in search of the elusive tome.
“The Eversham Motif, actually,” he said. And she saw it—the tug of a grin. A spark of pleasure settled into a smoldering fire in her belly.
“I hope you are not disappointed,” she remarked.
“To the contrary. I am surprised to find I am impressed,” he said softly. She knew that it was a compliment; that he was impressed with her. Someone, finally, had noticed her cleverness. She was glad, deeply, that it was he.
“I thought you would be more interested in the first book of the first edition of The Hare Raising Adventures of George Coney.”
“I would be if such a thing existed,” he said softly, tilting his head slightly. She did not want the game to end just yet.
“Oh, did they review the volume already? I hope you did not wager overmuch,” she said, appearing vitally concerned for his bank accounts lest he had gambled his last farthing on the existence of a fictitious book.
“Charlotte …” James said warningly.
“Oh, look, Lord Hastings!” she called brightly.
“Lady Charlotte,” he said in a polite, but cold greeting. He could not snub her—being so closely related to a duke, and being his longstanding neighbor in Hampshire, as she was—but it was clear he wanted to. Most likely because of the man by her side.
“I was hoping we might have a word with you,” she said, and then before either gentleman could protest, she grasped their arms—lightly to the observer, but like a vise to the men—and steered them over to a private corner of the library.
The crowds served a great purpose, for the public venue prevented either gentleman from acting out. Furthermore, a mention of the Eversham Motif on the ceiling meant that all eyes were focused up, thus completely missing all sorts of scandals in their midst.
Such as two of London’s feuding gentlemen in conversation, mediated by the formidable Charlotte Brandon.
“I cannot fathom what possibly we would have to talk about,” Lord Hastings said icily.
James glared at them both.
“James’s terrible speech was my fault,” Charlotte said in a low voice. “I wanted you to know that. And to not hold it against your son.”
“Charlotte …” James’s voice was a warning, a plea … and it was lost to Lord Hastings’s sudden lecture.
“Lady Charlotte,” he began and even she shrank slightly under his withering glare. “I believe in honoring one’s commitments in a prompt and dignified manner. I believe that gentlemen conduct themselves in a certain way—including, but not limited to, the attire they choose to appear in when in public. Above all, I firmly believe in minding one’s own business.”
“But—” James clasped her hand and squeezed. Hard.
“I shall not question your involvement in this entire matter, Lady Charlotte, nor shall I report it to your brother, His Grace. I trust you will not grant me sufficient motivation to reconsider. You are welcome.”
The tears that stung Charlotte’s eyes were not feigned or summoned at will. For all of her noble efforts and good intentions, Lord Hastings simply delivered a devastating set down—and he hadn’t even listened to the speech she had planned! And he had used her own favorite retort against her. It was unforgivable.
No, Lord Hastings, you are welcome, she huffed to herself.
Lord Hastings did not even deign to acknowledge his son before stalking off. Lord Capulet finally decided that the preservation of his newly redecorated library trumped the elusive Eversham Motif and The Hare Raising Adventures of George Coney .
In an effort to avoid being ushered out along with the mob, James tugged Charlotte into a private window alcove.
On one side, French doors opened onto a small balcony overlooking the terrace. The thick walls—about two feet deep—formed the sides and luxurious velvet curtains draped on either side of the alcove’s opening into the library.
There was room for the two of them. Just.
T he only time James had seen
“The Eversham Motif, actually,” he said. And she saw it—the tug of a grin. A spark of pleasure settled into a smoldering fire in her belly.
“I hope you are not disappointed,” she remarked.
“To the contrary. I am surprised to find I am impressed,” he said softly. She knew that it was a compliment; that he was impressed with her. Someone, finally, had noticed her cleverness. She was glad, deeply, that it was he.
“I thought you would be more interested in the first book of the first edition of The Hare Raising Adventures of George Coney.”
“I would be if such a thing existed,” he said softly, tilting his head slightly. She did not want the game to end just yet.
“Oh, did they review the volume already? I hope you did not wager overmuch,” she said, appearing vitally concerned for his bank accounts lest he had gambled his last farthing on the existence of a fictitious book.
“Charlotte …” James said warningly.
“Oh, look, Lord Hastings!” she called brightly.
“Lady Charlotte,” he said in a polite, but cold greeting. He could not snub her—being so closely related to a duke, and being his longstanding neighbor in Hampshire, as she was—but it was clear he wanted to. Most likely because of the man by her side.
“I was hoping we might have a word with you,” she said, and then before either gentleman could protest, she grasped their arms—lightly to the observer, but like a vise to the men—and steered them over to a private corner of the library.
The crowds served a great purpose, for the public venue prevented either gentleman from acting out. Furthermore, a mention of the Eversham Motif on the ceiling meant that all eyes were focused up, thus completely missing all sorts of scandals in their midst.
Such as two of London’s feuding gentlemen in conversation, mediated by the formidable Charlotte Brandon.
“I cannot fathom what possibly we would have to talk about,” Lord Hastings said icily.
James glared at them both.
“James’s terrible speech was my fault,” Charlotte said in a low voice. “I wanted you to know that. And to not hold it against your son.”
“Charlotte …” James’s voice was a warning, a plea … and it was lost to Lord Hastings’s sudden lecture.
“Lady Charlotte,” he began and even she shrank slightly under his withering glare. “I believe in honoring one’s commitments in a prompt and dignified manner. I believe that gentlemen conduct themselves in a certain way—including, but not limited to, the attire they choose to appear in when in public. Above all, I firmly believe in minding one’s own business.”
“But—” James clasped her hand and squeezed. Hard.
“I shall not question your involvement in this entire matter, Lady Charlotte, nor shall I report it to your brother, His Grace. I trust you will not grant me sufficient motivation to reconsider. You are welcome.”
The tears that stung Charlotte’s eyes were not feigned or summoned at will. For all of her noble efforts and good intentions, Lord Hastings simply delivered a devastating set down—and he hadn’t even listened to the speech she had planned! And he had used her own favorite retort against her. It was unforgivable.
No, Lord Hastings, you are welcome, she huffed to herself.
Lord Hastings did not even deign to acknowledge his son before stalking off. Lord Capulet finally decided that the preservation of his newly redecorated library trumped the elusive Eversham Motif and The Hare Raising Adventures of George Coney .
In an effort to avoid being ushered out along with the mob, James tugged Charlotte into a private window alcove.
On one side, French doors opened onto a small balcony overlooking the terrace. The thick walls—about two feet deep—formed the sides and luxurious velvet curtains draped on either side of the alcove’s opening into the library.
There was room for the two of them. Just.
T he only time James had seen
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