Turning to Lord Carlyle, Lottie said, “I thank you for your timely assistance. Please stand aside.”
Finally, as if puzzle pieces fell into place, Amesbury’s eyes widened with recognition. “Lady Charlotte.”
Lottie cocked her head. “I’ll accept nothing less than ‘Your Highness’ from the likes of you. After all, you made me royalty, and the title rolls off the tongue so nicely—the Paper Doll Princess. Oh, so witty. I’ve certainly never been able to forget it—nor the humiliation of having thought you were a friend.” Pouring sarcasm into her voice, she bent her knees in a mocking dip of a curtsy, one hand holding the wadded rag to her wound. “For that, sir, you can go to the devil.”
As she swept from the room with her head held high, she heard Lord Carlyle chuckle and say, “Damn. If that was round one, I’m putting five pounds on Lady Charlotte.”
When she marched out the front door of the inn, there was an odd empty quality to the stable yard now that aid had been dispatched to the wreckage site. “Is there any more to be done?” she asked the lone hosteler shoveling horse droppings into a pile.
“Nothing, milady. The big gentleman took care of everything. A few blokes should return with news soon, and the doctor will be along shortly.” He tipped his cap to her before returning to work.
Well, damn. Was there anything worse than waiting? If only she’d been able to ride back with the men to help her servants. At least that would be doing something.
Lottie entered the cool, dark stables and found Samson, the carriage horse who’d served her so well, resting in a stall. She ran a hand down his neck to his withers, then grabbed a fistful of hay, letting him nibble from her fingertips. The soft muzzle hairs tickled the pads of her fingers as if he were petting her too.
Willing her tension away, Lottie leaned against the stall and let the barn scents and sounds work their therapeutic magic. Barns smelled of productivity, hard work, and home. Over the years, barns had been more welcoming than ballrooms. Horses wouldn’t mock your mistakes. Sheep didn’t care if a dress was a few years old or if a woman wore breeches.
This madcap mission she’d undertaken was foolish but necessary if she was to have any control over choosing her own future. If Father had his way, she would be announcing the banns now with Mr. James Montague, youngest son of the Earl of Danby. Having never met the man, and with no desire to do so, she’d dismissed a match between them and thought no more of it. Father had other ideas though, deciding that this—her unmarried state—would be the first thing he took notice of since they’d buried her brother and mother. While it might have been easier to cave to Father’s wishes, the high-handedness of his demands rubbed her the wrong way. If she absolutely had to marry, she’d do so on her terms, thank you very much.
So here she was, on her way to find a husband before her father’s deadline of the beginning of the Season. While summer wasn’t a logical time to husband hunt in London, it was ideal when one desired a spouse who wouldn’t want to spend any time with her in the country. She needed a city gentleman, preferably one who’d contentedly let her go on her way once the vows were exchanged and a tidy living hit his bank account from her dowry. If she failed to find a fiancé before the House of Lords convened in late November, she’d be forced to marry Mr. Montague. Those were Father’s terms.
Either way, she’d avoid the Season—a blessing, considering her advanced age and the utter disaster of her debut.
In the late spring of 1812, while London reeled from the assassination of the prime minister, Spencer Perceval, the ton had obsessed over one piece of gossip that gave them reason to laugh—her. And they didn’t know the half of it.
They didn’t know she’d been caught in the mob on the streets that had formed after word of the shooting spread. More people than she’d ever seen in one place gathered, cheering the actions of a desperate murderer. A frantic chaos had ruled that crowd, creating a danger she’d never experienced before. After being separated from her footman, she’d tried to push against the bodies to find her way to a quieter street. Each second that passed birthed more tension in the air—until a firm hand had grasped her elbow, and the excessively large man who’d danced with her at parties and perched on the tiny chairs in her drawing room had bullied through the throng, guiding her to safety. He’d oozed confidence then too, as his brawny arms anchored her to his side.
There’d been a moment when their eyes locked and the world stopped. She’d swear to it. When he kissed her hand at her door and promised to call the next day, it had felt loaded with meaning, as if his promise held more than mere words.
Instead, she’d waited for a visit that never came. And the day after that, the assassin John Bellingham and the Paper Doll Princess dominated the newspapers. For a while, she’d shared notoriety with a murderer.
Samson’s forelock was silky under her hands when the big horse pushed into the caress, shoving away the echoes of shame these memories brought. “Those saddle lessons you had last spring saved the day, my fine fellow.” The bay whuffled a response, making her smile. “Extra oats for you. Maybe even a treacle swirl on top. You earned it.”
Through a rough timber window, Lottie spied the two men she wanted to avoid walking across the courtyard to where a stable boy waited with their horses. The coast was clear. Time to get a room from Mrs. Pringle, wash, then await the physician.
Lottie tucked a sticky curl behind her ear and wrinkled her nose. She needed a bath as much as she needed her next breath. Perhaps Mrs. Pringle had a soap fragrant enough to induce amnesia and erase all memories of blood and screaming horses. Although, anything would be better than her current odor. Le parfum du tragédie was never en vogue. A shaky sigh tried to become a sob, but she stifled the sound behind a dirty fist.
Not now. Just a few more moments of pretending all was fine. Once alone, she could let herself cry. Sharp pains all over her body hinted at how many times she’d tumbled around inside the carriage as it careened off the road toward the trees. As if her aches weren’t enough, Lord Amesbury’s appearance had created another layer of emotional chaos. At least she’d finally said her piece. That was a small comfort.
Tears threatened. The need to rant hammered at her composure. To rehash what she could have said when faced with the man who’d treated her so callously during her first Season. But more than anything, she wanted privacy so she could fall apart.
Blowing a lank curl out of her face, Lottie fought for a thin thread of control, squeezing her good eye closed as she counted her breaths. Inhale, one, two, three. Exhale, one, two, three. The pressure in her chest released, and her mask of composure slid back into place. She must not forget why she was London bound. The scandal of her debut wouldn’t be repeated. This time, she’d play society’s game by her rules.
Chapter Three
The doctor’s sewing skills rivaled those of a seamstress. Although he wasn’t quite finished, a glance in a hand mirror showed small stitches that would eventually heal and disappear into her hairline.
“You have commendable skill with a needle, Doctor. Does your wife ask you to handle the mending? You would turn out a beautiful seam in no time.” Lightening the mood didn’t distract her from the pain, as she’d hoped. His flat expression displayed no emotion, which didn’t help either. What the physician lacked in personality, he made up for with ability. Better that than a charming quack armed with bottles of mystery tonic and foul river sludge.