Page 1 of Lady Charlotte and the Lending Library
Chapter One
April 1816, London
Lady Charlotte Beaumont stood, trembling, in her ill-fitting boots. Looking up at the cloudy, gray sky, she shivered momentarily as a gust of wind swept over her. The muted colors of the heavens, street, and surrounding buildings did not reflect an early arrival of spring, and the weather was chillier than expected for April.
She cautiously leaned over the black iron railing in front of White’s gentleman’s club as she attempted glimpse the hallowed interior that lay beyond the famous bow window.
Her enormous brown wool coat was left unbuttoned, revealing worn but unsoiled clothing beneath. Charlotte wore loose gray linen pants and a black long-sleeved woolen shirt with a leather belt knotted over it to hold the pants up. A gray wool cap pulled low hid most of her features and her hair. Soot smeared haphazardly on her cheeks and chin completed her disguise.
It was nearly ten o’clock on a Saturday morning, and although most of the ton were still in their beds, the city was not asleep by any means. Housemaids and other servants hurried about errands for their employers. Tradesman’s wagons could be heard and seen jostling for position on the road. She’d loitered at the corner of St. James’s Street for several minutes, waiting to ensure there were no passersby in the vicinity of the famous club.
As she strained to see anything or anyone through the thin panes of glass in the window, she began to think her visit to White’s would be of little help in her quest.
A moment later, Charlotte felt her heart jump into her throat as she heard the front door of the club open. After quickly taking three paces back from the window she looked up briefly to see a well-dressed gentleman exit the door to her right.
The man’s clothing proclaimed he was a member of the peerage and not an employee of the gentleman’s club. His navy coat, white linen shirt with expertly tied cravat, cream-colored waistcoat, and trousers were of the finest quality. His hat and walking stick looked new. Her brief perusal of his face revealed pleasant features and striking cobalt blue eyes.
The gentleman descended the steps and strolled to stand beside her. She quickly lowered her gaze, nervously clenching work-gloved hands at her side. If she were recognized as a lady of the ton, her reputation would be in tatters. More importantly to her mind, if her parents found out she’d visited St. James’s Street, it might well cost her father’s coachman his position.
“I wonder where Dawkins is today?” the gentleman beside her asked conversationally, his tone light. His voice was rich, a throaty baritone, covering her senses like warm chocolate. The intoxicating cologne with citrus notes he wore was a blend she wasn’t familiar with.
Charlotte felt a frisson of awareness at his nearness and hurriedly bowed her head. She cleared her throat before replying in a low gravelly voice, “Who be Dawkins, my lord?”
“The majordomo of White’s. Is there someone inside the club you wanted to speak with?” the gentleman asked, an edge to his words. He turned his head to look at her, and she bowed her head even further to keep her face hidden.
“I merely need a peek inside,” she replied gruffly, keeping her tone respectful as she crossed her arms over her chest. The white-grey Portland stone edifice of White’s towered over her, mocking her attempt to discover its secrets. To her dismay, her voice squeaked as she added, “To see what is so special about the famous bow window.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” the man said shortly, his attention returning to the building in front of them. “It could seriously damage the reputation of a young lady to be seen loitering on St. James’s Street.”
“That is unfair!” The man had guessed that she was a female! Her best friend Louisa had been skeptical about Charlotte’s disguise. It pained her to think the other girl was right. Again. She paused to take a deep, steadying breath. Pitching her voice even lower, she stated, “I have no interest in the reputation of spoiled debutantes.”
A thickly muscled man in blue livery appeared at the door of White’s and made to descend the steps toward them. The man next to her raised a hand. The liveried man retraced his steps and stood beside the front entrance of the club, his attention on Charlotte and the gentleman beside her.
Looking up briefly, her eyes widened at the sight of such a mountain of a man. “Is that Dawkins?” she asked in a hoarse whisper.
“That’s him.” She saw a brief, wolfish smile on her companion’s lips. “I think it is time you move along. Shall I escort you to a more appropriate neighborhood for a woman, or would you prefer Dawkins haul you away by the scruff of your neck?”
Not only had her disguise failed, but she had seen little of the interior of the club. All she could do now was to return to her father’s town carriage and make sure no one in polite society recognized her.
Shoulders slumping, she held back a sigh. Giving up any attempt at disguising her soft lilting speech, she replied softly, “My friend is waiting for me near Hatchard’s. I will leave now as there is nothing more to see here.”
* * * * *
“Ashford, there is a small shabby person in the street below peering in the bow window. I wonder where the majordomo has gotten to?”
Lord Benedict Grey, Marquess of Ashford, looked up from the day’s issue of The Times he was reading. He stared down at the thin, poorly dressed man who stood on the pavement outside the gentleman’s club. “The man looks harmless enough, Cecil.”
Ashford folded his newspaper and placed it on the white tablecloth covering the square mahogany table in front of him. Seated in the coffee room of White’s beside one of the front windows, the two men had an excellent view of the pavement below.
As George Bryan “Beau” Brummel had not been seen at the club in recent weeks, the fellow lurking in front of the club would be disappointed if his aim were to catch a glimpse of the arbiter of fashion who it was claimed now stayed hidden from society to escape his gambling debts. Brummell's last wager in White’s betting book was dated March 1815 and was now marked not paid.
Rumor had it Brummell might soon decamp to the continent. There was a lesson to be learned from the infamous dandy’s unrestrained expenditures Ashford was sure the young bucks of the ton would ignore.
With Brummell scarce, William Arden, second Baron Lord Alvanley, now took pride of place in the bow window set. Ashford hadn’t seen anyone seated today at the table of honor in the morning room on the ground floor of the club.
He swallowed the remaining coffee in his delicate porcelain cup, replaced it on its matching saucer, and came to his feet. He bowed to his companion Lord Cecil Wycliffe.
“Are you leaving already?” the viscount asked, drumming the fingers of one hand on the table.
