Chapter 6

Chapter Six

A FOOL FOR LOVE

A lthough Charles loved both his parents dearly, his father had a way of stating his opinion clearly, not leaving any doubt about what he thought was the right course of action. His mother, on the other hand, was different. While Charles did not doubt that his mother, too, possessed clear opinions, she rarely voiced them in a way that made others feel obliged to share them.

And so, the morning after the Atwood ball, Charles sought his mother in the drawing room. "Do you have a moment?" he inquired, closing the door behind him. "There is something I wish to ask you?"

His mother eyed him curiously but with a mischievous twinkle in her pale eyes. "It seems to be something secretive," she remarked, glancing back at the closed door. "Those are my most favorite conversations. Come. Sit." She settled herself into one of the armchairs by the fire while Charles took the other. "What is on your mind, dear? Is it about Miss Hartley?"

That was another thing about his mother. She had an uncanny ability to read people's thoughts, knowing precisely what lived in their hearts and minds.

Charles nodded. "It is," he admitted freely. "What do you know of her?"

For a moment, his mother remained quiet, and her pale eyes shifted in a way that Charles almost thought he could see the cogs in her head turning. "Well, as you are aware, she is the eldest daughter to Lord and Lady Benton. She has a younger sister who goes by the name of Francine. As far as I know, the girl's only five years old." She tilted her head sideways, her eyes slightly narrowing as she watched him. "And she is set to marry a Mr. Jonathan Carter in a matter of days."

Charles felt an icy lump settle in his stomach, every muscle in his body tensing at the prospect.

"Mr. Carter and Lord Benton know each other from their time at school. Mr. Carter was married to his first wife for the past few decades and lost her only a few years past to a sudden fever. From the way people speak, he loved her dearly and never quite overcame her loss."

A part of Charles wondered how his mother had obtained all this information in a single night. Yet she had always had her ways. "Then why would he marry Miss Hartley now?" he thought out loud. "From what you just said, I would've suspected him determined to remain a widower. Does he… Does he need an heir?" Indeed, asking that question felt almost painful.

Holding his gaze, his mother shook her head. "He does not. He has three grown sons."

Charles frowned. "It sounds like a marriage of convenience, does it not?"

His mother nodded. "More than that," she murmured, holding his gaze as though waiting for him to draw his own conclusions.

Charles sat back, a jolt going through his body. "Do you think…?" He shook his head, disbelief echoing through his body. "Do you think her marriage is meant to cover some sort of… scandal?" Although Charles had spent most of his life far from English society, his parents had often spoken to their children of the rules that governed the world they came from.

"I would not be surprised if it were so," his mother agreed. Her gaze softened, and she looked at him in the way parents often did when they found themselves astounded to see their children grown up. "Why do you ask?"

Charles exhaled a deep breath. He knew his father would advise him to forget about Miss Hartley, especially under the circumstances. Yet every fiber of Charles's being told him it would be a monumental mistake. "Can I ask you for a favor?" he said, instead of answering his mother's question.

Smiling at him, she nodded. "Always."

"Can you find out which function Miss Hartley will attend next and assure that we shall be invited also?"

Instead of once more inquiring after his motives, his mother merely nodded. "I shall see to it."

Charles exhaled a breath of relief. "Thank you."

That very night, Charles and Henry accompanied their parents to the ball of an old friend of theirs. As a young boy, Charles had even played with Lord Wilton's son; though he could not remember it. Still, as he set foot inside their townhouse, vague memories returned.

"Welcome back on English shores," Lord Wilton exclaimed, grasping Charles's father's hand. "It's good to have you back."

Charles's father laughed. "Though it won't be for long, I assure you. We find that a warmer climate suits us better."

"How is dear Elizabeth?" Lady Wilton inquired, a compassionate expression in her brown eyes. "Is she any better?"

Charles's mother shook her head. "The doctors agree that there is no way to cure her affliction; yet near the sea in southern Europe, she's a changed child." A deep smile shone upon her face, and Charles remembered how worried his parents had been after Lizzie had been born and the doctors had prophesied that she would not live long.

Yet they had found a way, and deep down, Charles had come to believe that no matter what, there was always a way.

Excusing himself, Charles ventured into the ballroom, his gaze sweeping the many guests in attendance. "You're looking for her again, aren't you?" his brother remarked with a chuckle. "What is so special about her?"

Charles looked at his brother then shrugged. "I don't know. Everything."

Laughing, Henry slapped his shoulder. "If you say so." Then he caught sight of a group of young gentlemen, friends he had made only the night before, and was soon lost from sight.

Of course, Charles did not mind in the least. After all, he was on a mission of his own. First, though, he needed to find Miss Hartley. That, unfortunately, proved difficult. While he eventually spotted her parents as well as Mr. Carter, there seemed to be no sign of Miss Hartley herself.

As Charles ventured from one side of the ballroom to the other, peeking down darkened corridors, he feared that perhaps Miss Hartley was not in attendance tonight. Had something prevented her? Perhaps a headache or—?

Out of the corner of his eye, Charles suddenly caught a glimpse of her. It was only a second. She was there and then gone. Yet every cell in his body knew that it had been her.

Quickening his steps, Charles hurried after her. He left the ballroom behind and hastened down the corridor. Women were walking in and out of the powder room to his right, their voices almost deafening in the comparative quiet of the hallway. Yet Miss Hartley seemed to have another destination in mind, for she quickly slipped past the powder room the moment no one was nearby.

Charles hung back, wondering where she was going. He could only see the back of her head and wondered if, once again, her heart was in peril. Was she in tears? Was she fleeing the ballroom to find solitude?

Turning around another corner, Charles saw her slip into a quiet alcove. From everything he had learned from his parents, he understood a young woman ought not be venturing along darkened corridors unchaperoned. If she were found, it could severely damage her reputation.

As though on cue, voices drifted closer. A group of young men was making their way down the corridor and straight toward where Miss Hartley was hiding.

Charles's heart sped up, his muscles tensing, before he rushed forward, ready to intercept them. Yet what ought he say? He had never been as nimble-witted as his brother, only that did not matter now. If he had to make a fool of himself in order to protect her, he would.

"I'm afraid you cannot be here," Charles stated the moment the group of young men came around the corner. They drew up short, surprised to see him, laughter dying on their lips. "This area is off-limits to guests." He squared his shoulders, meeting their eyes unflinchingly, praying that this would work.

Only a few steps behind him, he thought to hear Miss Hartley draw in a sharp breath, and he prayed she would stay where she was and not suddenly dash out of the alcove.

"Is that so?" one of the young men challenged, and rather belatedly, Charles recognized him as Lord Wilton's son, his former playmate of childhood days long gone. "Who says so?"

Charles cleared his throat, wishing in that moment he had taken the time to refamiliarize himself with Lord Wilton and his family. "My name is Charles Beaumont, Viscount Hawthorne," he replied, holding the young man's gaze. "My parents are Lord and Lady Whickerton."

At his parents' title, a spark of recognition lit up the other man's eyes, and Charles felt utter relief wash over him. Though it did not automatically solve his problem, perhaps Lord Wilton's son—Edward, as far as Charles recalled—would grant him this favor.

"It has been some time," Edward—if that was indeed his name—replied with a nod. "My father said that your family recently returned to these shores." He cast a questioning gaze past Charles's shoulder at the alcove before flashing him a bit of a teasing smile. "Welcome back, Charlie."

Indeed, Charlie did ring a bell, and a vague image of chasing a dark-haired boy down these very corridors entered Charles's mind. "Thank you."

For a moment, none of them said a word, and Charles raked his mind for something to say, some excuse that would send them back in the direction they had come. Edward still eyed him most curiously while the other three men continued to look back and forth between them, clearly aware that something was going on.

"So," Edward began, an oddly familiar looking smirk on his face, "why are you trying to get rid of us?" His brows rose teasingly, and once again, he glanced past Charles's shoulder. "Let me guess," he continued before Charles could attempt any sort of reply. "You are in the company of a young lady and wish for a moment of intimate solitude with her." He grinned widely. "Am I correct?"

Worried that Miss Hartley might hear every word they were saying, Charles felt mortified at the innuendo in his childhood friend's words. Still, what else could he give by way of explanation?

And so, Charles nodded, unable to utter a single word.

Edward laughed good-naturedly then slapped his shoulder. "It's good to have you back. Don't be a stranger, you hear?" Then he stepped back and nodded to his friends, gesturing for them to return to the ballroom. "Good luck," Edward called over his shoulder, another one of those smirks upon his face.

Charles exhaled a deep breath, every inch of him trembling, every inch of him in disbelief that this had truly worked. Indeed, penning words to paper with the time and leisure to think each and every one through had always come easily to Charles yet speaking words in the heat of the moment and making them coherent and rational and compelling eluded him. In truth, Charles knew it had been luck instead of competence that had saved him this night.

Still, it did not matter. All that mattered was that Miss Hartley had remained undiscovered.

Exhaling a deep breath, Charles turned around and carefully approached the alcove. "It is all right, Miss Hartley," he said quietly, hoping his words would reassure her. "It is safe to come out."