At first, she hardly moved, feasting on the burlwood case and delicate whalebone hammers with her eyes alone. But then, just as she’d coyly convinced him to allow her exploration of his body, the need to touch overtook all other considerations. She ran her fingers in a tender caress across the keys, so delicately not one whispered a sound. She leaned in as if seeing every detail and proportion before she examined the instrument from various angles. Then she returned to the keyboard, set her fingers atop the ivories and played a collection of notes. He assumed she wanted the luxury of having produced music, despite knowing not to expect more from the rare piece.
“It’s lovely, isn’t it?”
Lindsey’s audacious comment, that women enjoyed gifts as large as pianofortes, filtered back, the words brought to life in Charlotte’s smile. If only it were that easy to secure her love.
“Rare and beautiful, I agree.”
“It’s a pity we can’t stay longer, although I doubt I’d ever have my fill of viewing this collection.” In this, she did sound regretful.
“We can stay as long as you like.” He knew it was a barbed statement. She’d already made her decision. For a fleeting moment, her expression pinched as if she’d been stung.
“No. I think it’s time to go.”
She said this with such calm certainty, he experienced a visceral loss, his next breath a struggle.
They exited the same way they’d come, and after he’d handed Charlotte into the carriage, he spared an additional moment with their driver. Stefan was a dependable servant with trustworthy discretion who would accomplish the task set to him and report directly upon returning to Dearing House. There was no other way to go about surveilling her behavior without evoking suspicion.
* * *
Charlotte pressed her back into the banquette and attempted carefree conversation, though her fingers worked the strings on her reticule faster than a rhapsody. Had she imagined the dual meaning of his words in the museum? Was she so ridden with guilt she’d heard notes of sinister distrust when none existed?
Despair swamped her heart. She’d promised Louisa her support and vowed confidentiality, but how she wanted to confess the predicament to Dearing and enlist his help. At the least it would allow him to understand the circumstances. Still, she held her tongue, torn between loyalty to her sister and her husband.
She spared a long look in his direction as they approached Dearing House and wondered if he thought her ungracious for her contrary reception of his thoughtful gesture. “The museum exhibit was wonderful. I’ve never seen so many rare and finely crafted instruments in one place.”
“As you’ve already mentioned.”
She searched his face, his dark brows slashed downward as if he contemplated matters of a serious nature. The carriage halted at the curb before she managed something else to say.
Dearing climbed out, and she willed him to look over his shoulder, to demand to know where she went. If he pressed the issue, she would break her promise to Louisa and salvage a modicum of loyalty. But he didn’t turn. He closed the carriage door, and she heard his direction to the driver, punctuated by the crack of the whip.
“Take Lady Dearing wherever she wishes to go.”
* * *
White’s was no place for solitude, but Dearing took himself there anyway, in want of distraction from the turmoil of his thoughts. He’d hardly crossed the threshold when he realized his mistake. Erring on better judgment, he thrust forward into the cajolery of the club. It would appear all London males were of like mind.
Near the front rooms, a smug cluster of select committeemen discussed new applicants to the exclusive salon. The familiar glass bowl, with its white and black balls, rested on a nearby table beside a daunting rectangular box. A secret vote would determine whether the name on the card received membership. Each committee member indicated their preference by a white or a black ball. A single negative vote would result in the applicant being refused admittance. It seemed rather ruthless in the waning light of late afternoon.
Dearing signaled his drink preference to a vigilant footman and, by luck of timing, located a seat near the hearth. He desired company, anything to keep his mind from spinning in repetitive loops, all of which suggested Charlotte possessed ungenuine feelings for him and could very well be involved in something scandalous. It would be fortuitous if Lindsey dropped in a nearby chair or materialized from the woodwork, as he was often apt to do. Dearing smirked at the irony. One day he wished for his friend’s company, the next he did not. Yet Lindsey had never done him wrong and often warbled on with enough inanity to set Dearing’s mood to right. Alas, today it was not to be. Mayhap Lindsey spent his time with a lovely lady instead of wasting the hours here at White’s. He did seem the romantic, didn’t he? Always inquiring of Charlotte’s welfare and the status of their relationship. For the briefest moment, Dearing’s breathing stilled, and an irrational stab of suspicion took hold.
The footman returned with a glass of brandy, and he savored the fine liquor, setting his head to the padding of the wingback chair and closing his eyes.
“Now there is the face of a troubled man.” Lord Mallory’s sinister comment drifted over the chairback like a caliginous layer of fog. If ever there was a candidate deserving of the single black ball restricting membership, here stood the man.
Forced to acknowledge the remark to some degree, Dearing casually opened his eyes and offered a curt nod. By no means did he want for Mallory’s company, and thankfully, not a single chair appeared unoccupied nearby. Still, the interloper intruded with quiet arrogance.
“One would think with a wife as comely as yours, a man would spend his time at home.”
“Look around you, Mallory. Most of London’s male population is here. I daresay your assumption is skewed.” A battle of wits and veiled jibes would prove insufferable, and Dearing refused to perpetuate it. Mallory’s pride stung from a variety of missed opportunities, but Dearing knew the man enjoyed causing havoc whenever able, and the tired old rejoinder that a man must spend every waking moment in his wife’s presence was wearing Dearing’s patience into nonexistence. Not that he wouldn’t enjoy the exact circumstance with Charlotte, but that was another matter altogether.
Mallory scrutinized the room with vulture-eyed speculation, his murmur just loud enough to be heard. “As you say.”
A lanky upstart with hardly any whiskers vacated an adjacent chair, and Mallory made for it like a shark on the scent of fresh blood.
“I saw your lady in Mayfair recently.”
Dearing offered no more than a level stare. He’d be damned before he allowed a show of curious displeasure.
Nonetheless, Mallory continued. “At least I thought it was she. One can never be certain with the wide-brimmed bonnets women favor these days.” He glanced to a far-off corner and tapped his index finger to his chin, as if he begged his memory to serve. Most certainly it was all a pretense. “Some say while the cat’s away, the mouse will play. One wonders what drives a woman to unfaithfulness.”
Dearing clenched his teeth and aborted a foul reply. He would not be lured into a public argument based on Mallory’s malevolent speculation, which begged to give strength to his darkest fears. Had Charlotte visited Mayfair? Why would she?
Mayfair was for dandies and those who believed themselves far above most others. Lindsey lived in Mayfair, on Chesterfield Street. His priggishly pretentious terraced town house, with its innocent façade of white-painted render was one of so many that lined the curb and announced the elite.
Hadn’t Lindsey remarked on Dearing’s marriage? Several times too many, in fact? What would provoke this interest? A sharp prick of ugliness quickly answered, composed of covetous suspicion and edacious mistrust. Too many coincidences began and ended with Lindsey.
“Any interest in selling your shares of Middleton stock?” Mallory’s efficient change of subject informed Dearing the man possessed a self-serving agenda, but in this he could comment methodically.
>
“As I’ve mentioned during our previous encounters, you’ve a better chance of propositioning someone in need of funds, or a man interested in an alternative investment. I’m content with my portfolio at the moment.” His hand rested atop his thigh, and in a fleeting gesture of impatience, he drummed his fingers twice.
“You’re a shrewd one.” Mallory shifted his eyes across the room toward the entrance hall, where a Pembroke occasional table held White’s prized betting book. “But then again, anyone who would marry to obtain—”
Dearing stood with such speed, Mallory ceased speaking, though his cravat curtsied against his Adam’s apple.
“Be careful with your words. A gentleman’s code of conduct prevents him from maligning others, but my patience will only stretch so far. Our conversation here is done.” Dearing lifted his brandy, swallowed what remained and turned on his heel, confident he’d shut Mallory’s chin for at least the next few hours.
Once returned to Dearing House, he didn’t enter but followed the winding path to the mews located at the rear. The alleyway stood quiet, the stables lit by a single flickering lantern in a wood-framed window. His boot heels crushed the gravel in a cadence of impending condemnation. But for whom was the sentiment aimed? So many conflicted emotions crowded his chest, he could barely breathe. He pushed the door wide and entered.
“Stefan,” he stated in a tone of resignation, uncomfortable with the task of spying on his wife.
The lad stepped forward immediately, his leather cap pushed back too far on his head. “Yes, milord.”
“You have information to share?”
“I do, milord. Her ladyship traveled to her familial home, where she remained until she exited with her sister.”
Relief, powerful and sweet, sliced through his misgivings. He’d worried for naught. His wife merely wished to see her sister and, for reasons unknown, had kept the event a secret. His heart thudded in reprieve of its earlier ache. Mallory was a son of a bitch for suggesting otherwise.
“You seemed interested in their whereabouts, so I took it upon myself to follow them on foot.”
He might have missed the next bit of Stefan’s explanation, preoccupied with a cacophony of ideations as he was. “On foot? They went for a stroll?”
He processed the latter news belatedly, distracted by Cricket, who settled beside his boot to remind him secrets took many forms.
“Not exactly.” Stefan swiped the cap from his head and pushed a hand through his dark curly hair. “They walked to the corner and hailed a hackney.”
“And?” Anger, white hot and immediate, spiked the blood in his veins to eradicate all earlier relief. “Out with it.” His harsh command may have riled the cat, who leaped away with a complaint.
“I can’t say, milord. They were off and into the flow of traffic before I could attempt to follow.” The lad shifted from one boot to the other. “But the ladies weren’t gone more than two hours, and I returned Lady Dearing home immediately thereafter. I hope your lordship isn’t disappointed in my service.”
Dearing took time to coax calm into his voice. “Not at all, Stefan. I appreciate your efforts. It’s not you who has earned my disappointment.”
Chapter Seventeen
Charlotte paced a hard line beside the foot of the bed, her emotions less straightforward. While she’d accomplished her goal and delivered Louisa to Gordon for a private conversation, Charlotte had left a trail of unavoidable lies in her wake. Lies that if not carefully tended would destroy her marriage.
Her husband was an intelligent businessman, able to read the truth in one’s eyes as easily as the ink on paper. And while his own disbelief might interfere, she held no doubt he suspected her of wrongdoing.
And who wouldn’t? After the lovely outing to the museum, she’d thanked him with a series of secrets and mistruths. Guilt, as lethal as a razor’s path, sliced through her. Only a few weeks ago, she’d believed all time had run out on any chance at marital happiness, but then life had shifted, Dearing had changed and she’d believed they’d both found a promising path forward.
Until Louisa, with her impossible request and personal crisis. Of course she would assist her sister. She loved her dearly. But at what cost to her own future?
Perhaps all would be resolved now that Louisa had spoken face-to-face with Lord Gordon. From what Charlotte could decipher, the gentleman adored her sister, was unable to hide his sincerity. Every nuance of the lord’s countenance bespoke a man who was smitten and in exceptional turmoil due to a forced separation. In many ways, the depth of despair in Lord Gordon’s eyes mirrored her own.
Charlotte had offered them the required privacy, but regretted not knowing if Louisa and Gordon had planned for the inevitable. She’d promised her sister help without revealing the embarrassment of the predicament, but had she accomplished anything through the meeting? Louisa spoke little during the return hackney ride from Mayfair, and with every minute of her own time under scrutiny, Charlotte hadn’t forced conversation. Still, another troubling thought persisted. If Gordon cared for Louisa, why did he insist they leave at once and not return?
There was a riddle Charlotte had yet to solve.
A shuffle near the door drew her attention, the soft knock that followed indicative of her maid, and she bade Jill enter. The maid set about the tasks that waited to be done, the ease of conversation a much-needed balm.
“Shadow has the run of the house after all.” Jill grinned in her direction. “You shouldn’t have worried. More than once I’ve seen Lord Dearing with the cat at his heels.”
Charlotte couldn’t muster a smile, burdened by the desire to confess and seek her husband’s support. She gave her head a shake to push her conflicted emotions away until later. “If only all things could amend so easily.” Having heard Charlotte’s tears many nights past, Jill undoubtedly understood the unspoken reference.
“I’m sorry, milady. Is there anything you need me to do for you?” Jill placed a white night rail on the folded counterpane at the foot of the bed and hung a clean towel on the hook near the mirror. For several breaths, no words were spoken, and only the matter of unlacing and dressing filled the silent void.
“No.” Charlotte attempted a word of reassurance. “Thank you.” She didn’t say more, and her maid left shortly thereafter.
Charlotte settled on the edge of the mattress, too exasperated now to pace the floorboards. She should write to Louisa and inquire as to her sister’s plans. One thing remained uppermost and certain: Charlotte would not venture to Mayfair again. Resolute and somewhat mollified, still weary with emotion, she climbed between the sheets and begged for sleep.
* * *
Dearing stared at the regulator clock on the wall of his study. He’d not joined Charlotte for dinner the night before or breakfast this morning, and in a cruel twist of circumstance, it seemed they’d landed where they’d begun, in a hollow marriage composed of a vow made with words instead of emotions. He rubbed a hand across his jaw. His teeth ached from clenching, his patience whisper-thin. The only way he knew to overcome his inner turmoil was to work with relentless fervor, much the way his wife chased her distress with musical compositions, though he still found it impossible to concentrate. And of late, her pianoforte had gone quiet.
Across the room, Faxman toiled in absolute consolidation, unaffected by the obnoxious tick of the clock, something that never had bothered him before but now counted the final seconds of Dearing’s tolerance. What was he to do?
His mind ran amok with suspicion. Why would Charlotte deceive him repeatedly if not to disguise nefarious deeds? She’d lied about visiting Amelia and instead ventured to Mayfair. Upon her return, she’d scurried to her room to bathe, change clothes and reorder her emotions. That bespoke of a visit to a lover. But could it be true?
His heart thudded, a mockery of this latest fabrication. He knew the suspicion to be irrational and unsubstantiated far beyond reason, and yet he couldn’t keep hold of the reins, his imagination all to
o quick to suggest the worst and sprint toward unfounded possibilities. Things had taken a turn at the poorest time, when they remained on the cusp of intimacy, a wall of conflicted sentiment between them. Still, similar to business negotiations, the most effective way to resolve concern was to confront it. He needed to measure her reaction. There lay the truth.
Jealousy, an emotion he despised, flooded his veins and drenched his better sense. What if his inquiries yielded an unbearable legitimacy?
He, the master of hypocrisy. A man who kept an unthinkable secret locked in a hidden box. It would be justice served.
“Does something trouble you, milord?”
Faxman’s question snapped him from morose contemplation. He gave a terse nod in the negative.
“I only ask because you’ve stared, motionless, at that same sheaf of foolscap for a solid twenty minutes. Have I miscalculated the sums?” Faxman stood, though he didn’t round the desk, his face a mask of genuine concern.
“No. Never mind.” Dearing pushed the page across his desktop in disregard, the harsh dismissal intended for his frustration, not the diligent worker.
“Then pardon my interruption.” Faxman returned to his seat, though he popped up just as swiftly. “If I may pose a suggestion, perhaps a breath of fresh air would assist with your mental confabulation. I find a brief respite in nature the rightful cure when my thoughts need to be reordered.”
Dearing eyed his astute secretary and raised his hand, palm flat, to stop further discussion. His nerves were frayed, his temperament soured, and anything the man might say would result in spark to tinder.
“No need.” He dropped his hand and heaved a breath. “All’s well.” The tone of the words declared the opposite, mayhap provoking the secretary to persist.
“Quiet the mind and the soul will speak,” Faxman mused. “At least that’s what my father would say. He was a strong proponent of self-reflection. A religious man too.” He cleared his throat, as if unsure whether he’d shared too much.
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