Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Volume One

by Emily Larkin

  “To fly?” Albin blinked, then laid his knife and fork neatly on his plate and pushed it away. “Flying is . . . Exhilarating. But also terrifying.” He broke off a small bunch of grapes. “It’s . . . I don’t know quite how to explain it, sir, but when I’m a bird I feel exposed. Like there’s a cat I haven’t seen, or a hawk waiting to swoop on me.” He pulled the grapes off their stems. “I feel much safer as a person.”

  “You said your mother could fly. Did she teach you?”

  Albin shook his head. “She died when I was young. I suppose she was planning to tell me when I was older.” He looked down at the grapes and arranged them in a circle on his side plate. “I didn’t know about the magic until a few weeks ago. I don’t think my father knew either. He had enough time to tell me before he died.” Albin frowned and pushed the last grape into place with a fingertip. “My mother must have kept it a secret from him.”

  The circle of grapes was oddly familiar. Marcus stared at it. Where had he seen it before? Recollection teased at him.

  Grapes. Arranged in a lopsided circle . . .

  The recollection clicked into place. Last night. Charlotte had made a circle with grapes while she talked.

  The room tilted and seemed to swing around him. Marcus squeezed his eyes shut against dizziness. Fragments of memory whirled in his head: things Albin had done, things Charlotte had said.

  “Sir?”

  He opened his eyes and stared at the grapes, stared at Albin.

  The fragments settled into place in his head and made a whole picture.

  Albin is Charlotte.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Rage surged through him, contracting his muscles and heating his blood, clogging his throat. Flesh, blood, bone, breath—all was rage.

  Marcus pushed to his feet so abruptly that his chair fell over.

  “Sir? What’s wrong?”

  I’ve been making love to a man. He’d kissed Albin. He’d fucked him.

  “Sir?” Albin said again. “What—”

  “You’re Charlotte.”

  Albin froze with his mouth partly open. Silence was loud in the room—it roared in Marcus’s ears—and beneath it was the bellow of fury in his blood, the violent thump of his heart.

  Albin closed his mouth. He swallowed. “I . . . I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

  “Don’t lie to me!” Marcus’s voice was a shout. This was worse than Lavinia’s adultery, a greater violation of trust than Barnaby’s betrayal. Albin had tricked him into having sex with him. Sex. With a man.

  Marcus seized the tablecloth and ripped it off the table. The sound of china and glass smashing fueled his rage. “You are Charlotte.” He balled the tablecloth in his fists. “Charlotte is a man.”

  Albin scrambled to his feet. “No, sir. You’ve got it wrong.”

  Rage consumed him. He shook with it. Burned with it. “Get out!”

  “It’s Albin who’s not real.” Albin’s words fell over themselves. “I’m not a man. My name is Charlotte Christina Albinia—”

  “Get out!” Marcus roared.

  Albin closed his mouth. He swallowed. He was starkly pale. Tears stood in his eyes. He turned and walked to the door.

  “Don’t you dare set foot in this house again—in any shape or form.” Marcus’s voice was rough with fury, rough with loathing. “Stay away from me. Otherwise I swear to God I’ll kill you!”

  Albin stepped out into the corridor and closed the door.

  Marcus’s breathing was loud and harsh in the silence. Rage bellowed inside him. He wanted to upend the table and smash the chairs and rip the curtains from their rails. And most of all, he wanted to draw blood. Albin’s blood.

  The door opened cautiously, revealing the butler. “Sir?”

  Marcus clenched his hands around the balled-up tablecloth. “Mr. Albin is not to be admitted to this house ever again, under any circumstances. If . . .” How to explain Albin’s ability to change shape? Fellowes would think he was as mad as King George. “If anyone you don’t know asks to see me, deny them entrance.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Marcus threw the tablecloth aside and strode to the door. The butler stepped hastily out of his way.

  “I’ll be down in the cellar. Don’t let anyone disturb me.”

  * * *

  He spent the rest of the afternoon punching the sawdust-filled bag in the cellar. Rage and fury spilled out of him, filling the room with a smoky, crackling heat.

  I fucked a man. It was a chant in his head. I. Fucked. A man.

  Thirst burned in his throat. Sweat soaked his hair, ran down his face, dripped off his chin. There was blood on the bag now, each blow brought a spurt of pain, but he didn’t put on the padded gloves. His rage needed pain, needed blood. I. Fucked. A man.

  * * *

  “Sir!” his valet said, aghast, when he entered his bedchamber. “What happened?”

  Marcus ignored the question. “A bath.” He stripped off his shirt and used it to wipe his face.

  “Yes, sir. The tub’s almost full. Mr. Fellowes said you were in the cellar so I took the liberty of ordering up hot water . . . Your hands, sir. They’re bleeding!”

  “Almost full?” Marcus headed for his dressing room. Yes, a steaming brass tub stood in the center of the rug. He bent and tried to prize off his boots.

  “Allow me, sir.” Leggatt knelt, removing the boots with swift expertise.

  Marcus grunted his thanks. He stripped out of his clothes. They were soaked with sweat, flecked with blood. “Throw them away,” he said, and stepped into the steaming water.

  “Your hands, sir—”

  “Don’t fuss.” Albin had fussed. Had tried to protect him. Tried to seduce him. “And bring me a glass of brandy. A big one.”

  * * *

  The brandy helped. His rage receded slightly. Marcus rested the glass on the edge of the tub, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. He heard Leggatt moving in the bedroom, laying out clothes for the evening. He heard the shutters rattle, heard wind snarl in the chimney. Heard Albin’s voice: It’s Albin who’s not real. My name is Charlotte Christina Albinia—

  Marcus opened his eyes. Fury rekindled in his chest. How dared Albin try to lie? Try to make his deceit less than it was?

  He gulped another mouthful of brandy.

  Memory teased at the edges of his mind. He remembered Albin’s nervousness at Mrs. Henshaw’s brothel. Remembered his appalled expression when they’d walked in on Phillip and the whores. Remembered his question: Was she trying to play a tune on his cock?

  Marcus sipped the brandy, scowling, sifting through the memories, examining them. The moment of insight didn’t come suddenly, as it had at luncheon; it crept up on him slowly, one piece of evidence laid upon another.

  Albin hadn’t known how to punch, or ride a horse, or tie a neckcloth. He hadn’t known the slang names for a cock. He hadn’t known what a sheath was.

  Marcus’s scowl deepened. He heard Albin’s voice again: Was she trying to play a tune? Only someone with complete ignorance of male anatomy could have asked such a question.

  The fragments of information settled into place again in his head—but this time, they made a different pattern.

  Albin wasn’t a man. He was Charlotte. No, she was Charlotte.

  Charlotte Christina Albinia. Christopher Albin.

  Marcus swallowed the last of the brandy, almost choking on it. His rage built.

  Albin had been a woman.

  He’d sworn in front of her. Used words like cock and shit and fuck. He’d discussed sex with her. Taught her to punch. Taken her to a brothel.

  Marcus hissed between his teeth. He put the glass on the floor and stood, shedding water. He grabbed the towel and dried himself roughly, fury smoldering in his chest.

  Lavinia. Barnaby. Albin. Charlotte. People he’d trusted. People who had betrayed him.

  Four times a fool.

  Albin hadn’t been his best friend, Charlotte hadn’t been his wife—but this b
etrayal hurt just as badly. He’d been on the brink of friendship with Albin. On the brink of loving Charlotte.

  Marcus hissed between his teeth a second time. His hands clenched around the blood-smeared towel. He wanted to go downstairs and take his rage out on the punching bag again.

  “Sir, allow me to dress your hands.” Leggatt stood in the doorway.

  Charlotte wasn’t worth so much emotion. She wasn’t worth even one drop of his blood.

  Marcus unclenched his hands. He laid down the towel. “Do your best, Leggatt.”

  * * *

  He was dry, clothed, and on his third glass of brandy when a footman knocked on the bedroom door. “A message for you, sir. Marked urgent.”

  Marcus scowled. It would be from Charlotte. “Throw it in the fire.”

  The footman blinked. “Sir?”

  Or it could be from Grenville or Fox. “Give it here.”

  The Earl of Cosgrove. Urgent. The handwriting was in block letters, disguised. Not Grenville or Fox.

  Marcus ripped open the letter.

  Dear Lord Cosgrove,

  I have come into the possession of some information that I believe may interest you, namely, the identity of the person who commissioned the scurrilous letter about you. If you will do me the honor of meeting with me at the monument of Britannia in Hyde Park at half past nine tomorrow morning, I shall be pleased to share my knowledge with you.

  Yours sincerely,

  A Friend.

  Marcus grunted. Did Monkwood believe he’d fall into so obvious a trap?

  He reread the lines. Nine thirty. An early hour for Monkwood. So I won’t think it’s him.

  Marcus folded the letter. The Britannia monument was an isolated spot. Had Monkwood hired replacements for the Smiths? Would those replacements be waiting for him? Would Monkwood be watching?

  How am I to die? Cudgels? Or knives?

  * * *

  Charlotte had cried when her mother died, when her father died, but she’d never cried this deeply, this despairingly. She’d never felt as alone as she did now.

  My own fault.

  She had deceived the earl, abused his trust, hurt him. Just like his dead wife.

  And like the dead countess, she’d engineered her own downfall.

  Except that hurting the earl hadn’t been deliberate, any more than falling in love with him had been.

  She huddled in front of the fire, shivering, aching with grief, aching with loss and despair.

  Eleven days. That’s all it had taken. To meet Cosgrove. To love him. To lose him.

  Charlotte bowed her head and wept more tears. The future stretched in front of her, bleak and barren. To never see Cosgrove again. Never talk with him. Never see his face light up with laughter, never see him scowl in concentration. How will I survive?

  The question answered itself: She could be a footman. A housemaid. She could watch Cosgrove from a distance. Perhaps even exchange a few words with him from time to time.

  Charlotte raised her head and stared into the flames. What kind of existence would that be? Surviving on glimpses of him, on scraps of overheard conversations. Watching his life unfold—career, family—but having no part in it.

  The answer was easy: Such an existence would eat away at her sanity and make her as mad as an inmate of Bedlam. Instead of independence, she would create a prison for herself.

  And I’d be deceiving him, pretending to be someone I’m not.

  No. She had made her own bed. Unlike the countess, she would lie in it. She would leave London, leave Cosgrove.

  But first, I must apologize to him.

  She owed him an explanation—but no excuses. No pleas for forgiveness. What she’d done was inexcusable. Unforgivable.

  * * *

  The letter took three hours to write. When it was finished, Charlotte looked at the pages, the smudged ink, the words crossed out and rewritten. And so it ends.

  She washed her face, washed her ink-stained fingers, and copied the letter neatly—no smudges, no mistakes, no splotches from tears—and signed her name and sealed it.

  Charlotte shrugged into her greatcoat, put on her hat and gloves, and let herself out. Darkness had fallen. The streets were almost a foot deep in snow. A few flakes drifted lightly down.

  She walked to Grosvenor Square. The curtains were drawn at the earl’s residence, but a few slivers of light laid themselves across the snow.

  Charlotte stood in the darkness, in the snow, shivering, staring up at the house. She’d wanted independence; instead, she was bound more tightly to Cosgrove than she’d ever been bound to the Westcotes.

  She made herself climb the steps and knock on the door. Fellowes opened it. His face gathered into disapproving folds when he recognized her. “You are not allowed admittance, Mr. Albin.”

  “I know.” Charlotte held out the letter. “Can you please give this to the earl? It needn’t be tonight. Perhaps . . . perhaps tomorrow?”

  Fellowes hesitated, then took the letter.

  “Thank you, Fell—”

  The door closed.

  Charlotte leaned her forehead against the icy door and squeezed her eyes shut against tears. I love you, sir.

  Tomorrow was the anniversary of his wife’s death. A dangerous date. Whether Cosgrove wanted her help or not, she would give it. But after tomorrow . . .

  I must go. I must start again.

  Happiness she would leave behind in London, but independence was something she could still strive for.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  October 28th, 1805

  Grosvenor Square, London

  Marcus read his mail while he ate breakfast. His hands ached each time he wielded the knife and fork or unfolded a letter, the scabs across his knuckles threatening to split open. His head ached too; from last night’s brandy, from last night’s rage.

  The third letter was thick, addressed in familiar handwriting. He started to break the seal—then recognition came. Albin. Charlotte.

  Rage thundered in his chest. Marcus screwed the letter into a ball and threw it at the fireplace. It hit the grate and bounced off, coming to rest on the hearth.

  Fellowes entered the breakfast parlor. “The carriage will be round in half an hour, sir.”

  Marcus thrust back his chair. “I’ll need two—no, make it three—footmen. Howard and Felix and . . .” Who else among the footmen was young and strong? “Arthur.” He crossed to the fireplace and threw the crumpled letter into the grate. “Tell them to dress warmly, they may be standing outside for some time. And Fellowes . . . tell them they may need to use their fists.”

  The letter flared alight and burned swiftly into ashes.

  “I’ll see to it at once,” Fellowes said.

  * * *

  Charlotte crouched in the corridor outside Monkwood’s bedroom, a mouse. Smells invaded her nose: furniture polish and candle wax, coal dust, bacon and coffee, a chamber pot stink.

  It was barely eight thirty, yet light came from beneath the bedroom door and her ears caught the low murmur of voices. Was Monkwood awake?

  The crack beneath the door was too narrow for a mouse. Charlotte changed into a lizard. The smells became duller, the colors brighter, the sounds harder to hear.

  She eased beneath the door.

  Yes, Monkwood was awake. Candles blazed in sconces and candelabra.

  An ocean of carpet stretched before her. A bed reared up from it, an immense island draped in crimson and gold hangings. Someone moved on the other side of the bed; she felt the vibration of footsteps.

  “A black waistcoat, sir?” The voice was muffled, as if something blocked her ears.

  “Yes, yes. Everything black today.”

  Charlotte scuttled across the carpet and beneath the tasseled hem of the valance. She crept to the other side of the bed and peered out. Chair legs, cabinet legs, table legs.

  The floor quivered again. “Single-breasted or double-breasted, sir?”

  “Double, with the mother-of-pearl buttons.�
� Monkwood’s voice came from above her.

  Charlotte hesitated, uncertain what to do. She’d expected Monkwood to be asleep. Had expected to be able to explore the room without fear of being observed.

  I need a vantage point.

  On the far side of the expanse of carpet were tall curtains.

  Charlotte took a deep breath, slipped out from under the valance, and scuttled around the perimeter of the room, pressing close to the skirting board. The floor quivered to the rhythmic tread of the valet walking back and forth.

  Monkwood’s curtains were brocade, crimson heavily ridged with golden thread. Charlotte scaled them cautiously, hidden in the shadow of a fold. When she judged herself halfway up, she paused and looked out across the bedchamber. Her stomach gave a sickening swoop. Her claws dug into the fabric. So high.

  Gerald Monkwood sat in his bed, a tray across his lap, writing in a diary. A nightcap perched on his head. Stubble glinted on his soft cheeks. On the bedside table were the remains of a breakfast. The bacon she’d smelled, and the coffee.

  Charlotte stared at Monkwood. The first time she’d seen him, she’d thought he looked like Cupid. She still thought it. The plump cheeks were cherubic, as were the soft feminine mouth and the golden curls escaping from beneath the nightcap.

  How could so benign an exterior hide such darkness, such ugliness?

  The valet emerged from what she thought must be the dressing room. “Are you ready to be shaved, sir?”

  “Yes.” Monkwood closed the diary, placed it on his bedside table, and climbed out of bed.

  Charlotte inched her way back down the terrifying precipice of the curtain.

  At the washstand, the valet dipped a small towel in a basin of steaming water, wrung it out, and dampened Monkwood’s face.

  Charlotte scrambled over the hem of the curtain, her breath coming short and fast.

  The valet picked up the shaving brush.

  Now. While Monkwood had his eyes closed. While the valet lathered his master’s cheeks—