Page 17 of Every Rogue Has His Charm

Lady Chesleigh paused and turned toward her, an expression not just of sympathy but empathy in her dark eyes. “My father was much the same.”

And your husband? Fanny found herself inordinately curious about the man, and more than a little tempted to warn the poor woman that he was about to return. But what plausible explanation could she give for possessing such knowledge?

Lady Chesleigh adjusted her parasol so she could loop her arm through Fanny’s. As they resumed walking, Fanny felt a twinge of something like guilt. But this was her mission. To grow close to the marchioness, close enough that she could report on her husband’s behavior. She must only hope she could appear convincingly surprised when Lord Chesleigh appeared.

“Tell me more about yourself, Mrs. Drummond.”

Fanny narrowly stopped herself from stumbling. Not that she hadn’t prepared for this moment, at least as rigorously as she’d prepared for all the others. She’d concocted half a dozen different answers and practiced them before her mirror in the privacy of her rooms. The truth was too pedestrian, unsuited to the acquaintance of a marchioness.

Nevertheless, it was the truth that now rose to her lips and slipped out, unbidden and unwelcome. “My father was a solicitor in London, my lady. I am the youngest of six brothers and sisters, all now scattered. I met Captain Drummond at a public assembly and agreed to marry him soon thereafter.”

She half expected Lady Chesleigh to release her arm and bid her good day right then. A future duchess, even a lonely one, need not associate herself with someone who must rely on the most generous interpretation of facts to call herself either the wife or daughter of a gentleman.

But Lady Chesleigh only nodded encouragingly. “And were you happy in your choice?”

An odd query, really—surely she would not want to be asked the same in return? Or did she long for a friend in whom she could confide her feelings about her long-absent husband?

“He was handsome and clever, dashing in his red coat, and always merry among his friends,” Fanny replied, not quite answering her question. “My mama urged caution, but I was past one and twenty and could not imagine what there was to wait for.”

Despite the fact that she had been marrying a near stranger, Fanny had indeed expected many things from her marriage. She had imagined that life with an army officer would involve travel and chances to meet interesting people. At the very least, she had expected companionship. Children. Eventually, perhaps, love.

Not loneliness.

“I did not understand, then, how useful it might be to discover certain matters before marrying. A man’s feelings about books, for example.”

Those who had come to know her in recent years—including Fitz—would be shocked to learn that before her marriage, she had been generally regarded as warm spirited and eager to please.

Years of disappointment, dismissal, derision had turned her to ice.

The young marchioness patted her arm and favored her with a slightly wry, but genuinely compassionate smile. “I was twenty when I wed, and I too imagined I knew how the world worked.”

Fanny managed to return Lady Chesleigh’s smile, her own rather thin, though no less real. If she had not meant to be so forthcoming, neither had she expected to be met with understanding.

“I fear, my lady, that the world depends upon young women being kept ignorant of a great many things.”

Lady Chesleigh paused and darted her gaze toward the water. Afternoon sun gilded the rippling waves, but Fanny did not think it was only brightness that had caused her eyes to narrow. “Please, call me Caro.” Fanny stiffened in surprise at the invitation to familiarity, as the marchioness dipped her head in the direction of a charming little shop. “Will you join me for tea, Mrs. Drummond?”

“Fanny,” she urged when she could trust herself to speak. “And tea would be most welcome.”

Fitz stepped forward to open the door for them, the stack of books balanced easily in the crook of his other arm. Fanny sent him a sympathetic glance. He would have to stand outside and wait for them, and the day was warm. As Lady Chesleigh stepped into the tea shop, Fitz gave Fanny a wink, the movement of his eye so swift she could have persuaded herself she had imagined it, if he had not also mouthed the words, “Good work.”

It did not feel like work—or at least, not the work she had imagined herself setting out to do. Nothing, in fact, was going according to Fanny’s careful plan, which had certainly not anticipated the intimacy of Christian names and shared confidences about the poor foundations for their overly hasty marriages. What more might an hour over tea and cakes produce?

Laughter, as it turned out.

Lady Chesleigh—Caro—was an incisive observer with a sharp and subtle wit. And her laugh was surprisingly rich, inviting listeners to join in, in spite of themselves. Nothing in Fanny’s research had prepared her for it, and she could not remember the last time she had laughed. Fortunately, the tea shop was otherwise empty of patrons, who might have been scandalized by the impropriety of it.

Fanny had seen men grow garrulous on brandy and tobacco; she had never imagined a cup of oolong with lemon biscuits could have a similar effect. When she at last stood to leave, she felt curiously light headed. Fitz’s glance when they emerged—surprised and appreciative—made her lift her fingertips to her cheeks, which were warm and probably flushed. She was tempted to inspect her reflection in the shop’s front window, but Caro saved her from her vanity by setting off down the street.

She was still giggling about the notorious ladies’ bathing machine attendant, Martha Gunn, infamous for tossing reluctant bathers into the water, when they arrived at Royal Crescent. Fitz preceded them up the steps to open the door, but it opened a few inches before he could reach it. A wide-eyed maidservant peeped out, then swung the door wider.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re back, milady.”

“What is it, Tilly?” Caro hurried up the steps.

“A visitor, ma’am.” The girl swallowed, as if speaking the name required additional fortitude. “His Grace, the Duke of Hartwell.”

Caro drew in a sharp breath through her nose. Fanny could hear that sound of surprise and alarm even from several feet away. She darted a glance toward Fitz, who was standing ramrod straight, his gaze focused on some distant point, giving a very good impression of a servant who had no concern in the matters being discussed. But she knew he understood what the duke’s arrival meant as well as she did.