Miss Charity's Case by Jo Ann Ferguson Page A

so?” asked Charity.
    â€œâ€™Tis nothing you need to hear,” the old woman said. “It would not interest a young woman like you.”
    â€œA young woman like me?” she whispered. A shudder raced along her shoulders. The words resurrected the pain she had tried to bury deep within her. Years had passed since that terrible day when she was left by the man she had thought loved her. That day her heart had shattered, and she had vowed never to be a fool for love again.
    â€œJust keep a goodly distance between you and the earl,” Lady Eloise continued.
    Joyce clapped her hands with abrupt glee. “I know just the way to manage that. Charity and I both learned so much today at the Park.”
    â€œCharity?” Lady Eloise sniffed her dismay. “What has she learned? Nothing! She takes you for a ride in the Park today. I think she has done quite enough to herself … and to you.”
    â€œThat is not what I meant.” Joyce sat on the chair next to the old woman. “My dear aunt, there are so many beautiful, beautiful women in London for this Season. If I am to make a match—a good match—something must be memorable about me.”
    â€œJoyce,” Charity murmured, “please don’t.” She could guess where this was leading.
    â€œWhat could be more memorable than enjoying the Season with my sister?” Her eyes twinkled with mischief. “Think of it, Lady Eloise. The Stuart sisters set upon the winds of chance in the Season. Pretty Charity and me. She will dazzle the gentlemen with her wit and intelligence. She shall be the talk of the Season, drawing men to her side, so that I may enjoy a chance to talk with them as well.”
    â€œNonsense!” Charity said.
    â€œNonsense!” repeated Lady Eloise. “I shall not hear of this. Charity is past the age for being presented to the Polite World. No more of this nonsense, do you understand?”
    Joyce simply smiled, and Charity closed her eyes. She recognized that smile. Whenever Joyce wore it, she managed to get her way. But with Lady Eloise … There still might be hope of avoiding a Season she did not want … maybe.
    Oliver rubbed the back of his neck as he blew out the lamp on his desk. His cramped, low-ceilinged office on The Black Owl rocked by the docks. He took a deep breath of the odor of brackish water and unwashed bodies that clung to the harbor. Damme, but he loved this life. It was his misfortune that he had to be born the eldest son of an eldest son. He would gladly trade the title of “my lord” for another.
    â€œCap’n?”
    He smiled. That was the title he longed to hear, but his ships were lashed to the shore as totally as he was now.
    Turning to the open door, where starlight splashed on the deck’s worn boards, he motioned for the short man to enter. Howell was a good mate, quite capable of overseeing the ship while Oliver had to be ashore.
    â€œDidn’t want to be interruptin’ ye, cap’n.” His voice was as rough as a file on metal.
    â€œI was just leaving.” He stretched, his hands brushing the low rafters. “It’s been a long day.”
    â€œAnd ye’ve gained no headway?”
    He chuckled. “You know me too well, my friend.”
    â€œNo new orders?”
    â€œOnly to stand firm and do what needs to be done.” Again he rubbed the back of his neck. “Damme, this is a true muddle!” He slammed his fist onto the desk.
    Papers flew up around him. With a curse, he bent to gather them. A sheet of fine vellum startled him. This belonged on his ship no more than a member of the Polite World. He had to chuckle. He was a part of that world, no matter how much he wished to put it aside.
    His eyes widened as he realized this sheet must have been among the papers he had brought from his town house. He recognized the fine penmanship. When he read the page, he stood and smiled. It might not be a wasted