Chapter 7

Charlotte paused in front of the door to her home and stared at the letter in her hand, her heart skipping and stopping in turns. The script on the front was neat and the letter enclosed with a fine wax seal.

She knew exactly what it was, but she was finding it difficult to fathom that Mr. Yorke had been good for his word. She had half-expected him to find some other means of acquiring the diary—more threats, perhaps, or a Bow Street Runner, even.

Charlotte would have liked to meet a Runner. He would know all sorts of fascinating things that might prove useful.

It had been difficult for her to agree not to use the diary’s contents, but if things went well with the invitation, she hoped she wouldn’t need to continue the caricatures for much longer.

Charlotte was determined to make the most of the invitation. Both Lillian and Tabitha were handsome young women with good manners. Why should they not catch the attention of some respectable gentleman?

She opened the front door and strode inside, pulling off her bonnet. Mama, Lillian, and Tabitha were all seated in the parlor, needles in hand as they worked to darn stockings and other miscellaneous items.

Mama glanced up from her needlework with her characteristically kind smile. Her gaze dropped to the letter in Charlotte’s hand, and the smile evaporated.

Charlotte hurried over to her. “It is an invitation, Mama.”

Mama’s brows drew together as she took the paper. It had been some time since they had received an invitation. At first, it had been due to Papa’s death, but even once they had put off their mourning, the silence had continued. A deafening silence, in fact.

It made Charlotte’s jaw clench just to think about. It grated her to accept an invitation to socialize amongst such fair-weather friends, but what was the alternative? She could not draw caricatures for the rest of her life to support her family. Neither did she wish to. Every interaction with Mr. Digby became more unpleasant until Charlotte’s skin had begun to crawl at the mere sight of him. Though her skin crawled all the more knowing that her arrangement with him had caused her to join the ton in its low ways. Perhaps this party was her ticket out.

Tabitha lowered the handkerchief she was stitching and leaned closer as Mama broke the seal and unfurled the invitation.

Charlotte’s own curiosity took her to Lillian’s side, and four pairs of eyes examined the contents of the invitation. It was for Monday of the coming week—a dinner party to be held at Mrs. Eugenia Ashby’s London house.

Mama blinked. “But why? I have never met Mrs. Ashby.”

This was what Charlotte had been dreading—how to explain the invitation being extended at all.

“Is she not related to the Yorkes?” Lillian said, her gaze fixed on Charlotte.

To her dismay, Charlotte’s cheeks filled with heat. She forced her expression into nonchalance. “I believe you may be right about that.”

Lillian cocked a brow, but Charlotte studiously ignored her.

“Yorke ... as in the handsome Mr. Yorke who came to see Charlotte?” Tabitha asked with a distinctly mischievous glint in her eye.

Mama’s head whipped up again. She had yet to hear of the visit, and Charlotte had thought Tabitha ignorant as well. Evidently not.

“What do you mean?” Mama asked. “Is this the Yorkes? The ones related to the Duke of Rockwood?”

“It was nothing,” Charlotte said, dampening Mama’s visions of grandeur. “We had met at The Crown and Castle, and he thought I had dropped something there, so he came to return it to me.”

“How chivalrous of him,” Tabitha said, audibly impressed.

Charlotte couldn’t stifle a scoff. Of all the words to describe Mr. Yorke, chivalrous would be the last she would use. Or perhaps ugly, but that was beside the point.

“It is chivalrous,” Mama said. “Do you think he was the one who persuaded Mrs. Ashby to invite us? I cannot think of any other explanation for it.”

Lillian and Charlotte did battle using nothing but their eyes, but Mama was not watching.

“Whatever the case,” she said, standing with her eyes still fixed on the invitation, “I am grateful for it. We are overdue for a bit of good fortune, are we not?”

Charlotte could almost see Mama’s mind whirring with hope and possibility as she paced across the floor in front of the hearth. “We must put ourselves to work immediately to ensure all of you present the finest possible appearance. I will go into the village today to see whether Mrs. Clark can fit us up for the party. Of course, I can go without anything new—I would far rather put the little money we have into your dresses. Though, I fear my vision may be well beyond our means even then.” She brought her thumb to her mouth and chewed the tip of the nail nervously.

“I need nothing,” Charlotte said. “I have only worn my white satin twice. It shall do very well for me.”

Mama shook her head decidedly. “Not for Mrs. Ashby’s party, and certainly not if we mean to do everything in our power to further your acquaintance with the Yorkes. Which son was it, Charlotte? The oldest one is in line for the dukedom, you know.”

Oh, heavens. This was getting out of hand quickly.

“It was not the oldest one,” Charlotte said firmly, rising from the sofa, “and, given that the eldest is a distant fourth or fifth in line, the likelihood of Mr. Anthony inheriting is not much greater than that of my doing so.”

“Well,” Mama said, wrapping an arm around Charlotte and pulling her into her side, “I must say, I think you would do a fine job of being a duchess.” She looked around at each of her three daughters with a bit of wistfulness in her eyes. “I am terribly proud of my daughters, and your father would be too. We may not be the smartest dressed at this party, but no one can say aught else against any of you. Kind, intelligent, and spotless reputations, each one.”

Charlotte’s stomach swam with guilt, but she forced a smile and leaned her head on Mama’s shoulder. Her own reputation was not the unblemished thing Mama believed it to be, but at least they would be able to afford better dresses than Mama knew, using the money Charlotte had been saving.

Of course, Mama was unaware just where the money was from. After Papa’s death, Mama’s grief had struck her low for weeks. Charlotte had offered to take up the task of communicating with the trustees regarding the estate. Whenever they received money, Charlotte merely added a bit from her own stores.

She hated to deplete their supply so much, but this party was an investment. The invitation could lead to other invitations, and their prospects would be greatly improved. Having their futures secured would, in turn, secure Mama’s future. Charlotte merely needed to ensure her reputation remained intact long enough for Tabitha and Lillian to make their mark amongst high society.

“Perhaps we can be let down just here,” Charlotte said, grasping the diary her reticule held as she looked at the carriages lining up in front of Mrs. Ashby’s townhouse ahead. Not all the finery in the world could undo the sight of the Mandevilles stepping down from an outdated carriage with peeling paint. They so rarely used it that it had been gravely neglected since Papa’s death.

The driver pulled to the side of the road, and the four of them descended one by one. Charlotte was satisfied with the appearance they presented—her sisters wore muted pastels. With Charlotte already twenty-three, none of them were in their first blush of youth, but they had never been properly presented. And though Charlotte would have preferred Lillian in a vibrant blue, to do so would have been to court comment, and that was something they could ill afford.

Charlotte had worn the satin dress, just as she had planned. She had, however, asked Mrs. Clark to embellish the sleeves, neckline, and hem with gold thread. She had promised Mr. Yorke they would be a credit to him and his aunt, and she meant to be good for her word, even if it grated her to do anything with his interests in mind. In this one instance, their interests happened to converge.

Thanks to the talk the week’s caricature had generated, Charlotte had learned a great deal about Mr. Yorke—or at least bits and pieces that presented a very disturbing picture indeed.

The Yorkes might be related to the Duke of Rockwood, but, if the gossip was to be believed, they were not exactly bastions of respectability. Naturally, Charlotte was not foolish enough to believe everything people said, but she did have enough experience to understand there was almost invariably a kernel of truth in gossip.

Mary’s assertions about Anthony’s brother were evidently true. He had killed a man and fled to France to escape his fate at the gallows. If his brother was capable of such brutality—and he the most likable of the Yorkes, according to many—who could say what Mr. Anthony Yorke might be capable of?

Was it completely irresponsible of her to deliver the diary into his hands? He had said a man’s life was in the balance. She had assumed it was self-interest that motivated his desire for the diary, but now she couldn’t help wondering if he intended to use the diary to ruin someone.

The four Mandevilles walked toward the lamplit entrance with Charlotte’s gaze flitting from face to face of their fellow attendees. It only increased her nerves, for she recognized two subjects of recent caricatures. If they knew she was responsible for the drawings, the night would be ruined. There would be no further invitations, no marriage prospects for her sisters, and the future of their family would be in greater peril than ever.

The reticule with the diary hung heavy on her wrist as they passed through the doors. The entry hall was a veritable sea of faces—some familiar, but most unfamiliar. Even the familiar ones were not acquaintances of Charlotte or her family, though. They were simply known to her from having seen them at The Crown and Castle.

The Mandevilles were dressed well enough, but it was clear from the way their fellow attendees were dressed and the fineness of the furnishings in Mrs. Ashby’s house that this was not their world.

“What do we do now?” Tabitha asked through a smile of clenched teeth as they stood in the entry hall. “Is your Mr. Yorke here?”

“He is not my Mr. Yorke,” Charlotte hissed. But she would have been glad to see his face, if only to know one person.

“There,” Mama said decisively, nodding down the corridor. A woman in vibrant green silk was talking with attendees beside the door. “That is Mrs. Ashby. Come. We should greet her.”

Charlotte nodded, but inside, her heart was doing somersaults. She hadn’t any idea whether this woman would even be aware they had received an invitation from her. Had Mr. Yorke informed her? Or had the housekeeper been ordered to send it?

Suddenly, this idea seemed complete and utter folly—a recipe for embarrassment that the Mandevilles would never have the opportunity to rise above. What if Mrs. Ashby resented having strangers at her party? It was entirely possible the woman was a harpy and would treat them like the imposters they were.

“Be gracious but confident,” Mama said in an undervoice as they approached their hostess. “You are daughters of a gentleman and have every right to be here.”

Charlotte and her sisters straightened and took in steadying breaths as Mrs. Ashby turned toward them, the curiosity bred from unfamiliarity filling her gaze.

“Good evening, Mrs. Ashby,” Mama said. “I am Louisa Mandeville, and these are my daughters, Miss Mandeville, Miss Charlotte, and Miss Tabitha. It was very kind of you to invite us.” The three of them curtseyed in order, but Mrs. Ashby’s gaze fixed on Charlotte.

“Miss Charlotte,” she repeated, surveying her. Charlotte forced herself to meet the woman’s eye with that delicate balance of confidence and modesty. “I have been eager to meet you.”

“And I you, ma’am,” Charlotte responded politely. In truth, she hadn’t thought about Mrs. Ashby much at all until their arrival. Why Mrs. Ashby cared at all to meet a belatedly added guest was certainly a question flitting about Charlotte’s mind.

For a long moment, the woman regarded her with unabashed curiosity, until Charlotte felt certain she was red from the roots of her hair to her bosom. Why did she not regard Lillian or Tabitha in the same manner? Did she know something about Charlotte? Had Anthony said something to warn her?

Finally, Mrs. Ashby turned to Mama and the others. “I am so pleased all of you could come. I shall hope for the opportunity to deepen our acquaintance over the course of the night. Now”—she looked about her—“where is—ah, there he is. Anthony!”