Page 2 of Lady Charlotte and the Lending Library
A brief smile touching his lips, Ashford nodded. “But for a moment. I will return after I investigate the man in the street.”
“I don’t know why you must investigate,” Cecil replied with a heavy sigh, stopping the movement of his fingers. "Although I’m not surprised. You’ve been on edge ever since you heard the chatter about Lady Caroline Lamb publishing a book. Caro has old scores to settle with the patronesses of Almack’s. I’m sure that will take precedence over any misdeeds by Diana.”
“You know how vindictive the lady is,” he responded with a frown.
Cecil nodded. “Quite.”
“I won’t rest easy until I know whether Diana is included in that book.” He stared down at the coffee grounds in his cup. The excellent brew and good company had done little to lift his pensive mood. He was restless because he preferred the fresh country air of Kent to the sooty environment of London. If not for parliament, he would never come to Town.
With his tall beaver hat and walking stick in hand, Ashford left the coffee room, took the main staircase down to the ground floor, and exited the building.
The man in rags continued to lurk near the bow window. Ashford wondered at the absence of the major domo who should have already ushered the vagrant away. The skulking man was of medium height, a few inches shorter than his own six feet. Ashford ambled to the side of the man and stood, whistling. He shuddered, missing the warmth of the fire in the coffee room. He'd left his caped greatcoat in the club.
If the vagrant desired a ha’penny or two, he would find no luck with the tight-fisted clientele in the gentleman’s club.
When Ashford proceeded to engage the man in conversation, he discovered the sound of the tramp’s voice was surprisingly youthful and struck him as oddly feminine. When the vagrant folded his arms across his chest, the movement brought a whiff of fragrance to Ashford’s nostrils. His companion was a woman. The scent was expensive: tuberose. Unless she had filched the perfume, rags were not her usual attire.
“I will leave now as there is nothing more to see here.”
Her speech convinced him she was not only female but possibly well educated. Her diction was too perfect. Perhaps she was a companion or governess. The appearance of her hands might give him a further clue to her status, but they were stuffed into the pockets of her oversized coat.
Most of London society knew that a woman must not walk or ride along St. James’s Street, where several gentleman’s clubs, White’s, Boodle’s, and Brooks’s, were located. A lady not only risked her standing in polite society but could also be openly gawked at in the male- dominated setting.
“Let me see you safely to your friend.” Feeling oddly protective of a woman he’d just met, he nearly held out his arm for her to take. Instead, he put out a hand in a gesture to indicate she should accompany him.
Ashford led the way to the corner of St. James’s Street and the cross street of Piccadilly. The woman walked with an awkward gait, placing her feet slowly and carefully in front of her. He imagined the boots on her feet, like her other clothes, were several sizes too big.
They turned right and walked east on Piccadilly Street. The buildings were no longer primarily of white stone but now intermingled with black or red-painted storefronts. The road was moderately busy, and several wagons passed them as they walked along the street.
“Did you travel to Piccadilly in a carriage?” he asked in a low voice as he looked about to confirm their conversation would not be overheard.
“How do you know I’m not a beggar?” the woman countered, her tone of voice not only curious but surprisingly cheerful.
Ashford couldn’t contain a chuckle. “Your disguise is dreadful. The clothing may be old and cheaply made, but it is clean and well cared for.”
“Oh my,” the lady replied with a groan.
“And you’re not very good at disguising your voice,” he added.
He heard a faint gurgle of laughter from the woman beside him, a pleasant sound. When was the last time he’d heard a woman laugh so freely?
“My friend Louisa said much the same thing.”
The young woman halted in front of a shiny black town carriage parked near the bookseller Hatchard’s at number 187 Piccadilly. The carriage faced away from their approach; the only servant visible on the box was a driver in navy blue livery and a tall silk hat. The black coach was emblazoned with a red coat of arms Ashford had seen before but couldn’t place.
“Louisa,” his companion called out, “I’m here.”
The carriage door opened, and a young woman descended the lowered steps of the vehicle. Her linen walking dress, velvet spencer, and tasteful bonnet proclaimed her status as a member of the fashionable set.
“There you are,” the lady he assumed to be Louisa said to his companion. She inclined her head as she addressed her next words to him, “Thank you for finding Lord Faversham’s new tiger. The earl took the poor thing under his wing, you see.”
Ashford didn’t see at all. Her story was not a particularly good one. If he ever saw the women again in such a predicament, he would counsel them to leave off their adventures or become more skilled at subterfuge.
“I’m glad I was nearby to prevent your friend from becoming an object of gossip.” He turned to the woman in rags, his voice now rough, “Take more care in future. You could have damaged your standing in society or come to harm.”
The two women nodded to him. He would have handed the disguised woman into the carriage, but she quickly entered the coach after Louisa with a mumbled goodbye.
The grime on the woman’s face hid her features well, but he now knew something about her. She was a member of the ton. He recalled Lord Faversham had a daughter and shook his head. The young woman Louisa had shown little caution in using the actual name of a peer in her Banbury tale.
