailey continued. Was he attempting to appear ardent? He wasn’t quite succeeding if so. Must be the beard.

“I will not be scared away, either, Lady Prudence.” Lord Norton stood next to his courtship competition, staring softly at Prudence. He dressed much more fashionably though plainly. At least his clothes fit well.

These two suitors took away a bit of Lottie’s pain, though they could not know it. What intrepid, loyal souls to refuse to judge one sister by another’s actions. She placed a palm over her mouth, blinking back gratitude.

But then gratitude slipped into dark doubt. Why were they not to be scared off? Suspicions ruffled through her like the feathers of an upset bird. Did Bailey and Norton have other motives for courting Prudence? Motives the threat of scandal could not shake? Would her sisters only now ever attract fortune hunters and nefarious ne’er-do-wells?

Her uneasiness burst into flames, anger at herself, anger at everything, and because she could not contain the tears anymore, because she could not keep a scream clenched behind her teeth one second longer, she ran from the room. And ran to the one place she found comfort these days—her mother’s parlor. Just down the hall. Books scattered on every surface. Locked in the wardrobe where the naughty ones they’d kept, the ones they’d not given to Cora that belonged to the library. Lined for everyone to see on the shelves in an alcove were the books their mother had delighted in sharing with them when they’d been girls. The rug in the center of the room was worn from where they had at all lain on their bellies or their backs in the soft pile, books in hands, expanding their imaginations outward beyond walls, beyond boundaries of city and country.

She collapsed into a puddle of skirts in the middle of that rug. And while the books had helped her world expand outward, she felt now them constricting, everything shrinking smaller and smaller and smaller till she was nothing more than skirts and a heart caged behind ribs, beating with a wild fury.