Weddings and Scandals: Regency Romance Collection

by Alec, Joyce

  “I do not understand,” she said slowly, looking up to see Lord Glenister looking at her intently. “What does this have to do with—”

  She broke off as the sound of loud voices came from just outside the door. Turning her head, she looked at the closed door as though expecting it to open at any moment, before looking back at Lord Glenister.

  “Do excuse me,” he muttered, a dark look crossing his face. “I believe that I have an unwanted visitor.”

  Charlotte held her breath as Lord Glenister walked to the door, a tingling going down her spine. She looked at Emily as the door closed behind him, certain that she, too, knew who was present within the house.

  “It cannot be,” Emily whispered, looking at Charlotte with wide eyes. “You told me that Lord Brentwood was not at all acquainted with Lord Glenister. You stated that they appeared to be at odds with one another. Why, then, would he be present in the house at the very time we have called upon Lord Glenister?”

  Charlotte swallowed hard, trying to think clearly. “I do not know,” she conceded. “But it is as I said. There was no friendship between Lord Brentwood and Lord Glenister last evening. My instinct tells me that Lord Brentwood is a gentleman to be avoided at all costs.”

  “It did seem as though Lord Glenister was rather agitated upon hearing his voice,” Emily admitted, folding her hands in her lap. “I just hope that he is not going to remain. I was eager to hear what Lord Glenister had to say.”

  “As was I,” Charlotte murmured, her eyes turning back to the journal on the table. Leaning forward, she touched it with delicate fingers before picking it up, ignoring Emily’s gasp of horror.

  “Charlotte, it is not yours!” Emily protested as Charlotte turned the book over in her hands. “Lord Glenister was to speak to us about it, was he not? Surely you can wait until he returns before you delve inside.”

  “I am not undoing the strap and looking inside,” Charlotte asserted, her curiosity piqued. “It is a very strange item to have so much concern about, I must say. It does not quite make sense to me, I confess.”

  “Then perhaps you will wait until Lord Glenister returns to explain to us about it,” Emily replied, clearly exasperated. “I know you have a good many questions, Charlotte, but it would not do to pry.”

  The voices behind them became louder and Charlotte frowned deeply, wondering if Lord Glenister was having difficulty with Lord Brentwood. Surely there was no good reason for the man to be here now, at this very moment, when they had only just arrived? Unless he had been watching the house, had seen them enter and had chosen, thereafter, to appear without either introduction or invitation.

  “I will not pry,” she said, just as the voices grew louder still. “I shall set this back, of course.” Reaching forward, she made to set the journal down, only for the door to fly open behind her. Charlotte snatched her hand back, the journal still tight within her fingers, and on instinct, she pushed it down into the deep pocket of her gown as she rose to see what had occurred.

  “Well, well, well.” Lord Brentwood had evidently pushed his way into the room, for he walked towards them with a swagger and a broad grin pasted onto his less than handsome face. “It seems that you have not told me the truth, Miss James.”

  She blinked, seeing Lord Glenister coming in behind Lord Brentwood with both a footman and the butler in tow.

  “I can hardly think what you mean, Lord Brentwood,” she said, clearly, putting her hands in front of her so that the bump in her gown where the journal was hidden could not be seen. “I came here of my own accord, accompanied by my dear friend, in order to speak to Lord Glenister about the disgusting manner with which he spoke of me last evening.” Narrowing her eyes, she allowed her lip to curl just a little, shooting a dark glance towards Lord Glenister. “If you know of me at all, Lord Brentwood, you will know that I am singular in my intentions and determined.”

  “That is why Lord Wickton has such trouble with her,” Emily added, shrugging. “Not that his opinion is of any great importance.”

  Charlotte held her breath as she watched Lord Brentwood amble toward the very chair where Lord Glenister had been sitting. He said nothing but continued to look at them both carefully, his eyes drifting from Charlotte to Emily and back again.

  “You are very good at telling fanciful stories, Miss James,” he said eventually, surveying her with his dark eyes. “It is, mayhap, because of your bluestocking tendencies.”

  “Remove yourself from my house at once,” Lord Glenister interrupted, his face flaming with color. “You are not welcome here.”

  Lord Brentwood ignored him. “I do not know precisely what is going on between the two of you—for I am certain that Miss Smythe is merely an observer, put here only to maintain propriety, but I will tell you now, Miss James, I do not like it.”

  “She has nothing to do with this,” Lord Glenister exclaimed, throwing up his hand and stalking towards Lord Brentwood. “How many times must I tell you? She is only here so that I might explain my cowardly actions last evening.”

  “Cowardly?” Lord Brentwood turned on his heel sharply and buried his gaze into Lord Glenister’s face. “What can you mean, sir?”

  “I lied,” Lord Glenister replied, his eyes now turning towards Charlotte. “I said things about Miss James that I did not feel. I said things that were quite the opposite of my feelings, in fact.”

  Charlotte held his gaze and saw so much honesty in his expression that her heart soared within her.

  “You are utterly ridiculous, Lord Glenister,” Lord Brentwood muttered, passing one hand over his eyes as though he could not so much as look at the gentleman. “You think that you can tell her such things and have her believe you? You, who are nothing more than a liar and a thief?”

  Charlotte saw Lord Glenister blanche but kept herself standing upright, not allowing her expression to change in any way. Lord Brentwood was, as far as she was concerned, not to be trusted. His words meant nothing. Reaching out one hand towards Emily, she waited until her friend had come to stand by her side. It was clear that they were not to have the peace they required to discuss things with Lord Glenister, which meant, therefore, that there was no need to remain.

  Lord Brentwood would simply continue to irritate them and mock Lord Glenister until he grew weary of it. Even with the butler and the footman present, she knew that Lord Glenister would not be particularly willing to have the earl forcibly removed from the house, for fear of what the repercussions would be. Therefore, it was her duty to quit the house and bring this frustrating situation to its end. “I have no need to hear this,” she stated, keeping her head high and refusing to acknowledge Lord Brentwood any further. “It is time we took our leave. Lord Glenister, mayhap we might continue this conversation at a later time, when we are not going to be so rudely interrupted.”

  “You do not believe me, it seems, Miss James,” Lord Brentwood said, putting one hand on his heart and appearing to be distressed. “Speak then, Lord Glenister. Tell this lady the truth. Or shall you prove yourself a liar and deny it?”

  Silence filled the room and, for whatever reason, Charlotte found herself taking small, slow steps towards the door. She glanced back towards Lord Glenister, who was looking down at the ground, his face white and expression taut.

  “You will not deny it,” Lord Brentwood jeered, taking a step closer to Lord Glenister and shaking one hand in his face. “I knew you could not.”

  Lord Glenister slowly lifted his head and looked Charlotte directly in the face. “I took something that was not mine,” he said, his voice determined. “But it was for good reason. It was for the benefit of others. Please, you must believe me.”

  Lord Brentwood immediately began to laugh and mock Lord Glenister in such a loud, haughty tone that Charlotte could barely think clearly. Had she been mistaken in what she thought she knew of Lord Glenister? Was he, in fact, a thief and a liar, as Lord Brentwood had said?

  “We should go,” Emily murmured, grasping Charlotte’s arm
and pulling her towards the door. “This is an unpleasant situation and there is no need for us to remain.”

  Charlotte found her feet moving of their own accord, her head still twisted around so that she could look at Lord Glenister. His eyes were fixed on hers, his expression one of sheer agony as though he were filled with such hopelessness that there was no way to express it.

  “Trust me,” he called as Emily pulled her through the door—but Charlotte could give no answer.

  * * *

  It was with a heavy heart that Charlotte returned home. She did not accept Emily’s offer of company and chose to dine in her rooms rather than eat with her brother. She did not want to hear his cheerful voice, nor did she wish to explain her morose demeanor.

  Her mind was scrambling with thoughts, to the point that it began to ache. She was not at all certain about Lord Glenister any longer, having found herself lost in hopes and wild imaginings ever since last evening, when she had first realized he had been the gentleman in the gardens. Now, after the beginnings of her discussion with Lord Glenister, swiftly followed by Lord Brentwood’s unwelcome interruption, she was not at all sure what to think any longer. Was Lord Glenister truly in some sort of danger and had he been trying to protect her from it? Or was he using her in some way? She could not even think what use she could be to him, which made her want to believe that he was telling her the truth and that he truly did care for her… but then she recalled his admission that yes, he was a thief, and everything seemed to collapse in on itself.

  “Miss James?”

  Charlotte looked up from where she had been staring into the flames of her small fire to see the maid peeping in through a small crack in the door.

  “Yes?”

  “I just wanted to see if you were needing my help to prepare for bed,” her lady maid said, opening the door a little wider.

  Charlotte blinked, having not realized the time. “Is it late?”

  The maid nodded. “I did not want to disturb you, miss, but I have to be getting myself to bed soon enough, or I’ll never get up in the morning.” She gave Charlotte a faint smile, the glimmer of good humor in her eyes an expression of just how well the maid knew Charlotte and how comfortable she was in her presence.

  “I suppose I should retire,” Charlotte mumbled, getting up from her chair and only just realizing how stiff she was from sitting in one position for so long. “I have been lost in thought, it seems.” She managed a quick smile in her maid’s direction, and soon the maid had her out of her gown and her underthings, before helping her into her nightclothes.

  “There is something here in the pocket, Miss James,” she heard the maid say as she hung Charlotte’s gown back up in the small dressing room that adjoined the larger bedchamber. “Might you care for it?”

  Charlotte frowned, not quite certain what it could be—only to remember, with startling awareness, that it was the journal that Lord Glenister had set out on the table.

  “Yes, yes. At once,” she said quickly, sitting up in her bed and leaning forward from the pillows in her urgency. “I had forgotten it was there.”

  The maid gave it to her right away, clearly unaware of its importance, as she then turned back to her duties.

  Charlotte looked down at the journal in her hands, feeling the weight of it and letting her fingers brush over the thin leather strap. What could be within that could cause so much contention? Was this journal the reason for Lord Glenister’s beating, for his unwillingness to involve her in any way? Surely not!

  “If there is anything else, Miss James?”

  Jumping visibly at the sound of the maid’s voice, Charlotte looked up quickly and nodded. “On you go. Thank you.”

  The maid nodded, bobbed a curtsy and hurried from the room, clearly eager to get back below stairs now that her mistress was well taken care of.

  The air seemed to fill with a darkness that had Charlotte shuddering, despite the many candles that still lit the room and the small fire in the grate. Her fingers began to work at the knot that kept the leather book closed, the words inside still hidden from her eyes. She did not know why she was shaking, nor why she felt so fearful, but it seemed as though the shadows of the room grew darker still as she undid the knot.

  Her breath caught in her chest as she pulled the leather cord aside and set it to her left. The journal gaped open and with a trembling hand, Charlotte pulled aside the front cover and looked down at the scrawled words. And, by the light of a candle, Charlotte began to read.

  12

  Ever since Lord Brentwood’s unexpected visit yesterday afternoon, Michael had been ill at ease. He had paced up and down his drawing room for a good hour after Lord Brentwood had finally left, having grown tired of mocking Michael in any way he could.

  It seemed that Lord Brentwood had not believed Miss James’ story about not being involved with Michael. He had made it clear that if Michael did not return the journal to him by the week’s end, he would ruin Miss James for good. And, of course, he would ensure that Michael bore the full responsibility for it.

  How the earl was to go about such a thing, Michael did not know, but given what he had read in the earl’s journal, he did not think that the gentleman would find it particularly difficult. It was obvious that Lord Brentwood had a great many acquaintances willing to help him—or that he had blackmailed and threatened men into doing as he wished.

  “Coffee, my lord.”

  Michael turned from the window, having not even heard his butler’s entry into the study.

  “Thank you, Mr. Matthews,” he said, rubbing one hand down his face in an attempt to try and think a little more clearly. He had not slept well the night before and still felt as though he were half in a dream. “And Lord Stevenson is to call soon. I wrote to him this morning. Please show him in the moment he arrives.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “And Mr. Matthews,” Michael continued as the butler made to take his leave, “yesterday, I set a journal on the table but when I entered the room with Lord Brentwood, it was gone. Did you send one of the staff in to fetch it for me whilst I was attempting to remove Lord Brentwood from the house?”

  A silence crept over the room for a moment or two and Michael felt himself grow suddenly nervous.

  “I did no such thing, my lord,” the butler said eventually, frowning deeply. “I can ask the staff that were present yesterday, but I do not think that even a single person entered the drawing room again until Lord Brentwood pushed his way—I mean, made his way—into the room, where Miss James and Miss Smythe were seated.”

  A sudden panic began to course through Michael’s veins. The journal had not been where he had left it and, in his frantic state, he had simply assumed that one of the staff had picked it up for him before Lord Brentwood entered the room. Now, it seemed that the only possible explanation was that Miss James or Miss Smythe had it in their possession.

  “I must write to her at once,” he breathed, hurrying back towards his desk. “Wait a moment, Mr. Matthews. This must go to Lord Wickton’s house at once and an answer must be sought.”

  The butler bowed his head. “But of course, my lord,” he said slowly, evidently a little surprised at just how disturbed his master now appeared to be. “It shall be sent at once.”

  For a moment, the blank paper in front of him seemed to mock him as his thoughts tumbled about his mind with such intensity that he could not draw air into his lungs. Forced to lean heavily on the desk with both hands, Michael closed his eyes tightly. He had to write to Miss James, had to try and get her to realize just how important this journal was, but he did not quite know what to say. Fears began to blossom in front of him, his heart thundering furiously as he thought of what she might have read. Would she think that it was his doing? That the journal belonged to him and that, therefore, he was the most horrendous gentleman in all of England?

  “My lord?”

  The butler took a few steps towards him, a look of concern on his face as Michael took
in another long breath.

  “I am well,” Michael managed to say, looking up and thumping one fist on the table. “Just wait a moment.”

  Reaching for his pen, Michael closed his eyes again, a vision of Miss James in his mind. Swallowing hard, he dipped the pen into the ink and then sat at the desk in order to write.

  “‘I must see you at once,’” he wrote, wishing there was a way to put the urgency he felt into the very paper itself. “‘It is of vital importance. Please, Miss James, no matter what you think of me at this present moment, allow me just a moment of your time to explain the truth to you.’”

  Signing it quickly, he sanded it and waited for it to dry before placing hot wax and then his seal on the folded paper.

  “At once,” he said sternly, giving the butler the letter. “And I must have a response.”

  The butler nodded and walked out of the room with hasty steps, leaving Michael to pace up and down the room as he waited. His thoughts were in torment, his gut twisting painfully as he fought to keep his composure. If Miss James had read the journal, then all might be lost. Lord Brentwood might already have the victory, even if he did not have the journal.

  A rap at the door had him jumping in surprise. The answer could not have been given so soon, which meant that it must be Lord Stevenson.

  “Come in,” he called, only for the door to fly open and the figure of one Miss Charlotte James to stride into the room. Her eyes were flaring with what Michael presumed to be anger, her face entirely pale save for a slight tinge of color in each cheek. Her back was ramrod straight, her shoulders slightly lifted and, as the door was closed behind her by the slightly confused butler, Michael saw that, in her hands, she held the leather-bound journal.

  He wanted to sink through the floor. His spine prickled uncomfortably, his hands clasped tightly in front of him as he froze in place. From the expression on her face, Michael presumed that she was about to declare him the most unworthy, most distasteful gentleman she had ever laid eyes on, throw the journal on the study desk and storm from the room, which would be the very last time he would ever see her. He attempted to speak, attempted to say something to explain himself before Miss James could speak, but it was as though his throat were filled with sand, his feet stuck to the floor as he stared at her helplessly.