In the Arms of the Heiress (A LADIES UNLACED NOVEL)

by Maggie Robinson

  Hell, she’d have to go to church with the family. She hoped someone else had taken the initiative to do the flowers.

  And now she was thinking of flowers and church instead of weather with a man in her bed.

  Louisa lay still, listening for his breathing. She was much too keyed up to sleep, the air practically vibrating with Charles’s silk-clad maleness. How was she supposed to check on his welfare in a dark room? He might have a relapse, have more bad dreams. She was tempted to turn a light back on.

  That might disturb him—he needed his rest after the day he’d had. Tomorrow they’d start fresh—maybe he’d be well enough to join her in the little fifteenth-century church in the village. There would be no more accidents, and she and Charles could live happily ever after.

  Nursery rhymes and fairy tales. Sometimes one never outgrew one’s childhood, the longing for safety and warmth. Louisa did not expect to find such things at Rosemont, but she’d never had Charles Cooper as her champion before.

  He wanted to marry her, and said he wouldn’t try to interfere in her life. Was that possible? In her experience, men ruled the roost. Even her father, who’d loved her mother madly, had the final say in their lives. The seascapes on the wall of this bedroom were his collection. They’d died on his boat. If Grace deferred to anyone, it was to Hugh, her own son. Some would say a man’s dominance was the natural order of things. They were, after all, bigger, stronger, louder.

  But a tiny bee could fell a man. Louisa felt a determined buzz coming on.

  “Charles,” she whispered. “Are you asleep? I want you. That is, if you want me.”

  In seconds, she had her answer. He flipped so he was facing her, his white smile gleaming in the dark, his fingertips on her cheek.

  “I thought you’d never ask again. I was kicking myself for clinging to my virtue earlier.”

  “To hell with your virtue. Virtue is vastly overrated.”

  “I quite agree. Well, my darling, where exactly do you want me?”

  “Everywhere,” Louisa replied, thanking the star she wished on.

  Chapter

  32

  Sunday, December 6, 1903

  Charles was much improved, his color good and his spirits high. He was dressed already for church, whereas Louisa was still lounging about in her diaphanous peignoir over the breakfast table. The sausages had been resolutely ignored, and mushrooms of any kind were absent.

  She felt deliciously decadent, or as decadent as one ought to feel before one went to church. The evening had been a great success as far as she was concerned. The deepest part of the night as well. Several times. She grinned inwardly, trying not to gloat. It wouldn’t do to think she’d maneuvered to get Charles right where she wanted him, although to be honest they’d probably maneuvered each other.

  “Well, my dear, I think that’s about all my dicky stomach will take this morning.” Charles had left a corner of toast crust but had eaten some eggs and bacon, and drunk two cups of coffee. Cook had come upstairs with the footman, swearing she’d had a taste of everything on the tray herself. The poor woman said she’d set a watch on the larder all day and night so that everything coming from the kitchen was fresh and wholesome.

  “How many of me do you see?” Louisa teased. She could almost laugh about it now, but yesterday had been rather terrifying.

  “Only one, but one of you is enough for any man. Can I help you dress?”

  “You know if you started where we’d wind up, you wicked man,” Louisa said. “I’ll ring for Kathleen.”

  “I’ll mope about in my room until you’re ready.”

  Louisa put her teacup down. “Have you written in your journals since you’ve been here?”

  “I have not. We’ve been a trifle busy, haven’t we? And somehow”—Charles sat back, fiddling with a monogrammed cufflink—“I don’t have the urgency anymore. The despair I felt. It’s almost gone, a mere shadow of itself. Really, it is the oddest thing. I have been sleeping, and when I’m awake, I quite like my life as Maximillian Norwich. He’s been to Africa, but just on safari. Much more fun.” He gave her a shrug and a crooked smile.

  “I would like to read your journals sometime, though. If it wouldn’t be an invasion of your privacy.”

  “You would not like what’s in them, Louisa.”

  “I daresay, if you spoke of doing away with yourself.” If Charles was serious, if he truly meant to have a life with her, they would have to face his past. She’d been reckless, but he’d faced true demons and almost let them win.

  He gazed out the window, taking his time to speak. “You know, I don’t think I ever really meant it. I simply couldn’t see my way out of the hole I’d dug for myself. I’d killed my career, was half blind, alienated my family—I felt pretty damned sorry for myself. I feel now as if I’ve woken up from a bad dream—it’s as if I’m Cinderella and you are Prince Charming.”

  “Surely I’d be Princess Charming. Mrs. Evensong must be the fairy godmother.” She pictured the odd little woman with black wings to match her neat black dress.

  “Whoever she is, she’s bloody brilliant. I owe her quite a bit. Do you think we’ll hear from her soon?”

  “Oh! I forgot to tell you. I received a telegram from her yesterday while you were sleeping. She got Mr. Baxter to open up the bank. On a Saturday! Can you believe it?”

  “I do. I think Mrs. Evensong can get anybody to do anything. She got me here, and that in itself is a miracle.”

  Louisa remembered the squalid flat he lived in, bleakness in every corner. How depressed he must have been to accept that smelly room as his due. He’d been a war hero, for heaven’s sake. Charles Cooper had a fine-honed sense of honor and obligation, an instinct to protect. Lord, look what he did with his ghastly landlady when he thought they were under attack.

  Louisa wondered where her explosive little car was at this moment. She’d love to drive Charles about the countryside before it got unbearably cold. This warm weather was bound to change soon.

  Christmas was almost upon them. Grace would have arranged the festivities already, inviting the Merwyns, the Naismiths. Dr. Fentress and Mr. Baxter, too. Those familiar faces had surrounded her and hemmed her in most of her life.

  “You know Mr. Baxter was one of my trustees, and he’s managed my account since I came into my fortune.”

  “He hasn’t managed it very well if what you’ve told me is true.”

  “That’s what Mrs. Evensong’s determined to find out before she goes to the trouble of finding someone else for me. If worse comes to worst, I could transfer my funds to another institution, but that might mean a run on Stratton and Son. If I don’t have confidence in my own family’s bank . . .” Louisa let the sentence hang. Her grandfather would roll in his grave at her disloyalty. He’d worked hard to provide the standard of living the Strattons had enjoyed for the last fifty years.

  “I see. It’s tricky, isn’t it?”

  Louisa nodded. “Mr. Baxter was my grandfather’s friend. Perhaps in his advancing years, he’s not as sharp as he used to be. I know Grace has him wrapped around her little finger. Dr. Fentress, too. She can be utterly charming when she likes.”

  “I’d like to live long enough to find that out for myself,” Charles said.

  “Of course you’re going to live a long life!” The thought of killing him off as Max had made a complete retreat in her mind.

  “I hope so; I truly do.” Charles took her hand in his. “Thank you for last night. Even if all this proves . . . temporary, I’ve learned something I won’t forget.”

  His hand was warm. Safe, yet not safe. Louisa felt a flutter in her chest, reminding her to send him away so she could dress before they wound up back in her bed.

  “I really must ring for Kathleen. We’ll be late for church, and Aunt Grace will have a conniption. She’s probably already taken the brougham with Mis
s Spruce and Isobel.”

  “I assume Robertson will be driving us.”

  “Yes. You won’t be too fierce with him, will you? He’s awfully penitent.”

  “I’ve managed not to bite Kathleen’s head off, haven’t I? It was all her idea, anyway.”

  “Yes. You’ve been a brick. Kathleen is quite in awe of you now.”

  “I somehow doubt that. She’s seen me at a considerable disadvantage.” She’d held the bowl at least once while Louisa averted her eyes.

  “Even when you’d lost your senses, you were very sweet.”

  “What exactly did I say?”

  “Never mind.” She really couldn’t repeat his sexually suggestive language on a Sunday morning. She wriggled her hand away from his. “I have got to get dressed.”

  “I’ll meet you downstairs, then. Maybe I’ll get lucky and run into Hugh.”

  “Don’t pick a fight with him.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” Charles rose and straightened his jacket. “It’s been a while since I’ve attended a church service. I hope I remember what to do.”

  * * *

  The little chapel seemed unusually full to Louisa. She got the distinct impression that absolutely everyone in the vicinity had come to gawk at the prodigal daughter and her new husband. It had been a while since either she or Charles had sat through a church service—Louisa and Kathleen had explored the great cathedrals of Europe as art tourists, not worshippers. It had been novel to lie abed in a swank hotel sipping chocolate on a Sunday morning, listening to the church bells echo throughout Paris. Kathleen had said she was dooming her immortal soul, but Louisa hadn’t believed that. God must know her heart, bruised as it was.

  The altar flowers today resembled spiky dead weeds. She would make sure nothing interfered next week with a proper arrangement of Advent greenery. Charles had had a rocky welcome to Rosemont, but surely the next week would be uneventful. She’d have time for flowers, time to do some Christmas shopping in the village to give the local shops her custom. Maybe even go to London for a day or two to escape the atmosphere at home.

  Aunt Grace was not precisely filled with Christian charity when Louisa and Charles turned up in the family pew seconds before the service started. Thank heavens Hugh was not present, for fisticuffs in church would frighten poor Mr. Naismith right out of his cassock.

  Louisa listened with half an ear as he delivered his sermon, sang with little more enthusiasm as Mrs. Naismith pumped the old organ. Advent hymns were so dreary. Charles had a pleasant baritone, and it was temptation itself to stand so close to him to share the hymnal. Louisa’s thoughts strayed somewhat far afield from the “deeply wailing, deeply wailing, deeply wailing” lyrics. She really had nothing to wail about. Even if her homecoming had not been all it should have been, she hadn’t faced it alone. Charles had been at her side.

  Louisa glanced across the aisle at the Delacourt pew. Sir Richard held his own hymnal, but he was not singing. He looked bored but fortunately was not canvassing the church with his cold gray eyes and did not notice Louisa. His wife, Lady Blanche, did. She gave Louisa a shy smile, then busied herself with the next gruesome verse. Louisa had not really spoken to her old friend Blanche in nine years about anything of consequence. No more girlish confessions or giggling.

  Almost immediately after Louisa’s disgrace, Blanche had been wooed and won by Sir Richard, who’d suffered no apparent social ill effects from debauching Louisa. At first Louisa felt betrayed, but now she considered she had made a very lucky escape. It was poor Blanche who had to live with the horrible man, after all.

  There were two little girls between Blanche and a woman who must be their governess. The heir to the Priory was under a year old, and in his nursery this morning. Sir Richard had the perfect life—a rich, pretty wife, healthy children, and a fine ancestral home, and he was probably busy breaking his marriage vows with impunity.

  He hadn’t been locked in his room, denied company and forbidden to ride for years and years.

  Louisa was not feeling much Christian charity with the world at the moment. As if he sensed that, Charles put his hand on her waist and drew her closer. She now was snug against him, which warmed her body in the chilly church, and her spirits, too. Aunt Grace clucked her disapproval, but Isobel caught Louisa’s eye and winked.

  When they returned to the hard wooden pew, Charles kept his arm around her. Mr. Naismith didn’t object to this display of affection and rattled out the final blessing, looking squarely at Louisa. That warmed her, too.

  Louisa hadn’t expected the Delacourts to linger after church, and they didn’t. Perhaps someday she’d be friends with Blanche again, if Richard permitted it. If Louisa stayed at Rosemont, they’d bump into each other now that Louisa was free to go where she pleased. Not that the parish women’s group held any interest for her. She got antsy just thinking about sitting through a meeting with all Aunt Grace’s friends looking down their lorgnettes at her.

  “What’s on the agenda this afternoon?” Charles asked as he helped her into the Daimler.

  “We always have a huge lunch that feels like it’s going to last until suppertime. Sunday may be a day of rest, but not for the servants. Aunt Grace makes them all go to the early service so they can come back and work their hearts out.”

  “Shall we say I’m not up to it yet?”

  Louisa knew he was saying that for her, giving her an escape route. She shook her head. “We must be brave.”

  A half hour later, they were in the sunshine-filled dining room. Hugh was still missing, but the relatives and retainers were in full force. Once again, poor Charles was seated between Isobel and Grace, but he seemed to know how to handle them. Louisa heard honest laughter from her cousin, not the usual flirtatious trill. Charles ate sparingly under the watchful eye of Dr. Fentress opposite, and engaged her aunt in conversation that appeared relatively civilized. In fact, the whole meal was the most pleasant since she’d come home. It almost made Louisa think they could all live in harmony.

  Almost.

  Chapter

  33

  Charles had been persuaded by all concerned that he should rest the afternoon away, as if chewing his excellent lunch had been an arduous task. He would have preferred to “rest” with Louisa, but she had plans to steal the Daimler away from Robertson and ride around her property while the weather held. Though Charles trusted Louisa with his life, he was not prepared to get into a moving vehicle with her at the wheel just yet.

  So here he sat in the leather club chair in his shirtsleeves, an unread book in his lap. The waves below sparkled in the sun, inviting him to take a walk on the beach. He didn’t wish to incur Louisa’s opprobrium, however, so he leaned back and shut his eyes.

  He’d almost convinced himself to fall asleep, was in that half-life between relaxation and slumber, when there was a knock on his door.

  “Come.”

  Griffith entered, looking pained. “I do hate to disturb you after all your trials here at Rosemont, Mr. Norwich, but there is a lady downstairs who says she has come from London to speak with you and Miss Louisa.”

  Charles knew no ladies, from London or anywhere else. Somehow he couldn’t see Mrs. Jarvis riding the train through Kent, not that she knew where he was anyway.

  “Did she give her name?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. She’s most respectable. We’ve had dealings with her agency before, but of course I’ve never met her in person. It’s Mrs. Evensong.”

  Mrs. Evensong was here? Louisa said she’d received a telegram. Whatever the woman had found at the bank must have been urgent for her to visit unannounced on a Sunday afternoon.

  “I’ll be right down once I make myself presentable, Griffith.”

  “Do you want me to valet for you, Mr. Norwich?”

  “I still remember how to dress myself. Please make Mrs. Evensong welcome. I’ll be down in less
than a quarter of an hour.”

  Charles would change his shirt—in fact, he’d dress from the skin out, because somehow he was afraid Mrs. Evensong would suspect he was not wearing the fine linen smalls she’d ordered in such quantity for him. He’d gotten a little too casual with his clothing of late, especially when he’d had to do his own laundry. His underwear had been so ragged they barely did the job. Like a Scotsman, Charles didn’t have much under his trews.

  Charles crossed the room and opened the drawer. He suppressed a yelp as a flea landed drunkenly on his knuckle. He smacked it, doing himself an injury in the process, then stared down at the neatly folded clothes. The white fabric was dotted with tiny black bugs, all of which were, thankfully, dead. The drawers were lined with cedar and pennyroyal and rosemary, which had done their job. Someone had played a mean trick, but the kitchen cat was undoubtedly grateful its fleas had been transferred upstairs.

  Charles scooped out the clothes and tossed them out the window, where they blew across the lawn like giant snowflakes. Someone could fetch them and take them to the laundress, but just in case there were any survivors, he hoped they liked to fly. His skin began to itch from an imaginary attack and he wondered if he should toss the dresser out the window, too.

  Wait. There were his journals. Gingerly he pulled them out and shook them over the windowsill, the pages fluttering. They appeared undisturbed, for which he was thankful. Charles put them into the empty monogrammed trunk and turned the key. If the prankster had read the pages, surely the journals would have been taken to blackmail him with.

  So, no underwear in honor of Mrs. Evensong. He hoped she was not in possession of Röntgen’s experimental equipment. He dressed in haste, wiping himself down first to ward off any errant fleas, and raced down the stairs.

  Griffith was hovering in the hallway at the bottom of the staircase, and Charles explained about the bug infestation and asked that his room be inspected and cleaned thoroughly. The butler’s white eyebrows shot up when Charles confessed what he’d done with his underwear, and the man very nearly smiled.