“You’ve secluded yourself long enough.”
Charlotte leaned forward. “Jane, I’m so afraid of becoming useless and bitter, of having an empty life.”
Her friend bounded up from her chair. “That’s not going to happen.” Frowning, she stalked to the window then whirled and stalked back. “You just need something to keep you occupied.”
“I’m sure you’re right. Only, what? You know I have no talent for painting or studying.” Both of which pastimes Jane enjoyed.
Jane hugged Charlotte and dropped back onto her chair. “This is why you’re here today, isn’t it? We need to find you something to do.” She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “No, no, not ‘something to do.’ Something to occupy your mind.” Her face cleared. “Do you know Sidney Herbert?”
“I’ve met him.”
“Well, Phillip knows him well, and Herbert is Chairman of the Royal Commission on the State of Health of the Army.”
Jane’s husband was generally thought to be the most brilliant Member in the House of Lords. Etherton was actually a fully qualified civil engineer who’d worked as railway engineer and railway bridge designer before he inherited the earldom. Jane always said his hobby was mathematics, although Charlotte had never understood how mathematics could be a hobby. Charlotte also knew Sidney Herbert had been Secretary of State at War during the war in the Crimea and, until recently, Secretary of State for the Colonies. Both he and his wife were well known philanthropists.
“I’ll have Phillip talk to Herbert,” Jane declared, gave an emphatic nod and continued. “I’m sure Herbert will be happy to make use of you, and you’ll know the work you’re doing is important.” She paused, and one brow rose above the rim of her spectacles. “That is, if you want to do it.”
“Yes,” Charlotte said. It was exactly what she needed. She’d have no time to dwell on Vivian Garret. Better yet, she’d be far too busy to worry about a stranger who’d kissed her as though she belonged to him.
CHAPTER SIX
Vivian exited the dressmaker’s shop and waited for her maid who had gone off to secure a Hansom.
“Lady Garret.”
The deep vocalization emanated from a nearby coach, its open door held by a finely dressed footman, and a mysterious pull drew her toward the unidentified voice. One look at the shadowed face of the man inside transfixed her: Lady Haliday’s father, Matthew Shelby. Rich. Powerful. A beast. Vivian put so much hate into her glare she was amazed he didn’t melt.
“Send your maid home,” Shelby said, “and get in.”
Vivian stared. Four years ago, the last time she’d spoken to him, she’d cradled hope in her breast and still believed in the future. Only, instead of the most important day of her life, it became the most disastrous—not including the day of her dear Georgie’s death. Nothing could ever be worse than that.
Looking at Shelby’s imperious face, want erupted from an unknown fountainhead deep inside. It shocked her. She’d lain awake in bed, aching with this same want: the desire to be held, reassured, loved.
You’re not a child, and he doesn’t hold the slightest affection for you. Nothing he might say or give you matters now, she reminded herself. It was too late for apologies, belated acknowledgment, or even fortune to matter. Yet, drawn like a child offered a sweet, Vivian gave Mary a few coins and told her to go home, stepped into Shelby’s coach and eased down on the cushioned seat across from him.
The door snapped closed. The coach rocked as the footman climbed aboard, and with a jangle of a harness it moved away. Vivian clasped her hands and tried to hold herself together. She fought down the unexpected wellspring of yearning and focused on a more comfortable, familiar sentiment.
Hate.
It had always existed for him in varying degrees. Shelby had generated many emotions in her, but finally Vivian had grown up and put aside such childish notions as the longing that unexpectedly assailed her today. She’d even attained a sort of peace until Georgie became ill. Desperate to help her two-year-old son, she’d sought Shelby’s help. Seen him face-to-face. And that day he’d killed every other emotion she’d ever felt for him.
Surging back, that hate filled her with relief. These days it was her one constant, the single thing that kept her going. She wanted to say something that would hurt Shelby, destroy him, but all she could think of was her son’s gray, pinched face as he gasped his last breaths.
Shelby’s eyes narrowed. “What are you about?” he growled. “Why are you intent on causing my daughter distress? She’s no threat to you.”
Anger blazed up and burned away her vision of Georgie dying of consumption. “It’s true I spoke to Charlotte at Lady Elliott’s ball. But why shouldn’t I?”
Shelby’s lips drew back in a wolfish snarl, and satisfaction snaked through her. “I told you before,” he said, his face dark. “I won’t be blackmailed.”
Vivian managed to shrug. “I have no interest in your money.”
“Of course you want money. It’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted.”
Maybe once.
“Four years ago I did want money. Not for myself, but for my son George. You remember him.”
She’d pitched her voice to taunt, a needle-sharp sliver to slide under Shelby’s remaining composure, and a fleeting expression passed over his face. It disappeared too quickly to be deciphered, but the rigid set of Shelby’s shoulders loosened. “I heard about your son. I’m sorry. But you should have gone to your father, Baron Clery, or your husband’s heir for money.”
The bastard. He had ice for a heart. If only she had the strength to choke him. She’d show Shelby how Georgie must have felt as he stared up at her, teary-eyed with fear, and whispered, “I can’t breathe, Mama.”
It took all the strength she could muster to force the bitter words from her constricted throat. “They wouldn’t give me any money. My father hates me. I’m proof he was cuckolded. And Garret already had eighteen children when he married me. His eldest son had nothing to spare beyond the small annual portion I was given.” That always-simmering anger and hurt roiled in Vivian’s stomach. “While you own half of London.”
“Brehmer is making a name for himself now,” Shelby pointed out, “and his sanatorium is becoming well-known for its success in treating consumption, but four years ago, expecting some expensive hospital high in the Prussian mountains to perform a miracle seemed the worst sort of hopeless folly. My physician assured me there was no cure.” He dragged his hand across his mouth. “I thought it mad for you to take a sick child there.”
The anger Vivian struggled to contain erupted. “His. Name. Is. George.”
Shelby’s eyebrows shot up, and he reared back, alarm on his face. Some part of Vivian knew she was red-faced, spittle flying on puffs of hot breath. And, oh, she didn’t want him to see her like this, weak and overcome by emotion. Tears blurred her vision, and she blinked furiously. “You thought you knew best? That’s why my Georgie died?” Also, perhaps, because Shelby didn’t want any kind of connection between them.
“Well…”
The man’s eyes squeezed shut, and his fingers went to the throbbing pulse in his temple. Vivian recognized that look. Now, when it was too late, he doubted? Why were men so arrogant? Shelby’s money and power had only made him more so. Oh, she wanted to destroy his confidence. She’d love to serve him even a small portion of the hurt he’d dealt her. When she thought of their connection… She shivered.
His hand fell and his shoulders squared. “It was never about the money.”
“No? Then what was it? Afraid of the gossip? You let my son die in order to protect your name? Pity, then, that in spite of your efforts your dear daughter Charlotte has become the object of every wagging tongue.”
Shelby stiffened and his eyes narrowed. He was a cold devil, Vivian knew. And a brilliant, calculating one. Fortunately she had a shrewd brain of her own.
“Are you suggesting you manipulated that entire scandal as a means of damaging me?”
>
She’d leave him wondering about that.
“You think,” she drawled, “I’d have an affair just to upset your daughter? I’d have to be a bit unbalanced to do that, wouldn’t I?”
His jaw tightened. “There was the book, too.”
And the whispers and lies. As cold as Shelby was, she’d have been surprised if he minded Haliday’s dalliance with her, but Vivian had been certain he’d hate the resulting gossip that affected Charlotte’s reputation, those mean-spirited whispers which led to the initial suspicion the young woman fell under after her husband’s murder.
“It certainly did taint her reputation,” Vivian said. And after all the girl’s father had done to position her to lead society. Vivian widened her eyes as if in innocent confusion. “But it was only a novel!”
The coach slowed and stopped. Vivian looked out, noting their location. Hmmph. Her townhouse.
“It’s a shame,” she said, “that you didn’t get a titled grandson from your daughter and Haliday’s union.”
Shelby made a low sound, and Vivian almost laughed. Charlotte’s husband had confided that his father-in-law orchestrated the marriage for that very reason. Shelby had even gone as far as to ask his daughter about her failure to conceive and then taken Haliday to task, afraid the affair with Vivian meant he’d lost interest in Charlotte and getting her with child. Haliday had assured his father-in-law that his husbandly attentions were as vigorous as ever, finding it amusing that Shelby didn’t seem to care his daughter was being cuckolded, and even funnier that Shelby blamed Charlotte and Vivian equally for the situation.
Shelby’s footman appeared at the door, but Shelby held his open hand to the window. The footman stepped back.
“I’m not finished,” Shelby said to Vivian.
She brushed past his arm, opened the door, and stepped down unassisted while the footman stared, open-mouthed. Vivian paused. Looked back. “Yes, you are.”
She hurried off, and once inside her home sought the divan in her bedroom. She was an accomplished thirty-year-old woman, yet speaking with Shelby left her heart clanging in the empty cavern of her chest, her marrow afire with rage, and her head pulsing with the knowledge he cared not a scrap. Her fingers delved beneath her corset and extracted the gold locket that rested against her heart. She opened it and gently touched the brown curl nestled inside. Georgie’s hair. She’d give anything to hold her son one more time, while Shelby had tossed away the opportunity to know—and perhaps to love—the boy. Georgie would have loved him back.
What kind of man found a reputation more important than a boy’s life? Gossip hinting about a connection between herself, Shelby, and Georgie would most likely have had nothing but a minor effect, anyway. Shelby’s wealth and power made him immune. Yet he’d opted to discard her and Georgie rather than take the risk.
Charlotte Haliday. Honestly, Vivian hardly knew how she’d become so embroiled in the young woman’s life. When Charlotte ended up in the middle of that scandal, any gratification Vivian might have expected didn’t arise—perhaps because, no matter how often she told herself Shelby would be hurt by it, Vivian didn’t really believe that was enough. She wanted Shelby to feel the same pain she did, but nothing could compare with the devastation that accompanied the loss of a child.
Nothing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Charlotte’s hired carriage turned off Birdcage Walk onto Queen Anne’s Gate and stopped. The Executive Committee office of the Royal Patriotic Fund was just across the road from St. James’s Park.
Charlotte took a deep breath, striving to quell the fluttering in her stomach. She still couldn’t believe she was to work for the Royal Patriotic Fund. Queen Victoria’s newly created, government and private donation–supported charity assisted widows and orphans of Royal Army and Navy of all ranks who’d lost their lives in the Crimean War. Sidney Herbert had accepted her offer and placed her on the Patriotic Fund’s Executive Committee, which was responsible for the day-to-day affairs of the Fund. He’d looked at her kindly, his tired brown eyes direct, and calmly offered her the position. He’d said a woman on the committee would help in dealing with the widows and charitable ladies’ groups. Of course, as much as Charlotte wanted to apply herself to meaningful work, she didn’t know if she’d be of any use to grieving women and children. The fear that she wouldn’t know what to do or say had kept her wakeful most of the night.
She stepped from the carriage and stood for a moment breathing in the cool air of the overcast day, looking at the gray stone of the building. For the moment excitement overcame her trepidation and nudged the rabble of butterflies in her stomach. They swarmed off, leaving her breathless, a wide smile pulling at her lips. She couldn’t think when she’d last felt like this. Long before Haliday’s murder, certainly.
Her feet took the steps as though they wore dancing slippers. Beside the door, a brass plaque read ROYAL PATRIOTIC FUND. Inside, situated to the left of an empty reception area, she found a large room filled with clerical workers. Several of them wore military uniforms. Another plaque directed her down the right-hand hallway to the administrative offices. There she found a studious-looking young man behind a large desk.
He stood immediately, giving his drooping glasses a firm push onto the bridge of his nose. He smiled, his dark eyes sparkling even through the barrier of his lenses. “Ma’am?”
What a relief to find someone who didn’t know her. Sometimes she thought herself infamous throughout London.
“I’m Lady Haliday. I believe Mr. Scott is expecting me?”
“George Chetney, my lady,” the young man said, giving a quick bow.
She admired his bearing and proficiency. Only the merest blink indicated his familiarity with her name. Then his brows lifted.
“I don’t have an appointment scheduled.” A flush pinked his cheeks. “Perhaps it’s a personal matter and he didn’t inform me of the appointment?”
The serious young man’s discomfort increased Charlotte’s nervousness. “Sidney Herbert was to have sent a letter of introduction.”
Chetney’s face cleared. “Ah, yes.” He turned his attention to the desk and riffled through a stack of papers. “Yes.” He held up an envelope. “This arrived today.”
Obviously, it hadn’t yet been opened. Why ever had she been in such a hurry? She’d seen Herbert only yesterday. Why hadn’t she waited to permit communication between Herbert and Scott, the chairman?
Because I’m so anxious to occupy myself with normal things. Or perhaps because I feared something would happen to ruin this opportunity.
“This way, please. It happens Mr. Scott is available….”
Herbert’s envelope in hand, Chetney stepped toward what appeared to be an adjoining office. Charlotte never heard what else Mr. Chetney said, because the man behind the desk looked up and met her eyes as she stepped into the room.
Oh, God. It was her stranger.
In her entire life, Charlotte had never once fainted. Not when she learned of Haliday’s affair, not when he was shot and killed. But suddenly she felt hot and weak and dizzy. Alarm flashed in her stranger’s blue eyes, and then everything fell away.
#
David’s heart lurched as the viscountess collapsed.
“Chetney!” he barked.
His secretary jumped, dropped the envelope he held, caught Viscountess Haliday and laid her down on the small, upholstered divan. David watched, never more aware that he was unable to stand and capture the lady himself. Even after nearly two years, he was not fully accustomed to others acting in his stead.
“Get some water,” he instructed as he wheeled himself toward the divan.
The viscountess seemed unnaturally pale. David removed her hatpin and hat and brushed wavy dark hair from her forehead. Her cold, clammy skin worried him. He’d seen bleeding men shiver, seen their teeth chatter, and he associated such pale, cold skin with serious infirmity. He glanced at her narrow waist, wondering if he should loosen her corset. To do so would necessit
ate removing her bodice, and he certainly didn’t want to do that.
Her eyelids fluttered, and relief eased his tension as they lifted to reveal those incredible violet eyes. In the days since the ball he’d convinced himself he must have imagined their color, since he’d never seen anything like them. But they were just as beautiful as he recalled. They were also a bit hazy and unfocused.
He tugged off one of her gloves and happily found her skin dry, though it remained cool. He held her hand and rubbed his thumb across her palm. “Lady Haliday?”
As if following the sound of his voice, her head turned. He remembered the hunger of her mouth on his at the ball. This woman had populated more than one of his dreams since.
“My lady? Are you all right?”
Her chest rose; her fingers wrapped around his thumb. “I feel so silly,” she murmured. “I didn’t eat today. My stomach was just too jumpy.”
She blinked, and gradually her expression sharpened. Her gaze rose to his face, fell to his wheelchair, and returned to his features. She was too shocked to hide her feelings, he realized, and he clamped his teeth together. Of course, she had a right to be surprised. He hadn’t been in his chair at the ball.
Her fingers grew lax and released his thumb. She sat up, swinging her feet down in the same motion. “You’ve been injured?” she asked.
He slowly shook his head. “Two years ago. I’m unable to stand or walk.”
He caught a glimpse of stark pain in the viscountess’s eyes before her gaze dropped. Her fingers, trembling, pressed against her mouth, and silently David swore. He’d yet to sicken a female with his useless legs, but Lady Haliday appeared to be the exception.
“Chetney,” he yelled. Where in hell was the man?
A Hero to Hold Page 4