Page 4 of Tamed By a Duke
"Yes, but we did not set a date for when the deal would begin," Charlotte argued, equally as capable of stubbornness as her younger sister. "So, I have decided that I shall start tomorrow. Just one last adventure, Bee, before I submit myself to a life of smiling politely whilst biting my tongue."
It looked for a moment as though Bianca might argue, but the appearance of the butler, Doyle, to announce that Mr Dubarry had arrived for his lesson, set Bianca into a tizz.
"Oh," she cried, running a nervous hand over her hair, to check that it was still perfectly in place—which, of course, it was. "He's early—I had wanted to wear my blue ribbon today."
"I did not realise that blue ribbons were so integral to the learning of music," Charlotte teased, earning herself a scowl from Bianca.
"There's nothing wrong with wanting to look one's best," Bianca huffed, "Not that you would understand. You may borrow Ethel if you wish, but have her brush your hair out before you leave. You seem to have brought some shrubbery back with you from your morning walk."
Bianca turned on the heel of her satin slipper and flounced from the room with an irritable sniff. Her sister might portray herself as fashionably meek and placid, but she was anything but, Charlotte thought. Bianca's tongue was just as sharp as Charlotte's own, though her sister was far more discerning of whom she decided to unleash it upon. Perhaps that was the difference between a real lady and one just playing the part, Charlotte thought mournfully, an innate sense of discernment...
Resignedly, Charlotte tripped across the oriental rug to the mirror, which hung above the fireplace. Just as her sister had noted, several twigs had entangled themselves into her wiry mane during her morning perambulation around the garden square. She yanked them free with an impatient hand, pulling out clumps of hair in the process.
Lud, she thought, as she analysed her reflection; Bianca was quite right in saying that Charlotte did not care enough for her appearance. Her hairstyle would not have looked out of place in Bedlam, whilst her nose bore ugly smudges of ink from her earlier letter writing. If she was to attract the attention of any man, she would need to put more effort in, she thought. And, if she was to attract the attention of a duke, she would need a miracle.
Still, she reasoned, as the bargain she had struck with her father was not to begin until the next day, there was little point fretting over finding a local saint to perform an act of the divine just now.
Feeling cheered, Charlotte set out in search of Ethel.
"Are you certain that this is a lecture on crocheting, Miss Drew?"
Ethel, Charlotte's sweet, but rather dim, lady's maid, wrinkled her nose in confusion as she glanced around the dark and gloomy meeting room of St Bartholomew's Church, near Hyde Park Corner. She and Charlotte, the only females present, were seated at the back of the room, and before them were rows upon rows of men.
Shouting, pushing, ribald jokes and laughter abounded, whilst a distinct musky odour—a mixture of ale, smoke and sweat—hung in the air.
As Ethel had noted, it did not look—or smell—like a gathering of crochet enthusiasts.
"Perhaps I got the time wrong," Charlotte fibbed, keeping her voice to a low whisper, so as not to draw attention. "I am certain that the letter said three...We shall hang on a few moments, Ethel, just to see what all the fuss is about."
It was a weak excuse to linger, but thankfully Ethel was not the type of girl who ever thought to question anything. The lady's maid nodded her head in agreement, pulled a piece of crochet work from her basket and began working quietly on it, whilst around them men bellowed and roared.
Charlotte winced at the sound of them; really, the world would be a much quieter place if men were forced—like she had been—to read countless books on manners and deportment.
It was clear that not one of the fellows present had ever been told to never raise their voice above a whisper, Charlotte surmised, as a rotund man at the front of the room recanted a lewd tale in a voice like a trombone. Gales of laughter filled the hall, as he reached the crude climax of his story, and Charlotte winced again.
They were a strange breed, men.
Luckily, the fellow was prevented from continuing with another tale, by the arrival of the meeting's speaker, and Charlotte sat up to attention. Applause and cheers rose from the crowd, as a young man, in a threadbare coat took to the stage.
As the audience rose to their feet, cheering and chanting, a man in dark attire slipped discreetly into the room and placed himself at the end of the bench upon which Charlotte and Ethel were seated.
Charlotte gave him a quick glance before turning her attention back to the stage. The young man in the threadbare coat was not the speaker she had been expecting; she had thought that the legendary Sir Francis Burdett would be the one to address the crowd.
Burdett was an outspoken critic of government oppression and corruption, a champion of universal suffrage, and one of Charlotte's personal heroes. He had given a voice to the masses who were impoverished by the introduction of the Corn Laws; laws which benefited only landowners. Landowners who, coincidentally, happened to make up the majority of the government.
Burdett had been instrumental in the formation of Hampden Clubs, like this one, which sought to promote parliamentary reform. For months, Charlotte had longed to join in one of the debates, and having overheard a young man in Hatchard's Bookstore discuss today's meeting, she had decided to take the plunge.
Except, something seemed wrong.
Sir Francis was nowhere in sight, Charlotte noted nervously, and the young man on the stage had begun speaking not of parliamentary reform, but of taking up arms against the Crown.
Gemini, she thought with a glance to Ethel, who was still absorbed in her crochet work, had she accidentally stumbled across a meeting of the United English Men, or some other radical organisation?
The audience became restless and agitated, as the man upon the stage began to proselytise about the excesses of the Prince Regent. Though Charlotte was inclined to agree with the man's views on the spendthrift prince, she did not condone violence against him.
"Down with the monarchy!"
A shout went up from near the stage, and before Charlotte knew it, the whole of the room was at a stand, stomping their feet and chanting in unison.
