by Sandra Heath
He went to his sister then, taking both her hands and drawing her to her feet and into his arms. “Hello, Sophia,” he said softly. “It’s so very good to see you again.”
Her voice was a little shaky, for she was almost weeping with joy. “Richard Pagett, five years is an unforgivable eternity, quite unforgivable.”
He squeezed her. “Forgive me all the same.”
“I shall endeavor to, but I cannot promise,” she replied, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief and smiling foolishly at him. “If ever a sister was more fiendishly tormented by an unthinking brother….” She allowed the sentence to die away unfinished. “I’m forgetting my duties. Allow me to present Admiral Henry Parkstone, an old friend whose acquaintance it has recently been my good fortune to renew. Henry, this is my brother, Mr. Richard Pagett.”
The admiral had struggled to his feet the moment Richard appeared, and now he bowed. “Sir.”
Richard returned the bow. “I’m delighted to meet you, Admiral Parkstone.” His inquiring glance then moved to Sylvia, who seemed even lovelier now that he was close.
Mrs. Wyndham hastened to effect the introduction. “This is Henry’s daughter, Miss Sylvia Parkstone. Sylvia, my brother, Richard.”
Richard took Sylvia’s hand, raising it slowly to his lips. “I’m very pleased to know you, Miss Parkstone.”
“Mr. Pagett.” She smiled up at him.
He looked deep into her dark eyes and was lost.
There was so much talking to be done and so much lost time to be made up that it was well past midnight before the residents of the house in Henrietta Street at last retired to their beds. As Charlotte undressed and sat by her dressing table brushing her long hair, she could hear her mother in the adjoining bedroom, chattering brightly to Muriel, just as she had done in times gone by at Kimber Park.
Charlotte extinguished the candle and then went to the window to look out for a while. She could see the watch in Cavendish Square with their staves and lanterns, and she could just hear their call on the hour. There was very little traffic; in fact, it was so quiet that she heard the carriage approach long before she saw it. It drove slowly along the street toward the square and at first she didn’t recognize it, but then with a jolt she realized that it was Max Talgarth’s. She couldn’t move away from the window; it was as if she was transfixed, even though she knew that she was clearly visible from the street below.
He was seated on the side nearest her, looking as superbly elegant as ever in black velvet evening clothes, his arm resting along the window ledge so that the moonlight flashed on his diamond ring. She wasn’t expecting him to glance up, so that when he did, he saw her immediately and knew that she had been watching him. She was embarrassed at the amused directness of his shrewd gaze, but still she couldn’t draw back. The carriage drove on, turning the corner into the square and vanishing from sight, and only then could she manage to step back into the shadows of the room.
It was a long time before she fell asleep, and when she did, she was transported in her dreams to Kimber Park. The sun was warm on her face and she was walking past the lake toward the little white rotunda, its domed roof topped by a statue of Mercury. It was a favorite walk, one she had taken countless times in the past, and she was lighthearted. As she neared the rotunda, a man appeared from inside it, a tall, handsome man with a scar on his cheek and a flash of gray in his coal-black hair. She halted, her breath catching. He smiled, holding out his hand, and suddenly she was running to him. He swept her into his arms, pressing her close as his lips sought hers in a kiss; that seared through her like a flame. Her senses responded to him, and she wanted to surrender, to give in completely to the wild, rushing desire he aroused in her…. But as he bore her to the ground, his body hard against hers, her eyes suddenly flew open and she was awake.
She lay there in the dark room, her heart still thundering as if his lips had indeed been on hers a moment before. A bewildering wave of emotion was still coursing through her, emotion such as she had never known before. The desire lingered, leaving a yearning so sweet and clear that it was like a pain.
She stared up at the shadows thrown by the streetlamp. Was it true that dreams made one know oneself? If so, she now knew that far from despising Max Talgarth, she was drawn to him as to no other man before. He had awakened her slumbering emotions, and those emotions would still be there when daylight came. She didn’t want to want him, but she couldn’t deny it. But how could it be right to be so strongly drawn to the man who might have deliberately caused her father’s death?
Chapter Eight
Several days later the anniversary of George Wyndham’s demise came and went, and a day or so after that Charlotte and her mother ceased wearing black.
The first day of this change dawned hot and humid after a sultry night of distant thunder without any rain to refresh the air. Charlotte awoke with a dreadful headache, so much so that she simply couldn’t contemplate putting her hair up and wearing a bonnet. She brushed her hair loose about her shoulders, wishing that her head would stop thumping, and then she looked at herself in the dressing-table mirror. The gown she was wearing for the first time in over a year was a simple gray spotted lawn with a demure, not too high neckline and dainty puffed sleeves. It was a little long, not revealing her ankles, and its hem wasn’t padded in any way, but it was light and cool and it made a very welcome change after the stifling black she’d been wearing for so long now.
Richard and her mother weren’t alone at the breakfast table, for the admiral had called, having obliged Richard by calling upon several estate agents with whom he was personally acquainted. He had acquired the details of a number of very desirable properties in Mayfair and it was the plan for them all to go to inspect them in the admiral’s barouche. Mrs. Wyndham was very excited and full of praise for the houses before she’d seen them, and she was very disappointed when Charlotte very apologetically declined to accompany them because of her headache. Charlotte felt a little mean, for she knew how much her mother wanted her to be there, but the thought of clambering in and out of a hot carriage, looking over house after house and listening to an agent extolling the virtues of each one was simply too dreadful.
When they set off at just before noon, she remained behind, going to sit in the garden in the shade of the cherry tree. She took her manuscript with her, intending to glance through it in a little while, but first she just sat there, her eyes closed as she savored the coolness of the leafy shadows. Overhead storm clouds were creeping across the sky. Her thoughts turned inevitably to Max Talgarth, who had been on her mind constantly since she had dreamed about him. She wished that she could be indifferent to him, but it was no use; he lingered at the edge of her thoughts, forcing her to acknowledge that he had irrevocably aroused her very unwilling heart.
She had been there for some time and her headache had eased when suddenly Mrs. White announced that Sylvia was calling. Looking very pretty in a strawberry wool spencer and white silk gown, her strawberry hat adorned with bouncy little plumes and bright golden chains, she hurried excitedly across the grass and sat down. “Charlotte, I’ve had such a glorious morning, I vow I’ve managed to purchase every single tartan accessory in the world! I heard last night that Osmond’s warehouse had had a new delivery and so I was up practically at dawn this morning to be there before everyone else, and I had the place virtually to myself. It was wonderful; I’ve bought so many scarves, sashes, and hats that I think I should send the bill to Sir Walter Scott for writing his wretched Waverley novels and making tartan the thing.” She paused. “You’re not wearing black.”
“Full marks for observation.”
“And your hair is loose! Aren’t you feeling well?”
Charlotte couldn’t help laughing. “I’m not quite sure how to answer that. Do you mean, am I not well because I’m not wearing black, or because my hair’s loose.”
“Because of your hair, silly.”
“I had a headache, but it’s nearly gone now.”
“Are you sure? I mean, I’ll toddle along if you’re feeling wretched.”
“No, it’s gone—truly it has.”
“I suppose Richard and your mother have gone with Father to look at houses?”
“Yes.”
“I’d forgotten all about it when I called.”
Charlotte glanced at her, wondering if this was entirely true, for Sylvia’s conduct in recent days had been a little hard to understand, and Richard was quite obviously the reason. He had fallen head over heels in love with her at first sight, and he made no secret of the fact, but what Sylvia’s feelings were could not be easily judged. Sometimes she seemed relaxed and happy in his company, but at other times she drew back and became almost cold. Charlotte was inclined to doubt that Sylvia had forgotten anything about the arrangements made for today; indeed, it was quite probable that from the house in Cavendish Square she had seen who had departed in her father’s barouche and had therefore known full well that Charlotte was still at home. Maybe the guess was wrong, and for Richard’s sake Charlotte hoped it was, but she had grave doubts that he was going to be fortunate enough to have his love returned.
At that moment there was an unexpectedly strong gust of wind that snatched the sheets of manuscript from the chair where Charlotte had put them, and scattered them all over the grass. With a gasp, Charlotte got up to gather them in. She’d forgotten all about them, and now Sylvia might see what she had been engaged upon in recent weeks.
Sylvia hurried to retrieve them as well, and as she was about to return those she had managed to gather, she glanced down at the top sheet. She paused, her eyes widening and then she slowly looked at Charlotte, who was looking very guilty indeed. “Charlotte? What’s this?”
“Nothing,” came the quick reply. “Just a little scribbling I’ve done.” Embarrassed color had flooded into Charlotte’s cheeks and she tried to take the papers.
Sylvia stepped quickly aside, looking at the writing again. “Nothing? How can you say that? My eyes don’t deceive me and I have to confess intense curiosity about a character named Rex Kylmerth, who just happens to have a scar on his cheek and a streak of gray in his hair. Don’t expect me to believe this has nothing whatsoever to do with Max Talgarth, for I simply will not believe you.”
Charlotte hesitated, “If I tell you, you must promise not to say anything to anyone else, for if you do I’ll never forgive you. Oh, dear, I feel so very foolish, because it’s all a nonsense really. I’d been reading Glenarvon and something my mother said set me thinking, and I just started to write a roman à clef of my own.”
“Based on Max?”
“Yes.”
Sylvia’s eyes shone. “Please, may I read it?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“But why? I’m bound to approve.”
“Yes, you probably would, but I’d be mortified to think of anyone reading it, even you. Besides, it’s extremely libelous and I should never have written a single word of it.”
“But I’m hardly likely to go and tell him, am I? Oh, please, Charlotte, let me read it.”
“No.” Charlotte at last managed to take the sheets from the other’s hands. “No one’s going to read it, and I want your word, Sylvia Parkstone, that you won’t breathe a word about this.”
Sylvia gave a sigh. “Oh, very well, you have my word.” She sat down again a little crossly. “I’d have adored reading Max’s wickedness set down in black and white, though. But tell me, how have you managed to write all that without anyone knowing?”
“I write in my bedroom and keep the manuscript at the back of my wardrobe.”
Sylvia grinned then. “Good heavens, what a scandal I could make of it—Charlotte Wyndham hides Max Talgarth in her wardrobe at night! My goodness, what a titillating rumor that would set in motion.”
“Sylvia Parkstone, you gave me your word.”
“I know. I’m only joking. Oh, don’t look so put out, your secret’s safe. Look, I don’t want to fall out with you, so let’s talk about something else, like the state opening of Waterloo Bridge in a few days time.”
Charlotte had to smile. “Whatever makes you think of that?”
“Well, Father and I will be going and he intends inviting you all to join us in our pleasure boat. I believe he’s going to broach the subject today. You’ll be able to come, won’t you? It should be very pleasant, at least it should if the weather is fair.” She glanced up at the sky; the thunder clouds that had been threatening since the night had begun to burgeon over the city.
“Oh, I should love to come,” replied Charlotte eagerly. “It’s very kind of you to think of us.”
“Kind? Well, my father’s motives are all too clear; he’d do anything to secure your mother’s presence at his side. I believe he’s very smitten indeed. He’d also do anything to—to….”
“Yes?”
“To place me in Richard’s company.”
“Oh.”
Sylvia glanced away. “My father is an inveterate matchmaker at times.”
“You dislike the thought of being with Richard?”
Sylvia lowered her eyes and said nothing.
Charlotte had no chance to pursue the matter, for it began to rain and they had to hurry inside, and by the time she’d hidden her manuscript away in her wardrobe again, the admiral’s barouche had returned and everyone was in the drawing room talking about the houses that had been viewed.
Mrs. Wyndham was full of praise for one house in particular, in Hanover Square. It was, she declared, the most delightful property in Mayfair and she was determined to have it, even though it needed a complete refurbishing. The admiral was in agreement with her, and Richard, who was torn between this house and another in Piccadilly, was eventually forced to accede that the latter property would be exceeding noisy, Piccadilly being such a busy thoroughfare. The admiral mentioned a friend of his, Mr. Algernon Green, who was considered very fashionable indeed for decorating grand houses, and he offered to approach him on their behalf. Mrs. Wyndham was overjoyed and Richard acknowledged that the Piccadilly property no longer stood a chance and that therefore Hanover Square was the victor.
It was four o’clock and still raining hard when the admiral and Sylvia at last prepared to return home. Before they left, the matter of attending the opening of the Waterloo Bridge was raised, and everyone agreed that it was a splendid idea and they would all be delighted to go.
Richard accompanied Sylvia to the door, with Charlotte a little behind them. The admiral had already gone out into the waiting barouche, but Richard spoke again to Sylvia on the doorstep. “I trust you will not think me too forward, but Charlotte and I are to attend a firework display at Vauxhall Gardens tomorrow night, and I would very much like it if you would come with us.”
Charlotte looked at him in astonishment, for this was the first she’d heard about the visit.
Sylvia hesitated. “Vauxhall Gardens? I had not realized they had opened yet.”
“Yes. Tomorrow night is the first main event of the season. Please say you’ll join us.”
Her dark eyes moved fleetingly to Charlotte and then she nodded. “Thank you, I would like that.” Then she was hurrying out through the rain before he had time to put up the umbrella he had been intending to protect her with.
The barouche drove away through the puddles and a low rumble of thunder echoed over the lowering skies.
Charlotte and Richard turned back into the house, closing the door on the storm, and Richard put his hand on his niece’s arm. “Charlotte?”
“Yes?”
“Forgive me for using you like that, but I couldn’t think of anything else and she was about to leave.”
She smiled. “Don’t be silly, you know I don’t mind.”
“I love her to distraction.”
“I know.”
“I only wish I could be certain of what her feelings are. She gives no hint, sometimes I feel as if I’m taking one step forward and two back.”
“You haven’t known her for very long, Richard. Give it time.”
“But I knew the moment I saw her. It was love at first sight.”
“That doesn’t mean that she will necessarily fall in love as quickly.”
He looked away. “I feel….”
“Yes?”
“That she already loves someone else.”
“Oh, Richard, I’m sure I would know if that were the case. Besides, the admiral quite obviously wants to further your suit with her, and he wouldn’t do that if he knew her heart was given elsewhere.”
“No, I suppose not.” His voice was still doubtful.
“Richard? Is there something else?”
“I was just thinking that the admiral might behave as he does if he didn’t know about her true feelings. What if she’s keeping them secret, even from him?”
“I’m sure you’re wrong.”
“Am I? Charlotte, you would tell me if you knew something, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course I would. Richard, Sylvia’s heart isn’t given anywhere, I’d swear it wasn’t. She and I have become very close; she’d have told me before now if there was someone else. I’m sure it’s just that you’re rushing things a little. You’ve fallen so completely in love that you’re impatient.” But as she said it, she knew she was sounding more optimistic than she felt. Quite unbidden, an echo of the conversation in the library returned to her, and she could quite clearly hear Judith’s angry voice taunting Sylvia about Max Talgarth: “…I begin to think you want him yourself, that all this is nothing more than jealous spite because he’s never cast so much as a single appreciative glance in your direction….”
Chapter Nine
It was particularly fine the following evening as Charlotte, Richard, and Sylvia set off for Vauxhall Gardens in the landau Richard had hired for the occasion. The coachman wore green, the carriage itself had gleaming brown panels, and the horses were a perfectly matched team of four bays. There was a crush at Hyde Park Corner and the Duke of Wellington’s mansion, Apsley House, known simply as Number One, London, but then they were driving southwest along a broad new boulevard toward the river.