Charlotte looked at her in horror. “More important than my gown? I think not!”
“Don’t be so self-centered. Gentlemen like Lord Carlisle have other things on their mind than concerning themselves with the state — wrinkled or unwrinkled — of gowns.”
“The gentlemen you know may have other things on their minds, but the gentlemen I know pay particular attention to a lady’s gown.”
“The gentlemen you know are fops.”
“Gillian!”
Gillian didn’t have the energy, or lung capacity, to argue the point any further, so she contented herself with running over the list of items she wished to discuss with the Scottish speeler earl.
The earl was just stepping into his carriage when they arrived. He paused, one hand on the carriage and a look of surprise on his face as it pulled up before him. He counted the liveried footmen clinging to the upper seats of the approaching carriage and almost bolted once he got a look at the behemoth who dangled from the rear.
“Crotch,” he spat at his coachman, and stepped back down onto the pavement. The coachman promptly pawed at himself in an attempt to make sure nothing untoward was showing.
“No, you fool, not yours, that one. That giant one clinging to the rear of that blasted carriage. It’s Crotch, Weston’s thug of a butler. What the devil is he doing here?”
There was a slight commotion as the carriage came to a halt. Several footmen leaped off the vehicle and surrounded it in a protective manner. The carriage swayed alarmingly from side to side, then a familiar red head popped out of the window.
“Lord Carlisle, how opportune our arrival was. Might I beg a few moments of your time?”
Carlisle blinked at the image before his eyes. She had escaped Weston’s clutches? A warm sense of satisfaction, coupled with a curiosity about her request, made him reconsider his morning’s plans.
“My time is yours, madam,” he replied with a courtly bow that was sadly lost on its recipient, her head having been retracted back into the carriage.
One of the footmen stood rattling the door to her carriage, and requested that the occupants unlock it. The carriage rocked violently back and forth, emitting periodic oaths and halfshouted exclamations that surprised Carlisle. What the devil was in that carriage? A bull? An elephant? Several elephants? The footman repeated his request, but it was lost in the cacophony from within. Curiosity drove him closer.
“If you would just move your leg, cousin…”
“Well, I’m trying, Char, but you’re on my gown and I can’t move. Argh!”
“Sorry, my elbow slipped…”
“Nick, darling, would you climb over…ow! Charlotte!..would you climb over Erp and slither through the window? I believe…Charlotte, if you poke me once again, I swear I’ll…”
“Bloody hell!”
“Charlotte!”
“Well, you’d swear too if your lovely blond lace just ripped off your sleeve.”
“Nick, you’re standing on my hand…ah, thank you. If you would try the window…oh, dear. Dickon, will you stop shouting at us, we’re trying. The door seems to be stuck! Blast!”
“Gillian!”
“Oh, don’t Gillian me in that tone; you’re the one who swore first. Will you kindly remove your elbow from my kidney, cousin?”
“Here, Nick, let me give you a little boost through the window, shall I?”
“Charlotte, if you hurt my child…”
“I shan’t hurt…that was my hair!”
“Sorry. My hand slipped.”
“I shan’t hurt him, but I will push the little blighter through since you seem to be incapable of it.”
“Ow! Was that absolutely necessary?”
“My hand slipped.”
“Ha!”
Half of a small boy suddenly emerged from the carriage window. Lord Carlisle, watching with the same sort of fascination that sweeps over those who pass by hangings, accidents, and other gruesome sights, stood mesmerized. How many people were in there? And what was an Erp? Was the child alive, or had he been ejected for other purposes? It was difficult to tell whether he was flailing his arms of his own accord, or if the footman, attempting to assist, was bobbing the lad around.
“Nick, darling, if you could push all the way through, I would be most appreciative. It’s not easy dodging your feet.”
“Ow!”
“You see, dearest? You just clipped your cousin Charlotte on the chin.”
“That little rotter! He did it on purpose! Scoot over, I’ll push him through the bloody window.”
“Charlotte, if you lay one finger on him…oh, dear God.”
The carriage suddenly stopped rocking. Carlisle leaned forward, a chill running down his spine upon hearing the dread in Lady Weston’s voice. What had happened? A sudden illness? Had the boy, who, if the footman’s unsuccessful attempts to tug him through the window were any indication, was stuck, collapsed? Had something happened to the lady named Charlotte, the one with the torn blond lace? Only a calamity of the most heinous kind could be responsible for the tones of horror echoed in Lady Weston’s voice.
“Dickon? Crouch? Will someone get the bloody door open right now? I think Piddle is going to be sick!”
The hairs on Lord Carlisle’s neck stood on end at the bloodcurdling scream that rent the air at Lady Weston’s pronouncement, but in the end, its owner was responsible for the resolution of the situation. After several loud wallops to the side of the carriage — Lord Carlisle assumed the lady Charlotte was kicking down the door — it popped open, and only the quick action of the footman named Dickon saved the small boy from crashing into the side of the carriage. Moments later the boy was pushed backward through the window, and two large, slobbering dogs shot out of the carriage, followed immediately by Lady Weston and a woman with, he couldn’t help noticing, an extremely wrinkled gown.
“Lord Carlisle.” Gillian bobbed a curtsy and tried to ignore Piddle, who was being noisily sick on the pavement next to her. “How delightful to see you again. Have you made the acquaintance of my cousin, Lady Charlotte Collins?”
“Lord Carlisle,” Charlotte curtsyed. “You must forgive my appearance. I seldom go out in public, my Mama being protective of my delicate sensibilities and naturally shy nature, but my dearest cousin begged me in such a manner that I was unable to refuse her request.”
“You will notice how modest and retiring she is,” Gillian said helpfully, unable to resist laughing at her cousin’s expression of innocence and shy maidenhood. Charlotte had told her that particular combination of expressions had garnered her three proposals of marriage.
“Er…of course. Most modest and retiring. Perhaps we might continue this fascinating discussion inside? Is your…uh…dog finished there? Yes? Perhaps Crotch would take them around back to the stables.”
“I beg your pardon?” Gillian didn’t think she had heard the earl correctly.
“Crotch,” he said, flapping his hands at the dogs, who had ambled over to him to conduct a quick gender check on this new person.
Charlotte let out an innocent, maidenly sort of gasp and fanned herself in a manner most becoming to a modest, retiring person.
A blush burned up Gillian’s face. God’s spleen, would she never be able to go anywhere with her dogs? “Oh, yes, of course, crotch. Lord Carlisle, I’m so embarrassed. They always do that. Piddle! Erp! Naughty dogs! I hope they didn’t…er…hurt you in their investigations. They like to smell people, you see, and try as I might I’m not able to break them of the habit of sniffing…er…of sniffing.”
The earl narrowed his eyes at her.
“What the devil are you talking about?”
Charlotte clutched her arm and hissed a warning not to pursue the conversation. Gillian ignored it. “Your crotch, of course.”