Or was she being fanciful? He might be the same as many of the other men of her acquaintance.
Charlotte did a quick inventory of her place setting. Clearly Mrs. Washburn had embraced the new style of service à la russe rather than the old custom of service à la française. Rather than bring out all the food at once in a massive display, each course would be served individually by the footmen.
Carefully rehearsing the lessons in deportment and utensil usage Miss Hitchin had attempted to drill into Charlotte, she cannily waited until Mrs. Washburn picked up her soup spoon before doing likewise, just to make sure she didn’t perform some solecism. The rules of dinner etiquette had always seemed such a waste of time to learn, especially when there were more interesting subjects waiting between book covers.
For the next half hour, she nodded, agreed with, and “oh really, isn’t that something-ed” the comments of the gentlemen on either side of her. The elderly baronet poked at his food.
“Never did like this fancy stuff. And the older I get, the less I need. Twelve courses is beyond me.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “But you have to toss the food about the plate a bit to make it look like you ate some, or the hostess might think you didn’t like it.”
The gentleman on her left was a portly man with impressive side-whiskers. “General Eddington, retired.” He was quite dedicated to his meal, finishing each course completely and quickly.
Soup, fish, game, fowl, meat, vegetables, salads, crèmes, and trifles. The courses appeared one after the other. Father kept the attention of the ladies on either side with ease. How could he be so charming in public and so cold in private? Mother watched her as if waiting for her to say something inappropriate.
Charlotte let the conversation flow around her, still heartsick about her books, and realizing that aside from Dudley Bosworth and the Duke of Haverly, there were no eligible men present. So much for her prospects this evening.
“I heard Whitelock had turned his country estate into a sort of poor farm for wounded veterans.” General Eddington let his fork scrape on his china, sending a shiver through Charlotte as he spoke to someone down the table. “He’s made it a bit of a crusade, I believe. I applaud him. The country needs to do more for its veterans. Wouldn’t surprise me at all if Whitelock didn’t make it the subject of his first address when he takes his place in the House of Lords.”
“This war has created many unforeseen issues.” The Duke of Haverly spoke over the sound of the diners, and voices stilled. “What to do with wounded veterans is one of them. I’ve been to White Haven several times, and I can confirm that the earl and countess have hired many veterans to help run the estate. I would quibble with you on the term ‘poor farm,’ however.” He smiled slightly to indicate no offense. “The tenants of White Haven earn their keep and more. Whitelock is providing skills and education in agriculture and animal husbandry while benefitting from the military training and discipline these former soldiers already possess. I have plans to implement some of the same procedures on my own property in the future.”
His mother jerked as if she’d been jabbed with a hatpin. She coughed, raising her napkin to her lips. “Really, Marcus.” She gasped and coughed once more. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re fully staffed at Haverly Manor.”
A patient-but-unmoved expression came over the duke’s face, and he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “As I said, this war has created several issues that we should be dealing with now.”
“Such as?” Mrs. Washburn asked.
“Wounded veterans, war orphans, war widows. We’ve thousands of military dependents who have been made destitute when their husbands or fathers were killed or severely wounded in action. The pensions and compensations from the Crown are not sufficient. The rookeries are full of men whose only crime was taking the King’s shilling and getting wounded for their trouble. Their children become ragpickers or cutpurses, and their daughters and wives become streetwalkers, just to put bread on the table.” He cast a jaded eye upon the heavily laden plates of pigeon and duck and grouse, the aspic and calf’s-foot jelly, the roasted vegetables and plentiful fruit. “How many prostitutes and pickpockets would this repast feed?”
A muffled gasp went up from the other end of the table, but Charlotte couldn’t take her eyes off the duke. For the first time since the soup course, her interest was piqued. The duchess looked as if she might choke—or choke her son. How often had Charlotte’s own mother looked at her like that? But for once it wasn’t Charlotte dropping conversational spanners all over the place. To even say the word “prostitute” at the dinner table? The duke seemed unaffected by the tension he’d created, shaking his head when the footman offered him another dish.
Charlotte cut a glance at her father, whose chin was lifted slightly, his nostrils thinned with disapproval and piety. Mother’s eyes were round, and her knuckles showed white on her fork. No one spoke for a long moment.
“I say, did you hear that Gravensby sold that promising young colt of his to Lord Smythe?” Mr. Washburn asked. “He’s been tipped to win the Derby this year. I wouldn’t have thought Gravensby would’ve entertained any offers, but there you have it.”
Shoulders relaxed and eating resumed as the guests fell back to observing proper dinner conversation.
A pity. It was the only interesting thing said the entire meal.
Charlotte caught the duke looking at her, and for an instant she thought he might have winked at her. She dropped her gaze to her plate. No, surely not. He wouldn’t be so vulgar. It was a trick of the candlelight.
In that instant, she’d had a fleeting sense of recognition.
Odd, since she’d never even been introduced to him before. It must be a recognition of a kindred rebel spirit. He’d embarrassed his mother by speaking inappropriately at a social function. Charlotte could sympathize. She did the same with almost tedious regularity.
Too bad he was out of her reach as a potential husband.
He shouldn’t have winked at her. It really wasn’t the done thing. She might get the wrong idea or assume he had nothing but bad manners at his disposal. However, she appeared to be the only one not scandalized by his words at this infernal dinner party.
Of course, he was the only one at the table who knew she’d been out wandering the rookeries at night trying to do a good thing for someone in need. She had a bit of a rebellious streak that he admired because it was so unusual in society girls.
His mother’s eyes were hard as glass marbles as she glared down the table at him. He’d hear about tonight’s doings sooner rather than later if he read the weather gauge correctly.
Another verse of the same old hymn. He was a disappointment to her and didn’t know how to comport himself in proper company.
By the time the ladies had retired and left the dining room to the men, Marcus was heartily sick of it all. The pretense and now the odd deference. He wasn’t used to being the highest-ranking peer in the room. He wasn’t used to being a titled peer at all. Why had he agreed to this dinner party in the first place?
Because it was the first social activity his mother had shown any interest in. And because of who would be attending.
Lord Trelawney and General Eddington. Two of the men on St. Clair’s list. Both had been in France when Viscount Fitzroy’s father had been there. Both were known for their political aspirations and aggressiveness.