Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Volume One

by Emily Larkin

  If Charlotte died, if she changed back into herself . . . He couldn’t leave a footman to cope with that.

  But that wasn’t the only reason that kept him here at her side, unable to sleep.

  Charlotte loved him. And she might die. And he couldn’t leave her.

  * * *

  Dr. Baillie returned at six o’clock that evening. “Didn’t take my advice, I see, sir.”

  Marcus grunted. He pushed up out of the armchair. His joints seemed to creak, as if he’d aged thirty years in the course of the day.

  Baillie examined Albin. “No fever. No infection. I’d say he’s out of danger.”

  “But he still hasn’t woken.”

  “He will.” Baillie pulled the bedcovers up, smoothed them, then turned to face Marcus. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Do I have to get your servants to slip you some laudanum?”

  Marcus’s lips twitched in a smile. “I’d like to see you try.”

  Baillie laughed, a small harrumph of sound. “Sleep, or I will.” He turned towards the door.

  “Mr. Albin will live?”

  Baillie halted and looked back. “In my professional opinion, yes.”

  Marcus stood motionless for several minutes after the doctor had left. Relief made him feel light-headed, or maybe it was exhaustion. He rang for Fellowes. “A trestle bed, set up in here.”

  “For one of the footmen, sir?”

  “For me.”

  * * *

  Marcus had intended to check on Charlotte every hour, but he fell asleep within seconds of his head touching the pillow and didn’t wake until the shutters were opened. Weak daylight streamed into the room.

  He yawned and rubbed his face. Stubble rasped beneath his hands. “What’s the time?”

  “Nine o’clock, sir.” The voice was Leggatt’s.

  “Nine!” Marcus threw back the covers and hurried to the four-poster bed.

  Albin had moved in the night. He no longer lay like a corpse, arms and legs straight. His head was turned to the side, one leg was bent, his left hand curled by his cheek. His breathing was even, peaceful.

  Leggatt came to stand alongside him. “Looks like he’ll wake today, sir.”

  “Yes.” And once Charlotte woke, what then?

  * * *

  Marcus reread Charlotte’s letter while he ate breakfast. When he’d finished, he was no closer to knowing what to do. Charlotte had deceived him, but her deceptions had been nothing like Lavinia’s, her motivations not vanity and greed and a desire to hurt him. On the contrary, she’d tried to protect him. Had risked her life for him more than once.

  And she claimed to love him.

  But so had Lavinia.

  He rubbed his forehead, pressing skin against bone. What to do? The faces Charlotte had shown him were remarkably congruent with one another, but how could he know—truly know—that they were real and not an enticing façade?

  A footman entered the breakfast parlor, carrying a silver teapot. “More tea, sir?”

  “Thank you.”

  Marcus watched the man pour, and thought about servants, and then took his steaming teacup to the library and looked up the Westcote baronetcy in Debrett’s Baronetage, Knightage, and Companionage. Near the village of Halstead, in Essex. He found Halstead on the map, and rang for Fellowes.

  “Sir?”

  “I’m going into Essex. To Halstead. Have my traveling carriage ready in an hour—no, make it a post-chaise.” He didn’t want to arrive at Halstead in a carriage with his arms blazoned on the door. “Someone is to stay with Mr. Albin every minute I’m away. If he takes a turn for the worse, send for Dr. Baillie and inform me immediately. I’ll be putting up at whatever inn Halstead has, under the name of Langford.”

  “Yes, sir.” If Fellowes was surprised by this sudden journey, he didn’t show it.

  “I expect to be gone three days. When Mr. Albin wakes, don’t let him leave this house. He’s to stay until I return.”

  Marcus repeated the instructions to his valet, with one additional command: “Look after Mr. Albin as you would myself.”

  “Of course, sir.” Leggatt briskly placed folded shirts in a valise, starched neckcloths, a change of collars. “Don’t worry about Mr. Albin. We’ll take good care of him.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  November 2nd, 1805

  Grosvenor Square, London

  Marcus left London pristine beneath a mantle of snow, and returned to find the city wet and filthy. Gray piles of snow lay melting in the middle of Grosvenor Square, icy sludge filled the gutters, and water dripped steadily from the eaves.

  He took the steps two at a time to his front door. “Mr. Albin?” he asked, stripping off his gloves in the entrance hall. “How is he?”

  “Weak as a kitten, sir,” Fellowes said. “But Mr. Leggatt had him sitting up today.”

  “Excellent.” Some of the tension he’d been carrying in his shoulders eased.

  “Frederick and Oliver arrived back from Derbyshire not two hours ago, sir,” Fellowes said, taking his hat. “I’m afraid I gave them the rest of the day off, as I didn’t expect you back so early, but if you’d like to talk with them—”

  “Tomorrow’s fine.” Marcus shrugged out of his greatcoat. So many things to deal with: retrieving his political reputation, Monkwood’s suicide, Phillip—but those could all wait. “I’ll see Mr. Albin now.”

  “I believe he’s asleep, sir.”

  Damnation.

  “Would you like luncheon, sir?”

  What he wanted was to speak with Charlotte. The urgency that had driven him to travel through the night hadn’t lessened now that he was home. If anything, it was stronger.

  “Sir? Would you like luncheon?”

  Damn it. “Yes.”

  * * *

  Leggatt fussed over her. She was washed and combed and shaved, her teeth cleaned, her nails trimmed, as pampered and polished as if she were Cosgrove himself. “There,” the valet said, with a final flourish of the comb.

  “Thank you.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Albin. We’re all very happy to see you recovered.”

  Leggatt helped her dress—freshly laundered nightshirt, brocade dressing gown, slippers—carefully tied her right arm in a sling and supported her to the winged armchair beside the fire. He spread a large cashmere shawl over her knees, then positioned a second armchair across from her. “I’ll fetch his lordship.”

  Charlotte’s stomach clenched. I’d rather you didn’t. But she had to face the earl before she left, had to thank him for his care of her.

  She stared down at the shawl. It was woven in shades of brown and gold, with a tasseled fringe.

  None of the servants who’d looked after her the past three days had mentioned her falling-out with the earl, but they must all be wondering. Cosgrove had dismissed her from his service, banned her from his house—and then brought her back and looked after her.

  Why had he brought her to Grosvenor Square?

  Why had he stayed at her bedside for two days and nights?

  How easily one’s mind leapt to foolish conclusions. If the earl had brought her back to Grosvenor Square, if he’d stayed at her bedside, he’d done it out of a sense of duty.

  Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut against memory of Hyde Park: the angularity of Cosgrove’s face, the hatred in his eyes, the cold and implacable anger in his voice.

  Footsteps sounded in the corridor.

  She opened her eyes and watched the earl step into the doorway. Her stomach contracted into a tighter knot.

  There was no emotion in Cosgrove’s eyes as he examined her. His face was expressionless, remote.

  Charlotte tried to swallow, but her throat was too tight. “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “Good afternoon.” Cosgrove closed the door. “You’re looking much better. How do you feel?”

  “Fine, sir,” Charlotte said, ignoring the exhaustion, the ache in her shoulder.

  Cosgrove crossed to the second armchair. “A sling
, I see.”

  “Yes, sir. Dr. Baillie says I can go back to Chandlers Street in a day or two.” The words were stilted in her mouth. This—being in the same room as the earl, making meaningless conversation—was almost as excruciating as her first meeting with him as Miss Brown.

  We’re both pretending.

  Her deception, Cosgrove’s fury—those things lay just below the surface, politely ignored.

  “You’ll stay until you’re properly on your feet again. Whether you realize it or not, you came within a hair’s breadth of dying.” Cosgrove crossed his legs. His pose was casual, but he didn’t look relaxed. There was a stiffness in his limbs, a stiffness in his face.

  An awkward silence fell. Charlotte looked down at her lap, counting the seconds as they lumbered past. Four. Five. Six.

  Cosgrove spoke: “I must thank you for your actions on Monday. I had anticipated an ambush, but not . . . what happened. I didn’t think Monkwood personally capable of violence. It’s possible you saved my life.”

  Charlotte glanced up, and shook her head. “You would have knocked him down.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Cosgrove tugged at his neckcloth, as if it was too tight. “And I must apologize for my behavior at Hyde Park. It was unpardonably rude.”

  She shook her head again. “You treated me as I deserved, sir. It was I who behaved unpardonably.”

  His eyebrows pinched together. “You were injured—”

  “You didn’t know that, sir. I didn’t even know.”

  Cosgrove’s frown didn’t ease. His face had a familiar angularity to it, but she didn’t think it was rage he felt. Guilt? Did he blame himself for her injury?

  Charlotte looked down at her lap. She wound her fingers in the shawl’s fringe.

  “Charlotte?”

  She looked up.

  “Will you please change into yourself?”

  She shrank back in the armchair. “I’d prefer not to, sir, if . . . if you don’t mind.” Albin’s face was a mask, a barrier between herself and the earl. If she wore her own face he’d be able to see her much more clearly.

  Cosgrove’s mouth tightened fractionally. She couldn’t quite read his expression. Discomfort?

  He crossed his legs the other way and tugged at his neckcloth again. “Did Leggatt tell you where I’ve been?”

  Charlotte shook her head.

  “Essex. Westcote Hall.”

  For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t shock that choked her lungs; it was horror. Charlotte forced herself to inhale, forced herself to speak: “Did you ask my uncle to take me back?”

  “I didn’t meet with him. I talked to some of the servants.”

  She blinked. “The servants? Why?”

  “To ask them about you.”

  “Me?” Why?

  Cosgrove must have read the question on her face, because he answered it: “To see if you’re who I think you are.”

  “Oh.” Charlotte looked down at the cashmere shawl and smoothed the fringe with the palm of her hand. Do I want to know what the servants thought of me?

  Pity. They’d pitied her. And perhaps—

  “I spoke with the housekeeper, the butler, and two of the maids. They were relieved to hear you’re safe in London. The housekeeper cried.”

  Charlotte glanced up. “Cried? Mrs. Heslop?”

  “She’s been extremely worried about you. She wanted to send you some money to tide you over.”

  “Money?” Charlotte said, horrified. “From her savings? I couldn’t accept that!”

  “I persuaded her that you had sufficient funds.”

  “Thank you.” The horror subsided. In its place was shame. “I’ll write to her at once.”

  “Do that.” The earl shifted in the armchair, as if he was uncomfortable. He uncrossed his legs, then crossed them again. “Charlotte, will you please change into yourself? I . . . I have something I wish to say to you.”

  Charlotte cringed inwardly. If she showed Cosgrove her real face, it would be like stripping naked in front of him. “One of the servants might see me.”

  “I gave orders we weren’t to be disturbed.”

  Charlotte looked down at her lap again. She twisted the shawl’s fringe between her fingers.

  Cosgrove stood. He walked to her armchair, placed a hand on each upholstered arm, and leaned over her. There was nothing threatening about his stance; if anything, it was suppliant. “Charlotte . . . please. I’m begging you.”

  Charlotte closed her eyes tightly. How could she deny his request when he spoke like that, his voice low and pleading?

  The cringing sensation in her chest grew stronger.

  Charlotte inhaled a shallow breath and wished herself back into her own shape. Magic itched over her skin. When she opened her eyes, her vision was blurred. She didn’t correct it; she didn’t want to see the earl clearly. She kept her head bowed, her gaze lowered.

  “Thank you.” Cosgrove smoothed a strand of hair back from her brow, his touch light, as if she were fragile, breakable. His fingers stroked down her cheek, then tilted her chin upward. He bent his head and laid his mouth on hers for a moment, softly, gently.

  The world seemed to lurch sideways. “But . . . but you hate me, sir.”

  “No.” The earl kissed her again, then straightened and felt in his pocket. “Here, I forgot you need these.” He held out her spectacles.

  Charlotte put them on clumsily with her left hand. Thoughts spun in her head in a confused, jerky dance. Cosgrove didn’t hate her? He’d kissed her?

  The room came into focus. The earl’s face came into focus. Gray eyes, strong nose, black eyebrows. He lowered to a crouch in front of her. “Charlotte . . . you were extremely honest in your letter. I shall try to be as honest.” He took her left hand in both of his. “I liked Christopher Albin a lot. And . . . I liked Miss Brown a lot, too. The reason I asked you to be my mistress was because I wanted you in my life.” Color crept along his cheekbones, as if the admission embarrassed him. “I think I know who you are, as a person, and . . . I like that person. And so . . .” He swallowed, and took a deep breath. “Will you please marry me?”

  Charlotte stared at him. Cosgrove wasn’t offering her a choice between secretary or mistress; he was offering her marriage.

  Impossible.

  “You want to marry me?” The words were awkward on her tongue, oddly shaped.

  Cosgrove nodded, his gaze fixed on her face. “We’d be happy together, don’t you think?”

  “But, sir—”

  “Marcus.”

  “But I’m not well-born enough for you! You’re an earl and I’m . . . I’m nobody.”

  “The granddaughter of a baronet and of a general is not nobody. Your birth is perfectly respectable.”

  Charlotte bit her lip. Perhaps she’d misunderstood his offer. “You’re proposing a . . . a marriage of convenience?”

  Cosgrove’s face relaxed into a smile. “No, you goose. A love match.”

  “But . . . you don’t love me.”

  The earl’s smile faded. His grip on her hand tightened until it almost hurt. “I do. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

  The world lurched sideways again. He loves me? “But I deceived you, sir.”

  “Marcus. My name is Marcus, not sir.”

  Charlotte flushed. “I deceived you . . . Marcus.”

  “You did. But I find I still trust you.” His gaze was so intense she could scarcely breathe. It was as if those gray eyes looked into her soul. “Am I wrong to do so?”

  Tears blurred her vision. Charlotte blinked them back. “No.”

  “Then . . . you’ll marry me?”

  She saw how much her answer mattered to him—the painful intensity of his gaze, the tension in his body, the way he held his breath. He truly wants to marry me.

  Charlotte’s throat was too tight for speech. She nodded.

  Cosgrove released his breath. “Thank you.”

  The world still hadn’t quite settled back into
place. She felt as if everything was tilted fractionally. Charlotte looked down at their linked hands. Marriage. To Cosgrove. It was a dream, as unreal as finding a Faerie in one’s bedchamber. And yet that was real. And so is this.

  Scabs ridged the earl’s knuckles. The skin was gray with bruises.

  “Your hands, what happened?”

  “The punching bag. Charlotte . . .” Cosgrove leaned closer, his face suddenly serious. “I must ask that you don’t use your magic until I have an heir. I’m sorry, but I can’t risk the earldom.”

  “I’ll never use my magic again. Ever. I promise.” And then she remembered Monkwood. “Except to protect you. Sir—I mean, Marcus—Gerald Monkwood is dangerous! Even if he leaves for Australia he could hire someone—”

  “Monkwood’s dead. He jumped from the roof at Hazelbrook. Did no one tell you?”

  “No.” Charlotte blinked, and turned this unexpected fact over in her mind, examining it. “Do you think he may have hired someone to murder you?”

  Cosgrove shook his head. “He killed himself on Monday, at dusk. He must have left London immediately after our altercation. He had no time to hire anyone.”

  “Oh.” Charlotte calculated the distances in her head. Cosgrove was correct. Relief surged through her. “I’m glad he’s dead.”

  “So am I.” The earl’s grip tightened on her hand. “He almost killed you.”

  His gaze—intense, fierce—caught hers. Charlotte found herself unable to look away, unable to think clearly. She blinked, and swallowed, and tried to find coherency. “I give you my word I’ll never use magic again.”

  His fierceness eased. “Don’t say that. I confess . . . I envy you. I should very much like to be able to fly.”

  Cosgrove was telling the truth; she heard it in his voice, saw it in his wry smile. He wished he could fly.

  “Perhaps I’ll use it one day,” Charlotte conceded. “But I promise I’ll never do it without your knowledge. And not until we’ve had children. Lots of children.”

  “Thank you.” Cosgrove lifted her hand to his lips, kissed it, and then sat back on his heels and studied her, his head tilted slightly to one side. “You look charming in those spectacles.”