Holly and Hopeful Hearts

by Caroline Warfield

  Her laugh brought a welcome puff of warmth to her lips as she turned toward the river once again. The night was worse than cold, it was merciless, and it carried with it a dampness that seeped into her every pore, chilling her to her bones and invading her weary heart. Perhaps she would freeze before she could drown.

  The bridge was as famous as she was, a dubious honor. The fastest way between London and the poorest boroughs to the south, the city’s whores frequently threw themselves off of it as they returned home from long days servicing the wealthier streets in rented gowns and sagging feathers. It got them all, in the end. Perhaps it was not the easiest way to go, but it was there. Living the way they did, all that silver had to look tempting from time to time.

  What was an actress but a whore? Her father, a playwright, loved his quill to distraction but had nothing but disdain for the painted players who brought his words to life. The last time she had spoken to him, he’d asked her that very question, and Charlotte, in her wisdom, had asked him why he had married one.

  “Prescient as ever, Father,” she addressed his memory, straddling the railing of the bridge, the only barrier between her sort and their inevitable end. She didn’t want to die, but what choice did she have? Cast out by her lover and sacked by her theater, she had no family, no income, no future. All she had was an expanding belly and a week to vacate her ex-lover’s rooms.

  “A week until Christmas,” she muttered. “Prick.”

  She didn’t kid herself she’d be able to get back onstage after the baby came. After ten good years of drawing crowds, she was already being replaced by younger, fresher women, actresses from the country who couldn’t enunciate if she took their jaws into her own hands and moved their lips herself, but didn’t London love a new face? She’d passed for twenty-two for years now, but it was only a matter of time until someone remembered she’d been nineteen ten years ago. Christ.

  Before long, she’d be little more than a buttock broker’s bunter. If her child survived, it would be destined for the workhouse.

  That was not something she could abide.

  “Wesley Thomas Cheltenham Sneed,” she seethed, searching her overdeveloped imagination for a curse befitting the man who had abandoned her, noble by birth if not character.

  She let out a long sigh. There was no point to it.

  She had met his betrothed. He deserved precisely what he was getting.

  The sound of wheels popping over the stones startled her and she gripped the edge, struggling to keep her balance. Oddly enough, she didn’t much care for the idea of falling in.

  She clung to her perch as the coach passed, hoping the darkness would shield her from prying eyes. What would it matter if they saw her, really? She was just another Drury Lane Vestal succumbing to the inevitable, after all.

  Her jaw clenched in protest at her morose line of thought. She didn’t really believe that, did she?

  The wheels stopped.

  “Miss Halfpenny?”

  Charlotte turned as she heard her name.

  The coach was old and cumbersome but meticulously maintained, set high above the street on wheels the size of card tables. Unadorned but for a coat of lacquer, it was dark as the team of blacks that idled before it. The door stood open and a man leaned out, his youthful appearance illuminated by the glass-encased lantern swinging from a hook on the side.

  He regarded her with an expression caught somewhere between confusion and terror. “Might I be of assistance?”

  Clean shaven and slight of form, she might have mistaken him for a boy, albeit a remarkably pretty one. His hair was short and neat, dark as his horses. His jaw was angular and his mouth more serious than generous, but his eyes were bright and pale. She never forgot a face. She tried to place his.

  “Somerton.” She smiled as the name came to her. She was face to face with the reclusive Earl of Somerton.

  He alighted from the coach and approached her as though she were a frightened animal. “Please, will you come down from there?”

  His voice was mellow, sweet, and very expensive. It sounded like tea with the Queen. He held out his hand.

  She took it with only a moment’s hesitation and he visibly relaxed as she climbed down. He was taller than she would have guessed and elegant as a dancer, not a thread out of place on his immaculate suit. Even his cravat looked as though he’d just tied it.

  There was something odd about him, but she couldn’t quite place it. He was unlike any man she had ever been near, too composed, too perfect. “You’re freezing,” he observed, the vapor of his breath the only cloud in the night. “May I escort you home?”

  She shivered, remembering her unfortunate circumstances. “I don’t have a home anymore.”

  His eyebrows drew together in concern, or perhaps distaste. “Then I suppose you shall have to come to mine.”

  Charlotte blinked, taken aback. “With all due respect, Lord Somerton, if you’re looking for a poke, you can piss off. You’re a handsome bloke, but I’ve had quite a day.”

  The only hint that he had heard her was the slight widening of his eyes.

  They were silver, just like the river.

  He cleared his throat. “I meant no disrespect, Miss Halfpenny, only it is very cold and I hate to think of you out here on your own. Would you consent to joining me for supper? I give you my word as a gentleman that I will not touch you.”

  She looked him over, seeking signs of good character in the shine of his boots and the fit of his coat. His character may be questionable, but his tailor was a damned genius. He was leaner than most and held himself with a grace that was both authoritative and arresting in its beauty. It was his eyes that drew her gaze once again. She saw no ill-intent there, but a sort of quiet desperation that mirrored her own.

  He was lonely.

  Her heart began to thaw even as her mind warned her against accompanying strange noblemen back to their homes in the night. A man of Somerton’s standing could drown her himself in sight of the King and half of Parliament and never get done for it.

  She shrugged off her foreboding. There’s no harm in it. You were about to drown yourself, remember?

  “You wouldn’t mind? Your wife isn’t likely to welcome an actress to her table.”

  “I’m not married, and you’re most welcome. Indeed, I would be honored to have you as my guest. I am a great admirer of your work.”

  Charlotte blushed at the compliment. Somerton had seen her? “I do not have the most spotless of reputations. I would not wish to cause you dishonor.”

  He raised a dark brow playfully. “My household is very good at keeping secrets.”

  Something about the way he said this made her want learn them all.

  “I would be delighted to join you, Lord Somerton.”

  His smile was a mystery, a shadow on the face of the moon.

  Chapter 2

  Somerton House was a graveyard.

  A palatial relic in St. James, it could have been papered in old money for all the awe commanded by its presence. No longer a fashionable address, it was far enough from Mayfair to be out of sight of curious passersby.

  Not that they would have seen much. Every tall window was swathed in heavy red drapes that looked as though they’d been there since Shakespeare’s demise.

  Charlotte followed Somerton through a parlor covered floor to ceiling in ghostly portraits. They passed through a dining hall filled with an incongruous array of furniture; the enormous table and finely carved chairs were surrounded by delicate ornamental tables from the East, Queen Anne stools, a cabinet stuffed with yellowing books, and a faded settee that looked as though it had fallen off a pirate ship. Mounted above the marble hearth behind the head of the table was a portrait of a woman in a deep violet dress. With black hair and skin so pale it was almost blue, her coloring was so vivid it was stark, offset by a galaxy of diamond stars in her hair.

  Though Somerton had mentioned supper, he did not pause in this room, but carried on to his study at the far
end of the house. The glimpse of books she had caught from the hall could not prepare her from the sight that awaited her inside.

  The room was the size of a theater, and every inch of wall was fitted with ornate cherry bookcases. Each shelf was packed with books, some two rows deep in fine leather-bound volumes side to side with pamphlets and novels. Narrow ladders stretched toward the top shelves, yards above them and overstuffed as the rest. Wes’s study had been for status alone, an obligatory den for the consumption of brandy, cigars, and pornography. In the three years she had known him, she had never once seen him open a book.

  There was nothing superficial about this one. More than a study, it was a library.

  Charlotte could not hazard a guess at how many books were in the cavernous room. If she lived as long as Methuselah, she could never read them all.

  The only wall space not consumed by books or stained glass windows was reserved for the hearth. Tall and wide enough to fit a phaeton, its glow called to her as she realized how cold she still was.

  A small table had been set for supper within the firelight. Somerton stood beside a deep, high-backed chair of overstuffed velvet with an odd smile. “It’s something, isn’t it?” He nodded toward a shelf. “It used to be the ballroom.”

  “It’s bigger than Almack’s,” Charlotte observed, taking the chair he offered.

  “You’ve been?”

  “Once, years ago. Does that surprise you?”

  “Not at all, only I might have gone myself if I’d have known you were there.” The hint of a dimple appeared in his cheek. “You must be freezing. I’ll fetch you a blanket.”

  Within a matter of minutes, Somerton had her bundled up in a soft wool blanket with a warm brick under her feet. A servant brought a tray laden with two bowls of thick stew and fresh bread, but when Charlotte thanked her, all she received was a hostile look.

  Somerton did not appear to be aware of it as he poured Charlotte a cup of tea. “Sugar?”

  She nodded. She would take all the sweetness she could get.

  He passed her the cup, his fingers brushing hers as she grasped the saucer.

  “Thank you,” she said, her gaze sweeping his face. She had never seen a face quite like his, more than youthful, it was curiously beautiful. Wide eyes that could only be described as lovely were offset by a pair of cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and a well-formed mouth. A handsome young earl would have no need to visit the marriage mart to find a suitable match. No doubt London’s mothers shoved their daughters into his path whenever he ventured out of doors. She couldn’t blame them. If she were ten years younger and marriage-minded, she would have leapt in front of his horses herself. “You are very kind.”

  “Not at all,” he dismissed. “I’ve an ulterior motive, I’m afraid.”

  Charlotte’s nerves stood on end. Could Somerton be a friend of Wesley’s, sent to pay her off? She had certainly never seen them together. Indeed, the only times Wes had ever mentioned Somerton was to repeat some foul rumor about the gentleman’s reasons for withdrawing from society: from unusual sexual proclivities to disfigurement.

  His gaze drifted to her lips, and an altogether more tempting possibility came to mind.

  “Are you looking for a mistress?” she asked, bold as brass.

  He swallowed hard. “Not at all, Miss Halfpenny, but I think we may yet be of assistance to each other.”

  Charlotte held her teacup close, intrigued. “What can I do for you, Lord Somerton?”

  He set down his tea and reached for the whiskey. “I was hoping I might persuade you to marry me.”

  Charlotte choked on her breath. “I beg your pardon?”

  He poured two glasses of whiskey and passed one to her. “Forgive me for putting it indelicately, but I have been informed you are with child. Is that the case?”

  She nodded reluctantly, reaching for the whiskey.

  “Capital.” He cleared his throat. “May I be blunt?”

  Charlotte laughed. “That wasn’t?”

  His neck flushed a washed-out red and he loosened his cravat. “I beg your patience, Miss Halfpenny. I have never proposed marriage before, and I fear I’m bungling it quite spectacularly.”

  “You’re serious?” she asked, incredulous.

  “Quite serious. Is the thought too much to bear?”

  Charlotte blinked dumbly, wondering if she had jumped off the bridge and this was the other side. A handsome earl asking for her hand after midnight in a frightening ruin of a house… was this heaven, hell, or something else altogether? She reached for his hand, closing hers over his long fingers. “Not at all, only I confess to a modicum of shock. I am a disgraced actress of no birth carrying another man’s child.”

  He turned his hand to grasp hers, and she felt a jolt as their palms touched, surely as if lightning had struck her. She half expected to find singed flesh when she took her hand back.

  “Disgrace does not factor into it, Miss Halfpenny. You are the finest actress I’ve had the good fortune to see. You’ve moved me to tears on more than one occasion, I can assure you.”

  Charlotte fought the urge to preen at the compliment. “I should hope my performance wasn’t poor enough to make you weep, Lord Somerton.”

  “Never.” He stroked the inside of her palm as he withdrew his hand. No more than a whisper of a touch, but it was there, and it sent a shiver up the length of her neck. “I find myself in need of an heir, Miss Halfpenny, and it would seem you are in need of protection.”

  “You want my child?” She took the glass of whiskey, feeling the need for it all of the sudden. “Why not marry a lady and have one of your own?”

  His face fell. “Alas, I cannot father children. I narrowly escaped a carriage accident not a fortnight past, and thus reminded of my own mortality, I must act decisively to ensure the future of my estate. Should I die without issue, everything would pass to my profligate cousin.”

  Embarrassment rose in her gut. “I’m sorry.”

  His smile did not stretch to his eyes. “Think nothing of it.”

  She sipped her whiskey, craving fortification. “You would leave all of this to an actress’s bastard?”

  “It is preferable to the alternative. Miles is a pillock of the first order.” He sipped his own whiskey, the cut glass sparkling in the candlelight. He was richer than Croesus, and she was fool to ask too many questions. “I would raise the child as my own. He will have my name, a home, and the best education money can buy. He will be a viscount at his birth, and an earl upon my death.”

  Her fingers tightened around her glass. “And if it’s a girl?”

  “We shall quietly find her a brother.” His gaze settled on her lips. “I’d have done as much sooner, but a wife is required to present the appearance of legitimacy.”

  Charlotte swallowed hard. She knew nothing about the man, and should not countenance his absurd scheme for a moment. But if he were in earnest… “What about me?”

  He held her gaze, deadly serious. “You will want for nothing.”

  She let out the breath she had been holding. “You’re asking me to be a countess.”

  “I’ve every confidence you can manage.” He attempted levity. “You were an outstanding Lady Macbeth.”

  She almost laughed. “What would you ask of me in return?”

  He paled. “Only your loyalty and your discretion. Whatever you see inside this house, no matter how peculiar it may seem, you must never speak of it to anyone but myself. Do you understand?”

  A chill raised goosebumps in her arms in spite of the warm woolen blanket around her shoulders. What on earth did he mean by that? The shadows of the library seemed to deepen around him, casting sinister shapes along the walls.

  His eyes were the brightest thing in the room, the same silver as the river by moonlight. Beautiful as it could be, the river was noxious and filled with unfathomable evil; would Somerton prove likewise poisonous?

  One way or another, she’d end up at the bottom. May as well jump
.

  Chapter 3

  “Yes.”

  Somerton’s unusual eyes brightened at her answer, lit from within by an eerie blue fire. She had the unsettling feeling she was about to be devoured. None of her former lovers, male or female, had regarded her with such unguarded intensity, and it excited and frightened her in equal measure.

  He wanted her, that much was apparent. She wondered at the extent of his limitations. He couldn’t father children, but would he take her to bed? While he appeared to be younger than most of the men she’d had, his eyes seemed ancient, giving him an unnerving, ageless quality. He might have been anywhere between eighteen and fifty. She found she didn’t mind. She had spent a mad week with Lord Byron while he was on leave from Cambridge and that had been memorable.

  Somerton looked a little like Byron, if leaner and more handsome. Perhaps they were related. All nobles were, weren’t they? “What should we tell people? How did we meet?”

  His face fell, and he looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Gossip always accompanies a hasty marriage, but I would never wish you to suffer dishonor on my account. We shall say whatever you think is best.”

  Charlotte almost laughed. If she suffered any further dishonor, it would not be due to Somerton. If anything, he would salvage her reputation in a way no one else dared. If anyone suffered because of their arrangement, it would be him. She bit her lip, trying to imagine a scenario that would flatter the earl. “I’ve been your mistress for years, seeing Wes—that is, Marksby—when we quarreled because I am dreadfully inconstant. We met at Almack’s the one night I went back in, erm…” she coughed over the year, “… and we haven’t been able to give each other up, though your family disapproves of me. When Marksby was away in France, you kept me company in Bankside, and now I’m carrying your child. There’s no denying our mad lust for each other, so you decided to marry me against your family’s wishes.”

  He choked on his whiskey. “My family’s dead.”