by Brooke, Meg
He put one hand on her knee. “What happened to liberation, to rising above your birth? Don’t you think you’ve at least accomplished that? And don’t forget, I have a sister who is, as you so delicately put it, a whore, and the daughter of one. But she also happens to be a far better woman than most of the ladies of the ton, and far truer to herself. If that’s what being the daughter of a prostitute makes you, I think more peers should consider marrying one.”
One corner of her mouth lifted in a wry smile. “Why aren’t you upset by this?” she asked.
“Oh, don’t mistake me,” he said, “I’m livid. While we are sitting here I am forcing myself not to get up, ride as fast as I can to Oxford, and strangle Roger Endersby. But somehow I don’t imagine that’s what you want.”
She shrugged. “For a time it was. I spent long hours learning to make undetectable poisons. I went to sleep every night imagining what it would be like to kill him. But it would have cost me the piece of my soul he hadn’t crushed, and I couldn’t bear that. Before everything changed, he had taught me that my dignity was the only thing no one could take from me, and I clung to that. Clarissa helped a great deal.”
“Clarissa?” he asked. What did the Countess of Stowe have to do with this? But before she even spoke, he knew.
“Haven’t you guessed?” she asked. “Clarissa Rennick, nee Martin, was the other baby.”
“Of course she was,” he said. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it earlier.”
She rested her chin on her knees. “I’m so ashamed, Charles. I didn’t tell you because I thought that if I waited, it would make it easier for us to break our arrangement. I imagined I could use it as a way to make you hate me. I assumed that once you knew, you wouldn’t want anything to do with me. I didn’t give you enough credit.”
He put his finger under her chin and lifted her face to his. He kissed her gently, cupping her cheek with his hand. When he broke the kiss, he said, “What you have told me changes nothing. You are not what your father made you. He couldn’t break your spirit, because it wasn’t his to break.” Then he kissed her again, pulling her into his arms, one hand sliding down her back. “I love you, Cynthia,” he whispered.
She smiled up at him. “I love you, too,” she said.
He felt almost foolish at how those words made his heart swell.
SEVENTEEN
January 16, 1834
“Lady Imogen Bainbridge, Miss,” Mallory announced the next morning. Cynthia had been sitting in the library, trying to distract herself with a volume of poetry she had carefully hidden there.
“Show her up, Mallory,” she said, rising and suppressing the instinct to hide the book. Lady Imogen would be pleased to see her reading it, she reminded herself, and would not think less of her for her enjoyment of the romantic subject matter.
“Cynthia!” Imogen cried. “What a lovely room this is. It’s funny you should be sitting here, for I have come to invite you to Wrights. I am starved for new reading material. Please say you’ll come, for I know I’ll choose something silly and frivolous without your help.”
Cynthia smiled. “Of course,” she said, “though I wish you wouldn’t think of my presence as the antidote to frivolity. I have been making some very silly choices the last few days.”
Imogen grinned. “I do hope so,” she said. “I don’t think I know another young woman who would benefit more from some frivolity than you. But I hope you don’t think I’ve decided you’re a bluestocking, Cynthia. I see right through that mask you wear.”
“Do you?” Cynthia asked, trying to keep from smirking. “Well, I will just fetch my mantle.”
She did not see her erstwhile minder on the street, but she knew that didn’t mean he wasn’t there. Perhaps he was in Oxford, reporting back to her father.
But as they were leaving Wright’s he revealed himself. It all happened so quickly that afterwards Cynthia was not quite certain she had not imagined the whole thing. They stepped out into the street, chatting amiably about nothing in particular. Concentrating on what Imogen was saying instead of where she was going, Cynthia put one foot out of place and stumbled, falling into the street.
“Cynthia!” Imogen screamed, her terrified face looking away down the street. Cynthia struggled to her hands and knees, looking up to see a hackney bearing down on her.
Everything seemed to slow. She saw the startled face of the hackney driver as he tried to pull back on the reins. She saw the hooves of the horse pounding towards her, so close that she could feel their vibrations through the cobbles beneath her palms. She tried to right herself, but it felt as though she was climbing out of a hole filled with thick mud.
Then, suddenly, someone’s hands were on her waist, yanking her up and back. The horse and hackney swept by, inches away from her. She screamed and whirled, her rescuer’s hands on her shoulders, steadying her, keeping her from falling. As the hackney raced away down the street, she looked into the face of the man who had pulled her to safety.
It was the man with the mangled ear. For a moment Cynthia just stared at him, and he at her. She could read his consternation in his expression. He had broken some unspoken rule in helping her. “Thank you,” she managed to stammer. He nodded grimly. “Who are you?” Cynthia asked. But the man turned and marched away down the street, his hands clenched in tight fists. Then Imogen was at her side.
“Cynthia, are you all right? Oh, I was so frightened!”
“Yes,” Cynthia said, brushing the dirt from her palms. “Yes, I’m quite all right.”
“That man came out of nowhere! How fortunate he was there,” Imogen went on, babbling nervously. “We must see if anyone in the area knows who he is.”
“Of course,” Cynthia said, though she was fairly certain no one would know who the man was or even remember seeing him. She followed Imogen to the carriage, her hands still trembling. In fact, as she climbed into the carriage, she began to feel a little dizzy.
“You must go home and rest,” Imogen said. “I’ll explain to Charles.”
Cynthia almost protested that she did not need to rest, that she was quite well, but then she looked down at her shaking fingers. “Thank you, Imogen,” she said.
When they reached the house, Imogen followed her in and related the whole tale to Ellen, who insisted that Cynthia sit on the sofa and have some tea. “Don’t worry, My Lady,” she said to Imogen as she adjusted a cushion behind Cynthia’s back, “I’ll take good care of her.”
Imogen smiled. “Of course you will,” she said. “I know I invited you to dine at Danforth House tonight, Cynthia, but you must rest if you are still feeling poorly this evening.”
“I’m sure I shall be quite recovered soon,” Cynthia said.
“All the same,” Imogen insisted, “you must send word if you would rather not.”
Cynthia promised, and Imogen departed, still looking worried.
Ellen bustled about, preparing her a cup of tea and then standing over her while she drank it. As she set the cup down, Cynthia said, “I think, Ellen, that it is safe to say this has been the strangest week of my life.”
“Charles, you’ll never believe what happened this morning,” Imogen cried as she burst into the library. “I don’t know when I’ve been so frightened in my life!”
“I thought you were taking Miss Endersby to Wright’s this morning.”
“Yes, well, that’s where it happened.”
Charles shot up out of his chair. “Is she all right?” he demanded.
Imogen smiled a knowing smile. “She is perfectly well, Charles. My goodness, you have fallen rather hard, haven’t you?”
“Tell me what happened,” he said sternly.
“All right,” Imogen replied, still grinning. “We were leaving Wright’s and Cynthia tripped on one of the cobbles and fell right into the path of a hackney.”
Filled with alarm, Charles said, “I thought you said she was all right.”
“She is. That’s the strange thing. This man appeared
almost out of nowhere and swept her out of the way. The hackney missed her by mere inches. I tell you, Charles, I have never been so terrified as I was at that moment. Cynthia seemed quite frightened. And it was so odd, the man appearing like that and then disappearing almost as quickly, as if he was never even there.”
As if he was never even there, Charles thought. “Did you get a look at him?”
Imogen shook her head. “No, not really—no, wait! I did notice one thing about him. He was missing the lower part of one ear, I’m almost sure of it. Do you think it was bitten off by a dog or something?”
Charles was no longer listening. “I’m going out,” he said, sweeping out of the room.
“Don’t forget we have guests for dinner this evening!” she called after him.
Fifteen minutes later he was in Mayfair. It was not yet two o’clock, but he was sure Jacqueline would see him. He was not surprised, however, when the Bull made him wait five minutes in the hall for her. When at last he was ushered upstairs, he was taken to her private office, a small room overlooking the street.
“Charles,” she cried as he came in. “I thought I made it perfectly clear—”
“Why are you having her followed?” he demanded, cutting her off.
She stared at him. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“The Rat has been following Cynthia for at least three days.”
She sank slowly into her chair. “Oh, Charles,” she said, “I think you’d better tell me the whole story.”
So he did. He told her about his nighttime visits to the house in Cavendish Square, the day he had followed the Rat, and the story Imogen had just told him. When he had finished, she shook her head sadly.
“I’m afraid that I won’t be much help to you,” she said. “You see, the person to whom you refer left my employ over a year ago. I was very distressed to lose him, but his skills are highly prized and I wasn’t exactly surprised when he told me that he wished to open his own private investigation firm. He has done quite well, I believe. But if he is following you or Miss Endersby, it is not at my instigation.”
Charles heaved a deep sigh.
“What is going on, Charles?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “This has been the strangest week of my life.”
“Will she accept you at the end of it?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I still have no idea. I hope so.”
She smiled. “I do, too.”
He rose, and so did she. But just as he turned to go she said, “Wait, Charles.” She opened a drawer and rummaged around for a moment. “Here,” she said, handing him a card. “That’s the man you call the Rat. He will be very angry that I gave you his card, but I think you deserve to know the truth.”
Charles pocketed the card and kissed her goodbye.
Down in the street his carriage was waiting. He almost told the driver to take him back to Danforth House, but then he changed his mind. There was one other person he could talk to about the situation in which he had found himself. “Take me to Stowe House,” he said.
The butler who answered the door showed him up to the study without even glancing at his card. Inside, Lord and Lady Stowe were sitting at a matched pair of desks, which had been placed back-to-back. Both appeared to be quite engrossed in their work, but they smiled and stood to greet him.
“What brings you here?” Stowe asked, and Charles did not miss his cautious glance at his wife.
“I would ask to speak to you privately, but I suppose your wife is as involved in this as you are,” Charles said.
Lady Stowe frowned. “She’s told you,” she said.
Charles nodded. Lady Stowe gestured elegantly to a small sofa and chairs that were placed before the fire. The three of them sat, and Stowe said, “You appear to have taken the news in stride.”
Charles smiled wryly. “I have had some time to think about it. I was uncontrollably angry when she first told me the story. I wanted to ride to Oxford and kill Endersby with my bare hands.”
Lady Stowe nodded. “That is as it should be, and he would deserve little better, if you ask me. But all the same, I am glad you didn’t. For all his faults, Cynthia still considers him her father, and I think it would pain her more than she is willing to admit to see him harmed.”
Charles gaped at her. There were a thousand questions whirling through his mind, but one in particular came to the fore.
“Ask me,” Lady Stowe said. “Go ahead.”
“How do you bear it?” he asked, not allowing himself to be embarrassed.
She smiled. “Easily. My father loved me. He gave me the life I have now. And I have a family that fills my days with light and joy. It was not easy at first, but I accepted the truth and moved on. In one thing, at least, Roger Endersby is correct: our birth does not define us.”
“But Cynthia—”
“Cynthia is a different case. Her father did not love her and never will. He sees her as a laboratory animal, his to control and manipulate. You must get her away from him. She will reach her majority in June, but that will be too late.”
“And if she refuses me?”
Lady Stowe glanced at her husband. “We have agreed to offer her a home here,” Stowe said, looking very grave. “She will be protected.”
“Thank you.”
“It is our pleasure,” Lady Stowe insisted. “Cynthia is like a sister to me.”
Charles thought about that statement for a moment. “There’s no chance the two of you could actually be—”
“No,” she said. “I have wished for it many times, but we were born just a few days apart. There is no chance of it.”
He nodded. “I must be going,” he said. “Thank you both.”
“Don’t mention it,” Stowe said, and he rose to show Charles out.
When they were down in the foyer, Charles asked, “You never looked into your wife’s parentage, did you?”
The earl shot a quick glance up to the study. “I did. I hired a man my solicitor recommended, a private investigator, about six months ago. He went up to York and dug around. Found her mother, who died little more than two years after Clarissa was born, and the record of who she believed the father was—a soldier, apparently. I told her about it after the twins were born. But I couldn’t turn up anything about Cynthia. Apparently her mother had spoken about her once before her own death, but no one would give me any information. I am sorry, Charles.”
“No, no,” Charles said. “Thank you for all your help.”
“I could give you the name of the investigator, if you like. I have his card somewhere.”
Charles withdrew the card Jacqueline had given him. “Is this it?”
Stowe studied it. “Yes, it is. Where did you get this?”
Charles shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. But I think I’m coming close to the end of the trail.”
The offices of Robert Sirkus, Private Investigator were located on the top floor of a narrow building in Piccadilly. Charles knocked on the door, half expecting there to be no answer, and was surprised when the Rat himself opened it. He frowned when he saw Charles.
“I suppose you’d better come in,” he said.
Charles followed him into a small room with a single desk. A large safe stood in one corner. The only other furniture was the two chairs, one of which the Rat offered him before taking the other.
“I am impressed, Your Grace,” he said. “I thought it would take you much longer to find me. Lady Jack gave you my card, I suppose.”
Charles nodded. He decided not to mention the fact that he would have gotten the Rat’s name from Lord Stowe anyway. “I want to know what you can tell me about Cynthia Endersby.”
The Rat stared at him for a moment. “I am afraid I can tell you very little,” he said at last. “I have been paid exceedingly well to reveal nothing of what I am doing on her behalf.”
“On her behalf?” Charles repeated. “You mean that you have been following her for her own good?”
&
nbsp; The Rat did not respond.
“What can you tell me?”
“That you should marry her, Your Grace. But I think it would be wise to wait until the situation develops a little further before you propose.”
“I have proposed already,” Charles said, though he thought perhaps the Rat already knew this. “She has refused.”
The Rat looked at him, assessing him. “As I say, Your Grace: be patient. I don’t believe it will be much longer.”
“There truly is nothing else you can tell me?”
The Rat simply shrugged.
“Very well,” Charles sighed and rose to go. But as his fingers found the doorknob he turned back. “Thank you for saving her this morning,” he said.
The Rat smiled. “It was my pleasure, Your Grace.”
Charles returned to Danforth House at about five to find the house in uproar. Imogen rushed down the stairs to greet him. “Oh, Charles,” she said, “you must believe me when I say I had nothing to do with it. Gillian wrote to her.”
“To who?”
“Ah, Charles,” his mother’s voice rang down from the landing. “I am glad you could finally grace us with your presence.”
“Oh, Lord,” Charles said under his breath.
Things had just become far more complicated.
EIGHTEEN
True to her word, Cynthia was feeling completely recovered by the evening. She dressed for dinner at Danforth House and waited in the parlor for Mallory to announce the carriage’s arrival. But when it came, she was surprised to find that it wasn’t empty.
Inside, Imogen was waiting for her.
“Charles would have come, but he was trapped in the drawing room,” she said. “I barely escaped myself. I’m supposed to be upstairs in my room still.”
“Escaped?”
Imogen frowned. “The Duchess of Danforth has arrived.”
Cynthia blanched. “Your mother?”
Imogen nodded. “She came this afternoon without any warning. Gillian wrote to her, apparently, even though Charles and I both told her not to.”