The Gentleman Spy

by Erica Vetsch

  Mother’s fork clattered to her plate, and her mouth opened.

  Father’s head jerked up, his eyes like cobblers’ awls boring into her. “Enough.”

  “I quite agree,” Charlotte shot back. “Perhaps your homily this week at church should be on fidelity and the bonds of matrimony.”

  Red started up Father’s thin throat, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Young lady—”

  She cut him off. “How could you? A mistress? But that isn’t the worst of it. You not only kept another woman and had a child by her, you then threw her out on the street when you got tired of her. That’s despicable.” She pushed her plate back, her appetite gone. “And all that time you pretended to be righteous, speaking in church, holding your nose in the air, keeping Mother and I on such tight leashes we’ve nearly choked.” Trembles radiated down her limbs, and her stomach lurched at her temerity, but she held fast to her outrage to keep her courage.

  “Keep your mouth shut, girl. It doesn’t concern you.” He pointed his knife at her, the red surging from his neck to his face, leaving it mottled.

  She’d never defied him quite so openly before, but she might as well be hung for a sheep as hung for a lamb. She would say what she thought, because she might never get another chance.

  “Doesn’t concern me? I think the fact that I have a half sibling definitely concerns me. I think the fact that my father is a philanderer concerns me. I think the fact that this woman is begging in the street and that her daughter, your daughter, is now making her living in a brothel concerns me.” Her hands fisted on the edge of the table, and a thrill of fear went through her. At last it was out in the open.

  His eyes slitted, and his knuckles whitened on his cutlery. “I said keep your mouth shut.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d like to pretend none of this happened. And for us to pretend to not know what you’ve been doing for so long, all the while portraying yourself as a model of rectitude.” She couldn’t keep the scorn out of her tone. And she didn’t want to. This went well beyond being disappointed in him. What little respect she might have had for her father had been shredded on the ice at the Frost Festival.

  For a moment, the room went silent. Her father shook, his eyes ablaze. Mother’s face was ashen, her lips pressed hard together. An odd tremor went through Charlotte. Fear? Exhilaration at her daring? A sense of all her bridges burning?

  In a strangled voice, he said, “Go to your room. If you ever bring up this subject again, I shall thrash you as you deserve.” He glared hard at Mother. “This is what happens when you indulge a child. I shall soon put that right.”

  Child? She was twenty-one years old.

  The butler removed her plate, his face showing no sympathy. Not that she blamed him. If he crossed her father, he’d be out on his ear just like the Cashels.

  Charlotte gathered her dignity around her with her shawl and rose. Keeping her chin high, she marched out of the room. She refused to let him hurt her anymore. Not by threats and not by actions. She would no longer be party to—even though it had been unwitting on her part—his hypocrisy.

  Mother followed her up the stairs, but when they passed the master suite, Mother continued down the hall behind Charlotte instead of turning into her own rooms.

  “Get in there.” Mother spoke through her teeth, her lips firm. She pushed Charlotte into her bedroom.

  Before she could even turn around, Mother grabbed her shoulder. “What were you thinking? No, don’t.” She held up her hand. “I don’t want to hear it, because plainly, you weren’t thinking. Haven’t I been humiliated enough?”

  “How did confronting him humiliate you? It’s his sin. His infidelity.”

  “How naïve can you be? Every time you open your mouth, you humiliate me because you speak without thought and without considering anyone else but yourself and your opinions. You act as if something completely rare and unusual has happened here. Don’t you understand? All men are unfaithful. I’ve known about your father’s mistress for years. I’m not stupid. But I am a lady. A lady never acknowledges such things. It is her duty to present a serene countenance no matter what is going on in her private life. If every woman in society moaned about their husband’s … peccadilloes … there would be chaos. I cannot believe you’ve gotten to be your age without understanding this. But better you come to terms with it now so you will know what to expect when you get married, though my hopes in that direction are fading quickly. Why can you not hold your tongue? Can’t you see that things would be so much easier for you—for all of us—if you would?”

  Charlotte reeled as if she had been slapped. Her mother had long known of, and accepted, her husband’s betrayal? “But it’s wrong. If all men are unfaithful, what is the point of marriage at all? And if no one is allowed to say that adultery is wrong, then it will continue to happen with impunity. How can he stand up in church and pretend to follow Scripture when he knows that he’s a fraud?” That might be the most galling aspect of all. That he should purport to be a God-fearing man when he had so many dark, sinful secrets that affected not just him but his family—both of his families. Charlotte’s nails bit into her palms, and her muscles ached.

  “It may be wrong, but that is the way it is. If you continue to be so outspoken, you will bring nothing but misery on yourself. You’re fortunate to have escaped any further punishment for tonight’s display than missing the rest of your dinner and being sent to your room.”

  A tap sounded on the door, and the butler entered carrying a large basket. “Your pardon, madam.” He bowed to Mother, and this time he sent an apologetic glance to Charlotte. “His lordship has sent me to gather every book I can find. He has instructed me that if I miss a single one, I will lose my position. So I ask you, Lady Charlotte, to surrender every book, for the sake of my employment.” His wide brown eyes under their bushy gray eyebrows were sorry and appealing now that his employer couldn’t see him. “I am sorry, miss.”

  Dismay hitched its cold self up her windpipe, cutting off words. She hadn’t escaped with just missing dinner. Her father knew the surest way to hurt her. Forcing her to choose between surrendering her books for a time and the welfare of someone else.

  Without a word, she opened the top drawer of her bureau. Then her armoire. Then her knitting stand. In minutes she had removed each of her precious books from its hiding place, each purchased with her meager allowance, all treasured. Histories, biographies, travel memoirs, novels. Leather bindings, crisp pages, gilt edges. Beautiful for their own sakes and beautiful because they were her friends, her barriers against both ignorance and loneliness.

  She placed them in the basket. “Did he say how long he would keep them?” Her throat tightened. She felt as if she were betraying dear friends by turning her books over to her father’s care, even for a little while.

  The butler didn’t meet her eyes. “They are not to be returned to you. He’s instructed the footman to build a fire in the mews.” His voice pleaded for her to understand it wasn’t his fault, and perhaps to remind her that his livelihood was on the line.

  Inside her head, a scream formed, but all that came out was a low moan. Resisting the desperate urge to snatch the basket from the butler, she slid to the floor, drawing up her legs and wrapping her arms around them. Putting her forehead on her knees, she held the hurt close, knowing she had no choice but to let it happen.

  Mother followed the butler out of the room with his burden, closing the door gently.

  Charlotte didn’t know how long she huddled there, but eventually, stiff and cold, she unbent.

  She drew her nightgown out of the drawer, her hand lingering on the spot where the History of Rome had lain so recently. She had planned to finish it by lamplight that night.

  Now it was a pile of ashes in the mews behind the townhouse.

  Climbing into bed, she thought to say her prayers … but nothing would come. She felt so alone, and her faith seemed tiny as a speck of dust. Her faith in mankind and her faith
that God intended anything good for her in this life.

  Her confrontation with her father had done precious little. He had admitted no fault. When he had been accused, he had punished her severely. And Amelia and Pippa Cashel remained in their current state—she hadn’t helped them at all.

  Just as she hadn’t been able to save her precious books from the fire. She was helpless here, at the mercy of her cold, hypocritical parent.

  This must be how Amelia Cashel felt.

  Surely there must be something Charlotte could do for the poor woman. She had a vague notion that this wasn’t what her peers would consider a proper response to her father’s former mistress. Mother insisted upon behaving as if the Cashels didn’t exist. Father was doing likewise. Greater London society would be aghast that Charlotte would even contemplate further dealings with a cast-off paramour.

  But Charlotte didn’t care. She and the Cashels had too much in common for her to ignore. And the desperate look in Amelia’s eyes haunted her.

  Somehow she would rescue them. Or at least ease their situation.

  She would meet her sister, befriend her, and somehow help her.

  Though she had no idea how.

  She was still facing a lifetime with Aunt Philomena or marriage to someone who would bore her to sawdust, possibly try to control her like her father did, and if her mother was correct, would stray from his marriage vows without hesitation at the first opportunity.

  Not a rosy-futured outlook either way.

  But burning her books was the last straw. She had to get out of this house. No matter who she met this Season, no matter which suitor proposed first, she was going to take him up on his offer. Marriage to any man had to be better than living in this household a day longer than she must.

  It wouldn’t matter whom she chose, since according to her mother they were all alike.

  Her mind went immediately to her rescuer of two nights ago. Wouldn’t it serve her parents right if she ran off to Gretna Green with someone like him?

  Too bad she would never see him again.

  She shook her head. The loss of her books evidently meant she’d lost her mind too, mooning over a mysterious figure with an equally mysterious moniker.

  Hawk.

  Punching up her pillow, she jammed her head into it, determined to sleep, to forget for a while her father’s cruel actions.

  Things would work out, not as she had hoped, but then again, when did they? Any husband would be preferable to spinsterhood under her father’s control.

  As long as her new husband left her alone.

  And maybe let her buy books.

  CHAPTER 3

  “THE HUNT BEGINS in earnest tonight,” Charlotte murmured as she handed her wrap to the waiting maid and checked her hair in the receiving room mirror, wishing that just this once, her parents would have consented to letting her curl it or cut it or somehow change it to something less Spartan. Mother inspected her, picking a stray thread off her shoulder, her face pensive.

  Charlotte had been surprised she was allowed to attend the Washburns’ dinner party. She had assumed she would be under house arrest until her father’s temper cooled or he could make arrangements to ship her to Yorkshire.

  But Mother had informed her midmorning that they would all be attending the Washburns’ “do.” “It would be too awkward to cancel now, and to stay home would make for imbalanced numbers at Mrs. Washburn’s table. As for you, I’m not going to tell you what’s at stake here or what your father will do if you cross him.”

  Charlotte had nodded, still sick at heart and tired after a fitful night. It had been all she could do not to weep as she had walked past the ash heap in the mews to enter the carriage.

  The ride had been accomplished in silence, which suited Charlotte just fine. She needed to plan. Perhaps tonight she would meet the man she would marry, though it would probably be a small dinner party and her chances of even talking to an eligible bachelor were slim. Tomorrow evening’s ball at the Pembertons’ would most likely have better prospects. Still, she could practice tonight.

  Practice holding her tongue on important issues, make the dreaded “small talk” she loathed, and flatter every male in her vicinity.

  The knot in her stomach tightened.

  “Come.” Mother headed out of the receiving room and into the hall where Father waited. A liveried footman showed them into a withdrawing room, already crowded with people. So much for a small dinner party. There must be twenty guests here.

  She scanned the room, chiding herself for searching for prospects. It made her feel predatory. Stop it. Many of them will be looking for a suitable mate too. It isn’t as if you’re going to bash an unsuspecting male over the head and drag him off to a preacher. It’s perfectly normal to evaluate the guests for a potential spouse. Every unmarried girl and her mother will be doing the same.

  “Oh, Verona, it’s so lovely to see you.” Mrs. Bosworth rose from her chair, bussing Mother’s cheek with a kiss that didn’t land. No look or gesture indicated that the incident at the Frost Festival had ever happened. Mrs. Bosworth offered Charlotte a limp hand and a brief nod.

  Evidently what Mother had said was true. It was up to a society woman to pretend nothing had or was happening when it came to marital infidelity. And her friends too, at least when the woman was present. They probably couldn’t wait to dissect it and gossip about the victim as soon as she was out of earshot.

  But not so with society males, it seemed. Dudley Bosworth shot a quick glance at Charlotte and hurried away across the room as if she carried something contagious. He wouldn’t pretend nothing had happened or that he didn’t know about her father’s betrayal.

  So I can cross Dudley off the potential-husband list. Charlotte almost laughed. He couldn’t have moved faster if his coattails were on fire. Somehow I am not feeling the loss.

  A stir went through the room as new arrivals came in. Mrs. Bosworth snapped her fan open, and behind it, she whispered to Mother, “It’s the Duke of Haverly and his mother. I believe this is the first social event they’ve attended since their loss. Quite a coup for Mrs. Washburn.”

  “Such a terrible thing to happen to Her Grace, losing her husband and son that way. At least she had a ‘spare’ to inherit. I suppose the new duke will be looking for a wife himself now. Whoever runs him to earth will have the prize of the Season.”

  Charlotte’s ears perked up, and she sought out the duke. Not that she would aim so high. That would be ridiculous. But it didn’t hurt to look.

  He was easy to spot, mostly because every eye in the room was on him. Tall, with dark hair worn longer than current fashion dictated. A decent set of shoulders too. Definitely masculine and impeccably dressed. Nothing of the namby-pamby about this one.

  He looked over the room, almost as if taking a catalog of the guests, and for a moment his gaze lingered on Charlotte. To her dismay, heat surged into her cheeks, and she found herself staring in a most unladylike way.

  A maxim of her mother’s drifted through her mind. Curiosity is like a woman’s petticoat. She should never let it show. Yet Charlotte could not look away.

  At last his eyes moved on and she could breathe again.

  What a strange reaction, especially to a man she’d never met. Get a firm grip on yourself, Charlotte Tiptree. You’re not a simpering miss to have her head turned by a handsome man with a title. She tried to pay attention to what Mrs. Bosworth was saying.

  “They waited months for the birth, and then the child turned out to be a girl. At least they named the baby after the duchess. Honora Mary, I heard.”

  “That will be small comfort. I heard she had her heart set on a boy. Though why it was so important to her when she had another son to inherit, I can’t understand.”

  Mrs. Bosworth shook her head. “Her Grace has never had much time for her second son. They sent him to university and then bought him a commission. He’s out of the army now, and for the past while he’s been kicking around London doing nothi
ng. A bit of a disappointment to her, I gather. Still, he’ll be the focus of many a matchmaking mother this year.” Her glance flicked to Charlotte. She gave a quick shrug.

  Mrs. Bosworth must think he was beyond Charlotte’s reach too. Why that rankled her, she didn’t know. She had no plans to stalk the Duke of Haverly, but it hurt to know that others thought she had no chance either.

  “Dinner is served.” The butler’s formal announcement reached over the conversations.

  Then began an elaborate ritual in which everyone sorted themselves out by rank and partnered up to go into the dining room. Charlotte found herself on the arm of an elderly baronet a few inches shorter than she. He patted her hand on his arm and gave her a cheeky wink. “I’m the envy of every man here, my dear, getting to escort the only lady present under forty. I thought I might be escorting that old hag Agatha Wilson. Her expression could sour milk. Quite liverish, she is. You’re a much better partner.”

  She grinned back, liking him instantly. She’d long thought the same of Mrs. Wilson’s countenance, though she’d never put it quite so aptly.

  The dining room blazed with candlelight. Wall sconces, candelabra, the chandelier, all casting the room in a warm glow. Mrs. Washburn must’ve added every leaf to her table. There was barely room to move around the ends to find their seats. The friendly old baronet surrendered her to a waiting footman who held her chair, and she eased into it.

  Her one hope had been that she would not have to sit too near her father, and that wish had been granted. He, as an earl, was seated nearer their hostess than Charlotte. Mother was at the other end of the table and on the opposite side from her husband. Charlotte sat near the middle, where she could hear many of the conversations. It suited her.

  Except that Dudley Bosworth sat across from her.

  She looked down the table to find the Duke of Haverly’s eyes on her again. He inclined his head, giving her a small smile from his place at Mrs. Washburn’s right hand. As the ranking peer, he had the most favored seat.