Fearless

by Lynne Connolly

  “That’s why I’m talking to Papa.” Val would call on every weapon in his armory to defeat this monster. “He’ll take my word that I have proof.”

  “And do you?” Ivan asked. “Have proof, I mean?”

  “I have Kellett’s pin with his initials from it and his bloodstained shirt.”

  Darius shook his head. “There was no crime, not officially. It has not been reported. Where there is no crime, there is no punishment.”

  Briefly, Val thought of the executions at Tyburn. A shame he could not send Kellett there, but his brother and cousin were right. “We could compel the madam to testify.”

  Darius laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You have as much chance doing that as seeing pigs fly. Nobody at her house will go anywhere near a court of law unless they are compelled to do so. Fielding of Bow Street has a particular hatred of women of pleasure, and he will condemn any who go to him.”

  Val shrugged. “He’s surrounded by them. He’s a reformer, so there may be some chance there, but with such little evidence it’s doubtful we can do much in the courts.” He paused and met Darius’s gaze directly. “There are other ways of punishing him. I will not release Charlotte from our contract for her to marry him.”

  “Would you if she met someone else?”

  Darius’s question gave Val pause. After the delicious hints he’d received that Charlotte could be much more rewarding between the sheets than he’d previously supposed, perhaps not. “I would consider it.” He turned to stare out the window, but he saw nothing but Charlotte’s sweet face. Why not marry her? She would make an excellent spouse, and he would treat her as she deserved. “I will use the weapons I have. Kellett will know where he lost his pin and the shirt. I’d have taken the neckcloth too, but it lay under the shirt and was unmarked.”

  “There are identification markings on the shirt?” Darius asked.

  Val gave a terse nod. “A monogram embroidered at the base and a laundry mark. It’s enough. I have it safe, and my valet and the maids know not to touch it.”

  “If you are willing to marry Charlotte,” Ivan said quietly, “why not do it now and put an end to the matter?”

  Val shook his head. “I would have done so, but there is another problem.”

  Half an hour later he was explaining the problem to his father in the study upstairs. He told him Kellett was a villain but went into few details. The less his father knew about Val’s plans in that direction, the better. The marquess would no doubt curtail his son’s plans for that man, since it might involve some less than legal action.

  He went on to the other difficulties he had learned that day. “Charlotte has a sister.”

  “She has two sisters,” the marquess said. He folded his hands before him on the table, the lace at his cuffs providing an arresting contrast to his strong, worn hands.

  “Yes, but one is beyond their father’s jurisdiction.” And the better for it. He would not tell his father that Charlotte had been in clandestine correspondence with Sarah. That would be breaking a confidence.

  “Charlotte is of age. You do not need her father’s permission to marry her.”

  Val’s lips curled in a smile. “I am aware of that, sir. Are you suggesting that I elope with her?”

  He received a corresponding smile in return. “I would never do that. But we could force the issue. And you know we will care for her until you are able to do so.”

  Val shook his head regretfully. “That would put the burden on Charlotte’s younger sister.” He paused. “Louisa is a natural, sir. Her understanding is well below what it should be. She is of delicate health and afraid of crowds.”

  The marquess shot his brows up widened his eyes. “I never knew that.”

  “He takes pains to ensure it isn’t widely known, from what I understand.” Val’s mouth flattened. “But he will use her to make Charlotte do his will. And if Charlotte leaves the house, he could make Louisa’s lot much worse.”

  “If she dislikes crowds, what is the girl doing in town?”

  “I assume her father likes to keep her close, the better to force Charlotte to his will.” He closed his eyes. “How could I have got everything so wrong?” He’d assumed Charlotte was sweet and biddable, that she had no spirit. He could not have been further from the truth. Below that smooth surface, Charlotte had passion and intelligence. He would not allow that treasure to be crushed by someone as villainous as Kellett.

  “My son, you were not looking properly.” The marquess grunted. “Neither was I, I must admit. Charlotte seemed the person to calm you, to ensure you did not run completely wild. When the duke approached me with a suggestion, it was a way of cementing a business deal. I knew he wanted access to our family, and this was one way he could do it. His involvement was useful, if not particularly convivial.” He paused. “So what do you want to do? Not the immediate outcome. We are agreed on that. The marriage contract is signed, and unless all parties agree to it, it will not be broken. That is easily done. But do you mean to make her wait another two years?”

  Val didn’t need to think about that. He shook his head. “No, sir. I will marry her as soon as possible, unless someone she prefers appears. I will do my best to take Louisa into my household. I have procrastinated long enough. I cannot in all conscience, do it for longer.”

  A gentle smile curved the marquess’s lips. “I believe at last, at long last, you are growing up. I trust you will make her happy.”

  “I will do my best, sir.”

  Charlotte could not remember ever being so angry before. She stalked her room, trying to calm herself down before it was time to dress for dinner. Not when her sister left, nor when her father had forbidden her to take Louisa into the country had she felt this level of ire before. She had continued and done her best with the paltry weapons she had.

  But to have Val calmly inform her that he was not ending the engagement—that filled her with righteous fury. How dare he vacillate and change his mind from one minute to the next? She had considered her future settled, that in a few weeks she would be married to a man of her father’s approval and hers, a comfortable arrangement she could happily bring her young sister into. Hervey had agreed to petition her father to allow Louisa to go to one of his estates. She would live happily there.

  Val had ripped that future from her hands. He’d taken her unborn children and her only chance at happiness. For he would not marry her, she was sure of that. As far as she knew, he had never stuck with one decision in his life. He was fickle with his mistresses, with his friends, and his affections. His recent kindness to Charlotte was all of a piece with the rest. Tomorrow he would treat her with careless affection again.

  That attitude was no longer enough. Charlotte had no choice. She had to take her future into her own hands. If she did not, she would find herself alone and helpless.

  Why had she ever signed that wretched contract? At the time, it had appeared like a way out, of escape. After her older sister left, Charlotte had known despair. She never wanted to feel that helpless again or so unhappy. Ever since she had done her best to appease her father on Louisa’s behalf.

  The devil of it was, she could not leave Louisa behind. She had no illusions. Her father would lock Louisa away if she became a nuisance, and without Charlotte to intervene, he would doubtless do so. Louisa was harmless, lovely, gentle, and she would not last a year in an asylum for the insane.

  She had heard of families doing that before—sending their unwanted members to asylums, to live out their days in fear and despair. That would not happen to Louisa.

  After a tap at the door, Hunter entered, bearing a box. “This came for you, my lady. Is there a mistake? It is from Cerisot, and you do not patronize her. I will send it back.”

  Charlotte rushed across the room. “No. It is no mistake. I ordered a gown at Lord Shaw’s request.” Recalling that time, a flush of heat ran up the back of her neck. All her emotions returned in a great flood. The recollection of the kisses Val had given her,
no doubt in a moment of playfulness. She could not think any more of it. She must not. No doubt they meant far more to her than they did to him. He had probably forgotten them already. Something she would never do.

  But she had this, for a time, at least. Eventually she would return it to him, but now, eager to see what Cerisot had done, she picked up the scissors from her dressing table and set to slicing the string that secured the parcel.

  She opened the box breathlessly and plunged her hands into the layers of silver tissue, tearing them apart in her anxiety to get to the contents.

  The petticoat came first. She had not been aware that the petticoat was ordered, but here it was. She breathed softly, afraid she would spoil the miraculously thin silk. A deep ruffle adorned the hem, and twisting pink floss flowers were embroidered over the join.

  She laid the fabric on her bedcover. The dark brown of her cover was easily discernible through both layers of the fine ivory silk. With a glance at its loveliness, Charlotte plunged deeper into the box.

  She drew out the gown. It rustled expensively, caressing her hands.

  After a moment of savoring the silky loveliness of the garment, she shook it out. She had never owned anything so beautiful. The gown was a deep, rich, gorgeous blue. The robings at the front were decorated with twining vines, interspersed by the pink flowers, with brilliants forming their centers, catching the light with a flash as she turned it. The deep pleats at the back were sewn down to the waist, flaring out in an extravagant mass of skirts. And the whole was lined with ivory satin, the same shade as the petticoat but of a more substantial fabric.

  Charlotte had no idea she could fall in love with a gown, but she did.

  “Where am I going tonight?” she demanded.

  Hunter coughed and then cleared her throat. “Lady Butler’s, ma’am.”

  A grand ball, she recalled. Perfect. “I will wear this.”

  “But his grace, ma’am. He has not seen this garment. You cannot—”

  Charlotte was tired of being told what she could and couldn’t do, especially by the servants. “I can, Hunter. Another word, and you are dismissed. You may help me to wash my hair.”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  “If I find this gown moved or despoiled in any way, I will hold you personally responsible. It is a gift from my betrothed, and I will wear it tonight to please him.”

  Excitement built in her gut. She would do this. She would really do this. How could she not? The gown had arrived as an answer to her prayers. She had no idea if her father would attend, but she guessed he would, because Lady Butler’s ball was a high spot of every season.

  Fighting Hunter proved tiring but at the same time exhilarating. Charlotte left off the hair powder, which took a great deal of argument, but she refused to allow Hunter to leave the room. If she had, she would have raced downstairs to inform the duke.

  However, she allowed Hunter to swathe her in petticoats, so the ivory one was rendered opaque, and to tuck a kerchief around the low neckline, to render it more respectable. Such subterfuges appeared ridiculous in an evening gown. She even allowed her maid to pin her gown nearly closed at the front, covering all but a tiny strip of skin at her throat. However, she insisted on wearing her finest ruffles, triple Mechlin lace inherited from her mother, tacked carefully onto her shift at the elbows. The row of pink bows that decorated the front of her gown was deliberately crowded together, further disguising the woman beneath.

  A sapphire pendant, also from her mother, and a matching bracelet and pair of earrings, modest and old-fashioned, finished her appearance.

  To her relief, her father barely noticed her new finery. He was paying attention to their dinner guests, as exalted as he was and just as unbearably pompous. Charlotte bore their patronizing smiles and barely concealed smirks when they spoke about their children’s brilliant matches. Not even the taunts about her long betrothal period touched her as she ate sparingly and agreed with everything everyone said.

  Her aunt sat at the foot of the table, appointed her father’s hostess, probably so the guests could prove their superior taste and knowledge over her.

  Charlotte kept her temper, barely, and endured the long dinner and then the even longer hours after, when the daughters of the guests proved their ability to play an elaborate melody on the keyboards with no emotion whatsoever. Charlotte should know these women better, but they were as sheltered as she was, and they felt no desire to associate with each other.

  She watched the new Lady Drysden agree tonelessly with whatever her husband said, glancing at him for his approval every time she ventured an opinion. Even in her marriage, Marie had not escaped the total domination of her personality and her very self. Her father, another like the Duke of Rochfort, had commanded her marriage to one of his friends, and she had done so. What had made her do that? Did she have a younger vulnerable sister too, or did her parents threaten to cut her off without a penny? Or maybe she never learned to rebel.

  If Charlotte did nothing else notable in her life, she would have tonight. She absolutely refused to lie down without a fight, to allow her father to ride roughshod over her and her sister any longer. She did not yet know what she would do, and she had spent all her money on the gown she wore tonight, but she would do something.

  She included Val in the list of people she wanted to thwart tonight. His capriciousness had brought her to this point. Tonight she would bring him to the point.

  Chapter 9

  Lady Butler and her family lived in a large house on Grosvenor Square. Tonight the doors were thrown open and light blazed from every window on the first floor. People thronged outside, some attending the ball, some there to gawp at the guests. Charlotte would give them something to gawp at. Although her father had complained about the unsuitability of her hair, Charlotte had pointed out that it was too late to powder it and apologized humbly, even though the words stuck in her throat. But if she had not, he could have forbidden her presence. Then he asked her about the gown, and she repeated what she’d told Hunter, that Val had sent it to her. “I believe he means it as a parting gift, your grace. We do not want him to take one of his pets, do we?”

  However, when he said, “I wish you to be at the very least respectable. That gown is far too extravagant. I do not like it. When you remove it tonight, send it to me. We will burn it together,” rebellion, fiery and shockingly sudden, burst into full flame inside her.

  She had thought of telling him she had a cut on her head and the powder irritated it, or that she had simply run out of hair powder, but she had eventually decided that such tactics were below her. Instead, she informed him that her natural color enhanced her gown more than powder did and left him thinking of a suitable response.

  Then she went upstairs and in a frenzy of anger, altered her appearance. Wrapping a heavy cloak around her, she went downstairs to the waiting carriage.

  He spent the whole of the journey here scolding her and threatening to send her home, despite the presence in the coach of two of the guests from dinner. They listened largely in appreciative silence, only agreeing with the wisdom of the duke and admiring his manner of taking no nonsense from his children.

  Tonight he would take all the nonsense she could put his way.

  Despite the warmth of the evening, Charlotte had worn her heaviest cloak because it was the only one that covered her gown adequately, but the journey was a short one, and she was not too badly discommoded.

  She did not loosen the ties, or let go holding the front together until they had entered the house and her father had doffed his hat, leaving his guests and his daughter to follow meekly behind him. Her heart in her mouth, Charlotte asked for the ladies’ room.

  There, she found a maid to take her cloak and hat, and then she put the final touches to her appearance.

  The fichu had gone. Once she’d torn it off, she revealed the low neckline of her gown, enhanced only by a narrow frill of lace which drew attention to the bare flesh rather than concealing it.
Studying her reflection, Charlotte smiled when a lady glancing over at her gasped. She didn’t care if she never saw that kerchief again. Instead of the full white cap with lappets, she had reduced her head wear to a mere scrap of lace. And her petticoats were gone, all but the one that came with the gown. She’d hastily stepped out of them just before she’d left her room to get into the carriage. All she had under her finery was her shift, and she’d pulled that up and tucked it under her stays until she was barely decent. Most of her legs were on blatant display, shadowed by the gown, but unmistakable in bright light. She wore a little face paint, where her complexion was usually bare.

  Anything more different from the scraped-back hair and boringly modest gowns of her usual attire was hard to imagine.

  Sucking in a breath, she watched her bosom swell enticingly above the tight-fitting gown. Her temper still simmered under all that silk, adding fire to her eyes and a snap to her stance. She would use every weapon she had at her command tonight. She knew exactly what she wanted to achieve.

  Her anger with Val and her father’s threat to destroy such a lovely thing had combined to make a combustible forest fire, and now it was fully ablaze. Years of oppression, of forcing herself into molds that did not suit her, that hurt to maintain, gave her the impetus for this one night of rebellion.

  So the Marquess and Marchioness of Strenshall wanted a sensible, biddable woman for their son, did they? She was about to show them that she was nothing of the kind and never meant to be.

  She had not expected her father to wait to escort her into the ballroom, so she was not disappointed when she entered the room alone. The Butlers were possessed of a fine suite of rooms on the first floor of their grand London mansion, and they had enhanced the grandeur with a multiplicity of candles and enough flowers for a state funeral, with some left over. They must have stripped every greenhouse and garden on their estate to obtain this amount of roses, lilies, and Lord knew whatever else flowers. All, interestingly, in white and pink.