Charlotte turned to Delia. “It’s not true. Don’t believe her. We are friends. The best sort of friends.”
“Friends are honest with each other. You lied to me.”
“I never meant to. This all began as a misunderstanding. I was trying to mend it on my own, and then somehow . . .”
“I’ve been so stupid.” Delia turned her gaze to the distance. “I should have seen it. The shopping excursion. Your mysterious absences. I came to your room the night you claimed a migraine, but you weren’t there. You must have feigned that silly poisoning episode, too. Just like the blackberries and the Satan spit.”
“No. Delia, please. I know how it must look, but give me a chance to explain.”
It was no use. Delia had all her guards up. Perhaps she’d be willing to listen and forgive her in time, but it wasn’t going to be tonight.
“Don’t worry, Delia,” Frances said smugly. “The ton will punish her well enough. I suppose we know what name the Prattler will be giving her next. It’s all too easy, given what rhymes with Charlotte.”
“Scarlet?” Lady Parkhurst asked.
“No, the other one.”
Sir Vernon interjected, “She means varlet.”
“Varlet?” Mama echoed. “What on earth is a varlet?”
“It’s a medieval term for knave or rogue.”
Frances sighed. “Really, Papa. No one’s going to call her a varlet, either.”
“Well, then what can you be suggesting?” Lady Parkhurst said. “There’s marmot, I suppose. But that’s not even a true rhyme.”
Charlotte couldn’t bear this inanity any longer. “Harlot!”
The word quelled all chatter.
“That’s what Frances is saying. They will be calling me Charlotte the Harlot.”
A large hand settled on the small of her back. Its owner announced in a deep, authoritative voice, “They will address her as Her Ladyship, the Marchioness of Granville. My wife.”
Piers.
Charlotte wheeled around. There he was, still bare-chested. His torso was streaked with soot, and ashes dusted his wild hair. He smelled like a bonfire.
In her eyes, he’d never appeared more perfect.
She didn’t care what anyone thought of her in that moment. Let Frances call her all sorts of vile names.
She threw her arms around his waist and hugged him close, holding her breath until she could hear the comforting, steady thump of his heartbeat.
“I was so afraid,” she whispered.
He ran a hand up and down her spine, soothing her in a low murmur. “It’s over, darling. All’s well now.”
Frances wasn’t mollified. “Surely you’re not truly going to marry her, my lord. Don’t be duped into preserving the virtue of a woman who has none. She and her mother are conniving wretches with—”
“I beg your pardon, Miss Parkhurst,” Mama cut in. “I might be conniving, but Charlotte? Never. No matter how I tried to encourage her, the stubborn girl never cooperated.”
Sir Vernon gave his eldest daughter a stern look. “Frances, calm yourself.”
“Calm myself? Can’t you see what’s happened here?” Frances gestured at Charlotte. “She’s been trying to trap him from the start. Now he’s leaving soon, and she grew desperate. She set that fire herself. Then she slipped down the corridor to Lord Granville’s room, hoping to cause a scandal when the alarm went up. I tell you, Papa. She could have burned our home to the ground.”
“That’s enough,” Piers commanded. “I remind you, Miss Parkhurst, you are speaking of my future wife. I will not hear her accused of trickery or loose morals, much less slandered with accusations of arson. Our betrothal was settled well before tonight. The license has been procured, the contracts are signed, and the announcement will appear in tomorrow’s edition of The Times.”
Charlotte looked up at him. “You published a betrothal announcement, this soon? Without consulting me?”
He didn’t even look at her. “She will depart with me, and we will be married from my estate.”
Charlotte couldn’t even begin to understand how this had happened. He must have been very busy while she’d been asleep.
“Well,” Lady Parkhurst said, making an obvious effort to strike a light tone. “What fortunate timing. We’re already having the ball tomorrow. We can celebrate your happy news.”
Delia looked at her, eyes brimming with hurt. “Forgive me if I don’t attend. I wish you both joy.”
She turned and started back to the house.
Charlotte left Piers’s embrace to dash after her. “Wait! Delia, wait. Please, let me explain. The things Frances said—they aren’t true, I swear it. I wanted nothing more than to travel the Continent with you. I . . . I’m just so sorry.”
“So am I,” Delia said. “I’m going to walk away now. Do not chase after me.”
“But—”
“Don’t, Charlotte. It isn’t fair. I’m too easy to catch. At least give me the dignity of a dramatic exit. You owe me that much.”
Charlotte wanted to argue, but she knew it wouldn’t help. So she nodded, reluctantly.
Then she watched her best friend walk away.
Chapter Twenty-one
In the morning, Charlotte went upstairs to her bedchamber, to gather anything that might be saved. She stood in the middle of the room, looking around at the soot and ashes, and gave a small, mournful whimper.
It could have been worse, she told herself.
Thanks to the quick response of the men, the flames had been contained to the heap of belongings in front of the hearth and the hangings toward the foot of the bed. The soot and smoke would never be aired from her frocks or shawls, however.
“I’ll buy you all new things.”
She turned to see that Piers had quietly joined her.
“We can visit the shops today,” he said.
“Some of my clothing was collected for washing yesterday. My best gown had been sent down for pressing, too. I won’t be completely without.”
She set her valise on the charred dressing table and opened it. She went through the trays and drawers, keeping whatever could be salvaged.
“Nevertheless, I’m sure you’re upset.”
“Why should I be upset?” She turned a soot-streaked bracelet over in her hands. “It’s not as though my life was decided while I slept, my best friend won’t speak to me, and I nearly burned down a house.” She eyed a burned, soggy pelisse on the floor. “Much as it pains me to admit you were right—perhaps I had created a death trap. I suppose I’ve learned my lesson now.”