Never Kneel to a Knight Page 4

  “I must speak to your brother first,” she told Petunia when the girl answered her knock. “Is he receiving?”

  “Is he receiving what?” Petunia asked, adjusting one strap on her pinafore as she stepped aside to let Charlotte in. “We didn’t know about any deliveries.”

  “Do you think he would be willing to talk to me now?” Charlotte clarified.

  Petunia nodded. “Matty’s always ready to talk, well, listen, mostly. A girl can tell him most anything. He’s good that way.”

  Funny, but Charlotte had determined the same thing. In the last year, Beast, er Sir Matthew, had stopped his work to listen to her any number of times: when she was frustrated about something Worth wanted done to his exacting criteria, when she was trying to think through an impediment in her own studies. His quiet presence had been a steady spot in her life, particularly after all the turmoil with John Curtis. That was one of the reasons she wanted to help him now.

  Petunia turned to point up the stairs. “He’s in the room on the right, like last time you were here. I’ll tell Ivy and Daisy you’ll be along soon.”

  Charlotte thanked her, gathered her skirts, and started climbing.

  The door was open. She left it that way for propriety’s sake. He was seated by the hearth as he had been last time she’d called, but his head was sunk in his hands, his shoulders slumped.

  Her plan evaporated. “Beast, Matthew, what’s wrong?”

  He raised his head slowly, as if the weight of it was too much, and for a moment she saw a sorrow that would have broken other men. Then he composed his face and stood.

  “Miss Worthington, forgive me. I just heard an old…acquaintance passed.”

  Charlotte hurried forward, had to stop herself from reaching out. “I’m so sorry. Had he been ill long?”

  “Too long.” He grimaced. “But life is like that. No need for your concern.”

  He wasn’t going to confide further. She should not be so disappointed. She was here to help him and his sisters acclimate themselves to their new positions, not share his woes. Yet something in her yearned to touch his cheek, murmur words of solace, hear him speak of the person whose passing had left him in such despair.

  “Finished with my sisters already?” he asked.

  Charlotte raised her head. “I hadn’t started, actually. I had a few questions for you.”

  “More?” he asked with the beginnings of a frown.

  “A few,” she admitted.

  He waved her into the opposite chair. “Happy to oblige.”

  He didn’t look happy, and she realized with a pang that she had rarely seen him smile, not since she’d been in this house and not in the last year while he’d worked for her brother. He deserved better.

  She sat and arranged her green lustring skirts as he resumed his seat.

  “To begin with,” she said, “I’d like to know my budget.”

  Now that frown fell in earnest. “I agreed to pay Miss Thorn a certain amount a week. Didn’t she tell you?”

  “Yes,” Charlotte allowed, “but that wasn’t my point. If your sisters are to enter Society, they will need new clothes, accessories. The entry hall and sitting room will need redecorating. The dining room may as well if you plan to host dinner parties. Then there’s the dance master, the hiring of carriages, tickets to the theatre and opera. You must have a staff member to answer the door, so Petunia doesn’t have to do it. And I haven’t even assessed your needs yet.”

  “My needs?” The words came out in a growl, but she’d heard that sound any number of times in the last year. It always appeared when she asked him to do something he found distasteful, like pour tea when she was working or escort her on some errand when he thought her brother needed his help more.

  “Do you have proper clothing to meet the prince?” she challenged. “To attend a ball?”

  He snorted. “No one’s going to invite me to a ball.”

  “You might be surprised,” Charlotte said. “And you might be invited to join a gentleman’s club where they do things you might find of greater interest. What you are wearing will not do.”

  He glanced down at the brown coat and breeches he’d worn while serving her brother, then met her gaze. “One hundred pounds.”

  “Each?” Charlotte verified.

  His cheeks darkened. “In total. It’s a princely sum. See you use it wisely.”

  Charlotte rose, and he stood as well. He caught on quickly—she’d give him that. “I will,” she promised. “I’ll draw up a plan for your approval.”

  “No need,” he said. “I trust you. I’ll have the money for you on Saturday.”

  Warmth pushed up. Very likely that was why her cheeks felt hot again. “Thank you, Sir Matthew. Please plan on accompanying us that day. We’ll be going shopping.”

  ~~~

  “Shopping?” Meredith queried as she and Charlotte dined together that evening.

  “Shopping,” Charlotte confirmed with a smile from her place at Meredith’s right. “The very idea of it seems to have left our good knight stunned.”

  Meredith smiled as well, reaching down below the drape of the damask tablecloth to touch Fortune as she passed. Normally Fortune preferred to stalk along the table itself. Meredith tolerated it when they were alone, but, with Charlotte in residence, Fortune was confined to the floor at meals. Julian would likely have to accustom himself to her pet’s presence if Meredith married him.

  The thought of her beau made her smile as the footman served her some of the salmon her cook had prepared for dinner that night. She and Julian had known each other since they were children, had even pledged their hearts over a wonderful Christmas. But tragedy had parted them, and the years had passed. Only recently had they become reacquainted. She was both excited and terrified that the old feelings remained. Perhaps she would always love Julian. Did it follow, though, that they were suited to each other now?

  Julian seemed to think so. In the last week, he had taken her to dine at Gunther’s confectionary, ride in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour, and attend the opera. His attentions were an impressive gesture, a statement to the ton that he was courting her in earnest. A thrill went through her each time he clasped her hand.

  They had not escaped notice. She’d seen the speculative gazes aimed their way, heard the whispers. So far, none had seemed judgmental. And at the opera, His Royal Highness had glanced across the pit from his private box and extended Julian a nod in recognition. She was moving in high circles indeed.

  But she couldn’t help thinking that those who flew too close to the sun were destined for a fall.

  “Still,” Charlotte said, “he provided a budget of one hundred pounds to outfit two young ladies and a gentleman plus redecorate the public rooms of their house, transport them to various events, and see to their household duties.”

  Meredith forced herself to focus on the conversation at hand. “A considerable sum for Mr. Bateman, I imagine,” she said, flaking off some of the salmon even as a warm body brushed against her stockings. “But not a great deal when entering Society.”

  “Not a great deal at all,” Charlotte agreed. She pushed her peas about her white china plate. “What do you think of economizing? I believe there are dressmakers who specialize in refitting older gowns to the current style.”

  There were indeed. She’d pedaled some of her gowns to make ends meet before she’d received her inheritance. Fortune leaped up onto the table. Meredith picked her up and set her back down again.

  “A possibility,” Meredith allowed. She nodded to her footman, who removed the salmon from the table. Fortune scampered out from under the table to follow him from the room.

  “And a dance master,” Charlotte added. “Might we find one still seeking clients this late in the Season, Miss Thorn?”

  Meredith waved a hand. “Call me Meredith, please. We are conspirators, after all.”

  Charlotte nodded. “Meredith, then. And you must call me Charlotte.”

  Meredith inclin
ed her head, pleased. “I believe we can find a dance master. But I have another thought to help you in your work. I support good causes. What if I match Sir Matthew’s investment?”

  Charlotte sat back. “You’d do that?”

  She shrugged. “My dear, what good is an inheritance if not to help others? Consider the money yours.”

  Charlotte beamed. “Thank you, Meredith. I assure you this is an excellent cause. Miss Bateman and her sisters are dears. I know with the right training and appropriate outfits, they will be welcomed.”

  Meredith smiled and returned to her salmon. She of all people knew how fickle the ton’s support could be. She could only hope that the Batemans, and she and Julian, would find a circle of friends they could rely on.

  Chapter Five

  Shopping, Charlotte had said, and with such enthusiasm. Matthew shuddered just thinking the word. The only time he’d shopped with a woman had been with his stepmother, and she’d made it clear his opinion held no value. He’d been invited merely to carry the many packages she would acquire, outfitting herself with his father’s money while his sisters made do with clothing they’d already outgrown.

  He kept reminding himself that Charlotte Worthington was in no way like Mrs. Bateman. She wouldn’t demean him or his sisters.

  At least, not intentionally.

  She arrived promptly at eleven and ushered Ivy and Daisy into a hired coach. Tuny had been persuaded to stay with Anna, their maid of all work, with the promise that she could visit an elderly neighbor of whom she was fond.

  “He has dogs,” Matthew had explained to Charlotte. “Tuny likes dogs.”

  It was aimless chatter, which he usually abhorred, but Charlotte smiled as if he’d said something pithy, and he thought he just might survive the day. To show her that he knew his business, he’d dressed in the one black coat and breeches he owned. They’d last been worn at his father’s funeral and fit him badly. But they were a better material and cut than the brown. Ivy had helped him knot a passable cravat. He fancied he looked as good as any of the gentlemen strolling down the shop-filled avenue.

  The feeling lasted only until he stepped into the dressmaker’s establishment.

  He’d never seen such an explosion of color and texture—bolts of bright satin, dusky velvet, and soft wool. Laces and bows and ribbons. And the air. He breathed in the flowery scent and promptly sneezed. Charlotte, serene in her usual grey with an ostrich plume curled around her satin-lined bonnet, offered him a commiserating smile.

  The dressmaker, a tall, thin woman, looked down her beak of a nose instead. “My customers generally leave their man outside until there are packages to be carried.”

  Ivy and Daisy in their muslin gowns exchanged glances as Matthew’s face heated.

  Charlotte eyed the shop’s interior and sighed. “Such a shame. I came to outfit two young ladies for the remainder of the Season, but I cannot in good conscience invest time and effort in an establishment that does not recognize quality.” She allowed her gaze to meet Matthew’s. “Don’t you think His Highness would concur when next you speak with him at Carlton House, Mr. Bateman?”

  The dressmaker was blanching as her look veered from Charlotte to Matthew. Charlotte was giving as good as she got, the minx.

  He made himself look thoughtful. “Oh, I don’t know, Miss Worthington. The prince tends to be the forgiving sort. I find that admirable.”

  “How gracious of you, sir,” the dressmaker warbled, clasping long-fingered hands before her bosom. “Truly, we are honored to have such patronage and to be of assistance to such lovely young ladies. I have just the designs to emphasize their natural beauty. Please allow me to show them to you.”

  “I suppose we might as well, since we’re here,” Charlotte said grudgingly. She ushered Ivy and Daisy to padded seats, while the owner hurried to bring out various fashion plates for them to review. Matthew had to hold back a chuckle.

  Charlotte waited until his sisters were thoroughly engaged, then stepped away to take him aside.

  “Thank you for your assistance and understanding,” she murmured, watching the dressmaker make a cake of herself over Ivy. “I think we have things in hand now. Two doors down is a milliner’s. We’ll go there next.” She drew a piece of paper from the beaded bag at her wrist. “Three doors down on the opposite side of the street is a tailor who is expecting you. His name is Mr. Ponsonby. He knows you are to attend the next levee. Talk to him about what you want. Not brown, and nothing overly bright.”

  She was so serious. Matthew couldn’t help teasing her. “No gilding on the lapels? Perhaps a lily embroidered on the tails?”

  She stared at him.

  He started laughing. “Don’t worry, Miss Worthington. I won’t embarrass you or the prince. I’ll see you all shortly, and I’ll be glad to carry any packages you might have.”

  She smiled, and suddenly it was difficult to leave. He made himself turn and stride out the door.

  He found the tailor’s shop easily enough. Ponsonby was efficient and practical, muttering to himself as he positioned Matthew in front of a semicircle of three mirrors at the back of the shop. At least this place didn’t make him sneeze. A few bolts of fabric were arranged on polished cherry shelves, and an apprentice was busy cutting out a waistcoat from a length of wine-colored striped satin.

  “Will the coat be a problem?” Matthew asked as the little tailor stretched the tape across his shoulders.

  In the mirror to the left of him, Matthew could see Ponsonby’s eyes goggling from behind thick spectacles as he read the number on his measuring tape.

  “Certainly not, sir,” the grey-haired tailor said, giving himself a shake and returning to his measuring. “I had the pleasure of making a coat for the Gentleman himself. His reach is just shorter than yours.”

  He would not preen to have longer arms than Gentleman Jackson, the Emperor of Pugilism. The fellow could still beat him in a fight, even more than a decade after Jackson’s last championship match.

  The bell on the shop door tinkled. Ponsonby didn’t stop his work. Matthew glanced over to find that another gentleman had entered the shop. He was tall, sturdily built, and dressed the way Charlotte would likely approve. A navy coat and dun trousers appeared to be the daily uniform of a gentleman. Is that what Ponsonby would create for him?

  Matthew regarded the tailor in the mirror. “Not much fond of navy.”

  Ponsonby had moved on to his legs. “Indeed.”

  “And no green,” Matthew said. “Makes me look bilious.”

  “My greens never make anyone look bilious,” the tailor replied, tsking at the reading he had just taken on Matthew’s left knee. What, was one bigger than the other?

  A movement caught his eye. The apprentice had hurried to speak to the newcomer, but the man’s gaze veered to Matthew. He held up a hand to forestall the young man’s question and wandered closer. The mirrors magnified his frame, the golden glint of his swept-back hair.

  “The Beast of Birmingham, isn’t it?” he drawled. “Our noble prince’s newest favorite.”

  The tailor bustled between them before Matthew could answer. “I’ll be with you shortly, Lord Harding. Mr. Bateman had an appointment.”

  Harding. Matthew didn’t know the name. No one in Lord Worthington’s set, then.

  His lordship nodded pleasantly enough. “Of course. But I’m certain Mr. Bateman wouldn’t mind conversing while he stands under your torture.”

  The tailor grimaced as he returned to his work. Matthew kept his gaze on the mirror in front of him. He’d become adept at sizing men up. In the few minutes before a match, understanding his opponent could make the difference between a rich purse and a beating. Harding was an inch or two taller than he was, but his arms were shorter. His power would likely come from those long legs. He watched as Harding’s blue-eyed gaze roamed over him as well—sizing him up too. Matthew widened his stance and raised his head, eyes narrowing as they met his.

  Harding didn’t look away. “I
have fought pugilists on occasion,” he said, strolling around behind Matthew as if to measure him as thoroughly as the tailor. “Friendly matches for sport. Perhaps I could convince you to join me.”

  Again, the tailor spoke first. “Mr. Bateman is soon to be elevated, my lord.”

  “So I heard,” Harding said. “Pity. But nothing says we couldn’t fight each other, two gentlemen among friends.”

  This fellow would never be his friend. Of that Matthew was certain. “Not interested,” Matthew said. “In fighting or in conversation.”

  The tailor’s eyes sparkled appreciatively.

  “I could arrange a sizeable purse,” Harding said as if Matthew hadn’t spoken. “That should come in handy for a gentleman with rising expectations.”

  The tailor slung his tape around his neck and stepped back. Matthew turned from the mirror to face the lord. “What makes you think I want or need your money?”

  Harding spread his hands. “My mistake. But you’re making a mistake by passing up this opportunity. Think how you will endear yourself to His Royal Highness when you win.”

  Was that why Harding was interested? Did he hope to win and outshine Matthew in the prince’s eyes? Sad goal for a man.

  “The answer is still no,” Matthew told him. He turned to the tailor. “Thank you, Mr. Ponsonby.”

  “Of course, Mr. Bateman,” he said. “A pleasure. I’ll send word when I need you for a fitting.”

  Harding moved to block Matthew as he started for the door. “Don’t you want to erase the stain of your last fight?”

  His muscles tightened, but he refused to let Harding see he’d scored a hit. Cassidy was dead now. He had no way to remedy that or the pain the man had endured as his body had wasted away.

  “There’s nothing that can erase that stain,” he said.

  Harding gave him a tight-lipped smile. “I disagree. It might surprise you to know that I’m one of the few who won’t berate you for your actions. Anything can happen in the fighting square. We are all savages at heart.” He leaned closer. “Tell the truth: don’t you long to set the beast inside you free once more?”