Pentherbridge seemed all concern. ‘Of course, ma'am, here is a little room where you may recover yourself quite undisturbed.’ As he spoke, he ushered her into a small antechamber, the door to which was concealed by a heavy curtain. Thankfully, she sank onto a chaise longue, fanning herself and attempting, without success, to regain her composure.
‘Sir, you have been most kind,’ she told him, achieving a wan smile. ‘Could I impose on your kindness further, and ask you to send my mother to me here?’
‘No,’ answered Pentherbridge calmly, and turned the key in the lock.
‘What are you doing?’ demanded Miss Wrexham, sitting up very suddenly. ‘How dare you!’
‘Very easily, Miss Wrexham. There is something here I do not understand. First I am told that you are engaged to Ruthin, although it is obvious to me that there is no understanding between you whatsoever. The man has not glanced your way all evening. Now I find you completely distraught at the mere mention of my nephew's crime. I require an explanation, Miss Wrexham.’
‘I shall not give you one, if only for the unmannerly way you have taken advantage of this situation. This is not the action of a gentleman, sir!’
‘Maybe not, my dear, but I have some information that I think you would give a good deal to possess, if, as I conjecture, the life of my nephew is of importance to you.’
‘Information upon what subject?’ demanded Charlotte, suspiciously.
‘The murder, of course!’
‘Charles did not do it!’ she told him, her lovely eyes filling with sudden tears. ‘Oh, where is he? What can have happened to him?’
‘On that subject also, I have some information,’ he answered dryly.
‘For God's sake, tell me!’ she begged, her hands outstretched to him. ‘Please tell me!’
‘Not here, it is too dangerous. There is a reward out for Carlington, you know. We must be careful. We will meet. Can you slip away from the house?’
‘Yes, yes. Only tell me when!’
‘I will send a message to you. Now you had better return to the ballroom. Your absence may be noted.’
Quietly, Charlotte slipped back into the ballroom, her mind in a tumult. Every instinct warned her not to trust Pentherbridge, and yet she could not refuse to meet him.
She must hear what he had to say. Close as he was to Charles, he might know something. She remembered that Charles had been rather disparaging of his uncle; there was little love lost between them. Yet surely he would help to clear his nephew if he could. There was nothing for it but to await his summons and hear what he had to tell her. She thought fleetingly of consulting the Marquis, but he seemed preoccupied and more unapproachable than she had seen him previously.
It is hardly to be wondered at that the Marquis seemed less than sympathetic to his young friend. He was in a most unhappy situation, engaged as he was to marry the daughter of a woman he would have given all his large fortune to win. Those tender passions, long dormant since the death of his much-loved wife, had revived with startling swiftness during the weeks that the Wrexham ladies had been in town. The sophisticated Marquis was as much in love as any callow youth in the excitement of his first affair. He was, moreover, assured that his feelings were reciprocated, a fact which caused him additional pain. The temptation to disclose all was strong, but there was little opportunity for him to do so. Mrs Wrexham avoided any tête-à-tête with her daughter's fiancé and would indulge in the merest commonplace when conversing with him. In desperation, the Marquis was seriously considering writing to the lady and it was only the difficulty he felt in framing such a missive that had prevented him from taking this course.
For her part, Mrs Wrexham was struggling hard with her private bitterness, and if she could not rejoice in the match, she could at least hope with all her heart that the ill-matched couple would be happy. Concerned though she was about her daughter, she had not been blind to the rapid lowering of the spirits that Miss Milverly had recently displayed. She had tried, without success, to induce Amelia to confide in her; but, despite her reticence, the older woman had formed a very correct opinion as the cause of Miss Milverly's distress.
Mrs Wrexham watched Amelia now, as she went gracefully down the dance with her faithful admirer, and it was obvious to other eyes than her own that the two were taking the opportunity to enjoy a hearty quarrel.
Amelia was becoming more and more impatient to embark upon what she regarded as a great adventure. Naturally, she could not understand why Sebastian hesitated.
‘It can only mean that you do not care for me enough!’ she declared. ‘Why else do you leave me so uncertain?’
‘Amelia, darling, you know that is not so. I love you will all my heart. It is simply that I cannot believe that your father is so set against me as you think. Why, he has not so much as hinted me away. In fact, he's always been dashed pleasant. Besides, now that he is engaged himself, he is much more likely to permit our betrothal. Just think, darling, we could be married all right and tight with our parents' blessing if you would only wait until I come down from Oxford. It would only be for three years. Could you not wait that long for me?’
Amelia shrugged pettishly and made a little moue, but was prevented from replying as the movement of the dance separated them. Sebastian sighed. There were times when he would have given much to box his tiresome love's ears.
He was not permitted to continue the argument, as Amelia's hand was soon claimed by another gallant, and even Mrs Wrexham was not so indulgent a chaperone as to permit the young couple to devote themselves exclusively to one another for the entire length of the evening. Upon returning to her seat, Miss Milverly's hand was again solicited, but by a very different gentleman from callow youths who formed her usual court. This was one Sir Robert Chatham, who was presented by the Duchess herself as one who very much wished to be acquainted with her. Much flattered, Amelia arose gracefully from her seat at Mrs Wrexham's side and laid her hand in that of her partner. He was a floridly good-looking man of about thirty-five, dressed elegantly enough, yet with a touch of slovenliness which proclaimed him to be a sportsman rather than a dandy. She had seen him standing with the Prince's set and, although respectable persons might condemn the Prince's intimates, to Amelia there could not but be a certain glamour surrounding them.
As she took her place in the set, Amelia was conscious that Mr Edridge’s eye was upon her, and it was with the intention of punishing him that she raised her pretty head and bestowed upon her partner the most dazzling smile.
‘Now, why has a bewitching little creature like you been kept hidden away?’ demanded Chatham in a caressing tone. ‘My friend, the Prince, likes to see lovely little things like you about him, and so do I for that matter!
No one had ever addressed Miss Milverly with such freedom before; even Sebastian had always been extremely respectful. She should have resented his tone, but like many very young ladies, she mistook his familiarity for ease of manner and was too flattered by his words to resent the pressure upon her hand that went with them.
Nevertheless, she playfully reproved him. ‘Indeed, sir, you should not say such things. You will turn my poor head with such nonsense!’
Since this was precisely what Sir Robert, a most notorious fortune hunter, hoped to do, he made no attempt to deny the charge, merely smiling down at her in a way that made her heart flutter deliciously. Here was all the excitement her foolish heart craved. Poor Sebastian was quite eclipsed by this man of the world, this friend of Princes.
Before the end of the dance, an assignation had been made for the very next morning, and Amelia was returned to her duenna in a state of blissful anticipation. She was very sure that Sir Robert would be no “laggard in love”, in the words of her favourite poet, but would sweep her off on the road to Gretna with all the romance and ardour she could desire.
All in all, Miss Milverly was the only member of the Marquis' party who could be said to have enjoyed the evening. Miss Wrexham developed a headache soon after her shattering intervie
w with Pentherbridge, and was escorted home by her mother who had herself derived little enjoyment from the ball. Lady Northwood, deep in play, elected to return in Ruthin's carriage, and so mother and daughter were closeted together for the full length of the journey home. It was perhaps the first time they had been entirely alone since the morning of the duel, and each was conscious of constraint.
Mrs Wrexham made an attempt to chatter normally, but even in her own ears she sounded strained. She was interrupted by an impetuous gesture from her daughter, who cried: ‘Mama, please! My heart is breaking! Help me!’ With this, she cast herself upon her mother's bosom and cried until she had no tears left. Her mother held her tenderly stroking the shining resting against her heart, and murmuring the silly affectionate little nothings with which she had comforted a much younger Charlotte. It had its effect. Soon Miss Wrexham was able to sit up and, though still sobbing, was able to compose herself enough to account to her mama for her outburst.
‘Forgive me, dearest. I would not distress you for the world, but you of all people must be aware how Charles' disappearance, this awful silence, has tortured me. I do not know what I am going to do. Sometimes I think that I shall go mad if I do not find out what has happened to him!''
Mrs Wrexham took her daughter's hand and held it in a comforting clasp. ‘You love him as much as ever, do you not, my dear?’ she asked gently.
‘Oh, yes, Mama!’
‘But Charlotte, what if he did this dreadful thing? Do you know him well enough to be sure that he is innocent? Think carefully, my dear. I know he is a most charming and attractive young man, but we know very little of his actual character. You have known each other for so short a time.’
Charlotte regarded her mother soberly. ‘You are quite right. Our acquaintance has been short. I have nothing but my heart to guide me when I say that I am willing to stake all my hopes of future happiness, my life itself if need be, that my Charles has never in his life done a mean or dishonourable thing. I will never believe it! Never!’
Mrs Wrexham sighed. ‘I hope for your sake, my dear, that you are right. But if you still feel like this about Carlington, what in heaven's name induced you to become betrothed to Ruthin?’
Charlotte gave a shaky laugh. ‘Oh, that. That was all the stupidest misunderstanding. The Marquis was merely comforting me for I was in the greatest distress. He had just told me of Charles' disappearance, you see, and had put his arm around me just as you all came in. The poor man could do nothing, for there was my aunt congratulating him and dear Helen a witness to the whole. I believe his only thought was to protect me. I can never be sufficiently grateful for his kindness, but almost I wish that he had told the truth. If only it were not for you and my Aunt, I would want everyone to know that it is Charles I love and that I believe him to be innocent!’
Charlotte was not so wrapped up in her own concerns that she failed to notice the effect of this most welcome revelation upon her mother. She looked years younger as the look of strain disappeared from the deep blue eyes, to be replaced by a tender smile.
‘How very like him,’ she murmured.
‘Indeed, Mama, he is the kindest man,’ Charlotte assured her.
‘To us, my child, he certainly has been, yet I fear that he is less than understanding to poor little Amelia. I wish I had the right to tell him how to go on with her. The child needs a woman's guidance before she gets into a scrape. She has less discretion than a kitten, and may as easily be imposed upon.’
Charlotte was not disposed to dwell on Miss Milverly's possible downfall, and with a token word of assent she sank back against the cushions and gave herself up to thoughts of Carlington and of what their future might have been together.
Mrs Wrexham was not the only person to be concerned about Miss Milverly that night. The Marquis had roused himself from his abstraction for long enough to remark her obvious pleasure in the company of Sir Robert. The man's reputation was unsavoury enough, and even his friendship with the Prince had not been enough to win him acceptance in the first circles, nor to get him within the portals of that holy of holies, Almacks. Therefore, when the coach deposited the Marquis and his sleepy daughter outside the family mansion in Grosvenor Square, it seemed to the Marquis an excellent opportunity to speak to his daughter alone.
‘My dear, I should like a word with you before you retire. Would you step into the library for a moment?’
‘Of course, Papa,’ she replied docilely, and with pretty demureness she seated herself upon a low stool, her hands clasped in her lap like a schoolgirl. She raised enquiring eyes to her father's stern face and quaked inwardly.
Ruthin had, however, no intention of berating his young daughter. He was unaware of how grim his expression was as he looked down at her. The last two weeks of personal misery, combined with the strain of trying to discover what had happened to his old friend's son, were responsible rather than anger with Amelia; and had he been aware how frightened she was by him he would have been very much shocked. As it was, he had no notion of how his daughter regarded him, and there was no softening in his tone as he addressed her.
‘Amelia, I want to talk to you a little about your future,’ he began. ‘It is late, I know, but we seem to have so little time together, you and I, that I have not been able to tell you what is in my mind.’ After this promising beginning he seemed to have a little difficulty in continuing. ‘What I want to say— Well, it concerns the matter of—your eventual—er— marriage. You will be a very great heiress, you know, Amelia. All your mother's fortune will be yours upon your twenty-first birthday and it is a considerable sum.’ He cleared his throat and, glancing down at the flowerlike countenance of his daughter, he was caught suddenly by the memory of his dead wife. He had never realised before how closely the child resembled her. He was tempted to put his arms around his daughter, but he did not know how she would react to so unlooked-for a demonstration of affection from her remote Papa.
‘As I was saying, you will be a considerable heiress. Now you are a taking little thing, Amelia, and I am sure there will be many honest men who will offer for you quite disinterestedly. Young Edridge, for example, is precisely the kind of young man I should be happy to welcome into the family in a few years. But there is another kind of man, Amelia. You may, unfortunately, meet them anywhere. Men who would not scruple to take advantage of the innocence of a girl like you. Do you understand me, Amelia?’
‘Oh yes, Papa,’ she answered, in blissful ignorance of his real meaning.
Ruthin heaved a sigh of relief. ‘I am glad to find you so sensible, my dear. I would you had a mother to speak of these things to you. You must forgive your blundering father.’
‘But I shall soon have a mama, shall I not, Papa?’ Amelia reminded him.
‘What? Oh— Oh, yes—of course,’ he answered, having temporarily forgotten all about his supposed engagement.
Fortunately for the deception, Amelia noticed nothing amiss and went off to bed delighted to have escaped the expected scold. The Marquis retired under the happy misapprehension that he had given his daughter some valuable worldly advice, and had secured her from the attentions of a fortune-hunter.
NINE
Later that same night, in quite another part of town, two figures might have been observed pursuing rather an erratic course down Piccadilly. A hard night's drinking had engendered in these cronies a fondness for each other's company and so great was the affection that Lord Fitzroy felt for his friend, Captain Osborne, that he had announced his intention of accompanying him to his lodgings, there to partake of some particularly fine brandy the Captain had recently acquired. Osborne made no objection. He was glad of the company. Unlike his friend, he was not quite drunk enough to forget the horror of the situation and was loath to be alone.
It had gone hard with Carlington's seconds in the weeks since Farnley's death. More than one old acquaintance had cut Lord Fitzroy in the street, and Osborne had fared little better in the mess. All the anger and disgust felt by h
onourable men at the cowardly murder of even a man as unpopular as Farnley was, for want of a better object, directed against the two men who refused to join in the hue and cry against their friend. Indeed, they protested loudly that Charles could not be guilty. The rest of society, however, felt that Charles' disappearance confirmed his guilt. There were even those who whispered of a conspiracy and, although this was not generally believed, the two friends were made uncomfortable enough.
They had taken to spending their evenings in low taverns where they were quite unknown and there they would continually rehearse the circumstances of the murder until they were too drunk or too tired to reach any conclusion.
They reached Captain Osborne's lodging in Albany just as the watchman announced to the world that it was two of the clock and, in his opinion at least, all was well. Lord Fitzroy might have taken issue with him on that score but the man had prudently beaten a retreat at the sight of them; for, as he remarked to his cronies later that night: ‘Ye never knows. Them flash culls might take it into their heads to h'assault an h'officer of the law, an' discretion being the better part of valour, I loped off sharpish!’ A course of action with which the rest of the watch heartily concurred.
To do them justice, Charles and his cronies had never been the kind of young bloods to find enjoyment in attacking elderly law officers. They were, as they would have said themselves, ripe for any spree, but they were essentially gentlemen and would, in due course, settle down to run their estates and even eventually take their seats in the House. Or rather, that would have been their future. The events of the past few weeks, however, had cast such a shadow over their young lives that they could see nothing before them now but a share in the disgrace for a crime in which they had had no part.
They made their way up the darkened stairway, staggering a little as they held each other for support. Lord Fitzroy giggled and was sternly hushed by his comrade. As they reached the Captain's door a figure slipped suddenly out of the shadows and spoke in a piercing whisper, ‘Fitz, Ricky, it's me!’ Even as he spoke, the intruder reeled and fell in a heap upon the landing, revealing in the guttering candlelight, the features of Charles Carlington to his astonished friends.
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