The Pursuit of a Masked Lady (Preview)

Chapter One

The man sitting next to the lake was truly handsome. Charlotte Southey, daughter of the esteemed Lord and Lady Carlton, rose up on her tiptoes to see even better, beyond the trail of her best friend’s pointed finger from where they hid in the bushes.

Mary Turner’s voice was excited and eager. “Charlotte! Oh, do you see him? Just look! Over there, by the lake.”
Charlotte nodded dreamily. She recognized the actor instantly.

Mary leaned forward so far that she was at risk of falling, her eyes wide as she stared at the man. “They say he performs at Drury Lane,” she continued, her voice positively alive with eagerness.

“Oh, is he not incredibly handsome?” Elizabeth Ashworth asked now, a sigh accompanying her words.

Charlotte leaned forward too, straining for a better view through the oak trees that shielded their small group from proper society’s ever-watchful eyes. Thomas Blackwood cut quite the figure, she had to admit. His dark curls fell in his eyes, and his easy grace drew more than a few admiring glances from passing ladies. He truly was something extraordinary.

Far more so than the boys she knew.

“I dare you to go and speak with him, Charlotte,” Elizabeth whispered, before immediately clasping her hand over her mouth as if shocked by her own boldness. A giggle escaped from between her fingers.

“Lizzy!” Mary’s blue eyes widened in horror and she shook her head. “Please, do not encourage her. You know how Charlotte is with dares.”

Charlotte turned to her friends slowly, and a grin spread over her face. “And how exactly am I with dares, dearest Mary? Pray, tell?”

Mary’s face turned to a picture of shock and Charlotte giggled at the sight.

“You are impossible,” Mary declared firmly. “Absolutely impossible–and far too much like your brother with your blatant disregard…”

Charlotte’s grin turned impish at the mention of her brother. “I do believe Alexander would approve of a little adventure,” she mused, already smoothing her yellow muslin frock. “In fact, I am bold enough to believe he might even encourage me.”

“He certainly would not,” Mary protested. “He would not mind doing something outrageous himself, but he certainly would not approve of you doing it, and neither would my own brother. Robert would be horrified at the mere consideration.”

Charlotte’s cheeks warmed at the mention of Robert Turner—but as always, she did her best to hide it by speaking rather quickly and hotly. “Well, fortunately for us all, neither of our brothers is here to approve or disapprove,” she declared firmly, squaring her shoulders. “Besides, what is the worst that could happen?”

It was Elizabeth who answered, likely feigning helpfulness. “Ruin,” she offered. “Complete social ruin. Eternal shame upon your family, utter chaos, exile, and eventual death.”

Charlotte laughed gently at her dramatics, and she shook her head with twinkling eyes. “For having a simple conversation? Do not be absurd, Lizzy.” Lifting her chin, she stepped out from behind their leafy shelter. “Sometimes I think you all forget that we are in Hyde Park. This is civilized society, not the gates of hell.”

Mary reached out, snatching Charlotte’s arm as she made to leave. “Charlotte, wait!” she insisted. “At least let us create some sort of diversion first. Or… or a signal if anyone important approaches, a plan to keep you safe.”

Charlotte extracted her arm from Mary’s grip gently, shaking her head. “Oh, dearest Mary,” she chided quietly. “That would only make it look suspicious. Trust me, this will all be perfectly proper. Just a brief exchange between two people. Really, it is not the end of the world. Far from it, in fact.”

But Elizabeth looked as though she might cry. “There is nothing proper about speaking to a man unchaperoned,” she muttered. “Especially one of the actors.”

Charlotte, however, ignored her mutterings. She made her way to the man with her head held high, walking with an even pace. With each step, her heart beat slightly faster, but she was not quite certain whether it was from excitement or nerves.

He looked up as she approached, and surprise flickered across his handsome features before his lips curled into a welcoming smile. “Well,” he drawled and rose smoothly to his feet. “Is this not an unexpected pleasure?”

Charlotte smiled and affected her most sophisticated tone. “Is it?” she challenged. “I would think you were quite used to ladies approaching you.”

Thomas laughed, the sound rich and theatrical. “Guilty as charged, my lady,” he admitted. “Though I must admit that none of them are quite like you.”

Charlotte’s face flushed, but she attempted to keep her response reasonably ladylike. “Well, it is quite clear that you do not know me,” she answered. “I have quite the reputation for impossible behavior.”

Thomas laughed softly. “Is that so? Why, I must admit…” He leaned forward. “…I have never been one to care much for proper reputations. I find them rather boring indeed. Wouldn’t you agree?” He gestured for her to take a seat before sitting down once again.

“I certainly do,” Charlotte agreed boldly, taking a seat beside him. “I do believe that our society is far too preoccupied with the proper way of doing things. Why are we so afraid of letting people do as they wish?”

“You are quite right,” Thomas admitted. “People have an unhealthy preoccupation with their reputations, and I am not fond of it.”

He leaned closer to her, and a smile appeared on his lips. Charlotte’s heart beat frantically inside her chest as she looked up into those dark eyes. Never before had she been this close to a man—let alone without a chaperone. It was all but unheard of.

“Lady Charlotte Southey!”

The shrill voice sent ice through Charlotte’s veins—and just like that, all the warmth from Thomas’ eyes disappeared.

She sprang to her feet and turned slowly to find the last person she wanted to see: a close friend of her own mother. Lady Isabella Rutledge’s carriage had drawn to a halt beside them, its occupant’s face a perfect mask of scandalized dismay. “Unchaperoned with a…theatrical person?” Her shrill voice carried sharply across the park. “How absolutely shocking. What would your dear mother say?”

Charlotte swallowed dryly. Lady Isabella was a well-known gossip. What do I do? What if she tells Mama?

Before she could even think to formulate a response, Mary appeared at her side, practically shaking with anxiety. “Charlotte,” she insisted, her tone clipped. “We must leave. Now.”

“My lady,” Thomas began, his face a mask of concern. But Charlotte cut him off with a sharp shake of her head.

“Please, sir,” she whispered. “I fear you will only make it worse should you try to help.” She managed a weak smile. “Though I do thank you for your conversation.”

With that, she turned and practically sprinted back through the garden, all the way to her family’s waiting carriage, hand still clasped in Mary’s steely grip. The journey home passed in a blur of Mary’s anxious chatter and Elizabeth’s dire predictions. But Charlotte was silent and still, hardly able to hear over the ringing of her ears.

What will I do now?

By the time they reached the Southey townhouse, Charlotte could already see Mama’s rigid silhouette in the drawing room window.

“I can’t believe it,” Elizabeth muttered miserably. “That old tongue-wagger must have sent a messenger the second she saw you!”

“All will be well,” Charlotte managed, with far more confidence than she truly felt. “Mama can hardly lock me in the attic for just having an innocent conversation.”

“Perhaps.” Mary sounded doubtful. “But she might do something even worse.”

“Well,” Charlotte muttered, “I suppose I must pay the piper now.” She bid the girls a reluctant farewell and trudged up to the front door while they lingered nervously on the drive behind her.

But the second the maid opened the door, Charlotte could hear the loud voices from Papa’s study, and she hesitated in the foyer.

“Of all the reckless, thoughtless behavior!” h Mama’s voice rang down the hallway. She sounded on the verge of hysteria. “Alexander, you cannot possibly approve of this, defend this!”

“She is just a girl, Mother.” Her brother Alexander was quiet, the calm in the eye of the storm that was Mama’s rage. “She is fourteen,” he said gently. “We all did foolish things at that age.”

Charlotte paused outside the study door, a small smile appearing on her face at Alexander’s defense of her. Yet before she could gather her courage to enter, the door flew open—bringing her face to face with Papa’s thunderous expression.

“Inside,” he commanded quietly, his lips forming a thin line. “Now.”

The study felt far smaller than usual. There was no place to hide from her parents’ obvious disapproval. Papa was staring at her with a thunderous face, stern and unforgiving. Mama had gone to the window; her shoulders were shaking with anger.

Still, Charlotte lifted her chin, determined to face with dignity whatever punishment awaited her. At least Alexander is here. She could see his sympathetic expression out of the corner of her eye from where he stood near the door.

Papa was the first to break the silence. “Young lady, we have raised you far better than you behaved today. What were you thinking?” Papa demanded at last,

Charlotte frowned stubbornly, but her voice remained small. “It was just a conversation, Papa,” she began.

“Just a conversation?” Mama whirled around from the window, eyes blazing. “The entire ton will be talking about this by dinner! Lady Isabella has no doubt seen to that.”
“What possessed you?” Papa demanded. “What could possibly have made you think this was acceptable behavior?”

“I didn’t think—”

“That is exactly right,” Papa cut her off fiercely. “You didn’t think. You never think, Charlotte. That is precisely the problem.”

“Papa…” Charlotte started, but he shook his head.

“We have made our decision,” he declared, drowning out her final protest. “You will be sent to your grandmother in Ireland, and that is where you will remain… at least until you have learned how to behave like a proper lady of your station.”

“Ireland?” The word came out as barely more than a whisper. Charlotte shook her head, feeling a chill go through her. “But Papa—”

“The decision is final, Charlotte,” he insisted coldly. “You will leave at the end of the week.”

With that, he left the study, and Mama quickly followed suit, leaving only Charlotte and Alexander.

Charlotte stumbled over to a chair and sank down into it, tears filling her eyes. The room was threatening to suffocate her. “Alexander,” she whispered at last, turning to him pleadingly, desperate. “Please… do something. You cannot let them send me away.”

Alexander moved to her side, his face pained. “Lottie… perhaps it’s for the best. Just for a while, until the scandal is forgotten.”

“What scandal?” Charlotte demanded, anger finally breaking through her shock. “I talked to a young man in a public park. I didn’t elope, or… or compromise myself. This is madness!”

“I tried to convince them to reconsider,” Alexander said finally. “But… you know how they are.” It was true. Once their parents’ minds were made up, there was no chance of argument.

“It is unjust,” Charlotte whispered. “Why must everything I do be wrong? Why can’t I simply… act as I wish? Do as I think best? Must I not be myself?”

“Society doesn’t want us to be ourselves,” Alexander replied, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “It wants us to be proper and predictable and perfectly boring.”

Despite herself, Charlotte manage a weak smile. “As though you are so proper and predictable.”

“I’m a man,” he reminded her with a wry grin. “And we are allowed certain liberties that young ladies are not.”

Charlotte sniffled. “Then perhaps I should have been born a boy.”

“Don’t say that.” Alexander hugged her closer. “The world needs you as you are.”

Charlotte leaned against him, drawing comfort from his presence. “Will you write to me? While I am in exile?”

“Every week,” he promised. “And I’ll make sure Mary writes, too. And Lizzy, and even Robert.”

Charlotte’s heart skipped a beat, but she kept her voice carefully neutral. “Robert, too? You think he will care about his sister’s disgraced friend?”

Alexander gave her a knowing look, and she could see at once that he wasn’t fooled by her false nonchalance. But he mercifully let it pass. “It won’t be forever, Lottie. Just until this all dies down, and Mother and Father remember that they truly prefer having a daughter who can think for herself.”

“Do they?” Charlotte asked softly. “Sometimes I wonder if they wouldn’t prefer me to be more like all the other perfect ladies of the town. All proper manners and empty smiles.”

“Never,” Alexander declared firmly. “You are perfect exactly as you are—even if the timing of your social rebellion could be improved.”

That startled a laugh out of Charlotte, which she suspected had been Alexander’s intention all along. She clung to him more tightly. I’ll miss you terribly.

And he was not the only one she would miss while she was so very far away.

Chapter Two

The Honorable Robert Turner could only stare at the blank paper before him, his quill hovering uncertainly above the pristine surface. How did one begin a letter to a girl who had turned their entire social circle upside down and, in doing so, managed to get herself exiled to Ireland?

A frown formed between his brows. It was true that no one could truly be blamed for her exile other than her… and yet there was deep sympathy for her building in his chest.

“Are you writing to Charlotte?” Mary’s voice startled him, and he looked up to where she stood in the doorway of his study, her usually bright face drawn with worry.

“It’s the third time,” she said simply, and Robert sighed.

“She is struggling in Ireland,” he replied, careful to keep his tone light. “Alexander suggested that all of us write to keep her spirits up.”

“I wouldn’t know what to write,” Mary admitted as she sank into the chair opposite his desk. “I tried to stop her from accepting that ridiculous dare, but you know Charlotte.”

Robert offered her a sympathetic grin. “I know Lady Charlotte Southey almost as well as you do,” he said gently. “And we all know that no one can stop her once she has set her mind to something.”

The words came out rather more fondly than he had intended, and he quickly cleared his throat, returning his gaze to the paper in front of him. “Besides, you know as well as I do that she surely would have found some other way to scandalize society, if not this. It is rather her specialty.”

But his attempt at humor fell flat, and Mary’s eyes filled with tears. “But sending her to Ireland, Robert… it might as well be the other side of the world! And of course it had to be Lady Isabella who saw, and she ensures that the story grows more outrageous with each telling. Soon you’ll hear her telling the ton that she stopped them from eloping. It is ridiculous.”

Robert’s hand tightened around his quill and a muscle twitched in his jaw. “Lady Isabella ought to guard her tongue,” he muttered tensely. “Our Charlotte is fourteen years old, for heaven’s sake. Such rumors could ruin her.”

“Which is precisely why she was sent away,” Mary said, her mouth downturned. “And I understand it, though I do not like it. Nor do I believe it was truly necessary or helpful, since it hasn’t stopped Lady Isabella’s gossip. Still… I miss Charlotte terribly. The park seems so dull without her adventures.”

Robert grinned affectionately. “Perhaps it is better for you,” he teased. “After all, we wouldn’t want her to drag you into her schemes.”

Even as he said it, his heart twinged painfully at the memory of the last time he’d seen Charlotte, that very day of her fateful escapade at the park. He’d merely glanced her chattering with Mary.

He would not soon forget that day. He’d lingered for a moment, suddenly struck, surprised by how quickly she was turning into a young lady. She would be sixteen sooner than not… and he could only imagine how eventful her season would be.

“Here,” he said, bringing himself back to the present as he pulled a folded letter from his desk drawer. “This came from her yesterday. Perhaps it will cheer you.”

Mary snatched the letter eagerly. “Oh, thank you, Robert! I am still too afraid to write, but I do so want to hear from her. I am glad Alexander suggested you write to her.”

“Right… of course,” Robert mumbled as he turned to his blank page, cheeks growing hot. “Well, someone ought to keep her informed of the goings-on here.”

A blotch of ink spilled as he spoke, and he gave a huff of annoyance. From the beginning, I suppose. He crumpled the letter he had been writing into a ball, hoping Mary wouldn’t notice, but she was far too busy unfolding Charlotte’s letter to pay him any mind at all.

Suddenly she grew quiet, and he glanced up to see her expression shifting from concern to amusement, back to concern again.

He could not help but smile. Charlotte had that effect on people—the ability to make them feel every emotion possible within the span of mere moments.

At last, Mary looked up, her brow furrowed. “She sounds so lonely,” she said. “Though she tries to hide it beneath her usual wit. I can tell she’s not happy.”

“I am hardly surprised,” Robert murmured. “Beginning over in Ireland, without any friend nearby. But Charlotte is strong. She will not let this best her.”

Of course, Charlotte had never written that she was struggling. He remembered every word of her previous letters, and though her descriptions of the grand Irish estate where she now resided were clever and amusing, he could still read between the lines. The sprawling gardens and ancient halls sounded more like a prison than a sanctuary.

…Grandmother insists on daily deportment lessons, she had written once. I believe she is determined to shape me into a proper lady (accepted by the ton, of course) through sheer force of will. Though I must admit, balancing books on one’s head becomes rather entertaining if one imagines that they are Lady Isabella’s most prized bonnets.

“Will you read me what you write to her?” Mary asked, interrupting his musings. “I’d like to know she’s being properly cheered.”

“Absolutely not,” Robert replied–perhaps a bit too quickly. When Mary raised a curious eyebrow, he added, “They are rather dull letters, really. Just news of Parliament and society gatherings. Nothing of interest. If you want to ensure that she is properly cheered, you ought to write her as well.”

In truth, his letters to Charlotte had strayed somewhat beyond mere society news. Not that he’d admit it to anyone–much less his curious little sister. More and more keenly he was aware that his letters contained those thoughts he had never spoken aloud—his frustration with the rigid expectations of their class, his secret desire to study architecture rather than follow his father into politics, his growing admiration for Charlotte’s courage in being unapologetically herself.

“I don’t know if I can,” Mary admitted. “Write to her yet, I mean.”

Robert placed his quill down and looked at her seriously. “Mary,” he said calmly. “You ought to think of what she needs, rather than what you are up to. Write to her. I promise she will be happy to hear from you.”

“I suppose you are right,” Mary muttered with a last look at him, before walking out of his study heavily.

Finally alone again, Robert dipped his quill in ink and began to write his letter anew.

Dear Charlotte,

Your latest letter arrived yesterday, and I find myself once again in awe of your ability to find humor in even the most trying circumstances… though I must admit, the image of your repeated attempts to teach your grandmother’s elderly spaniel to dance a quadrille has provided considerable entertainment at my club.

London seems diminished without your presence. Mary wanders about like a lost soul, and I suppose she is still struggling with writing to you, but you ought to know that she misses you terribly.

Lady Isabella continues to hold court with increasingly outlandish retellings of the events in Hyde Park. In her most recent rendition, Mr. Blackwood was planning to elope together with you and you yourself were contemplating a career on the stage as well, in defiance of all social conventions. I rather wish that were true–-it would have been a spectacle worth witnessing, at least.

But I find myself growing serious, which I know you detest in letters. Still, I must tell you something. Your brother mentioned that you questioned whether anyone truly appreciated your spirit, your reluctance to conform to the more arbitrary expectations of our social class. Please know that some of us do appreciate it greatly. Some of us find it rather remarkable, in fact.

You once asked me why society fears those who dare to be different. I have given this considerable thought, and I believe it is because people like you, Charlotte, compel the rest of us to question our own careful compliance with rules that, perhaps, ought to be challenged.

I hope you will not think me too forward in saying this, but your ’impossible behavior’ is far more admirable than the perfect manners of a dozen ladies of the ton.

Your grandmother may succeed in teaching you to balance books on your head, but I trust she will not succeed in dimming that spark that makes you so honestly yourself.

With sincere regards,
Robert Turner.

He stared at the letter for a long moment before carefully folding it and sealing it with wax. Perhaps I said too much. But Charlotte deserved to know that someone in London understood her, even if that someone was her brother’s best friend who had no business harboring tender feelings for her.

A knock at the door made him turn, and he saw Alexander now standing there, looking rather more serious than usual. “I have just seen your sister outside,” he said, entering without waiting for an invitation. “And she has quite convinced herself that Charlotte’s exile is entirely her fault.”

“Mary takes too much responsibility upon herself,” Robert replied, discreetly sliding his letter into his desk drawer. “Though I suppose that is somewhat of a family trait.”

“Speaking of my sister…” Alexander said carefully. “Have you heard from her recently?”

“We correspond,” Robert replied carefully, relying on his earlier excuse. “Someone must keep her informed of London society. And Mary has been wildly unwilling to write to her.”

“Hmm.” Alexander settled into the chair that Mary had recently vacated, raising a questioning eyebrow. “And I suppose these letters are merely friendly, and have nothing to do with the sudden concern you expressed for her when you heard that she was being sent away.”

Heat rose in Robert’s cheeks. He met his friend’s gaze steadily. “She is fourteen, Alexander. Eight years my junior. She has not even entered her season. And she is your sister. I assure you that my intentions are entirely proper.”

“Of course they are,” Alexander agreed easily. “You are nothing if not proper, Robert. Though I sometimes wonder if that is not part of the problem.”

Robert frowned. “I am not quite certain I understand what you mean.”

Alexander merely smiled stiffly. “Do you not? All I am saying, my dearest friend, is that my sister has shown marvelous spirit, even if it is frowned upon. Do you not agree that many of us would be better off with her courage?”

Robert sighed deeply, then nodded. “At the very least, honesty would often conquer mindless gossip if more of us had Charlotte’s spirit,” he agreed.

“Perhaps,” Alexander agreed and rose. “But I was merely here to ask you if you wanted to join me at the club tomorrow. I have word of a business opportunity, and I have always valued your opinion.”

“Of course,” Robert agreed easily, though a frown remained between his brows even as Alexander left. Left alone once more, he retrieved his letter from the drawer. Spurred by a sudden decision, he broke the seal and added a postscript:

P.S–Your brother suggests that proper behavior is grossly overestimated. Perhaps, when you return, you might be willing to teach me the art of being impossible?

Sealing the letter again, he rang for a servant to have it posted immediately.

As he watched the servant leave with his letter, Robert couldn’t help but smile, imagining Charlotte’s reaction to his postscript. Surely she will laugh. And after all, that was what he truly wanted to do. Cheer her days.