Patrina’s lips twitched. “Er, why thank you. I think.”
Mary, through all the child’s exchange, remained with her gaze fixed out at the passing scenery. Her shoulders shook, no doubt from amusement.
“Is something wrong with her?” Charlotte asked, jerking her chin at Mary.
“I don’t know,” Patrina said. “Why don’t you ask her?”
“You there, is there something wrong with you?” The question rang with authority, no doubt learned at the heel of her commanding father.
Mary waved hear hand. “No. Fine,” she cleared her throat, and regained her composure. “Forgive me, I’m fine.”
“That isn’t how we speak to people, Charlotte,” Patrina gently chided.
The girl’s mouth settled in a mutinous line. “I merely asked her a question.”
“Ah, yes, but it is how you asked the question. You must still be polite.”
“Even to servants?” Skepticism laced the three-worded question.
Patrina registered Mary’s intense interest in the current exchange. “Especially servants, Charlotte. Can you imagine how very difficult life would be without them?”
The widest smile turned Mary’s lips, which she covered discreetly with her hand.
Charlotte folded her arms over her chest. “Mama didn’t agree. She said servants are there to see to the pleasures of their betters.”
Patrina winced. She supposed she should be more lenient with the departed woman’s memory, but the late Marchioness of Beaufort sounded like a perfectly unpleasant creature. “That isn’t true. Servants are there to work and help and even be confidantes to those in dire need.” She caught Mary’s eye, and the young maid gave an imperceptible nod, a silent acknowledgement to the close bond they’d forged after Patrina’s fall from grace.
“Truly?” Charlotte asked questioningly.
“Truly.”
The little girl seemed to dismiss the matter instantly and returned her attention to the least favorite of all Patrina’s topics—her marital status. “Do you not want a husband?”
“My, you are full of questions.”
The girl stared on expectantly.
Patrina sighed. “No.” That was the far easier reply than, the truth—she would never have a husband. Nay, she could never have a husband.
Charlotte settled back in the squabs. “All women want a husband.”
Nay, women didn’t necessarily want husbands as much as they needed husbands. It was the sad way of their world. It allowed little place for error in a young lady’s life. For when a mistake was made, as Patrina had committed, then the resulting consequence was the uncertain life of spinsterhood, dependent on the continued generosity of her family members.
“Not all women do,” she said at last.
“Hmph,” Charlotte said. She looked out the window and then swallowed audibly as the carriage drew to a slow stop in front of a white stucco townhouse.
The driver jumped down from the box and hastened to open the door. He reached inside the carriage to hand Charlotte down.
The girl hesitated a moment, and continued to worry the flesh of her lower lip. She turned to address Patrina. “Will you come with me?” she blurted suddenly, unexpectedly. “To see Papa. Will you tell him that I became lost and…”
Patrina leaned over and place her hands over Charlotte’s fingers, and gave them a light squeeze.
“Lady Patrina,” Mary gasped, with a pointed glance in her direction.
Patrina hesitated a moment, and then gave her head a slight shake. She could not abandon the girl without at least seeing her properly settled in her home. Nothing remained of Patrina’s own reputation; though there were still her sisters’ good names to consider, the Tidemore sisters would well-understand the need to see Charlotte safely returned to her father. She accepted the servant’s offer of assistance. “Thank you, Farnsworth,” she said quietly. She waved him off and helped Charlotte down.
As they made the march toward the expensive Mayfair District townhouse, Charlotte had a white-knuckled grip upon the green ribbon in her free hand. How many times had Patrina and her sisters worn the same guilty looks on their faces, and had that same panicked glimmer in their eyes?
She and Charlotte hadn’t even climbed the fourth step when the door opened, and the butler, a wizened gentleman with serious-looking eyes, said, “By the good saints in heaven, Lady Charlotte.”
“Hullo, Russell,” Charlotte returned with a wide, and what Patrina suspected was her most winning smile. She loosened her hand free and sprinted inside. The butler hesitated, his gaze alternated between Charlotte and Patrina. Charlotte motioned her to enter. “This is Lady…?”
“Patrina Tidemore,” she supplied. The handful of lords and ladies passing by the fashionable area shot her rabidly curious glances and she stepped inside the Marquess of Beaufort’s house, grateful when the butler closed the door behind her.
“My lady, please allow me, on behalf of the marquess to—” The servant’s words of gratitude ended abruptly as a shout bounced off the white Italian marble and filled the foyer.
She glanced up to where the marquess stood at the top of the sweeping staircase. He bounded down the stairs, and she took a nervous step backward, never having borne witness to such volatile emotion in a person’s eyes.
“Charlotte,” he thundered.
Patrina opened her mouth prepared to launch a defense of the small girl but then the towering marquess swept his daughter into his arms. He crushed her to his chest; his large hands stroked small circles over her narrow back.
“Hullo, Papa,” she said as sweetly as if she were requesting the last cherry tart at the bakeshop.
“Miss Airedale returned without you. Where have you been, Charlotte? What have you done?” Even as the questions tumbled unchecked from his lips, he glanced over his shoulder. His gaze caught and held Patrina’s. “You.” The one word utterance came harsh and gruff.
She should be chilled by the coldness underscoring his tone and yet some indefinable emotion radiated from the green irises of his eyes, warming her. “Me.” Then all hint of gentleness faded so that she wondered if she’d merely imagined the crack in his icy veneer. She folded her arms to shield herself from the heated intensity of his fathomless gaze.
Little Charlotte prattled on, seeming oblivious to the undercurrents of tension. “Lady Patrina found me, Papa.” She angled herself away from him and held up the green ribbon in her fingers. “And she bought me this.”
“Did she?” All the while his gaze remained fixed on Patrina.
She attempted to read something, anything in that ‘did she’, but his aloof tone matched the hard glimmer in his emerald eyes. Patrina shifted back and forth on her feet. She had nothing to feel guilty of. She’d done nothing wrong. Mayhap everything right where his daughter was concerned. How dare he make her feel…like…like…the exact way the rest of the ton would treat her? Patrina dipped a stiff curtsy. “My lord, I’m pleased Charlotte has come to no harm. I trust,” she looked at Charlotte and held the girl’s gaze. “She will not do something as reckless as wandering off again”
A slight frown marred the corner of his hard, perfect lips. She braced for a lofty tirade directed her way, but instead, he shifted his focus to his daughter. “Did you wander away from Nurse?”