by Jenna Jaxon
The poor child arose and threw herself into Jane’s arms, the weeping recommencing with renewed vigor. Charlotte took another swallow of brandy, then carried the glasses back to the sideboard. The sobbing behind her quieted. Thank goodness Jane had a calming effect on Maria. Charlotte’s patience with the girl had begun to thin.
“Jane, what am I to do?” The pair sat on the sofa, Maria twisting the handkerchief to and fro.
“First, you must tell me what the matter is.” Jane stroked the pale, woebegone face. “Then I will be able to advise you accordingly.” She looked expectantly at her friend.
Maria cast a wretched glance from Jane to Charlotte, her eyes so stricken that instantly Charlotte understood this problem to be grave beyond her experience.
“I had hoped, up until yesterday, I had nothing to fear. That I was simply making a storm in a teacup. But I have counted and recounted and I have—” She came to a dead stop, bowed her head, and whispered, “I have missed my courses.”
Charlotte and Jane exchanged a puzzled look. This was the dire circumstance that had brought Maria hurtling into the country?
“My dear, that is not an unusual occurrence,” Jane said, wrapping her arm around Maria’s shoulder. “Some women do miss their time occasionally, with no ill effects. It is only when you have been having marital relations that this event becomes more momentous.”
Maria’s silence sent a shiver of unease through Charlotte. Surely this could not be so. Had Maria had a dalliance with someone? Charlotte would never have believed it of the shy little widow. There must be some other explanation.
“Have you had any distress recently, Maria?” Charlotte asked, praying for some domestic argument with the girl’s parents. “Any grave illness? That will sometimes upset your monthly courses.” Dread filled Charlotte even as she spoke. A sickness of any sort would be a godsend at this moment.
“No, I have been extremely well. Except . . .” Maria studied her handkerchief as if her life depended on it. “Except in the mornings sometimes. I have been ill just after rising from my bed.”
Oh dear God. Charlotte could feel the blood drain from her face.
“And the last time you had your courses was . . . ?”
“In August.”
“So you have missed them twice?”
Maria lowered her head and nodded.
“And you have taken a man to your bed during this time?” Jane, though pale also, straightened her back and seemed determined to face this crisis head on.
Again the young widow nodded.
“When did this happen?” Jane’s voice remained calm, matter-of fact.
The girl glanced fearfully at her hostess and said, “At the first house party here, in August.”
The light in the receiving room wavered before Charlotte’s eyes.
“And was that the only time?” Jane continued her questioning while Charlotte tried not to consider the possibilities of who Maria had taken to her bed. Any of the men she had invited could have been the culprit.
With a hitching sob, Maria shook her head. “No. The first time was here and then later, in London, we met . . . often.”
Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut and clasped her hand over her chest, trying to keep her hammering heart from escaping. What had she expected to happen? Her parties had been designed to throw men and women together for the purpose of seduction. Still, a widow had to have known the risks involved. But who would think of those risks while being seduced? Charlotte had not. If not for the grace of God, she might this moment be with child as well.
Abruptly, she arose and headed for the brandy decanter. Perhaps the fiery spirits would burn away some of her guilt. She poured half a tumbler full and took a huge swallow. It brought tears to her eyes, but she took a deep breath and the slow burn reached through her stomach toward her legs and arms.
“Charlotte.”
Jane’s voice finally penetrated her brandy-fogged mind. She glanced at her glass to find it empty. Had she truly had so much? She shook her head, trying to brush away the cobwebs. Jane might need her yet.
“Yes?”
“You should take Maria to her room and see that she is comfortably settled. She must be extremely tired after her journey. Especially in her condition.” Jane rose, taking Maria by the arm.
Charlotte nodded. A bad idea, that. She held a hand out to steady herself as she walked with them to the door. If only the dratted wall would stop running into her.
At the threshold she stopped Jane to whisper, “Did she tell you who . . . ?”
Jane shook her head. “She wants to confront him with the news first. She says you invited him here this weekend.”
“Dear Lord.”
“I will have a talk with her after dinner and see if I can get her to confide in me. Then I could lend my support if the man refuses to come up to scratch.” Jane peered at Charlotte with narrowed eyes. “Perhaps you should lie down before dinner, dearest. If I’m not mistaken, you are more than a bit foxed. It has been an eventful day and will likely be an even more eventful evening. You will need your wits about you.”
Charlotte closed her eyes and the room started to tilt. She opened them immediately and said, “I think that an excellent plan.” Glancing at the none-too-steady corridor, she grasped the doorframe and asked, “Will you help me get Maria settled? Perhaps I need more rest than I thought.”
Jane stared at her, then raised her gaze to the ceiling. “Of course, my dear. The hostess must be at her best for all her guests. I’ll inform Fisk to send her luggage to the . . . ?”
Charlotte paused, the layout of the bedrooms and their occupants spinning through her head. They had been orderly in her mind only an hour or so ago. “The green room is unoccupied. Or is it the pink room?”
Jane’s eyebrows were dangerously close to her nose.
Whatever have I done now?
“I will ask Fisk.” Now her mouth was pursed as well. “I will take Maria to her room, then announce to your guests that you have had to retire early due to an indisposition.” Jane leaned close. “It will not do for you to appear foxed before your guests, Charlotte. I suggest you go directly to your room, crawl into your bed, and stay there. Tomorrow you will feel exceedingly worse, but with luck you will be able to appear for luncheon.”
“But Jane, this is all my fault.” Tears threatened as Charlotte searched in vain for her handkerchief. Drat. She’d given it to Maria.
“There are at least two others who share a somewhat larger part of the blame, my dear.” Jane patted Charlotte on the arm and escorted her across the threshold. Maria stood waiting, wringing her hands in the corridor. “You cannot be held accountable for their actions. Now, off to your bed. I will make your excuses.”
Charlotte nodded and trailed behind the two women as they climbed the stairs. If only she could lie down and sleep, perhaps when she woke up the world would have righted itself.
She grabbed for the banister as the steps suddenly listed to the left. Would anything ever be right again?
Chapter 26
When Charlotte reached her suite of rooms, she paused in an attempt to let her head clear. She’d had to walk very carefully from the staircase to the door because the floor kept tilting at an alarming angle. No wonder men drank to forget their sorrows. They had to concentrate too hard on doing everything else to think about them. She leaned against the door, pushed down the latch, and slid into her sitting room.
The blazing fireplace created an inviting cocoon of warmth. Charlotte staggered to the nearest chair and slumped into it. Apparently she had not drunk enough yet. She still remembered her house party had perhaps led to the ruin of a young woman. She glanced at the small table that held a decanter and two glasses. It had remained untouched in her suite because she had placed it there, hoping to offer it eventually to a male companion.
Charlotte sighed and leaned her head against the back of the chair. She’d had no thought her idea to host a weekend party would result in such an unfor
tunate turn of events. True, she had assumed most of her guests would eventually find their way into bed together. And of course widows should know all the dangers of such liaisons. But the possible consequences hadn’t crossed her mind. Until now. How stupid of her. First, an unfulfilled wife and now a bad hostess.
She stared at the amber liquid in the decanter that seemed to glow in the firelight. Perhaps a small amount more would be enough to push those thoughts out of her head. Trying to summon the energy to move, she lay back, allowing the question she had been avoiding to come to the forefront of her mind.
Who had fathered Maria’s baby?
The guest list from her first weekend party danced tantalizingly clearly in her otherwise foggy brain. Brack, Fernley, Sinclair, Kersey, and Nash. She closed her eyes and concentrated on each man and his actions as she remembered them. Any one of them could be the culprit.
Lord Brack had seemed devoted to Elizabeth. They had spent a good deal of time together over the course of the five days. In her judgement, he had appeared not at all interested in Maria. Hadn’t Georgie also informed her that her brother had gone from Kent to Brighton in August, not to London? Very well, then, one less candidate on the list.
Fernley was a top contender, even though he had seemed ill-suited to the company. Still, as an eligible parti, his enticements might have tempted Maria to succumb to his dubious charms. He possessed a title and enough wealth to be persuasive. If she had invited the little weasel, she could bring him up to scratch in no time. The image of Nash pitching the unfortunate Fernley into the rosebushes popped into her head and she laughed.
From the midst of her befuddled brain, Jane’s earlier words surfaced: “She says you invited him here this weekend.”
Maria had asked who would be attending before she had declined her invitation. Charlotte had written her and enclosed the guest list. So the girl knew Fernley would not be here. He could not be Maria’s seducer. A relief in one way—Charlotte would not have the poor girl saddled with Lord Fernley for life. A distressing circumstance in another way as now there remained only three gentlemen who might have fathered the child. Sinclair, Kersey, and Nash. Unwelcome possibilities all.
Charlotte rolled her head back and forth against the chair until the room began to spin. With an effort she sat up and focused on the decanter. She would need another libation if she decided to continue her line of reasoning. The outcome seemed bleak at best. She tottered up onto her feet, lurched to the table, and managed to pour a glass of brandy, only half full by the time she’d finished sloshing the liquid around and sat back down. Just as well. The spirits needed to slow her thoughts, not render her insensible. Thank goodness carpets could be cleaned.
The fire of the liquid exploded in her stomach, seeming to radiate outward at an alarming rate.
“Is it getting hot in here?” she said to the empty room. Rose had not come to assist her into her nightgown yet and her clothing had begun to suffocate her. She must ring for her maid.
Drink in hand, Charlotte made her way into her bedroom. The fire here did not burn so intensely, rendering the air a touch cooler. She rang for Rose, then flopped onto the blue brocade coverlet, holding the tumbler out from her in an effort to avoid spilling any more. She closed her eyes and her body sank almost out of existence.
“My lady!”
Rose’s indignant and loud voice jolted Charlotte back into herself. She sat up abruptly, spilling brandy onto her gown.
“Drat.” Charlotte handed the drink to Rose and tried to wipe at the stain with her hand.
“My lady, what are you doing?” Rose set the glass on the nightstand, then peered at her mistress. Mouth set in stern lines and a frown deepening her eyebrows, the woman tsk-tsked until she had stripped Charlotte completely.
Charlotte lay back once more, luxuriating in the soft coverlet cool against her naked skin. Nash should see her like this. She doubted he’d be able to resist her then, wedding vows or not.
Rose pulled her into a sitting position, drew a plain white nightgown over her head, and sighed. “I’m sure I don’t know why you’ve gotten yourself in this state, my lady. You’ve never been one to hold with strong drink.” Rose maneuvered Charlotte under the covers.
“Well, I’m holding it now.” Charlotte reached for the glass on the table and slid dangerously close to falling out of bed.
“Not well, you’re not. What has gotten into you?” Rose removed the tumbler to the mantel.
“It’s not what’s gotten into me, Rose, it’s what’s gotten into . . .” From somewhere deep inside, caution about gossip with servants surfaced. “Never mind. My head aches.” She put her hand to her head where a nagging little pain had begun.
“You’ll feel worse tomorrow, if I may say so, my lady.”
Charlotte shook her head and winced. “I believe you may be right, Rose. So let me be until morning. You may come in and pick up the pieces then. But for the love of God, do not disturb me tonight.”
Rose sniffed, picked up Charlotte’s clothing, and carried it to her dressing room. After an inordinate amount of time, she reemerged. “Everything is put to rights, my lady. I’ll see to you in the morning. Sleep if you can.”
The maid returned to the bed and slid a chamber pot under it within easy reach. “In case you come on sick during the night.” With a final puzzled shake of her head, she left Charlotte alone with the quiet of the cozy room.
Blessed silence reigned. So quiet in fact, Charlotte caught herself nodding off.
That would never do. It was much too early to go to sleep. She struggled to sit up in the bed. She needed something to occupy her. Another drink would taste fine about now. But the glass sat all the way over on the mantel. She could make it there, of course, or to the table with the decanter, although both seemed very far away. Drat Rose!
There must be something else to keep her occupied. What had she been thinking about earlier? Nash? No; well, maybe. Alan? Yes. She’d been puzzling over the identity of Maria’s lover. Three possible men left: Sinclair, Alan, and Nash. None of them a name to relish. Charlotte hated to think that Sinclair had been toying with Maria while wooing her cousin. He had invited both of them to his estate after the last party, so he had been much in company with them both.
However, Jane had told her that Sinclair had stayed in Suffolk instead of accompanying her and Maria back to London. And of course, Lord Sinclair had not been invited to this weekend’s party. With a sigh of contentment, Charlotte snuggled down into the covers. Only two contenders left.
Oh, no. She came wide awake. Those two were the last men she’d hoped it would be. Alan’s reputation alone, however, lent itself to persuading her that he could have done such a thing. Yet, had he had the opportunity? He’d left in the middle of the night the first night of the party. When she saw him, he had been fully dressed and ready to leave. She doubted he’d had time or inclination for a tryst that night or he’d have come to her.
Which left only Nash. Charlotte put her hands over her face, trying to rub away the thought of Nash and Maria. The pieces fit together all too well if one had the wits to look at them properly. Nash wanted a wife. He had spent time with Maria that first weekend and, after Charlotte’s refusal, had taken her to bed.
She shook her head. That couldn’t be right. If he wouldn’t take her to his bed without marriage, why take Maria? If he wanted to marry the girl, why would she be so upset? Did she not want to marry Nash? Was she in love with another man and merely waiting to see if she was increasing before giving Nash an answer?
The room spun and her head ached. Her stomach gave a sickening lurch. That last thought came dangerously close to sounding plausible. Suddenly, the tumbler didn’t seem so far away.
She threw back the covers and slid to the ground. Another brandy would help relax her again. Make her forget Nash. Walking carefully, she tottered to the mantelpiece. On the second try, she grasped the glass, then wove her way back to the decanter and added more golden liquid with an unstead
y hand.
That should hold her until she fell asleep. She peered at the window. Quite dark out there. It must be time to sleep. She sipped and slid back toward her bed. Well, if Nash had fallen in love with Maria, she would wish them happy. Although really she didn’t. She still wanted Nash. Oh, drat. She did still want Nash. A watery little sob escaped her. Charlotte took another drink, only to find the glass empty. When had she drunk all of that? She put the glass on the bedside table, where it immediately toppled over, the crash almost deafening. The last amber drops spilled onto the table.
Charlotte winced and slithered beneath the covers. She closed her eyes and willed the room to stop spinning. The warmth of the fire, the afterglow of the brandy, and her own fatigue finally calmed her. As the spin decreased, lethargy stole over her. Softness enveloped her and she drifted down . . . down . . .
* * *
Charlotte rose toward consciousness, roused by a tickling on her neck. Someone with a stubble of whiskers was kissing her there. Eyes still closed, she smiled and stretched, enjoying the prickly sensation. It sent pleasant gooseflesh all over her. And made her long for more. If only Nash would not tease her so.
She opened her mouth to ask him to reconsider his verdict, but before a word could emerge, his lips covered hers and he slipped his tongue through them to play once more within her. Charlotte sighed and slid her arms around his shoulders, pulling him down to her. She drew in a deep breath through her nose.
The overpowering scent of bergamot filled her nostrils. Her eyes flew open.
Alan.
She reared back against the pillows, trying to disentangle herself from him.
He opened his eyes, then slowly withdrew from her, his tongue lingering in her mouth until the end. He sat up and grinned at her.
“Did I end a particularly pleasant dream? You were smiling in your sleep, so sweetly I couldn’t resist.” He ran his thumb over her lips. “I wanted that smile to be for me alone.”