his mother, Emma Summerson, chided as she approached. She was fair where Charles was dark, and petite where he was tall and athletic. When they smiled, however, their equally lopsided and charming grins immediately pegged them as being closely related.
Charles wasn’t smiling now. He practically scowled at the glass of lemonade she handed him.
“Take that frown off your face, Charles, or all of these young ladies will be frightened.”
“That is my fondest wish, Mother,” he replied. He’d long ago learned that his dangerous dark looks were what drew women toward him. Nonetheless, he was being sincere. Most of his friends didn’t relish the idea of marriage, but most of them also accepted that fate as inevitable, at least if they had a title to pass on. Charles, on the other hand, had vowed never to marry, his title be damned. Marriage, especially if it involved love, was far too dangerous. Charles had already lost two people he’d loved very much and refused to put himself at risk again.
His mother sighed resignedly. “Oh, I do wish you’d behave. Why’d you come tonight, anyway? You don’t enjoy this sort of affair. You’re not really worried about Lucy, are you?”
“I’m not worried so much, Mother…. I just think it’s a good idea to make my presence known—sporadically, mind you—to keep these young bucks on their toes.”
She sniffed. “Sporadically. I see. Very well thought out of you—after all, you do have a reputation to maintain. Wouldn’t do for you to appear in polite society too frequently, would it?”
“You know, Mother, I rather thought that with Lucy out now you’d concentrate on her love life, rather than dwelling on mine.”
“Although—” she said with a smile “—you could use the help.”
“But,” Charles countered, “I don’t need you keeping a notebook with the fortune, ancestry and physical features of every unmarried girl you meet, in that order.”
“Lucy told you?”
“’Course she did. She’s quite fond of me, you know. Tells me everything.”
His mother looked highly doubtful. “Well, she got it a bit wrong. My criteria are actually in the opposite order, dear. And I’m certain character and intelligence are in there somewhere, as well, although you sometimes seem to view those things as liabilities in a woman.”
Charles began to grow alarmed. “What are you talking about, Mother?”
She put her hand to her chin in thought. “Yes…the order is character, intelligence, attractiveness, family, then fortune. We have enough money to put fortune last.”
Charles raked an agitated hand through his hair, feeling for once that his own mother was one of the sharks he had to look out for. It was definitely time for him to leave. “This can’t be happening, Mother. I have to go. I will walk home—it’s just a few blocks.”
She smiled smoothly, feigning surprise. “So soon? But I see Lady Abermarle heading your way—I imagine her daughter is behind her somewhere, not that you can see anything around that majestic form.”
He shivered. “Then I will run home.”
“One word of advice, Charles, before you go.”
“Yes, Mother?” he said, glancing nervously over his shoulder as the large Abermarle shadow began to loom closer. Now it was imperative that he leave.
She leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “Always judge a girl by her mother, because in ten years, she will be her mother.”
Charles nodded curtly and walked briskly to the door, hoping to God that none of Lucy’s suitors ever met their mother.
His mother watched him fondly as he beat his retreat. Lucy walked up behind her grinning.
“I see you got rid of him, Mother,” she remarked with definite satisfaction.
“Easily. You should never doubt me,” her mother replied. She began to chuckle. “You should have seen the look on his face, dear, when I informed him about The Book…. He was looking at me as if I’d gone quite mad.”
“As if?”
She ignored her daughter’s sarcasm. “If Charles is going to be so ornery about finding a match for himself, I hardly see why he should come here and ruin your chances by glowering at all your beaus.” She turned toward her youngest child. She’d been blessed with three children, but only Charles and Lucy had survived. Mark, Charles’s junior by two years, had died in a carriage accident when he was thirteen. The memory still hurt, and she cherished her remaining children. They both made her so proud. They infuriated her, too, but for the most part her heart swelled with joy whenever she looked at them.
Her eyes began to mist up.
“Are you all right, Mother?” Lucy asked, resting her hand on her arm in concern.
“I’m fine, Lucy. I was just thinking about how much you and Charles resemble your father…Charles especially, the devil. Your father was quite the handful before we wed.”
Lucy raised her eyebrows. “He couldn’t have been as wicked as Charles. I can’t see you putting up with that.”
Her mother smiled and slipped her arm around her. “I never had to put up with it. From the moment we met he became a paragon—with, of course, the occasional reminder.” She turned to look at her daughter. “I hope your marriage, when it comes, is every bit as special. Charles’s, too.”
“I shouldn’t get my hopes up too much about Charles,” Lucy warned. “He’s in no hurry to marry at all. I suppose he will eventually, of course—he has the title to think about. But I wouldn’t expect a love match.”
Her mother merely shrugged. “He might surprise us yet. At any rate, he’s gone now, and you can enjoy yourself. Lord Dudley is by the French doors, and I sense from his penetrating gaze that he’s desperate to attract your attention.”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “I noticed him, too, although I was trying to pretend I hadn’t. I suppose I should go dance with him or else seem terribly rude.”
“Yes, dear, I think you’d better.”
As Lucy headed off toward Lord Dudley, her mother smiled benignly, pleased that she’d been able to send off her other child so easily. Children could be such nuisances sometimes, and she needed time alone to think…or rather, to scheme.
Wearing the same harmless smile, she let her gaze wander around the room. There had to be a better reason for Charles to attend the ball that evening than concern for Lucy. She was sure of it. It was only a matter of finding out who that better reason was and whether or not she was eligible.
It was nearly ten by the time Beatrice, Eleanor and Ben returned from the theater, and with every minute, Beatrice grew more alarmed. Louisa would be a veritable volcano by the time she reached the ball.
As their carriage rolled to a stop in front of their aunt’s town house, Eleanor stretched, a contented smile on her face. All of the Sinclair children resembled each other very closely, save Eleanor. Whereas the rest of the clan tended to be tall and blond, Eleanor was petite, brunette
