Awe-Struck Preview

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-Lord Peter's Page-

On this sultry June evening the town house in fashionable Mayfair was ablaze with light. A crush of carriages on the street outside attested further to the festivities within. Inside the crowded rooms diamonds winked in the snowy cravats of stylish gentlemen, and brightly-colored gemstones sparkled on the bosoms of the women in their high-waisted, low-cut gowns.

Garlands of flowers decked the reception rooms on the first floor, above street level, of the narrow house. The drawing and music rooms had been cleared to allow musicians room to play, with a small area set aside for dancing. The soiree was starting. Excitement was in the air.

Downstairs, at any rate. Upstairs, in the chamber of the Honorable Charlotte Finbury, for whose benefit all of this had been done, misery hung like a cloud. The young lady in question sat at her dressing table, oblivious to the breath-taking picture she presented. In a few short hours her parents were to announce her engagement to the utterly wrong man. And it seemed there was nothing she could do about it.

"The Earl is so very old," she wailed to her abigail, Betty. "He is losing his hair. He will be bald any day now. And his fingers are perpetually stained with snuff!"

" 'Orrible, Miss," said the young Irish maid as she deftly twisted Charlotte's thick dark hair into a topknot. She secured it firmly and teased some pretty curls around her face. Picking up a spray of white roses from the table she tucked it into her mistress's gleaming coiffure. "It fair makes me blood boil to think of a young girl like you with that old man. So what if 'e's rich?"

"So what indeed," echoed Charlotte. "He is not the least bit like Cyril."

Cyril. The very mention of his name sent Charlotte back to last autumn and Miss Adam's Seminary for Young Ladies in Bath, where she first laid eyes on the man of her dreams. Cyril Cholmondeley was the older brother of Amelia, her friend at the seminary. Actually, Amelia was rather annoying, but once Charlotte had met her brother she was willing to put up with her silliness.

From the instant she had seen him, Charlotte knew he was her one true love. Cyril looked like Lord Byron, only it was clear to the most impartial observer that he was far handsomer than the much-vaunted poet. Cyril was lean, almost gaunt, with curly brown hair and blue eyes that held a haunted look. He even had a slight limp, which she had no doubt he had earned heroically. He was young, too, only a few years older than Charlotte, and he most emphatically did not use snuff.

He came to visit Amelia often that fall, though he saw more of Charlotte than his sister. Amelia had a romantic soul and good-naturedly included Charlotte on all her outings with her brother.

While Charlotte had to concede she and Cyril had never actually plighted their troth, they had exchanged many meaningful looks and soulful sighs under the changing leaves of the trees by the river Avon. She was sure Cyril meant to ask for her hand in marriage, just as soon as he had enough fortune to impress her father.

And that is what she told her parents when they told her they had arranged a good match for her with Lord Satterly.

They in turn had laughed. Laughed! And used terms such as "green girl," and "little pea-goose" while muttering darkly about the effects of too much time and too many novels. The end result was that the engagement was on, with tonight's soiree by way of a formal announcement.

"If Cyril knew I was being forced to marry against my will, he would come here tonight, and, and, challenge Satterly and my father to a duel!"

"'eaven 'elp us!" whispered Betty in awe.

"And just at the last moment, after Satterly had cried craven and Cyril had my father at point non plus, his sword point at his very throat, he would declare his undying love for me. And my mother would cry and say how could she have been so blind, and my father, after being graciously spared by Cyril, would humbly ask if we would accept his blessing. Then we would be married in St. Paul's and go to Italy for a glorious honeymoon. I can see it now, Betty -- picturesque landscapes, just like those we saw in the paintings at the Royal Academy, and romantic gondola rides through the canals of Venice."

"Ahh," Betty could only breathe.

"Charlotte!" came an anxious voice from the doorway. "Are you quite ready?"

"Yes, Mama." Charlotte reluctantly stood for inspection.

"My heavens, child, but you do look lovely," said Lady Finbury, regarding her daughter who was exquisitely gowned in silver spangled net over white satin. Not that Charlotte had any need of expensive modistes, or indeed any artifice, to look beautiful. Her skin was unblemished and translucent; her lips, full and rosy; thick, sooty lashes fringed her sapphire eyes; and her lustrous hair shone blue-black in the candlelight.

"I vow, many a heart will be broken tonight when we announce your engagement to Lord Satterly. I came to tell you it is time we went downstairs, daughter. Our guests will be arriving, and we should be forming the receiving line. Betty, you may go now."

"Yes, Lady Finbury," said Betty, bobbing a nervous curtsey and scuttling with downcast eyes through the doorway past the Baroness.

"Charlotte, have you been speaking familiarly with Betty again?" the Baroness chided gently. "Betty is very young, and doesn't know yet how to maintain a proper distance. If you, as her mistress, don't teach her, she will never learn, and then she will have a most difficult job retaining a good position in a respectable household. You do understand, do you not? "

"Yes, Mother," said Charlotte, who really didn't. She enjoyed talking to the young abigail. Now that Charlotte was home from school, there were so few young ladies her own age she saw regularly and to whom she could confide her deepest feelings. Betty was an uncritical listener, interested in everything Charlotte said. And Betty never, ever told her she was a pea-goose.

Her mother sighed. "You have always been a headstrong, impulsive girl. Your father and I overlooked much of your behavior because you were such a sweet, delightful child, and now we are reaping the rewards of our indulgence. Are you still averse to your betrothal?"

"I will never be resigned to it. Never!"

The Baroness sighed again. A handsome woman in her early forties, worry lines were beginning to form around her fine blue eyes. "I have spoken to your father, and he is adamant. Satterly is a good man, Charlotte. He will never hurt you. He has an ample fortune, and will take good care of you."

"He is so old, Mother!"

"Forty-five may seem old to you at eighteen, but believe me, child, he is not yet at his last prayers." A ghost of a smile lit the Baroness's face. "Oh, Charlotte, I can see you have some trepidation now, but soon you will come to care for Satterly, and know we have chosen well for you. I am convinced of it. I am aware there is much talk these days of marrying for love, but trust me, Charlotte, a carefully-arranged marriage is still the wiser course."

She crossed to Charlotte, and gently stroked her daughter's soft cheek. "Love in most cases is nothing more than physical attraction, Charlotte, and that fades with the years. When two parties are matched on the basis of mutual interest, temperament, and station in life, by those who know the parties well and have their best interests at heart, you have the basis of a stable, harmonious, and long-lasting relationship."

"Stable is right," answered Charlotte bitterly. "It sounds as though you are discussing the breeding of one of Papa's prime bits o' blood, or a transaction at Tattersall's auction yard, instead of your daughter's marriage. I will not have my future decided as though it was some sort of cold-blooded business arrangement!"

"But that is exactly what it is, my dear," said her mother, unruffled. "A business arrangement which often turns to love. I so well remember my own wedding day. I barely knew your father, who was also my senior by fifteen years. I was terrified then, yet you must allow our marriage has since proved to be a happy one."

"But you had not yet met your true love. It was all the same to you."

The Baroness clicked her tongue impatiently. "You are not going to bring up that Cholmondeley person again, are you? I vow, Charlotte, I would never have sent you to that school, no matter how your Aunt Agatha praised it, if I had known you would take such a maggot in your head. If the boy wished to be a serious suitor we would have met him by now. You made your come-out months ago. You must forget about that halfling, Charlotte, and grow up!"

Charlotte made one final appeal.

"Please, Mother, do not make me do this!"

Her mother ignored her daughter's outstretched arms.

"It has been decided, Charlotte. At midnight, your betrothal to Lord Satterly will be announced, and you will be married to him before next Christmastide!"

Knowing it would be useless, Charlotte made no further entreaty. Her mind was quite made up, anyway. By midnight, she would not be standing meekly at her father's side, her hand clasped in the dry hold of Lord Satterly. She would be long gone. And by Christmas she would be married, but not to Satterly -- to Cyril!

Charlotte decided the stroke of midnight would be the perfect time to leave. Until then, she must give no indication of her plans. She would dance with Lord Satterly, smile and be gracious. Her parents would suspect nothing.

The soiree was a huge success; the rooms were so crowded people could barely move. Lord Satterly was ponderously polite. He smiled at Charlotte with a kind of sweaty eagerness that made her squirm. He was not an ill-favored man, though his hair was thinning and he was somewhat stout. When they danced he trod on her toes, and his conversation consisted mainly of the newest additions to his stables and the hunts he had ridden. Charlotte suspected the gentleman was far more comfortable on the hunting field than in a drawing room.

Like many a member of the ton, he had come to London this Season to find a wife, someone to act as mistress of his manor and provide him with heirs. It probably did not matter to Satterly who he selected from the Marriage Mart, thought Charlotte, as long as she had the right bloodlines -- which again made her think of Tattersall's.

During the long evening many dashing young bucks danced with Charlotte, and paid her pretty compliments, but they all maintained a respectful demeanor. The on-dit had spread: she was soon to be pledged to the Earl.

Charlotte glanced at the clock every time she could manage it. The minutes ticked by, so slowly she thought she would scream with impatience. Her mind was working feverishly, forming one plan after another as she chatted and danced to the lilting music. She remembered every romantic novel she had ever read (courtesy of Mr. Lane's Minerva Press) and thought of all their courageous heroines. Surely none of them would quail at running away from their homes to escape dreadful fates. She could do no less.

Finally it was half past eleven. She stole a glance at the young gallant who was escorting her off the dance floor in the direction of her watchful mother. He was looking straight ahead. With a tiny gulp Charlotte resolutely and deliberately stumbled forward, the toe of her slipper firmly catching the hem of her dress.

"Oh," she cried. "My gown! I fear I have torn it!"

"I say, I'm frightfully sorry," said the young man. Charlotte could tell from his stricken expression that he assumed he had done it.

"I assure you, it was my fault," she said truthfully. "It is of no consequence, really. I believe I can effect a speedy repair."

She smiled brightly at her mother and pointed ever so slightly with her fan to her torn hem. Then she gracefully left the room and mounted the stairs. The Baroness looked baffled, Charlotte thought, stifling a qualm as she headed for her chamber. She had to do this. If only her mother wouldn't get suspicious and come looking for her!

She closed the door of her chamber firmly behind her, and crossed quickly to her bed. Still wearing her silvery gown, she knelt to pull a large trunk a few feet away from the foot- board. She took the key from under the mattress, and working the lock threw back the heavy hinged lid. Lifting out the linens and laces stored there, which were meant to accompany her into married life one day, she extracted from the bottom of the trunk a set of rather worn boy's clothing.

Charlotte had gotten the idea of wearing boy's clothing from gossip she had overheard about Lady Caroline Lamb, Lord Byron's temperamental lover. She heard the eccentric Lady Caroline often liked to don a disguise as a pageboy, in order to go about freely in society. The idea of such freedom seemed utterly delicious to Charlotte.

And tonight, she felt free!

The sudden crack of a door hinge made Charlotte whirl around. "Betty!"

"Miss?" Betty's eyes were as big as saucers.

"What are you doing here?"

"The Baroness sent me to 'elp you fix your gown." She gulped. "Whatever be you doin' with those clothes, Miss?"

"I'm running away, Betty," Charlotte announced dramatically. "I refuse to marry one man while my heart belongs to another. You can go and tell my mother, if you wish, but if she stops me I will only do it another time."

"I'll not be tellin' your ma, Miss Charlotte," protested the abigail excitedly. "But where will you go?"

"I will not tell you that. What you do not know you will not be held accountable for. But have no fear. I have a plan."

She had decided to go to the nearest posting inn and take the stage to Bath, where her aunt lived.

It was a stroke of genius to bring Aunt Agatha into her plan. Aunt Agatha was the one who had suggested Miss Adam's Seminary to her parents. Aunt Agatha had given her some of her favorite romance novels to read, novels, which had seemed to mirror her very thoughts and feelings last autumn. Charlotte regularly had luncheon with Aunt Agatha when she was in Bath, and Aunt Agatha had loved hearing about Cyril. She would understand. And she would help her. Aunt Agatha would intercede for her with her parents, make them see why she could not marry the Earl. Her parents would listen to Aunt Agatha.

Like many children of the ton, Charlotte did not have a close emotional bond with her parents. She had been raised primarily by her nurse and her governess. Still, the Baron and Baroness had proved to be indulgent, if absent parents. She had never been denied anything she wanted, nor thwarted in a desire. Charlotte was confident her parents would eventually come around to her view of the matter. All she needed was time, and Aunt Agatha's intercession. Which was why she had decided to go to Bath tonight.

She had some money, enough she hoped to purchase a seat on the Bath coach with some leftover to secure some sort of lodging for the remainder of the night.

She trusted her boy's disguise would keep her from drawing too much attention. It wouldn't have to be for long. Given the amazing speed of the stagecoaches these days, she ought to be in Bath by tomorrow evening!

Eagerly, and with Betty's help, she undid the tapes of her silvery dress and donned the shirt and pantaloons.

"Um, Miss," Betty cleared her throat.

"What is it, Betty?" Charlotte was looking through the chest for the coat she had hidden there.

"Beggin' your pardon, Miss, but you don't look much like a boy in that there shirt." She giggled.

Charlotte regarded her reflection in the cheval glass. She saw nothing amiss. Then she turned, and looked at her profile. A gasp of dismay escaped her.

"No, I do not, do I? I wonder if the coat will obscure my, er, feminine attributes?"

She put the heavy coat on. Besides its shabbiness, it was a distinctly ugly shade of green.

"It don't fit right across the chest, that it don't," said Betty bluntly.

"Hmm." Charlotte thought for a moment, then rummaged around the chest till she pulled up an old woolen shawl. "This ought to do the trick, Betty!"

She took off the coat and the rough cotton shirt. Working quickly, she wrapped the shawl firmly around her bosom, binding her breasts tightly to her chest. When she was done, she made a small, firm knot in the shawl under her arm.

"There," she said with satisfaction. "Now the coat will fit better."

"Saints preserve us," breathed Betty, crossing herself. "You're as flat as a lad!"

Charlotte laughed. "That is precisely the idea."

Again she donned the rough woolen shirt, and struggled into the green coat. From the bottom of the trunk she extracted a pair of boots and stepped into them, showing plainly that they were a few sizes too large for her small feet. Plucking the flowers from her hair, she grabbed a boy's cap and tried to set it on her head.

"Oh, bother. This cap will not fit over my topknot. And I surely cannot wear my hair down." Charlotte stared at her image in the looking glass. "I suppose there is only one thing to do."

She undid her hair and reached for the scissors she kept in her dressing table. Her long, thick hair shone black as midnight in the glow of the tapers. Charlotte knew a moment's regret. Then she thought of all the brave heroines she had read about. She lifted the scissors.

"Oh, no, Miss Charlotte." Betty's hands flew to her face. "You're not going to 'ack off all that lovely 'air!"

"I'm afraid it cannot be helped, Betty. Besides, short hair has been fashionable for some time now. I'll be all the crack."

Without a moment's further hesitation she cut her long hair up above her ears. And what a surprise awaited her! Free of its heavy length, her hair now curled beguilingly all over her head. Charlotte was amazed at how easily and softly her hair curled. And how very feminine it looked.

Betty moaned softly at the long dark locks of hair on the floor as Charlotte stared intently into the mirror again.

"This still will not do," she muttered. "I do not look anything like a boy with these curls." She raised the scissors again, then stopped, with them poised in mid-air. She did not want to cut all her hair off. What would Cyril think?

"I 'ave an idea, Miss," said Betty tentatively. "Maybe if you just smudged up a little..."

"Betty, what a famous notion! Of course, no one will look too closely at me if I appear to be just a dirty boy."

Charlotte hurried to the fireplace, and scooped up a handful of ashes. She smeared the soot all over her face, and into her hair. Her hair became a muddy grey, and her face dirty. She yanked the cap down low over her forehead and on her ears, hiding most of the betraying curls. She smiled, pleased with her appearance. Much easier to pass undetected through the streets of London now.

"There now, your own mother wouldn't know you," said Betty admiringly.

"I sincerely hope not," was Charlotte's fervent reply. "You've been a real Trojan, Betty, but you had best leave now," she added kindly. "The Baroness is going to notice you have been gone a long time. Now don't you make up any tarradiddles on my account. Just tell my mother you do not know where I am. That is the truth, after all."

"Be careful, Miss Charlotte." Betty's brown eyes were filled with worry.

Charlotte crossed the room, and enveloped the girl in a quick hug. "You can be sure I will. Thank you, Betty, for all your help. I hope my adventure does not get you into any trouble."

"Don't worry about me, Miss," said Betty stoutly. "And if they come a'looking for you, I'll tell 'em you went downstairs the back way."

Charlotte waited for Betty to leave and close the door. Going back once more to the trunk, she took out a small wooden box that contained a pile of guineas she had carefully hoarded. Twisting the gold coins into a handkerchief, she stuffed it into her coat pocket.

She hurried to her escritoire and extracted a folded letter lying beneath a pile of writing paper. She had written the letter earlier, before she went down to the soiree, but she took a few moments now to go over it one last time. Dearest Mama and Papa,

Please forgive me for this abrupt departure. Be assured I am acting out of the utmost desperation and necessity. I cannot go through with the betrothal. I am certain I would expire, simply waste away, should I be forced to marry a man I do not love. I know this would distress you as much as it would me. I am going to a place of safety. Have no concerns for my wellbeing. I will write again, as soon as I arrive at my destination. I deeply regret any unease this may cause you.

Respectfully, I am ever your most affectionate daughter,

Charlotte

Reading through it, she felt a sharp pang of guilt. They would likely be most angry, and distressed, and she had no wish to cause them pain. She hesitated, letter in hand. A picture of Lord Satterly came to her mind, and her resolve hardened. Her parents had to understand she could not marry him! She folded the missive and left it propped up against the looking glass on the table.

Under her bed she had stashed her bed-sheets, which she had earlier pulled off her mattress. As fast as she could she knotted them together into a long rope. She felt exhilarated; why, she was every bit as resourceful as anyone she had ever read about! Quickly she tied the end of the last sheet to the bedpost nearest the window. Flinging open the sash, she cast her makeshift rope over the sill.

From deep inside the house she heard the clock start its long midnight chiming. By now, she knew, her father would be standing next to Lord Satterly, while her mother searched the room for her. Charlotte gave one backward glance over her shoulder to her room, and the security she had known there. Then she hoisted a leg over the windowsill.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside her room. Her heart pounded against her ribs as if to break free. Her throat was dry, breathing rapid, but her mind was clear. Quickly she lifted her other leg over the sill, and with scarce a downward glance grabbed the roped sheets and plunged feet first into the night.

Excitement building within her, Charlotte grappled awkwardly with the sheets, bracing herself with her clumsily-shod feet against the brick sides of the house, hoping to heaven the bedpost knot would hold for three stories. When she was a few feet away from the pavement she jumped off.

It was dark and relatively quiet, the noise of the gathering inside muffled. She made her way to the back of the narrow courtyard behind the house, and climbed over the wall. Then she crept down the alley out to the street.

Walking quickly, she threaded her way through the streets down to Piccadilly. The new-fangled gaslights did not provide much in the way of illumination. It was amazing, but traversing even a short distance down Piccadilly, a ho-hum carriage ride during the day, seemed a tremendous adventure at night and on foot.

Several young bucks, weaving through the cobblestone streets, were making a clatter with their canes and loud companions. They're foxed, thought Charlotte, with a stab of apprehension. She knew men often drank heavily. Many times she had seen her father and his companions worse for the wear after several bottles of brandy and claret. When the young swells merely glanced idly at her and walked on, she breathed a sigh of relief, thankful her disguise was working so well.

Further troublesome thoughts disappeared when the White Horse Cellar came into view. She had made it! All she had to do now was book a seat on the Bath coach. She knew she would have to wait till morning for the office to open. Still, the prospect of a wait didn't daunt her in the least. She optimistically planned to secure a bedchamber with the extra money she had brought.

Excitedly she read the sign over the lantern in the doorway: "White Horse Cellar, Coaches and Waggons to All Parts of the Kingdom." The crack of a whip echoed in the night air and a heavy coach lumbered past.

Eyes fixed straight ahead, Charlotte in her haste didn't see the small figure crouching in her path till she tripped over it.

"I do beg your pardon," she began, hoping she hadn't hurt the little boy. He must be a street urchin. She had sometimes seen ragged-looking children on street corners and in alleyways from the small window of her parents' carriage.

Her kind heart was touched. She bent down quickly to see if the lad was hurt. The gleam of a knife blade shone back at her. Fear rose like bile in her throat. Though she had no experience dealing with street thieves, she believed this one to be deadly serious.

"Do yer have any brass?" snarled the lad. This close, he looked more like eighteen than eight.

"Well, I, er," Charlotte stammered. This seemed to tell him what he wanted to know.

"Ye best 'and it over then," he said, "or I'll cut ya but good."

What would be worse, she wondered fleetingly: being knifed, or surrendering her guineas and being stranded penniless in the middle of the night in London? For a moment she was scared; then she got angry.

"If you dare to come anywhere near me with that thing ," she cried, "I'll scream my head off."

"Ooo now, and 'oo do yer think will 'ear? Yer look like a regular cove but yer sound like a swell, and I be thinking yer 'ave a bit of blunt on yer. I'll take yer blunt dead or alive, makes no difference to me. Where is it? In 'ere, maybe?"

With a quick slice of his knife he cut a button off her coat, near the breast pocket where she had hidden the handkerchief. His bloodshot eyes peered into hers as he grinned horribly. She was close enough to smell his rancid breath, and the stale, unwashed odor that he reeked.

"If yer thinking of making a racket, go on. No one'll 'ear, or care what 'appens to a dirty cove like yerself."

He put the knife close to her throat and started fumbling through her coat pockets. Charlotte's fear rose. He would most certainly take her money. If he discovered, in his groping, that she was a girl...

She took a quick step back and reached into her coat pocket before he could react. "Here," she said, throwing the handkerchief a distance. "There are several guineas in that. Take it, you horrible creature."

When the urchin bent down to retrieve the handkerchief, she ran. She ran through the coach yard, past the men loading a coach, down, down into the farthest reaches of the vast stables. She found a pile of straw in the back of an empty stall, and buried herself in it.

She shivered, more from fright than cold, and wrapped her arms tightly around her body. I will not cry, she told herself fiercely. Only the most cow-hearted females in the books she read cried when they were in trouble. I am certainly not cow-hearted. I will devise another plan.

But what? The question bedeviled her. She couldn't go back home now, and face a barrage of inquiries and accusations. Her parents, as much as they loved her, would most certainly be very angry. And there was still Lord Satterly to contend with. Her adventure had barely begun. Cyril, and those romantic gondola rides through the canals of Venice, awaited. She wouldn't turn back now. Somehow, she'd contrive to get on that Bath coach.

A rustle in the straw caught her attention. It was followed by an unmistakable scampering sound, very close to where she sat. A scream welled up in her throat. Rats! Never, in all the books she'd read, had one of her heroines been required to contend with rats.

She tried to calm herself. She shrank into the corner of the stall, wrapped her arms even more tightly around herself and tried to think logically. The rats weren't interested in her. They must be after the oats fed to the stall's previous occupant. She could just ignore them. But, oh, did it have to be rats? This was worse than being robbed.

To distract herself, she thought of different ways she could try to get on the Bath coach and get to her aunt's. As she forced herself to concentrate on the tasks at hand, her mind only half-registered the foraging of the rats in the straw and the sounds of the coach yard dying down as the night progressed. Soon, without even realizing it, her eyes grew heavy and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

A furious blast from a horn woke her. A cold gray dawn was breaking, reaching even the depths of the stall she was in. As the memory of her dilemma returned to her, she felt a bit ashamed of how soundly she had slept. She crept forward, from the stall to the doorway and then the coach yard, trying to see what was causing all the commotion.

With a thunder of hooves and a great clatter, a black and maroon Royal Mail coach was pulling into the coach yard. A guard, dressed in scarlet, raised a three-foot brass horn to his lips and gave another blast to signal the arrival of the mail. The coachman stopped the great carriage with a flourish, while men ran from the inn and started changing the horses, which were stamping and steaming in the damp morning air. Charlotte watched in amazement at how quickly the horses were replaced with a fresh team.

On the other side of the yard a stagecoach was being loaded quickly and efficiently. Steps were lowered from the interior. Charlotte saw a dapper old man mount the stairs, followed by a prim-looking woman of indeterminate age, a fidgety clergyman, and a stout, red-faced country woman with a squalling baby on each hip. They settled themselves inside. About a dozen more people, mainly men, clambered up on the roof. The coach's destination, Bristol, was printed clearly on its side panel.

Charlotte watched as the heavy coach set off, its rooftop passengers clinging to the rails as it pitched and swayed at a turn. A sigh escaped her. To be setting out on a journey -- those coach passengers were so lucky! Except, she considered, those mewed up inside with the fussy babies. If only she had not been robbed of her coach fare! She would have asked for a seat on the roof. That way she could see where she was going and feel the wind in her face. Oh, it would be so wonderful -- the adventure of a coach ride, and Cyril at the end of it!

She sighed. Across the yard another stagecoach was being loaded. When the men hoisting a trunk moved she saw the name on the panel. Bath! That should have been her coach. She decided to get closer to it.

Leaving the shelter of the doorway, she made her way across the yard. The yard was crowded; she had to dodge ostlers and coachmen, and horses and stable boys just to get from one side to the other. She stopped a few yards away from the Bath coach and stood hesitantly behind another carriage while she prepared a hasty plan. The best plan she could devise was to simply throw herself on the coachman's mercy, or approach a sympathetic-looking passenger and ask for a loan of the coach fare. She was sure her aunt would reimburse anyone kind enough to oblige her.

But how could she explain her pressing need to get to Bath without letting people know she had run away from home? Someone would be sure to call a constable and turn her over to her parents, especially if her disguise was seen through. The last thing she wanted was some Good Samaritan to return her to the bosom of her family. Why not tell them her aunt, her only living relative, was dying? Then she would be sure to arouse somebody's sympathy. But then how could she assure a benefactor a dying aunt would pay back the funds for her fare?

"Who's this 'ere chaise belong to, then?"

Charlotte jumped. Then she realized she wasn't being addressed; two men at the front of the carriage she was hiding behind were talking.

"Couple o' swells. Randolph, the cove said 'is name was. Lord Peter Randolph. Has another cove with 'im. On their way to Bath, I 'eard tell. Stopped 'ere to get their first team of 'orses, and some grub at the inn."

"Well, they'll 'ave to get this rig out of the way. The Portsmouth mail is due."

"I'll get one of the lads to lead the 'orses on a bit further. If I can find one who isn't being run off 'is feet already. This is always the busiest time o' the day."

"'ere I am, guv'nor." Charlotte stepped forward and grabbed the bridle of the two strong bays. "I'll be 'appy to move 'em for yer," she added in what she hoped was authentic-sounding stable boy dialect.

"See that you do, lad," said the first man with relief. "And then get back to yer duties."

With the barest of prodding the horses were led willingly by her. Looking inside the carriage, she saw it was carelessly packed with boxes and luggage. Whoever was handling the reins of this carriage obviously wasn't planning on any inside passengers.

As she walked the compliant team, Charlotte had to work to keep the big smile she was feeling off her face. Once again, with a resourcefulness worthy of the most dashing of fictional heroines, she had solved her problems wonderfully.

"Did we have to stop at this damnable posting inn?" the Honorable George Thorndike asked his companion plaintively.

"Best place in the world for a quick breakfast," replied Lord Peter Randolph blandly. "And you know we require sustenance for the journey ahead, Geordie."

"Ha. The way you handle the ribbons, I require my head examined to even go out with you. I must be as mad as the old King. Zounds, Peter, it's not even seven! Hardly an hour for a gentleman to be up and about. I swear my cravat must look a perfect fright -- my man Wilkins isn't accustomed to dressing me so early."

"If we want to make it anywhere close to Bath by nightfall an early start is essential," replied Lord Peter, unperturbed.

Geordie folded his arms across his chest and maintained a sulky silence. Lord Peter sighed. He could depend on his friend for nearly anything except a good mood early in the morning.

"You are ruining the line of your coat that way, Geordie," he said cheerfully. "It's a shame to see all of Weston's artistry go for naught."

Geordie gave a "humph," but relaxed his arms. Lord Peter was very familiar with his friend's ambitions to dandyism, and knew how his clothes looked and fit were of paramount importance to him. Unfortunately, he reflected, there wasn't much Geordie could do to alter a tendency toward plumpness which rebelled against being squeezed into skin-tight pantaloons, or a fair, florid complexion made even redder by high shirt points and an elaborately-tied cravat.

Lord Peter shrugged good-humoredly. He never gave too much thought to dressing his own lean, muscular frame, beyond what was deemed necessary by society and Timmons, his tyrannical valet. With his usual even temperament, he put up with the fussing of Timmons over his daily grooming, though much to Timmon's despair he limited the cravat-tying sessions to an hour.

"I'm not Brummel, you know," he would say lazily. "I have no aspirations to be taken for a Pink of the Ton, much less to be trying to achieve the latest pleats and knots in my cravat. If we cannot manage something passable in the space of an hour, why then, I will just go without, like Byron did. No one seemed to object to him in an open collar."

Lord Peter's hair gave Timmons rather less cause for complaint. His master's full, dark head of hair almost arranged itself into a fashionable windswept style, though Timmons did wish he would give more of a care to how he flattened it with his hat. This again was in a marked contrast to Geordie, who'd been known to torture his lank blond hair for hours in a hopeless attempt to achieve a similar effect. Lord Peter had often thought that if Geordie's kind nature were capable of any real animosity, he would resent him for purely sartorial reasons.

"Ah, here comes the landlord with our breakfast," he said to his disgruntled friend. "This ought to put a bloom back in those cheeks, eh?"

Geordie thawed noticeably at the appearance of a steaming pot of tea, followed by cold pigeon-pie, boiled beef and ham, grilled kidneys and bacon, and hot buttered toast and muffins. The landlord, obsequious to such obvious members of the Quality, brought them a fresh pot of tea when theirs began to get cold. After twenty minutes of silent and dedicated eating, Geordie began to regain his customary good humor and volubility.

"So why ain't we takin' the coachman with us? Or Timmons? The chaise'll look dashed irregular with just us on it."

Lord Peter wiped his lips carefully with the edge of his napkin, folded it and placed it beside his plate.

"I prefer to handle the ribbons myself, as you well know, Geordie. Hodges is an excellent coachman, but slower than my grandmother. If I allowed him to take the reins we would arrive sometime next week. As for Timmons, the poor man has come down with the ague. He tried to come, but I insisted he stay in Grosvenor Square. There are plenty of servants at Randolph House, and one of them will do as a valet till Timmons recovers. I trust we can see to our own needs for one day's worth of travel."

"Still don't see why you're haring off to Bath in this hurly-burly way," grumbled Geordie. "Much less why I agreed to accompany you."

"I'm going, as you know, because of a summons from Her Grace, my formidable mother," said his friend dryly. "I ignored her two previous commands to come to the family seat. This one, it seems, is more urgent. She reports my father is ill, but I rather suspect she has lured another simpering female to the manor, with the hopes I'll be smitten or at least do my duty and propose.

"You, Geordie, are going out of pure goodness of heart, and another opportunity to sample the artistry of Pierre, the French chef my mother managed to bribe to come work for us. I do not believe his former employer, Lord Pembroke, is ever going to forgive her."

"Pierre's meals are pure poetry," said Geordie, with a dreamy look in his eye. He snapped out of it, and regarded his friend shrewdly. "Why are they so hell-bent on your getting leg-shackled all of the sudden? Isn't your brother Richard already married?"

"Ah, yes, to the redoubtable Lady Margaret, another of my mother's picks. But it has been five years now and my brother, the esteemed Marquess, hasn't managed to produce a suitable heir, or any heir, for that matter. My mother is about ready to wash her hands of him, and they're looking to me to keep the line going, I believe."

"It's a terrible shame," said Geordie sorrowfully, "that a fine buck like yourself has to leave London and sacrifice himself on the matrimonial altar, so to speak. And you still so young."

Lord Peter laughed. "You make it sound a gruesome fate. To tell you the truth, Geordie, the notion doesn't entirely repel me. Knew the day would have to come, don't you know. I'm nearly thirty -- "

"Twenty-eight," Geordie corrected him.

" -- and I have led a rather rackety life till now."

A scandalized protest started to issue from Geordie's lips, but Lord Peter waved it down.

"You know it's true; after all, you've been with me on most of my adventures. No, it's not marriage I mind, just the Duchess arranging it. I don't want to be bound for life to a Friday-faced female like m' brother's wife."

He paused to down another gulp of tea. "It's not that the Marchioness is a bad-looking woman," he mused, "but too serious for my taste. Like a beautiful statue. No life to her at all." He shuddered and shook his head. "Don't see how Richard can stand it."

"It's a good thing you brought me along," said Geordie complacently. He leaned back in his chair and absently patted his ample stomach. "When it comes to the fair sex, I can separate the wheat from the chaff. I've a good eye, if I do say so myself. Remember Sarah Templeton? Do you recall how everyone said she was a diamond of the first water? Only I knew how it would be after she married Fairleigh. Knew she'd turn out to be bossy, just like her mother. And what happened, I ask you? She's practically got him on leading strings now. Poor Fairleigh was so besotted he never saw it coming, but I did. I saw it coming all along. Women can't fool me."

Lord Peter hid a smile, thinking of all the opera dancers and "bits of muslin" who had done just that to his gullible friend.

"No indeed," he managed to say gravely. "I am very fortunate to have you along. Which reminds me," he lifted a gold watch out of his waistcoat pocket, snapped the lid open and glanced briefly at the dial, "it is time we were on our way. Shall we go?"

Geordie acquiesced, and they made their way out to the coach yard after paying the landlord for their repast.

"I say, where is your traveling chaise, Peter? Didn't we leave it here?"

"Yes, we did, and apparently it has been moved." He scanned the bustling yard. "There it is, by the far wall."

"Damned impertinence," grumbled Geordie, as they traversed the yard. "A cove ought to be able to find his own carriage after a meal."

"I agree," replied Lord Peter, his lips twitching. "As I have told you on many occasions."

"If you are referring to my being unable to find my carriage after that masquerade at the Pantheon, it had nothing to do with my being foxed, which I most assuredly was not. Merely broaching a couple bottles of claret -- "

"A couple dozen, if I recall it right."

"Nothing of the sort! Besides, I hold my drink better than any buck in town."

"As you say," said Lord Peter solemnly. "I must be mistaken. Your carriage was obviously playing a dreadful prank on you that evening. Ah, here is the elusive chaise now. Climb up, Geordie."

Muffled though she was inside the chaise under a traveling rug, sandwiched between a trunk and an overstuffed valise, Charlotte still heard the two men approach. So far, everything was working out perfectly. The man with the deep voice was instructing his friend to climb up into the box, just as she had hoped he would. Her breath caught when she heard the door open instead.

"Not in there, cawker -- it's too cluttered," said the man with deep voice. "Besides, Geordie, you don't want to shut yourself up in there. Sit up on the box with me. It promises to be a beautiful day for a drive."

"Don't know as I want that good a view," Charlotte heard the man called Geordie reply, but he closed the door and she felt the chaise dip and sway as he climbed up next to his friend. She breathed a long sigh of relief, and relaxed as best she could on the squabs. She heard a slap of the reigns and a crack of a whip, and the team started to move. For a long time the only sounds that permeated her cocoon inside the chaise were the sounds of London traffic: horses' hooves clattering on the cobblestones, the creaks of both the well and badly-sprung equipages as they jostled for space on the crowded streets, the calls of street vendors hawking their wares, and the greetings and curses, shouts and cries. All were a part of the cacophony of the huge metropolis as it attended to its business.

Awhile longer, and the noise gradually lessened. Charlotte heard birds singing, and knew they must be out of London. She was miserably hot. Dare she take the traveling rug off her head? After all, they were well underway, and the men on the box could not see into the back of the chaise. She cast the heavy wool aside, and took a long breath of pure relief. Outside the window she saw sunshine, and trees. She would be in Bath in no time now. How easy it all had been! Then she heard the man with the deep voice speak.

"I have never have been able to understand, Geordie, how you could be part of the dandy set and maintain your aversion to horses. Thought you would have gotten over it by now and be a famous whipster."

"You will never convince me they are anything but filthy, sneaking beasts, Peter, always looking for a way to scrape you off their backs with a tree branch, or overturn your rig. Don't trust' em. Never will."

The man called Peter said, "Spoken like a man of feeling. I'll tell you what, Geordie, you just sit back, relax, and enjoy the scenery. I promise you, I'll never take my eyes off the devils."

"Still can't fathom why we didn't take Hodges. He may be as you say 'slower than your grandmother', but at least we could ride in the carriage like civilized gentlemen."

Charlotte barely heard the other man chuckle. She dozed for a while, only to wake up quickly when the chaise stopped. She threw the rug over her head, but not before she learned they were at Thatcham, the halfway point, and were stopping to change horses. When they were underway again she relaxed and was able to cast the detestable rug aside once more.

It was a beautiful early summer's day, the trees in full leaf and the birds singing in the fields. The sun had passed its zenith when she heard Geordie plaintively ask, "When are we going stop again?"

"We're almost upon Newbury," the other replied. "We can stop there to eat if you wish."

Charlotte could see there was more traffic as they approached Newbury. She wasn't surprised; she knew Newbury was a busy coaching stop, a natural crossroads for Bath, Oxford, Winchester and London. Conversation once again ceased as the one called Peter, who must be the one handling the ribbons, gave his full attention to the road.

"Oh, I say," she heard Geordie say uneasily. "There's an awfully impatient fellow behind you -- looks like he's going to try and pass."

"That's absurd," replied Peter. "If he thinks he can squeeze by me in that ridiculous curricle -- why, with the way this lane has narrowed I've hardly room for myself without going into the ditch."

"Look out!" Charlotte heard the alarm in Geordie's voice. "Watch that phaeton turning in front of us."

Charlotte had just a second to brace herself before she was knocked sideways by a crash. She could see the phaeton, mere inches away from the side of the chaise, and felt its wheel snag one of the chaise's. She heard a sickening snap, then was thrown once more as the chaise fell with a heavy jarring thud, and toppled to one side. A small wooden box fell off a trunk and into her lap as the chaise plunged.

The horses whinnied in panic, their hooves making great scratching sounds as they pawed the ground and pulled at their traces. She heard Peter jump down from the box, and with a muttered "Hell and damnation!" he somehow calmed them. Her shoulders ached. Gingerly she checked her legs and arms, but nothing seemed broken. The box was lying securely on her knees.

"Are you all right, Geordie?" said Peter.

"All right?" she heard Geordie's anxious squawk. "We were nearly killed!"

"No such thing, old man. Just tossed about. But I fear we will not be going any further today, not in this vehicle. Not only is the wheel off, but the end of the axle is splintered. We are going to have to see if we can get it repaired. Fortunately, there are many coaching inns in this vicinity where we can put up for the night while this gets fixed. I'll bet our belongings are properly churned up. By the by, you didn't pack anything fragile in there, did you?"

"Only a piece of priceless Sevres porcelain for your father's collection," replied Geordie. Charlotte heard the gloomy relish in his voice. "A vase. Probably in a million pieces."

Charlotte heard footsteps approaching the chaise. She tried to burrow down among the luggage to hide, but she couldn't move. She found the traveling rug and hastily threw it over her head.

"Let's find out, shall we?" Peter was at the door. "Where did you stow it?"

"It was in a box, on top of the trunk."

"Well, everything is in a sad jumble now. I'll have to search around."

Peter opened the door and luggage spilled out. Charlotte felt his fingers on the edge of the rug. He pulled it off, and she found herself looking into a pair of fathomless grey eyes.

"Well, how is it?" called Geordie. "Shattered, I'll be bound. Out with it, Peter -- is the vase broken or not?"

Strong arms lifted Charlotte out. He handled her briskly, as he would a boy. She thought dizzily that she had never been this close to Cyril. She knew she must look like the veriest ragamuffin, her original scruffy appearance no doubt worsened by a night in the stable and a morning crammed in the chaise. This was a catastrophe, but she had to brazen it out. There was no other choice. She hoped she still looked like a lad.

She held the box out, and offered it to Geordie. "Here is the box your vase must be in. I believe it is unbroken, sir. I held it myself as the carriage fell."

"What's this," asked a fair young man suspiciously. From the many long hours she had spent hidden in the carriage while the men talked on the box, Charlotte recognized his voice as that of the one called Geordie. "A boy, in our carriage?"

"A stowaway," said the other, lazy amusement in his voice. Charlotte deduced he must be Peter. "What were you doing in there, boy -- trying to rob us?"

Charlotte looked up into a pair of humorous grey eyes and a quizzical expression. He was dark, but not in the romantic sense; there was too much laughter lurking in his eyes and not enough of a melodramatic air about him for that. His gaze was clear and direct, and his bearing upright, not carefully posed.

Although his grip was strong, he was not hurting her. She noticed he smelled of clean linen and good soap, with a musky, masculine scent all his own. Cyril, she remembered, always smelled of the honey water he wore. It was almost too sweet. She would never describe this man that way. Charlotte was surprised to feel herself slightly breathless at his proximity.

He still held her by the coat collar, and both men were regarding her as if she was some sort of curiosity. Charlotte took a steadying breath. She couldn't help feeling a trifle vexed. This was not supposed to happen. They were supposed to go straight to Bath, where she could crawl out of the carriage unseen and make her way to her aunt's house in Laura Place. Now there would have to be explanations.

"Beg pardon, guv'nor," she said, trying her best to sound like a street lad, and aware she wasn't very good at it. "I only climbed into your carriage because I thought you might be headed west. I need to get to my aunt's house in Bath, you see, and I was robbed of my money at the coach yard."

"Hmm, a polite, well-spoken rogue. Yet so dirty. And so young," said the tall one, Peter, not unkindly. He released her and regarded her thoughtfully. "What should we do with him, Geordie? Do you think this is a matter for the constable?"

Charlotte scanned his face anxiously, and was reassured by the amused glint in his grey eyes. He was just teasing.

"Oh, I do not think we have to go that far," replied his companion. "He did save the Duke's vase from complete demolition."

"The Duke!" said Charlotte faintly. She felt all the blood drain out of her face. She'd never intended to deceive the upper echelons of the aristocracy. She imagined someone like a duke could get quite nasty if he felt he had been tricked, even if the tricking were done for the best of reasons by a brave, resourceful heroine.

"Here now, are you all right, boy?" asked the tall one with concern. "I never thought to ask if you were injured in the accident. Let me check you."

His hands were large, with graceful, tapering fingers. Charlotte began to feel even fainter as he ran them over her body. She jumped a step back. He must not discover I'm not a boy, she told herself firmly. She refused to admit her reaction to his touch was any more complicated than that.

"I am all right, sir. I am just feeling a little weak from hiding in the chaise all that time."

He clucked sympathetically. "You must have been half-smothered under that rug. But tell me, boy, are you sure you had no idea I was Lord Peter Randolph, son of the Duke of Wickersham, and on my way to our family estate before you chose this particular carriage to climb into? I would hate to think you were nothing but a common thief, but damn me if any other explanation comes to mind!"

"I knew no such thing!" Charlotte's impulsive nature got the better of her. How dare he make such a presumption! "I had no intention of robbing you, and I resent your insinuations! As I told you, I was merely looking for a way to get to Bath!"

"And how did you know we were headed in that direction?"

"I overheard some talk in the coach yard. Though frankly, if I had known you were going to harbor such suspicions, or make despicable accusations, I would have much liefer hitched a ride on a donkey cart!"

Charlotte's eyes widened and her hand flew to her mouth as soon as she had spoken. This man could take her to the nearest town and charge her with attempted theft, and no one would question him -- after all, he was the son of a powerful peer. Lord Peter -- his title revealed he was the Duke's younger son. What had she done?

Lord Peter threw back his head and laughed. "A boy with spirit, Geordie! What do you say we take him with us?"

"Why not?" said Geordie, preoccupied with trying to brush some dirt off his hopelessly torn coat sleeve.

Lord Peter turned and addressed Charlotte directly. "You saved Geordie's vase, which showed a great deal of quick thinking under trying circumstances. Although Randolph House is not actually in Bath, we will be going near that city, and I dare say we can drop you off."

Her doubts and fears momentarily forgotten, Charlotte breathed a sigh of delighted relief. "Oh, thank you, sir -- I mean, my lord!"

"Not at all. You are just a lad, are you not?"

Lord Peter continued to regard her steadily. He had the most penetrating eyes she had ever seen, Charlotte thought uneasily.

"As it happens, we are without servants," he continued, "and we will be required to spend the night in this vicinity while my chaise is repaired. Since I am without my man, you can attend me in return for your transportation, after you get cleaned up, of course. That is, if you have no objections. If you do, I will see what I can do about arranging that donkey cart you spoke of."

"No, my lord, I have no objections," said Charlotte, her heart buoyed. She gave scarce thought to the difficulties of continuing her charade while acting as an attendant to these men. She had come this far, hadn't she? She had only the vaguest notion of what she would be required to do, but she was sure she could contrive somehow. The important thing was the passage to Bath.

"What shall we call you, boy?" Lord Peter interrupted her reverie.

"My lord?" she said.

"Your name, lad, your name," said Geordie impatiently. "We have to call you something over the next couple of days."

"My name is Charl -- I mean Charlie," she stammered.

"Charlie?" Lord Peter laughed again. "Like the Pretender? It's a fine, no, a bonny name for a lad such as yourself. And Charlie it is!"

Geordie laughed, too, and Charlotte found the laughter infectious. A merry peal broke from her. Startled, Lord Peter stopped and stared. Her hand flew to her lips. Better not do that again. Probably didn't sound at all like a boy. Better get down to work, offer to unpack the chaise or something, to take their minds off her little slip.

But she was not seriously worried. Everything was proceeding better than she could have dared hope. This was even more exciting than the adventures she had read about. Of course, Lord Peter was not the glowering, tormented hero usually featured in the books she read, but she was ready to overlook that. Cyril was the real hero of this adventure. Lord Peter did not count.

Not at all. Not in the least.

They found an inn with a coach yard where the chaise could be repaired and they could put up for the night. Lord Peter bespoke two chambers, it having been decided on the walk over to the inn that Geordie, a notorious snorer, made an unacceptable bedfellow.

Geordie accepted this edict with good humor. The plan for Charlotte was that she was to sleep on a pallet in Lord Peter's room.

When she was told this, Charlotte felt a twinge of alarm. Surely she should not be spending the night with a gentleman in his bedchamber? If word of that ever got out, she would be ruined for life. Maybe this went beyond the bounds of romantic adventure. And yet, no one knew she was the Honorable Charlotte Finbury. They all saw her as Charlie, a scruffy lad. Surely everything would be all right, as long as she kept out of his way as much as possible.

When they out in the courtyard of the inn, after arranging repairs for the chaise, Lord Peter espied a pump.

"Aha," he exclaimed. "Now to remove some of that grime and see what you really look like, Charlie my lad!"

He marched Charlotte over to the pump and started to work the handle. "Take off your shirt so you can get a good dousing."

The twinge of alarm she had felt earlier mushroomed into a full-fledged jolt. Take off her shirt! That would end her charade for sure, along with her reputation, and just about everything else. She knew it was common enough for a boy to strip to the waist to wash at a pump. How was she going to talk her way out of this one? Panic and the day's heat increased the chafing of the scratchy wool against her delicate skin. Indeed, she would dearly love to take off her shirt, but not here in the middle of the yard!

Stalling for time, she took off her heavy green coat and began to roll up the sleeves of her shirt. "It is a trifle cold, my lord. And I do have a bit of a cough." She strained to give a convincing rendition of a pathetic cough.

"Nonsense," said Geordie briskly. "It is a hot summer day. Peter's right. You are filthy, boy. Strip, and take off that cap so you can get your hair clean as well. You are as dirty as a chimney sweep."

Desperately, Charlotte tried again. "I really do not think..."

"Your shirt, boy, your shirt," said Lord Peter impatiently. "Take it off now, or we will remove it for you."

Charlotte looked from one man to the other and saw resolve in their eyes. What could she do? She closed her eyes, and with a silent prayer slowly started to work the buttons of her shirt. Maybe something wonderful would happen, like a massive flood or a fire, so she could get out of it. Maybe she should announce dramatically she had Bubonic Plague. That would clear the courtyard. Perhaps even the whole town. But then how would she get to Bath?

A carriage rolled into the yard. Charlotte's fingers stilled. This, at least, might provide a brief distraction, though a natural disaster would have been infinitely preferable.

"Faster, boy," said Lord Peter. "We do not have all day."

"Randolph," interrupted a high, simpering voice that held a note of command. "Lord Peter Randolph. Fancy meeting you here!"

A short, very stout woman was speaking as she descended a carriage with the help of a groom. Peeping out behind her was a pale young girl with soft chestnut hair and large brown eyes.

"Lady Beaumont," said Lord Peter, bowing with reluctant courtesy. "Allow me to present my friend, the Honorable George Thorndike."

"Thorndike, is it?" Lady Beaumont lifted a quizzing glass resting on a cord on her massive bosom, put it to one small piggy eye and examined him. Charlotte could see Geordie squirm under her rude glare.

"This is quite a coincidence. My daughter and I are on our way to Randolph House, at the invitation of your dear mother, the Duchess." She turned to her daughter, who had shrunk back a little into the carriage when Lord Peter spoke. "I do not believe you have met my girl, Randolph. She is just out of the schoolroom, and this is her first Season. Alicia, come down here and meet Lord Peter Randolph." She pushed her daughter forward.

Charlotte looked at Alicia curiously. She tried to remember if she had seen her at the various routs, soirees and assemblies of the Season. Alicia Beaumont was not someone who would stick out in a crowd. The girl had a hesitant, unsure manner about her. And she was not dressed to her best advantage. Her mother, dressed in a deep cherry red, obviously favored strong, rich hues for her daughter as well. The forest green carriage dress the young girl was wearing today was sadly at odds with her delicate coloring.

Alicia looked like she wanted to cut and run, but instead she extended her hand awkwardly. Why, the poor thing is shy, thought Charlotte, and appears to be absolutely miserable.

"Lady Alicia," said Lord Peter, bowing over her trembling hand.

Charlotte felt a rush of pity. Alicia looked so young, and ill-prepared to handle the awkwardness of such an unanticipated meeting. One look at the calculation in Lady Beaumont's face convinced Charlotte that she expected her daughter to capture Lord Peter's affections. Charlotte felt sorry for the doe-eyed Alicia, and though she guessed they were about the same age, she felt infinitely older. Embarking on a romantic adventure does that to a person, she reflected.

At least everyone has forgotten about washing me. The thought cheered her. Surreptitiously she rebuttoned her shirt. Perhaps she could quietly leave before anyone remembered her presence.

It was not to be. Introductions completed, Lady Beaumont turned her basilisk stare on Charlotte. Charlotte had the uncomfortable feeling that Lady Beaumont had a good memory for faces.

"Whatever in the world are you doing with that filthy urchin, Lord Peter? Surely he is not one of your servants?"

"Cleaning him up, ma'am so he will be fit for decent company. We were all involved in an accident on the road. That is what has necessitated our stopping the night here. The boy is going to attend me. I suppose you could call him my page, since he is too young to be considered a valet."

"Well, I would hope you are not going to wash him yourself," she said, clearly horrified.

"No, indeed," Lord Peter struggled to keep a smile out of his voice. "Geordie and I were merely encouraging the lad. Can I be of any assistance to yourself and your lovely daughter?" he added gallantly.

"Yes, you can help us secure lodging for the night. You know how helpless we females can be without a man's protection," said Lady Beaumont with a coy flutter of her eyelashes.

Charlotte caught a look of startled surprise on Alicia's face, which was quickly suppressed. Charlotte had to bite back a laugh. She was positive "helpless" was not a word Alicia would ever use to describe her mother.

Politely overlooking the fact that the Beaumont entourage included a coachman, a groom and two footmen, not to mention a lady's maid, any of whom could arrange their lodgings for the night, Lord Peter went into the inn to talk to the innkeeper.

"Clean yourself up, Charlie," Geordie tossed over his shoulder as he followed his friend. "It would never do to be dirty around the ladies."

With the aid of the pump and an old rag grudgingly supplied by the innkeeper, Charlotte scrubbed a token amount of grime off her hands and face. She did not want to get too clean; her dirt was too good a disguise. "It would never do to be dirty around the ladies," echoed mockingly in her brain. The woolen shawl was itching, and she was so tired of her filthy, shapeless clothes. She felt that now she would gladly trade the freedom of her boy's clothes for the scent and softness of a clean muslin gown.

It won't be long now, she consoled herself, till she was in Bath, at her aunt's. And then she could see Cyril, she realized.

She tried to conjure up Cyril's face, but it was Lord Peter's image that came to mind, Lord Peter calming the team of horses, after the accident. She realized belatedly that his strength and quick thinking kept the accident from being much worse. He had done it all with such seeming nonchalance.

As she ran the rag over her arms, the feel of his hands on her body came back vividly to her. She dropped the rag like it was a live ember. Cyril's hands. That's what she should be thinking of. Not Lord Peter's. But she could not. She could not recall ever feeling Cyril's hands. She gave herself a mental shake. That was only because Cyril was too much of a gentleman.

She helped Geordie haul their luggage from the carriage up to their chambers. She learned Geordie and Lord Peter were to eat with Lady Beaumont and her daughter in a private parlor, and guessed she was expected to eat in the taproom. She figured she could do that inconspicuously enough; the taproom would most likely be crowded.

After setting the final trunk down with Geordie in Lord Peter's chamber she felt a sense of relief. Why, this was going to be easy! She wouldn't see much of the men tonight, and tomorrow they would be on their way again to her aunt's. Nothing could be simpler.

Lord Peter's next words dashed her new-found feelings of complacency.

"I would wash off this traveling dirt," he said. "Charlie, help me with my bath."

"A bath, my lord?"

"Yes, yes, a bath. I know I said you could be my page, but I find what I am in need of at the moment is more of a valet. Go down to the kitchen and see what can be done about heating water."

There was some grumbling downstairs about the eccentricities of the nobility and the trouble it would take to provide a bath, but when Lord Peter intervened and promised the innkeeper a handsome recompense for all the bother, the matter was settled. Charlotte thought her arms would break, hauling bucket after bucket of water up the stairs. She was already sore from taking the trunks up with Geordie. The innkeeper had provided a copper tub that seemed bottomless.

At last it was full. Lord Peter took a look at it, felt the water, and pronounced it satisfactory.

"Well, then, my lord," she said nervously. "There you are. Soap, water, towel -- everything you might need. I will be downstairs in the taproom if you want me."

"Do not be ridiculous, Charlie. Come over here and assist me. These clothes need to be taken off and pressed."

He lifted his arms at the shoulders, and Charlotte realized he was waiting for her help to remove his snugly-fitted jacket of blue superfine. As she tugged and pulled she could understand why; it was molded to his shoulders, almost like a second skin. He untied his nearly immaculate cravat, and laid it carefully down on the table by the bed. He unbuttoned his yellow waistcoat, and removed that, too. It was also carefully laid out, on the back of the chair. Charlotte bit back a gasp as his nimble fingers started on the fine cotton shirt.

She had never seen a man unclothed before. This had to be very improper! She looked at the ceiling. But she was also dying of curiosity.

"Help me with these cuffs, would you, Charlie?"

There was no help for it. She looked right at him. He was standing in front of her, shirt open, chest bare. And what a fine chest it was! Even Charlotte, who had nothing to compare it to, had to concede it was magnificent, with its strong contours and smattering of dark hair. It looked rather like pictures she had seen of Greek statues.

She took a step nearer. She could see tiny drops of perspiration glistening on his chest, and started to feel dizzy, like the time her cousin had pushed her fast and high in the garden swing.

"What's the matter, boy?" Lord Peter leaned over to examine her face, so close she could see the roots of his chest hairs. "You look a bit green. You're not about to cast up your accounts, are you?"

How could he be so callous? Not that she ever considered herself overly missish, but anyone's sensibilities would be a bit overcome in such a situation. So what if she was supposed to be a boy? That's no excuse for his insensitivity, she thought illogically.

"No, my lord," she answered with spirit. "'Tis merely the heat. It is terribly close in here. There, now, the feeling has passed."

Loyally she tried to imagine Cyril standing half-naked in front of her, instead of Lord Peter, but she could not. She found she did not possess that much imagination, not with Lord Peter standing before her.

"Good. That would be one disaster too many today. Now let us get this over with, and then you can eat and get some rest before we resume our journey tomorrow."

He sat down on a wooden chair by the table. "Help me with these boots, Charlie."

"Yes, my lord. Then I shall go," she added hopefully.

"You will go when I am done with you." Lord Peter sounded testy. "Now help me get these infernal things off."

Charlie sat in front of him and regarded the boots uncertainly. Lord Peter thrust a leg at her.

"Pull!" he commanded.

Charlotte grabbed the end of the boot and pulled. Nothing happened.

"I said pull!"

"I did." She blew a stray wisp of hair off her face. This was unbelievably hard work.

"The wench in the scullery could pull harder than you!"

"Then why not ask her to do it!" Charlotte yanked with all her might, twisting as she pulled. The boot came off with such force that she fell over backward and knocked over the table, depositing the carefully-laid cravat on the dusty floor.

"Ouch," said Lord Peter, rubbing his ankle. "I said take off my boot, not my foot."

Charlotte rubbed her backside. "I never knew taking off boots could be so difficult."

"You have never taken a boot off before? You surprise me."

"Oh, of course I have taken off boots. Lots of boots. Off lots of feet. I just never had one that was so stuck on like that before. You do not suppose they are too small, do you?" Dubiously she eyed first the boot in her hand, then Lord Peter's foot.

"That would be news to Hoby's, my bootmakers, but I will check into it when I get back to London," he said dryly. "Now, shall we attempt the other boot?"

This time Charlotte braced herself firmly on the floor, and pulled with all her might. The boot barely budged.

"Again," said Lord Peter, sounding bored. "I vow my grandmother would make a quicker job of it."

"You really should not keep invoking your grandmother in these types of situations," said Charlotte severely. "It is most disrespectful. Besides, why should your grandmother be taking off boots or driving carriages in the first place?"

"How the devil -- " he began, then bit off his words with an epithet as she gave another fierce twisting pull. The boot slid off his leg, again toppling her.

"Remind me not to have you do this again," said Lord Peter, wincing. He rubbed his newly freed foot. "With your aid, Charlie, my cane will soon be serving more than a decorative function. Now, you can take those boots away and polish them, but first help me with my trousers."

"No," said Charlotte quietly but firmly.

"I beg your pardon?"

Lord Peter was standing, barefoot and bare-chested, his hands on the waistband of his trousers.

"No. You see," she lied desperately, "I was very strictly raised. I am not allowed to see people unclothed. For religious reasons."

"But surely, since we are both male -- "

"That does not matter. Ever since God cast Adam out of the Garden of Eden it has been man's fate to remain fully clothed. At all times," she emphasized.

"Makes bathing somewhat impractical, would you not agree?"

"Oh, well, as far as that goes, if you must bathe, we believe it is best to do it alone. And in the dark. So, I must leave you now." She gathered up the boots and went to the door.

"Charlie -- "

"I really must go." In a panic, she opened the door.

"Charlie!"

Lady Beaumont and Alicia were on the landing outside the door. They both turned and stared in; Lady Beaumont scowled and her daughter swallowed a giggle.

"Alicia, avert your eyes," Lady Beaumont intoned.

Charlotte could hear Lord Peter swear under his breath. In two strides he was across the room and at the door. He stood behind the door and started to shut it. "Charlie, you get in here and finish attending me!"

But Charlotte, her arms full of his boots, was already halfway down the back stairs.

For over an hour she hung around the taproom and the coach yard. Ever so quietly she ventured up the stairs back to his chamber. She tiptoed down the hall, and was going to deposit his boots outside the door and slink away when suddenly the door opened and a firm hand on her collar pulled her in.

Lord Peter shut door and let go of her abruptly. He did not look happy. Charlotte observed with relief that he was at least dressed.

"Here are your boots, sir. All polished up."

Wordlessly he took them and examined him.

"The innkeeper's wife is cooking your dinner now, sir," she added in the same bright tone. "It smells delicious. I believe Lady Beaumont and her daughter are already on their way down. So if you are taken care of -- "

"Actually, Charlie, I am far from being taken care of. My clothes, as you will observe, are wrinkled. My cravat is pathetic. I wouldn't dream of soliciting your help in tying it, for fear of accidental strangulation. And these boots," he held them out, "are in even worse condition than they were when I gave them to you to be cleaned. In short, I am a mess. And you are a complete disaster as an valet."

Ridiculously, Charlotte felt hurt. "But, my lord, I worked hard on those boots. I even let the stable boy spit on them. He said that would give them the best shine."

"Spit," Lord Peter echoed faintly. "You polished my boots with spit from a stable boy. And to think, poor Brummel had to make do with champagne. Perhaps when it gets out that my valet polishes my boots with stable boy spit, I, too, can set a fashion that thousands will copy."

"And I did bring up your bath water, my lord." As she thought about all those trips and heavy buckets she flexed her aching shoulder muscles.

"And spilled a good portion of it on the floor, as I discovered when I got out of the tub and slipped, flat on my -- "

Charlotte started to laugh. She couldn't help it.

"I am so pleased this amuses you. Perhaps you will be equally amused finding your own way to Bath!"

Her eyes widened.

"My lord, you would not do that! Abandon a poor helpless -- " she stopped herself just barely from saying 'girl'.

"Yes?"

" -- lad in a situation like this! Indeed, it would be heartless of you! Just because of a little mistake. I cannot believe you are capable of such a thing. It is not as though you hired me to be your valet. I never claimed to know how to do it."

Lord Peter sighed, and ran his hand absently through his hair. "No, I suppose you have the right of it. A bargain is a bargain. You cannot be held responsible for your lamentable lack of ability."

There was a knock on the door, and Geordie entered.

"Ready, old man? Oh, I say, Peter, what happened to you? I know it's fashionable to look rather windswept, but you look as though you were blown about in a gale. Good thing the Beau's in Europe; hate to think what he would say if he were to see you now. By the by, Charlie, where were you this afternoon? I was looking for you. Required your services, don't you know."

"Consider yourself fortunate," said Lord Peter feelingly, "that you made do on your own. Charlie's talents, not to mention his religious convictions, do not lend themselves to valeting."

"Told you we should not have traveled without the servants."

"Yes, so you did, as I recall. Well, there's no hope for it now; we will just have to go down the way we are. Lady Beaumont and her daughter await us. The game, I very much fear, is afoot."

"Game?" asked Charlotte, startled into comment. She hadn't planned on saying anything; she was still catching her breath after narrowly missing being thrown out of Lord Peter's entourage.

"Lady Beaumont. Wants to bag Peter for her daughter," explained Geordie. "He is quite a catch, being a duke's son and all. Even though he is not the heir, he has his own estates and money, so most of the matchmaking mamas in London are after him for their daughters."

"I see," said Charlotte, privately thinking that must be the reason for Lord Peter's occasional pomposity. It would be hard to be humble if half the ton were trying to curry favor with you. Yet something about Geordie's perspective did not sit well with her; she was still smarting from her parents' arrogant arrangement of her life with Satterly.

"But what if," she said diffidently, "the daughters do not want to be matched?"

"Oh, they have no say in the matter," said Geordie. "Arranged for them. It is of no consequence to them, one way or the other. Not at that age. The marriage is the thing."

"You could be wrong about that," she continued, even more tentatively. "Even young girls sometimes know what they want, or rather what they do not want."

"For heaven's sake, Charlie," said Lord Peter impatiently, his hand on the doorknob. "It is a woman's duty to marry well, according to her parents' wishes. We are all bound by duty. Soon I will marry, to do justice to my name, and I do not expect any great romance. The only reason to marry is to improve one's estates or beget heirs."

Charlotte felt she would like to wipe the smug look off his face. What did he know of being forced to marry against his will? As if that would ever happen to the great Lord Peter Randolph!

"And what about love, my lord?" she blurted.

"Love? What is this about love, Charlie? What does a boy like you know about it? Do not tell me the art of love is part of your religion as well?"

Amusement was in his voice. Charlotte felt herself reddening. "No, my lord," she mumbled.

"I am vastly relieved. I fear more than one encounter with your religious principles a day would quite overset me. Well, Geordie," he tried to straighten his rumpled cravat, "shall we go? I trust you will be well fed in the taproom, Charlie. You need not wait up for me -- I believe I can attend myself just as well without as with your services."

"Yes, my lord," said Charlotte, feeling miserable again. Why did she have to prattle on about love? He certainly was not interested in the opinions of a mere "boy," and she did not want to draw any more attention to herself than she had already through her own incompetence. She had let her emotions get the best of her -- hearing him talk like her parents about duty and marriage. He had no idea, really, what he was talking about. She was fairly sure he would never be coerced into marrying a female almost thirty years his senior!

She ate her bread and cheese, and drank her ale by herself in a corner of the taproom. Her thoughts inevitably went back to Lord Peter. To be so dependent on such an infuriating man! Unbidden, the image of him standing clad only in his trousers came to her mind. She blushed just thinking about it. He had looked so handsome. Even better than when he was in his coat and cravat. And when he smiled, it lit his whole countenance like moonlight over a heath.

She shook her head, to clear it. Lord Peter was pompous, mocking, and held her fate in his hands. Somehow, she had to get him to take her to Bath. And be done with him.

She finished her meal and headed for the stairs. Lord Peter and Geordie were still with the Beaumonts; she heard their laughter as she passed by the parlor. She had seen Alicia in a bright yellow gown, which did not suit her any better than the green carriage dress. Lady Beaumont must be color blind, thought Charlotte. Still, the gown was soft and pretty, and Alicia, smiling and somewhat relaxed, looked attractive. Charlotte glanced down at her own increasingly dirty clothes, which had been none too clean to begin with, and sighed.

She lingered a moment, and saw Alicia say something to Lord Peter, heard her tinkling laugh and his own answering chuckle. She felt a stab of something sharp somewhere near the region of her heart. Must be that overripe cheese I just ate, she told herself.

Slowly she made her way up the stairs in her clumsy shoes, to the chamber she shared with Lord Peter. She took her pallet and placed it against the far wall of the room.

Sitting on the pallet, she removed her shoes and coat and pulled the cap down further on her head. She blew out the candle that was burning on the little bedside table, and laid down in the darkness, facing the wall. It was hard to get comfortable, even though she was careful to lie on the side that didn't have the knot from the shawl that bound her breasts.

She would pretend to be asleep when Lord Peter came up. Oh, if only she were at her aunt's house now! Clean, and in a bed, wearing her familiar night rail. No one must ever know she spent the night in the same room with Lord Peter Randolph. The disgrace of it, combined with running away, would probably finish her off in society forever. Still, it was undoubtedly a famous adventure!

She pulled her cap once more over her black curls. For once, she had scarce a preliminary thought of Cyril before falling fast asleep.

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