London's Best Kept Secret

by Anabelle Bryant

  “I’ve written a letter.” Louisa rose from the settee with inspired energy and set to work on the strings of her reticule. “I need only to confess my feelings to him and I’m convinced this will all turn around. When last we were together, I was too nervous to speak my heart. I blurted out my fears and hardly made known my thoughts for the future. If I explain to Thomas how much I care for him, it will open his eyes. I’m certain.” She thrust a folded piece of foolscap forward. “I’ve no way to deliver this note otherwise. Previously we depended upon his coy planning to communicate, but with Thomas’s sudden silence, I have no choice but to ask for your help. Will you do this for me?” Louisa pushed the paper into Charlotte’s hands. “Will you take this letter to him?”

  Charlotte stared down at the paper in her hands. It was unseemly and unacceptable for a woman to call on a bachelor’s apartments. The same constraints that restricted Louisa from visiting her estranged lover applied to most any female. Charlotte would not invite scandal, not when her marriage had finally established a course to happiness.

  Her mind spun with ideas, formed and rejected at equal speed. She could hire a messenger to see the note placed into the gentleman’s hands, couldn’t she? In that way, no harm would come to her reputation.

  “Please”—Louisa gripped Charlotte’s hands meaningfully—“don’t task a footman or messenger. Most of all, don’t tell your husband, who will interfere in the worst way. No one else can know in case . . .” She stopped for another sniffle and then continued, abandoning her previous comment. “By my heart, I must know Thomas has received this message. The only true way of knowing is if you deliver it yourself and convey my sincerity. Tell him we must speak. Please, Charlotte.” She indicated a scrawl of pencil on the folded note. “I’ve written his address in the corner. I trust you to gauge his reaction and plead my case if he decides to ignore my request. A simple exchange of words is all I ask. Just long enough to explain my feelings.”

  Charlotte bit hard into her lower lip. She’d stated in no uncertain terms that she wouldn’t tolerate secrets between herself and her husband, throwing that very thing into their argument upstairs, and now she contemplated being the one to break her rule. One look at Louisa’s stricken face, though, and Charlotte knew she had no choice in the matter. Her sister had sought help and she couldn’t fail her.

  In truth, this secret had nothing to do with her husband. Her dedication to Louisa—to all her sisters, for that matter— superseded any agreement and sense of loyalty she had with Jeremy. This rationalization quieted the little voice in her head that labeled her a hypocrite.

  “I’ll see this delivered.” Charlotte forced a strained smile. “Now, how is it you’ve come here without alerting Mother and Father?”

  “I claimed I was fatigued and needed to rest. Then I snuck out and hailed a hackney. Thomas suggested the ploy, and it worked whenever we planned a meeting.” Louisa stood up and retrieved her abandoned reticule, though she didn’t turn, her eyes downcast. “You needn’t lecture me on propriety or danger. Believe me, I know the boundaries I’ve ignored, and the risks attached to my actions. I’ve learned my lesson, but until this matter is resolved I can think of nothing else.” She started toward the door.

  “Wait.” Charlotte followed. “I’ll have one of Dearing’s carriages take you home. He’s already aware you’re here, so it makes little sense for us to pretend otherwise.”

  Her sister gave a stilted nod of acceptance.

  “Very good.” Charlotte expelled a breath of relief. “This situation is difficult enough without additional risk to your safety. Let me inform Hudson and we’ll get you back home. I’ll send a note as soon as I see your message delivered. Try not to worry.” She folded Louisa into a tight hug, hoping to reassure and at the same time affirm her commitment. “It will all come to rights, I promise.” She released Louisa, and with a quick glance over her shoulder, went out into the foyer to find the butler.

  * * *

  They avoided each other. Not a word passed between Charlotte and Dearing for the next two days, and while she attempted to convince herself it was not so different from before they’d kissed, these soundless days, when she’d stare at her sheet music and her husband remained locked in his study, served to amplify loss more than underscore rightness in the matter.

  Before, she’d managed by clinging to her music, the latter portion of the day the most unbearable, when sunlight fled and servants vanished into their rooms at night, the weight of the house’s silence at its intangible climax. Gone was the echo of a maid’s steps in the hall or the clink of dishes cleared from the dining room. Almost as succinctly as clockwork, her husband would disappear into his study and their fragile coexistence would continue.

  She didn’t question it then. Why hadn’t she? He hadn’t barred her from the room. Though he kept the door locked, there were times when she might enter, explore, discover. Upon examination, she wondered why she’d never crossed the threshold of his privacy. Was it fear of rebuke, some careful courtesy turned admonishment that kept her paralyzed on the opposite side of the hall? An inconvenient rise of sentiment caused her to swallow hard, her eyes held shut in a long blink. But she forced her lids open. This was now. And now she had no head for the pianoforte, distracted by awakened emotions and barbed remembrances. Passion. Temptation. A glimpse of what might lie within reach. All too aware she and Dearing had begun to walk toward happiness, only to discover their path forked again.

  Worse, she hadn’t acted upon her sister’s plea as of yet, conflicted by fidelity toward Louisa and fear of destroying the newfound trust she’d forged with her husband. It kept her awake through the night, her appetite likewise affected, so she took a tray in her room, unaware whether Dearing knew of her absence from the dining table or whether he also avoided the meal.

  Now, in the light of a new day and determined to assuage her sister’s concerns no matter how confused, Charlotte donned her hooded cloak and said goodbye to Hudson in the foyer. She left Dearing House on foot and walked to the corner to hail a hackney in much the same way Louisa had conducted her clandestine meetings. With any hope, by evening this predicament as well as several other troubling misgivings would be laid to rest.

  The address led her to the best part of Mayfair. Louisa had expensive taste in lace trim and fanciful bonnets. Apparently, her discerning interest extended to lovers as well. How many times had she helped Louisa salvage a situation gone awry? Too many to count during their childhood. Carelessly broken china figurines or torn, grass-stained skirts seemed harmless by comparison, yet this was unlike any girlish dare or impulsive decision. This time, the outcome of Louisa’s actions would irrevocably change her life.

  Charlotte exited the hack. She pulled up her hood, paid the driver quickly and hurried up the stone steps of the front stoop. A brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head gleamed in the filtered sunlight. She forced herself to drop the heavy brass, unwilling to allow indecision or, worse, speculation, to mar her commitment to the task.

  An elderly butler answered the door and showed no hospitable kindness. She craned her neck to look down her nose. Tall and starchy, the servant’s expression appeared as pinched as if someone had placed their palm upon his face and gathered his features to the center. Uncontrollable laughter, nervous and inappropriate, bubbled up with the thought and tried to force its way out. She managed, just barely, to press her lips tight enough to keep it at bay.

  “I’ve a message for Lord Gordon.” She didn’t present a card or give her name. Every moment she remained on the stoop was a damaging threat to her reputation.

  “The master is not at home. May I take your card?”

  A tick of despair, for lost opportunity and dashed hope, contributed to her silence.

  The butler, seemingly unwilling to wait a moment longer, prodded her hesitation. “Would you care to leave your calling card?”

  She barely offered her regrets before she pivoted, hurried down the stairs and further to the pav
ement in search of a hackney for rent. She’d gathered her courage, ridden across town and called at the door with risk of ruination and yet Lord Gordon was not at home. She’d need to repeat the process or, worse, find another way to speak to him on Louisa’s behalf. Alas, things would not be reconciled so easily.

  Chapter Twelve

  “How is it every time I see you of late I’m reminded of a staggering loss in funds?” Lindsey pressed a hand to his coat pocket, the symbolic gesture an exaggeration meant to imply his purse lie at risk.

  The deeper meaning was not lost on Dearing. “Have you invested unwisely, then?” He held no doubt his friend wagered heavily on most everything, but how unscrupulous and imprudent the bet posed another question altogether. Their friendship thrived from an ambiguous respect of one’s habits, ignoring otherwise surreptitious behavior. For that very reason, Dearing kept his nose out of White’s wager book.

  “And here I believed everything progressed seamlessly.” Lindsey turned a lopsided grin that women too often found charming.

  “Only fools believe what they haven’t witnessed with their own eyes.” Abashed by his retort, which sounded unerringly like Faxman, Dearing returned a speculative stare.

  “Noose around your neck too tight?” Lindsey settled in his usual chair.

  “I’d rather not discuss it.” Yet for no reason he could fathom, he continued to speak. “I’m at a crossroads, undecided whether to throttle my lady wife or kiss her senseless.”

  “I’ve found kissing far more pleasant and persuasive by half.” Lindsey’s waggish outlook was his strongest trait. Another long beat of silence ensued. “No matter the disagreement, you’d best remember one thing.”

  “And what would that be?” He should have cut out his tongue before asking the question.

  “If we’re cataloging admirable character traits, you’ve married far above your rank. Don’t give the lady reason to notice.” Lindsey enjoyed a low chuckle.

  “It’s a wonder you don’t find yourself at fisticuffs more often.” Dearing motioned to a footman. He found no humor in Lindsey’s words because, in truth, Dearing worried about the same thing. The house had stood unusually quiet the past two days. And no matter weeks and months had stretched before when neither he nor Charlotte uttered a word, somehow, having caused her to laugh, having tasted her lips and come so close to at last exploring her body, the silence permeated not just every corner of their home but every inch of his soul.

  It brought with it an ominous shadow that warned circumstances might forever be altered. When lately he’d believed it possible, he wondered now if she’d ever come to love him. Everything seemed misplaced. Charlotte hadn’t practiced the pianoforte either, and he found that one aspect most disturbing as she’d regularly sought refuge in the lovely notes of her music.

  “What’s taken hold of your brainbox now? You’ve gone as motionless as stone.”

  The footman arrived with their liquor, and Dearing used the additional moment to reclaim his façade of comfortability.

  “Why were you out riding with Mallory? He’s a Mayfair prig with too many opinions, too much time and not enough eloquence. The man interferes where he shouldn’t. I’ve warned you he’s not to be trusted.” Dearing took a sip from his glass. Expensive brandy had a wondrous way of smoothing over jagged emotions and numbing them into mute abdication.

  “I’d rather Mallory believe I consider him a friend. It’s wiser to keep the man at arm’s length. He’s a complicated sort.”

  Lindsey didn’t elaborate, and Dearing allowed the topic to drop, too reminiscent of why he avoided Adams, although the man had lost when it mattered most. Dearing had taken Charlotte to wife.

  “Whenever we meet you’re unusually concerned with my marital bliss. Have you become a romantic?” Dearing couldn’t resist the jibe, though he’d formed a sound theory why Lindsey meddled.

  “Hardly. No woman will ever pin me down.” Lindsey flashed a devil-may-care grin. “Considering the favors I called upon and the extenuating circumstances of your arrangement, I’m obligated to keep a close watch on your progress.”

  “As you do with Mallory?”

  “Perhaps.” Lindsey’s answer was more of a murmur.

  “Turned nursemaid then, have you?”

  “Enough about that.”

  Dearing might perpetuate an illusion of calm, but the truth was, he couldn’t be unhappier with the situation. His argument with Charlotte remained unresolved and their shared silence had become a constant reminder of yet another failure on his part. He needed to speak to her plainly and explain further. He needed to apologize more fully. He stood, finished the liquor in his glass, and walked away from the club, leaving Lindsey to his own devices.

  He returned home to find Hudson in the front hall in discussion with Mrs. Hubbles. The two appeared conspiratorial at first glance, hovered over a collection of invitations on a salver.

  “Is Lady Dearing in the music room, Hudson?”

  Mrs. Hubbles shot her eyes to the butler and then, with a curt bob of her head, scurried from the hall. Her behavior seemed odd, considering the circumstance, but Dearing assumed she meant to offer them privacy.

  “No, milord.”

  “Abovestairs, then.” He indicated the staircase with a nod, noting Hudson’s forehead furrowed.

  “I’m afraid Lady Dearing is out at the moment, milord.”

  “Out? What time is it?” He’d purposely left White’s and returned before the dinner hour in hope of making amends with Charlotte over their quarrel. Without waiting for a reply, he strode to the doorway of his study and eyed the regulator clock on the wall. Had Charlotte visited her parents? The last thing he desired was for his wife to confess her discontent to her family.

  Frustration gripped him, intensely so. He’d only just held her in his arms and established a precious trust. He refused to be shut out once again. Most especially when he considered the matter negligible.

  “Hudson.” He strode into the foyer and skewered the servant with a direct question. “Where is my wife?”

  “She didn’t say, milord. She left on foot several hours ago.” Hudson’s grimace expressed discomfit, and he busied himself with the task of collecting invitations into a neat stack on the silver salver.

  “On foot?” His echoed questions labeled him a bloody fool, but he was rescued not an exhalation later when Charlotte whisked through the front door, her face a mixture of concentration and disappointment, a regrettable combination. He took in her cloak, a curious choice considering the clement weather. Hudson had the intelligence to evaporate.

  “Where were you? When you leave this house, you need to inform a servant.” His words came out in a harsh tone he hardly recognized, immediately aware he’d worsened their upset rather than soothed the situation.

  “Because I knew you’d left, I didn’t expect you to notice my absence.”

  Her words were crisp, stated with exceptional cordiality and absent of emotion. He fought a wave of despair at her admittance.

  Is that what she believed? Or did she choose her reply to wound him? He watched as she removed her cloak. Sunlight gleamed off her hair, honey-kissed brown and silky, massed in a braided coil at her nape. He missed the seductive decadence of threading his fingers through the length.

  And yet she questioned whether he knew of her presence? He couldn’t keep himself from the condition. Her existence breathed on the periphery of his awareness.

  For the life of him, he couldn’t decipher his wife. It was as if she were a map with no key, an unexplored land, both dangerous and paradisiacal. Damn it all to hell, he had no intention of ending his quest.

  “I returned early. I wished to speak to you concerning the other evening.” There. He had said it. Now to add his apology. “I should never have detained you or kept you from your sister. I can only offer selfishness and my desire to be in your company as explanations, albeit unacceptable excuses.” He’d achieved his goal and let out a relieved breath.

/>   “Louisa was troubled.” She appeared reluctant to explain further.

  “So then, more fault falls upon my shoulders.”

  “Thank you for saying so.”

  Had they returned to the stilted conversation and awkward company of only a few weeks prior? Would oppressive quiet replace their recent convivial mood? He wouldn’t allow it.

  “Dinner will be served soon. We can talk about your sister’s worries over the meal.” It was an olive branch. An opportunity to see if she would accept his apology and make amends.

  “I’d rather not.” She averted her eyes and looked toward the stairs. “I should go to my rooms and change.”

  He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and give her a shake, force her to remember how things had been only a short while ago. Perhaps a kiss would do it. Yes, a kiss would awaken her dulled memory. But his wondering lingered too long and the moment was lost. As he grappled for words and found none of them acceptable, she swished past him in a flurry of skirts to leave him alone in the hall.

  * * *

  Close to weeping, Charlotte hurried down the hall to her bedchambers and rushed inside, blinded by anger, her vision blurred with tears. Why couldn’t she sort out her feelings for her husband? Why must every encounter become a trial? The comforting rub of silky fur wrapped around her ankles as she crossed the threshold and, overwrought with emotion, she belatedly closed the door.

  She flung herself on the mattress. An immature response to a delicate, mature circumstance. Her mind crowded with concerns. An ill-formed awkward marriage at odds. A sister unwed and with child. Distrust. Secrecy. The very thing she despised.