“I can never hear enough opera,” she warned, allowing the ambiguity to continue. He leaned closer still, his gaze never leaving hers.
“I cannot tell you how delighted I am to know that, and how much I would like to satisfy your ... desire for more.”
The butler interrupted. “A message for you, madam.”
Charlotte dragged her gaze from Stuart’s and took the note. “It’s from Susan!” she cried, recognizing the handwriting.
Stuart bolted from his chair. “Brumble, who delivered it?”
“A very grimy lad, sir,” called the butler as Stuart ran from the room. The front door slammed as Charlotte tore open the letter. A smaller note fell out, but she ignored it, her eyes racing across Susan’s uneven writing.
Dear Aunt Charlotte,
I am writing to assure you I am well and happy. I am to be married soon! I expect you’re still unhappy about the way I left, and I apologize for that, but you must see I had to do it. Soon I shall send for my clothing and other belongings, but for now we have not taken a house, and have no room. London is everything I dreamed and more! I shall write again,
Susan
She ran into the hall in pursuit of Stuart just as he came back into the house, breathing heavily. “I couldn’t catch him,” he said, his voice sharp with frustration. “Brumble!”
The butler appeared at once. “Yes, sir?”
“If any other lads deliver messages for Madame Griffolino or me, take hold of him and don’t let go until I speak to him.” The butler bowed, and Stuart turned to Charlotte. “What does the note say?”
Charlotte handed it to him. A deep frown creased his brow as he read, and he waved her back into the breakfast room. When they were alone, she put her hands on her hips. “Well?”
Stuart began pacing, tapping the letter against his chin. “He’s told her he wants to marry her; we were right about the romance and adventure. But who is he? We still have no idea who could have lured her away so secretly and suddenly.”
“I realize that,” she snapped, snatching back the note—her only contact with Susan in a week—and holding it reverently close to her chest. This message proved her niece was alive and well, and in London. “She’s indisputably in London. How do we find her?”
“Send for Pitney,” he said at once. “Frakes can describe the messenger. If we can locate the boy who brought it, we’re one step closer to the person who sent it.”
“That could take days! There must be hundreds of grimy lads in London!”
“Thousands,” said Stuart. “Patience, Charlotte. Pitney knows the city, and the lowest citizens in it.”
“But what shall we do? Summon a carriage. Surely if we drive quickly, we might come across the boy ...”
Stuart was shaking his head. “He’s gone. We could drive every inch of London and not see him.”
“But I have to do something or I shall scream!” Charlotte gripped the letter like a lifeline, hysteria bubbling up in her throat. She had thought not knowing anything was the worst thing, but that was wrong; knowing a little, but not enough to act, was far more agonizing.
He sighed and ruffled one hand through his hair. “Besides telling Pitney ...” He shook his head. Charlotte abruptly remembered the other scrap of paper that had fallen out of Susan’s letter. She went down on her knees and crawled under the table to retrieve it. “What are you doing?” Stuart lifted the tablecloth to peer at her as she unfolded the coarse paper and gasped out loud.
“What?” Stuart all but dragged her from under the table and pried the paper from her fingers. “What the devil is this?”
Charlotte smoothed the page and translated from the Italian.
Scarlet whore, you have taken my treasure and I have taken yours. While you display yourself to the English gentlemen, your Susan sits by my side, weak and willing. When you return the Italian treasure, I will give her back to you.
Someone who watches.
“Bloody hell.” He snatched the paper back and scowled at the crimped writing. “What’s the Italian treasure?”
“I have no idea.” Charlotte was shaking, with elation and fear. “But he was watching us last night.” She seized the note and pointed, even though he couldn’t read it. “Scarlet! My red gown! He’s nearby! And Susan is with him!”
He looked up then, his eyes gleaming. “He is. You’ve provoked him into showing his hand. Well, well. He’s an Italian. He must have followed you from Italy. And he’s most likely the thief who broke into your house.”
“But what does he want?” She clasped her hands to stop their trembling. “I haven’t any treasure.”
“He obviously thinks you do.” Stuart frowned at the note again. “He stole Susan away when he couldn’t find it himself.”
“Oh, my poor girl!” Charlotte all but sobbed. “What can we do now? To know she is in London, so near, and I have no idea where!”
“Patience,” he said with fearful calm. “We know what to look for. I shall set Pitney and Benton on this at once. Now that they have some firm leads, I expect at least one of them to make great progress. Your friend is still in your house in Kent, is she not?” Charlotte nodded. “Write to her immediately. Tell her to pack up everything you brought from Italy and send it here as soon as she possibly can. I’ll send a note to Benton; he can help. He’s a master of packing quickly.”
“Why? Oh—of course!” she said with growing enthusiasm. “Whatever he wants must be in the things from Italy. Shall we do what Lucia did, set it all out and wait for him to break in and steal it?”
“No, we are going to discover what the bloody hell he’s after,” said Stuart grimly. “And then we’ll be able to deal with him on an equal footing. He knows he doesn’t stand a chance of getting it from you if he injures Susan, so she’s safe as long as he thinks we have it. Are you certain there’s nothing else from Italy besides the things in Kent, perhaps at a solicitor’s office or sent to a friend?”
“No, everything was shipped to Kent. If his object is in my possession at all, it’s in Tunbridge Wells.”
“Then we’ll find it and somehow let him know we’re ready to negotiate. I’ll also have Benton ask after any foreigners in Kent; you might ask the same of Lucia, particularly Italians. If he is your thief, he must have stayed close by, in order to watch your house and know when you left.”
“I’ll write to her immediately,” Charlotte promised, desperate for anything to occupy her mind. “But what else—?” Stuart silenced her with one finger over her lips.
“I’ll go to Pitney at once. Write to your friend.” He removed his hand and surprised her by pressing a quick kiss in its place. “The more we find out about the kidnapper, the better Pitney’s chances of finding him.” He kissed her again, longer and harder this time. Without a moment’s hesitation, she surged against him. Fear, she was finding, could be a powerful aphrodisiac, leaving her body tense and taut in anticipation of something. Desire came to life in an instant, supplanting her worries and concerns and focusing her entire being on Stuart, and the way he always affected her.
He caught her tightly around the waist when she opened her mouth, and Charlotte felt her knees give out as his other hand slid up to cover her breast. She had never wanted a man this way, never craved his presence and his touch so desperately. She clutched at him, straining to get even closer. He cupped the curve of her bottom, pulling her against him, and she moaned, her leg twining around his of its own volition. She wanted this, she wanted him, and she wanted him now.
As she pulled on his neck, completely willing to make love there on the carpet, he fell forward with her still clinging to him, catching a nearby chair to keep them upright. The table’s edge pressed her hips into his, and Charlotte rubbed against him shamelessly. Stuart ended the kiss with a gasp.
“I can’t make love to you here.” His shoulders shuddered. “God knows I want to, but I can’t.”
Charlotte released him like a hot coal. “Stuart—”
“Someday,”
he said, low and fierce, “we have to finish this. You’re driving me mad.”
Before she could recover, the door opened. “Good morning,” trilled Amelia. Stuart turned, hiding Charlotte from view for a moment as she yanked her dress back into place. Good Lord, they had been on the brink of making love on the breakfast table, on his parents’ breakfast table, where anyone might walk in on them. She was behaving worse than the most promiscuous courtesan, and being an abominably rude guest as well.
“We’ve received a note from Susan,” Stuart was telling his mother, as calm as if nothing had been happening. “She’s well, and in London. The fellow persuaded her to run off with him by promising to marry her; she wrote to Charlotte of her impending wedding.”
“What a cruel trick!” Amelia’s eyes flashed. “The poor girl! Why, she’s been practically kidnapped!”
“And held for ransom,” Stuart agreed. “It seems she doesn’t even know it yet.”
“Good heavens! What will you do to stop him?” Amelia cried, appalled.
“We received a message from him as well,” Charlotte said. “He wants an Italian treasure he thinks I have. In exchange for the treasure, he’ll release Susan.” She glanced at Stuart. “I shudder to think what will happen if I don’t have it.”
“You do,” he said firmly. “Somewhere. He must have been certain of it, or he wouldn’t have risked searching your house repeatedly, not to mention taking Susan. It mightn’t even be valuable, but it’s important to him.”
“I hope you’re right.”
He flashed his usual cocky grin. “I’m always right, m’dear; haven’t you noticed by now?” He headed for the door. “I’m off to find Pitney. Write Lucia at once.”
“I will,” she promised. He smiled briefly, and was gone.
Alone with his mother, Charlotte slipped into her chair to finish her breakfast, still on her plate. The memory of what had distracted her from it made her feel terribly awkward, and she sipped her cold tea in feigned nonchalance. What would Mrs. Drake say about discovering them locked in an embrace? Good Lord, she had almost ravished the woman’s son! In broad daylight!
“You’ve grown quite fond of Stuart, haven’t you?” asked Amelia. Charlotte glanced up guiltily, not surprised to find herself the subject of keen scrutiny. “He’s a handsome boy,” continued Amelia. “I don’t blame you. All the Drake men are handsome devils.”
Charlotte cleared her throat, not quite meeting her hostess’s gaze. “We have become friends.”
“Now, now. We are both grown women. You are not, I think, naïve or inexperienced. I give you leave to admit you are attracted to my son.”
Charlotte opened her mouth, then closed it. She had no idea what to say.
Amelia reached for the teapot and filled her cup, the steam curling around her wrist. “But I must warn you,” she added with a sympathetic glance, “he will never marry you.”
Charlotte’s eyes almost popped from her head. “I assure you, I—I had no idea of any such thing,” she stammered. Marriage? To Stuart? He wanted a wealthy young bride; she enjoyed her freedom and independence. Marriage between them was ludicrous, even in theory.
But then, Mrs. Drake likely meant it as a warning to Charlotte not to harbor hopes of tricking Stuart into marriage. With her past, no mother would want her for a daughter-in-law, Charlotte realized. She was tarnished, soiled. Stuart might find her appealing enough to take to bed, but his mother was right: he would never marry her, because she wasn’t the sort of woman a respectable man married.
It was a lowering thought. Despite all her efforts to become more respectable, she was still beyond the pale. No matter how she changed her hair or her dress, she would always be the one who had run wild in her youth. She was caught, stuck between her earnest wish to reform and the past she couldn’t escape.
“I say that not out of my own wishes.” Amelia sipped her tea, still watching her. “Some men are simply not capable of responsibilities like a wife and family, and Stuart is one.”
Charlotte wasn’t sure she believed the first part, but she was quite sure Stuart would have married Susan in an instant if she had consented. While the thought of them as man and wife made her ill, it ran counter to what his mother claimed. He had told her he would have been grateful to Susan, and Charlotte knew he wouldn’t have abused her niece; he would have seen to it that his wife was comfortable, at least. “I cannot agree,” she said slowly. “I think he craves responsibility.”
Amelia shook her head. “Stuart has never craved responsibility. He wouldn’t mind the appearance of it—a country estate, perhaps, or a stud farm—but he hasn’t the slightest idea how to manage it. It’s all he can do to take care of himself, and not well at that.”
“But he has never had anything to manage.” Charlotte didn’t even know why she was defending him in this. Her opinion had been exactly the same, only a few days previously. “Do you not believe he would rise to the challenge, should the need be there?”
Amelia laughed, sadly. “No. I have known Stuart all his life, and although it pains me to say it, he will always rely on his charm and handsome face to make his way.”
“He’s been invaluable to me,” protested Charlotte, forgetting that she had once described him in those exact terms. “He’s quite clever, and very determined.”
Amelia sighed. “When a man is intent on seducing a woman, he can assume an infinite variety of guises. Gentle suitor, mysterious adventurer, knight in shining armor ... They’re all acted with one goal in mind, and that goal is not marriage. And the moment they achieve that goal, they’re off to the next woman.”
“That is true of some,” Charlotte allowed after a moment. “But not all. Surely you, as his mother, must see the better parts of his character. I think you underestimate your son.”
Something raw and desolate flashed across Amelia’s features. She gave a short, sad laugh. “You don’t know what you speak of. Stuart is just like his father.”
Charlotte didn’t find that too flattering; Mr. Drake seemed about the coldest, bitterest man she’d ever met. Was Amelia warning her Stuart would be the same in time? That would be the direst warning imaginable. “And do not be fooled into thinking the love of the right woman will make a man better than he is,” continued Amelia. “Love is a fiction, for a man. He can never love a woman as much as she can love him. Above all, don’t marry for love, my dear; it will break your heart. There is nothing so terrible as being married to someone who doesn’t return your love.”
“I don’t love Stuart,” she whispered. “And he doesn’t love me.” Although she was suddenly a little less sure of the former, the latter was undeniable.
“Good.” Amelia lifted her teacup again, her polite smile restored. “It will save you a world of heartache. Other ladies have not been so fortunate.”
“Other ladies?” Charlotte echoed in confusion. Again she thanked her lucky stars she wasn’t a mother; she wouldn’t be able to survive her daughter falling for adventurers and fortune hunters, and she could never warn other women away from her son. Her maternal fancies had only covered children to a certain age, never into the years when they would be adults. When did a mother’s responsibility end?
“Other ladies who have fallen for Stuart,” clarified Amelia gently. “It ended badly for all of them. One was sent into the country in disgrace, and the other was quickly married to a cousin who was willing to overlook her dishonor.”
“Anne Hale,” said Charlotte, staring at her. “Eliza Pennyworth.”
Amelia looked away. “Two young ladies in the course of a month. Terrance was justified.”
Suddenly Charlotte didn’t know. She had repeated the rumors to Louise Kildair, but by the time the gossip had circulated back to her, it reported Stuart all but seducing one girl in front of her horrified grandmother. The supposed elopement with Eliza Pennyworth had become an abduction. If her little bit of tattle could grow so monstrous in a week, how much might it have grown before she heard it the first time?
“Mrs. Drake,” she began, “you have been very direct with me. May I ask a similarly direct question of you?”
“Of course.”
“Why does Mr. Drake dislike his son so?”
Amelia’s expression closed. “Terrance has been so disappointed in Stuart; he hoped to raise him to be a better man than—than he has become.” Charlotte wondered at that stumble, but Amelia went on. “But Stuart turned out wild—impossibly so. Everything Terrance wished him to do, Stuart refused, and everything Terrance warned him against, Stuart pursued.”
“But he is a man now. Surely Mr. Drake will not hold the recklessness of youth against him his whole life.”
“You are assuming he has reformed.”
Her tone ended the discussion; clearly Mrs. Drake, for all that she loved her son, still believed the worst of him. Charlotte was amazed in spite of herself. Her father, at least, had needed the terrible truth proven beyond all doubt before he turned her out. Perhaps he had done her a favor, for Charlotte truly didn’t know which was worse: being cast out never to return, or always subject to suspicions and judgment from the very family one was dependent upon. “I have found him quite honorable,” she said slowly. “And I know rumors can exaggerate.”
“My dear Madame Griffolino.” Amelia took her hand. “Stuart is my only child. I adore him, and I confess, I invited you to stay here so that I might see him more. But I am not blind to his faults, and don’t wish you to be. It is easy for us women to be swept away by feelings and emotions, and I would be very sad to see you betrayed. The terrible lesson of your own niece has persuaded me to speak.”
Charlotte didn’t know what to think. She did know, from cruel experience, how easily a charming man could steal a woman’s heart. Most of what Mrs. Drake said was gospel truth, as far as Charlotte was concerned. But it was Stuart Mrs. Drake spoke of, not the heartless cad who had ruined her all those years ago or the nameless villain who had abducted Susan. Despite plentiful opportunities, and motive provided by Charlotte herself, Stuart had taken pains not to hurt Susan; he had convinced her she was Juliet, of all people, to avoid breaking her heart.
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