Page 7 of Charming Sir Charles
Meg was awake to his intentions, even if her aunt wasn’t. During their outings, she offered unspoken cooperation in stepping back to allow him to talk to Sally. And he appreciated the girl’s willingness to attend concerts and art exhibitions that she had no interest in, so that Sally and he had at least a whisper of a chaperone.
Not that he’d managed to lure Sally into anything improper. More was the blasted pity.
“I’m sorry, Sir Charles,” Meg said dutifully, then turned to welcome a party of her friends, including Carey Townsend and Sir Brandon Deerham, who entered the box. This lively crowd was much more Meg’s style than Mozart. The footman who arrived with a tray of champagne had trouble making his way through the chattering young people.
“Take your frolics outside into the corridor, Brand and Carey,” Kenwick told his stepson and nephew, his deep voice effortlessly cutting through the hubbub. “You lot are noisier than that blasted screeching female we’ve had to endure for the last hour.”
After Meg and her friends had retreated behind a closed door, Charles accepted a glass of champagne. He turned back to Sally who had shifted her chair so she could talk to the Kenwicks.
“Are you still engaged for the few days in the country next week?” Devil take it, he hoped so.
“Yes, Meg and I will be there.”
Thank God. Charles wasn’t the only man in the ton to notice that the widowed Lady Norwood was a gem. So far there was some consolation in knowing that while he’d had no success capturing her interest, neither had any of the rest of her swains.
Charles lived in fear that some other blockhead might reach Sally in a way he’d never managed. He didn’t want to be out of Town for a week with Lord and Lady West, while she remained behind at the mercy of London’s eligibles.
“Meg is in alt at the prospect of spending a couple of days in the Wests’ stables,” Lady Kenwick said, sipping her champagne.
Charles noticed Sally shoot her friend a repressive glance, although why she was annoyed, he couldn’t imagine. It wasn’t as if Meg’s penchant for all things equine was any secret.
“She’ll have time to play the young lady, too,” Sally said. “This craze for horses is something most girls grow out of well before they become wives and mothers.”
“I reckon the lass is more stalwart than that, Sally,” Kenwick said. “She’s not a bairn who wants a pony on a whim. She’s the only person I’ve ever met whose knowledge of bloodlines and track form vies with West’s. Is this your first visit to Shelton Abbey, Kinglake?”
“Yes. I’m very much looking forward to seeing Lord West’s collection of Italian masters,” Charles said.
A previous Baron West had returned from his grand tour with a ship hold packed with Utrillos and Bronzinos and Caravaggios. Perhaps Charles might persuade West to part with one or two. Like Meg, the current Lord West was more interested in saddle horses than Salvatore Rosas.
“Meg has learned a great deal about art since she’s been in London, Sir Charles,” Sally said, with more of that blasted easy friendliness. “Largely thanks to you.”
Lady Kenwick regarded Sally with disbelief. “Not as far as I can see. She mistook Silas’s Botticelli for a Gainsborough yesterday. Oh!”
Lady Kenwick started in her seat and spilled champagne over her pretty blue gown.
Charles regarded her in consternation. “Are you well, Lady Kenwick?”
As she fumbled for her handkerchief and batted off Kenwick’s attempts to help, she shot Sally a killing glance. The fierce expression didn’t fit her gentle features. “Yes, quite well, thank you.”
“Anyone can make a mistake when it comes to paintings,” Sally said staunchly, pulling her handkerchief from her reticule and passing it to her friend to soak up the few drops. “Why, just the other day, Meg was begging me to take her back to the Royal Academy.”
That surprised Charles. From what he’d seen, the girl found pictures as dull as opera. “Actually if she’s developed any fondness for art, it’s due to you, Lady Norwood. You have such interesting and perceptive opinions.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Love of art runs in the family.”
“Sally…” Lady Kenwick began, but Sally spoke over her.
“Is that Miss Veivers over there with Lord Parry? I heard rumors of an offer in the wind.”
Without much interest, Charles glanced at the box opposite. “Surely not. He must be forty years older than she is.”
Sally shrugged. “It’s customary for the groom to be older than his bride.”
“Not that much older.”
“Her mother has pushed her at him, poor lamb,” Lady Kenwick said. “He’s a marquess, after all.”
“A marquess without two pennies to rub together,” Kenwick said flatly.
