by Tessa Dare
"No. Delia, please. I know how it must look, but give me a chance to explain."
It was no use. Delia had all her guards up. Perhaps she'd be willing to listen and forgive her in time, but it wasn't going to be tonight.
"Don't worry, Delia," Frances said smugly. "The ton will punish her well enough. I suppose we know what name the Prattler will be giving her next. It's all too easy, given what rhymes with Charlotte."
"Scarlet?" Lady Parkhurst asked.
"No, the other one."
Sir Vernon interjected, "She means varlet."
"Varlet?" Mama echoed. "What on earth is a varlet?"
"It's a medieval term for knave or rogue."
Frances sighed. "Really, Papa. No one's going to call her a varlet, either."
"Well, then what can you be suggesting?" Lady Parkhurst said. "There's marmot, I suppose. But that's not even a true rhyme."
Charlotte couldn't bear this inanity any longer. "Harlot!"
The word quelled all chatter.
"That's what Frances is saying. They will be calling me Charlotte the Harlot."
A large hand settled on the small of her back. Its owner announced in a deep, authoritative voice, "They will address her as Her Ladyship, the Marchioness of Granville. My wife."
Piers.
Charlotte wheeled around. There he was, still bare-chested. His torso was streaked with soot, and ashes dusted his wild hair. He smelled like a bonfire.
In her eyes, he'd never appeared more perfect.
She didn't care what anyone thought of her in that moment. Let Frances call her all sorts of vile names.
She threw her arms around his waist and hugged him close, holding her breath until she could hear the comforting, steady thump of his heartbeat.
"I was so afraid," she whispered.
He ran a hand up and down her spine, soothing her in a low murmur. "It's over, darling. All's well now."
Frances wasn't mollified. "Surely you're not truly going to marry her, my lord. Don't be duped into preserving the virtue of a woman who has none. She and her mother are conniving wretches with--"
"I beg your pardon, Miss Parkhurst," Mama cut in. "I might be conniving, but Charlotte? Never. No matter how I tried to encourage her, the stubborn girl never cooperated."
Sir Vernon gave his eldest daughter a stern look. "Frances, calm yourself."
"Calm myself? Can't you see what's happened here?" Frances gestured at Charlotte. "She's been trying to trap him from the start. Now he's leaving soon, and she grew desperate. She set that fire herself. Then she slipped down the corridor to Lord Granville's room, hoping to cause a scandal when the alarm went up. I tell you, Papa. She could have burned our home to the ground."
"That's enough," Piers commanded. "I remind you, Miss Parkhurst, you are speaking of my future wife. I will not hear her accused of trickery or loose morals, much less slandered with accusations of arson. Our betrothal was settled well before tonight. The license has been procured, the contracts are signed, and the announcement will appear in tomorrow's edition of The Times."
Charlotte looked up at him. "You published a betrothal announcement, this soon? Without consulting me?"
He didn't even look at her. "She will depart with me, and we will be married from my estate."
Charlotte couldn't even begin to understand how this had happened. He must have been very busy while she'd been asleep.
"Well," Lady Parkhurst said, making an obvious effort to strike a light tone. "What fortunate timing. We're already having the ball tomorrow. We can celebrate your happy news."
Delia looked at her, eyes brimming with hurt. "Forgive me if I don't attend. I wish you both joy."
She turned and started back to the house.
Charlotte left Piers's embrace to dash after her. "Wait! Delia, wait. Please, let me explain. The things Frances said--they aren't true, I swear it. I wanted nothing more than to travel the Continent with you. I . . . I'm just so sorry."
"So am I," Delia said. "I'm going to walk away now. Do not chase after me."
"But--"
"Don't, Charlotte. It isn't fair. I'm too easy to catch. At least give me the dignity of a dramatic exit. You owe me that much."
Charlotte wanted to argue, but she knew it wouldn't help. So she nodded, reluctantly.
Then she watched her best friend walk away.
Chapter Twenty-one
In the morning, Charlotte went upstairs to her bedchamber, to gather anything that might be saved. She stood in the middle of the room, looking around at the soot and ashes, and gave a small, mournful whimper.
It could have been worse, she told herself.
Thanks to the quick response of the men, the flames had been contained to the heap of belongings in front of the hearth and the hangings toward the foot of the bed. The soot and smoke would never be aired from her frocks or shawls, however.
"I'll buy you all new things."
She turned to see that Piers had quietly joined her.
"We can visit the shops today," he said.
"Some of my clothing was collected for washing yesterday. My best gown had been sent down for pressing, too. I won't be completely without."
She set her valise on the charred dressing table and opened it. She went through the trays and drawers, keeping whatever could be salvaged.
"Nevertheless, I'm sure you're upset."
"Why should I be upset?" She turned a soot-streaked bracelet over in her hands. "It's not as though my life was decided while I slept, my best friend won't speak to me, and I nearly burned down a house." She eyed a burned, soggy pelisse on the floor. "Much as it pains me to admit you were right--perhaps I had created a death trap. I suppose I've learned my lesson now."
"We'll announce our engagement tonight, and depart immediately thereafter. I've made all the arrangements."
"Yes. I recall. A license and announcement and everything." She looked up at him. "What did you mean, the contracts are signed? I didn't sign any contracts."
"Your mother signed them."
"My mother?"
"You're not yet one-and-twenty. She's still your guardian."
She let the bracelet drop. "I can't believe you did that. Do I need to appear at the church and recite my vows, or have you seen to that, too?"
He took a step toward her. "Charlotte, you must understand."
"I'm trying. Perhaps you can explain why you intend to trust me with your homes and your children, but you couldn't trust me to sign my own betrothal contracts."
He spread his arms, gesturing at the destruction around them. "Look at this. I am removing you from this madhouse and taking you to my home. Where I will know you are safe."
"You are just as excitable as Edmund." She shook her head. "This fire was my fault. The monkshood was an accident. Delia closed my window that night. No one is trying to MUR-DER me."
"Perhaps they are, perhaps they aren't. Considering that achieving certainty on the matter would involve a chance of you ending up dead, I'm not interested in performing any experiments." His eyes flashed. "I'm not going to risk coming upon your lifeless form in the corridor."
Charlotte winced in regret. She ought to be more understanding, less churlish. It wasn't as though he'd planned it this way. She'd gone to his room. If not for the fire, they wouldn't have been caught together. He wouldn't have made a dramatic announcement in the garden.
Once again, she had no one to blame but herself.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I know you mean well, and I don't wish to argue. The important thing is, we are all safe, and there was no irreparable damage." She only wished she could say the same for her friendship and reputation. "Everything in this room can be replaced."
Everything except . . .
"Oh, no. My bit of flannel." She rushed to the head of bed, pushed aside the singed, damp bed hangings and began tossing back the pillows and smoky quilts. "It should still be here somewhere. I keep it under my pillow at night."
But it wasn't there. She s
earched the bedding, but she couldn't find it.
"Where could it be? If the pillows weren't touched by the fire, how could it have burned?"
Piers came to her side and put his hands on her arms. "Don't worry. You're fatigued and overwrought. Go downstairs to rest, and I'll search for it."
"I'm not going to rest. I can't rest until I've found it."
She went to the chest and began opening the drawers to rifle through them. Had she put it away somewhere else? When that search yielded nothing, she rushed to the closet and thrust her hand into the pockets of her capes and cloaks.
Nothing.
The fatigue and fear of the night's ordeal began to catch up with her. She felt a weight of despair settling on her shoulders.
She would not cry, she told herself. Considering what could have happened last night, she was fortunate to have escaped with her health, and her mother's, and the Parkhursts', and Piers's. It was only a bit of fabric and ribbon.
"It's here."
She turned around. Piers was at the hearth, withdrawing her scrap of flannel from the wrought-iron tinderbox on the mantel.
"You are an angel." Charlotte ran to seize it, running her fingers over the familiar, comforting softness. She lifted it to her nose. It didn't even smell of smoke. "How did it get in the tinderbox, of all places?"
"Does it matter?"
"I suppose not." She clasped it to her breast. "I'm just glad it's undamaged. So strange, though. I know I wouldn't have placed it there, and yet that was the safest place for it to be. Almost as though someone knew that . . ."
Her voice trailed off. A knot twisted in her chest.
There was only one person who could have possessed both the ability to set a fire in Charlotte's bedchamber and the knowledge to secure her most prized possession first.
She looked up at Piers. "You set the fire. You did this."
Piers didn't attempt to deny it. She might as well know.
"You came here while I was asleep in your bed," she said, blinking as she looked about the room. "You heaped my belongings on the floor and set them afire."
"I was careful to contain it. It was all smolder, little flame. It never would have spread beyond this room."
"Why would you do such a thing?"
"You're a clever woman. You don't need me to tell you."
She stared at him. "You wanted us to be discovered. You knew I wanted a long engagement. And you decided to force my hand."
His silence served as his confession.
"You bastard." She flung her arm toward the window. "I stood in that garden last night, terrified. Not knowing if I'd ever see you alive again. I prayed to God for you."
"Then you wasted your time. In the future, you would do well to save your prayers for someone else."
"Why would you do this? Why lie to me?"
"Come now, Charlotte. I've been lying to you since the night we met."
"If you're referring to your career . . ."
"There's so much more than that." He walked to the opposite side of the room, giving them both space. "The mystery tuppers, to begin. It was Parkhurst, that night in the library."
She frowned. "Lady Parkhurst? But . . . but I had clues. She doesn't fit them."
"Not Lady Parkhurst. Sir Vernon. He was the tupper. I'm still not certain of the tuppee."
"Sir Vernon? But it hardly seems like him. He's so traditional, and his only passion is sporting. He doesn't seem at all the sort of man to toss a mistress on the desk and . . . grunt on her."
"He's the reason I'm here. He's been bleeding money. Taking mysterious, unannounced trips from Town. A mistress or natural child was the most likely explanation, but I needed to rule out blackmail."
"So you've known this from the first. Even before you offered to marry me."
"I suspected it, yes."
"And Sir Vernon knew, too. The whole time. He let take us the penalty for his indiscretion."
"That's the way secrets work. People will do anything to hide the truth. I should never have indulged your attempts at an investigation. But I never imagined you'd--"
"Be any good at it?"
He shrugged. "I underestimated you. I freely admit that much."
She turned away. "I can't believe this. I've been skulking along window ledges, riding demon horses from Hell, risking everything to mend my reputation in Sir Vernon's eyes so I could travel the Continent with Delia. And now you tell me that Sir Vernon was the culprit, and I did it all for nothing?" Her voice was edged with anger. "This wasn't a game to me, Piers."
"It wasn't a game to me, either. Looking into Sir Vernon's indiscretions was my duty to the Crown. The man's going to be given a sensitive post overseas."
"Where overseas?"
"Australia."
She put a hand to her brow. "Australia?"
"If there's any chance a man in his position could be blackmailed, England's interests would be at risk. Lives could hang in the balance."
"And so you decided to sacrifice mine."
"That's a bit overdramatic, Charlotte."
"Not by much. Last night cost me a friendship and any shred of respect I might have regained. You betrayed me. I can't believe you would do such a thing."
"Can you not? How do you think a diplomat convinces despots to surrender territories? How does he force invading armies to retreat?"
She dropped her gaze to the scorched carpet. "By leaving them no other choice."
"Got it in one," he said. "I did what was necessary to protect you."
"Oh, please. You were protecting yourself. You can't tell me that what we shared"--she gestured at the wall, the bed, the bath--"was all in the line of duty. It's grown too real for you, too intense. Too close to your heart. I told you I loved you, and it scared you to death."
"You don't love me. You don't know me. If you think this comes close to the worst I've done, you have no idea. You've been telling yourself a pretty little story. That I'm an honorable man at my core. I've been trying to warn you--crack me open, and you'll find darkness inside."
"I refuse to believe that. I know there's love in you."
He moved toward her. "I have trespassed and stolen. I have traded secrets and brokered exchanges that caused blameless people to be killed. I have spilled blood with my own hands, and I have left battered men to die alone."
"England was at war," she said. "Good men had to do unspeakable things."
For God's sake. Piers rubbed his face. "It wasn't the war, Charlotte. It's who I am. I have deceived every person in my life since I was seven years old."
"Well, that's hardly evidence. Who doesn't tell lies at seven years old?"
"Not this kind of lie. I concealed the truth of my mother's death. From everyone. For decades."
Her brow furrowed. "So it wasn't too much laudanum."
"Oh, it was too much laudanum. And it wasn't an accident. She took her own life."
"But . . . you were a child. How could you know that?"
"Because I was there. I found her in her bed, just before she breathed her last. I heard her final words."
"Piers." She stepped toward him.
He stayed her with an outstretched hand. This was not a plea for pity. Quite the reverse.
"I couldn't let anyone know it was a suicide. Especially not my father. I was young, but I understood that much. He would have viewed it as a stain on the family legacy." He paused, looking into the distance. "So I hid the truth. The bottle had slipped from her hand, shattered on the floor. I mopped up the spill, gathered every sliver of glass. I carried it all to the pond in a bundle and sank it with a stone."
He could still see the reeds clustered at the water's edge, feel them grasping at his boots as he waded out. He heard the sound of birds singing. And the frog that leapt out of the way as he pitched the stone into the deep, greenish water.
"I didn't breathe a word of it to anyone," he said. "I meant to pretend surprise when she was found. It would only be a matter of hours, I thought. What I didn'
t consider was that my father might delay in breaking the news to me."
"Delay for how long?"
He inhaled slowly. "Months."
"Oh, no."
"I suppose he thought it would be too great of a shock. Rafe was too young to even understand. He said she'd gone to a spa for a cure. Every week or two, he told me she'd written a letter. She missed her boys, but the cure wasn't taking. Finally, he told me she'd succumbed. I found her dying in May. I wasn't taken to visit her grave until winter. By then, I'd been concealing the grief for so long . . . I couldn't have shown it if I tried."
It wasn't merely the grief he'd hidden. It was the shame. The shame of lying to his father, of denying his mother her rightful mourning.
The shame of not being enough to make her stay.
A mother was supposed to live for her children, wasn't she? But Piers hadn't given her sufficient reason to carry on.
I can't. I can't bear it.
He pulled away from the painful memories. "Suffice it to say, deceit has come easily to me ever since."
She looked at him with those clear blue eyes. "I'm very sorry for what happened, Piers. I'm glad you told me the truth. I hope you'll talk about it more. With me, or Rafe, or someone else. But I don't see how this excuses what you did last night."
"I'm not offering excuses. Or apologies. I don't desire forgiveness. I did what needed to be done."
"What needed to be done?" Her eyes widened in disbelief. "You gave me that speech about being a powerful man with every option at his fingertips. Am I to believe you couldn't come up with any other idea besides setting fire to my undergarments in the middle of the night?"
He gestured at the burned floor. "Those undergarments had it coming to them. They attacked me first."
"Good Lord." She stood back a pace. "I can't decide if you've gone completely blockheaded, or if you are trying to make yourself detestable."
"You tell me." He gestured at the left side of his face. "I thought the eyebrow oracle revealed all."
"Yes, well. It's difficult to look at your eyebrow when your head is so far up your arse."
He firmed his jaw. "It's done now. There's no undoing it. We're leaving tonight, and we will be married soon thereafter. There isn't any choice."
"Oh, I still have a choice. Even if the consequences have changed, I always have a choice. If my alternatives are social ruin or a loveless marriage, I will take ruin. At least that would leave me the chance to find happiness somewhere else."