by Candace Camp
“Mr. Weaver?”
The man turned and smiled a little nervously at Ashford. It wasn’t every day that he did business with a baron, and he felt a bit in awe of Ashford still, though the lord seemed a pleasant enough type. He was also very aware that the news he was bringing him was probably not what he wished to hear.
“I found out today, my lord,” he said, stopping to clear his throat.
“Indeed?” Ashford felt his heart drop at the anxious expression on the other man’s face. He gestured toward the street. “Why don’t we take a little stroll?”
“Very well, sir.” Weaver tugged a little at his collar and fell in with Ashford as he came down the steps.
They walked along the sidewalk, talking in quiet tones. There were few people around, and when someone did approach, they would fall silent, then resume their conversation when the others had passed.
“She left the house earlier than usual this morning, my lord, and she didn’t take the carriage. Anyway, she went to Harding Crescent. There’s a pretty little park there. It’s a few blocks from your house.”
“Yes, I know the location.” Ashford paused, then went on, struggling to keep his voice even and unconcerned, “And what did she do there?”
“It was as you thought, my lord. She met a man. They talked for a while, animated like. She started away, and he took her arm and pulled her back, and they talked some more. He—They kissed.”
“Damn!” George pressed his lips closed after the one brief, explosive curse.
“They kept on talking some more. Then she turned and walked out of the park. She looked angry, my lord. I didn’t see much reason to follow her, so I stayed and went after the gentleman.”
“Gentleman?” George repeated in ironic tones.
“Yessir,” Weaver replied, unaware of the sarcasm of George’s word. “He was dressed like a gentleman, right up to the mark, and he carried a gold-knobbed cane. Very smart, he was.”
George made an impatient gesture. “Good God, man, I don’t care what he wore. Who is he?”
The other man smiled smugly. “I followed him to his house, my lord. Nice place, it was, too, in Mayfair. I managed to make friends with a coachman what was sitting waiting for his master at a house across the street. He said the man was a Mr. Faraday Reed. A swell, just like I thought, looking at his house.”
Faraday Reed! Ashford’s hand clenched. That snake! George had not suspected him in his wildest imaginings. It was well known that Dure and Reed did not like one another. No one knew why; it was only whispers and speculation. It seemed bizarre that Venetia would take up with someone whom her brother despised. George had never even seen Faraday Reed come up and speak to his wife at a party—except for that time the night Dure introduced Charity to them.
Ashford recalled it now. At the time, he had made little of it. Venetia and Reed had spoken briefly, and though Venetia had looked a trifle pale afterward, George had put it down to her disliking Reed’s impertinence. Now he saw that it must have had very different connotations.
Weaver glanced at his silent companion, then began tentatively, “Will you be wanting me to keep on, my lord? Following Her Ladyship, I mean?”
“What? Oh. No. I—That will be enough, Mr. Weaver. Quite enough.”
Ashford paid the man, then turned and started back to his club. He felt strangely disconnected from himself. Normally, he knew, he would never even have thought of the possibility of his wife’s being unfaithful. But he had begun to be suspicious, because Venetia seemed so unlike herself, often staring into space, jittery and jumpy all the time. A few days ago, he had found her crying in her dressing room. When he went to her, concerned, she had quickly brushed her tears away and told him that it was nothing. It had bothered him that she refused to tell him what was wrong, but what had really pierced him was that when she looked up at him, he saw a flash of fear in her eyes.
It was then that he had decided to hire Weaver. He had heard Winston Montague talking about him one day; Weaver had recovered some jewels for his wife, and Montague had sung his praises. Now Ashford realized that all along, even though he had told Weaver he wanted his wife followed to see if she was having an affair, what he had really wanted—what he had presumed, in fact—was that Weaver would tell him that his fears were unwarranted, that Venetia was not seeing another man. Now his half-hidden fears were realized; he could not hide from the truth. Venetia was in love with another man.
Hatred spurted within him as he thought of Faraday Reed, and at the same time his heart burned with pain. Venetia did not love him. He wanted to strike out in rage, and he knew that if Reed had been there in front of him right then, he would have gone for his throat. That would have relieved some of his anger. But nothing could relieve the ache in his soul. He wished he had never hired Weaver.
Wearily Ashford climbed the steps to the front door of his club and went inside. He did not return to the smoking room. Instead he found a small, unoccupied room and sank down into one of its comfortable leather chairs. He leaned back, closing his eyes as if asleep, so that no one would disturb him, and let misery overtake him.
CHAPTER TEN
CHARITY STIFLED A YAWN as she brushed out her hair in front of the vanity mirror.
Serena, sitting on the bed behind her and doing the same thing to her own hair, smiled faintly. “Bored with this life already?”
“Tired, I think. The ball last night went on too long.”
“I never thought I’d hear you say that,” Serena teased.
“Me either.” In truth, Charity was more bored and lonely than anything else. She had seen Simon only once since the day she had taken Lucky to him, almost a week ago. It had been at a dinner, and they had been seated far apart, without a chance to talk. The time had crept by. The social round was little fun without Simon. She worried that perhaps she had offended him by her behavior on the day they found Lucky. He had not seemed so, certainly, but perhaps, on reflection, he had decided she was too bold.
As though she had read her thoughts, Serena said, “I imagine that you will feel better this evening, when we go to the theater with Lady Ashford.”
Charity smiled, her face lighting up. Simon would be in his sister’s box, as well. “That’s true.” She turned back to the mirror, piling her hair up on her head in different ways and studying the effects. “I want to look especially pretty tonight. Do you think this style makes me look older?”
Serena chuckled. “Most women spend their time trying to look younger, not older.”
“I know. But I don’t want Si—Lord Dure to think I look babyish.”
Serena studied her sister curiously. “You are fond of him, aren’t you?”
“Of course.” Charity looked at her with some surprise. “I am going to marry the man, after all.”
“Marriage doesn’t necessarily mean mutual regard,” Serena reminded her softly.
Charity’s eyes grew intent as she looked at her sister in the mirror. “Do you really think so—that the regard is mutual, I mean?”
Serena chuckled. “My dear, how can you doubt it, after the man took that wretched dog off your hands? He had to be smitten, not to show us all the door and cry off the engagement.”
Charity smiled. “I know. But I haven’t seen him since then. And whenever he calls, it’s so horribly stiff!”
“It is difficult, with Mama and Elspeth and me there, too.”
Charity grimaced. “It’s dreadful with Mama and Elspeth there. If I say anything besides some insipid something or other, Elspeth jumps in, babbling about something else, and Mama looks daggers at me, then scolds me dreadfully after Dure leaves. And I have to stay in there with all those other dreadfully dull callers, as well. Sometimes I think it was more fun in the schoolroom.”
“You were bored there, too,” Serena reminded her.
“That’s true,” Charity agreed. “And it will be much more fun when I’m married, for then Dure and I can talk anytime we want…about anything we want.” She grinn
ed. “Doesn’t that sound wonderful? Can’t you hardly wait for when you marry your pastor and can sit across from him at the breakfast table every morning? Or sit there in front of your vanity and talk while you’re preparing your toilette?”
Serena blushed prettily. “Charity! What a shocking thing to be thinking of!”
Charity shrugged. “Well, it’s true, isn’t it? Don’t you think you’ll be together like this? I mean, you will be sharing a bed, how can you not be closer?”
Her older sister’s cheeks turned beet red at Charity’s last remark, and she shot her an agonized glance. “Charity, you must learn to hold your tongue! You simply cannot go around saying things alike that!”
“Why? I’m only talking to you. It isn’t as if I blurted it out in front of a duchess.”
“Thank heavens!” Serena replied with heartfelt gratitude, coming over behind Charity and taking the brush from her hands. She began to pin up her sister’s hair, saying, “Sometimes, Charity, I cannot understand where you came by this want of propriety.”
“I can’t, either,” Charity agreed, without rancor. “It must come from some bad apple in Papa’s family. I can’t imagine any of the Stanhopes being that way.”
“I should hope not. Nor the Emersons, either.”
“But, Serena,” Charity went on, ignoring the issue of propriety, “don’t you look forward to it?”
“Of course I do. I cannot help but be eager to be able to be with Mr. Woodson and…and commune with him in rightful solitude.”
“Commune with him!” Charity gaped at her sister. She loved Serena dearly, but there were times when she was annoyingly priggish. Charity was not sure exactly what communing with a man in rightful solitude meant, but it sounded thoroughly boring. What she looked forward to was talking to Simon alone, saying whatever she wanted, her heart rising when she was able to draw laughter to his face or the light of passion to his eyes. She wanted to be with him in easy intimacy, no longer surrounded by other people, but free to kiss, to hold each other….
Charity pulled back her wayward thoughts, afraid that their nature might show on her expressive face. She had no doubt that Serena would be utterly shocked if she had any idea of what had passed between Charity and Simon.
“At least tonight at the theater I will be able to see him and talk to him. Even if there are lots of people there, it will be more fun than sitting in the drawing room with Mama watching us like a hawk.”
Charity got up and walked over to the dresser, where a small vase of pink rosebuds stood. Simon had sent the flowers to her this morning; a maid had brought in the vase when she came into the room to wake them up. Charity bent to sniff their scent, and as she did so, she noticed a folded slip of white paper tucked deep amid the stems. She froze, staring at it. She had not noticed it before. Had it been there when the maid brought in the flowers?
She told herself that she simply had not seen it before because it was hidden deep amid the stems. She told herself that it was only a note from Simon accompanying the gift. But she remembered that the maid had handed her the small card with Simon’s name on it when she brought the vase. Charity’s heart pounded, and her throat went dry. She was certain it was another of those notes.
She glanced back at her sister and was glad to see that Serena had not noticed her reaction. She had taken Charity’s place in front of the mirror and was absorbed in brushing a long curl around her fingers. Charity reached into the vase quickly and retrieved the piece of paper, then unfolded it.
“You will be the monster’s next victim.”
Charity stared down at the note. Her fingers trembled with rage, and she crushed the slip of paper in her hand. She dropped it into the wastepaper basket, fury surging through her. How dare someone malign Simon this way? She wished that she could get her hands on the perpetrator; her fingers itched to slap the coward who dared not even make his accusations face-to-face.
Then, suddenly, she thought about where she had found the note. It had not been delivered, nor had it been placed in her possession at some large party, as the other notes had. Instead, it had been here, in her own bedroom, tucked into the very bouquet that Dure had sent her, like a poisonous snake. Someone in this house had put it in there—probably they had crept into her very bedroom to do it! She and Serena had been in and out of the room since they had arisen, going down to breakfast and across the hall to see Horatia and Belinda. Serena had also left to borrow a brooch from her mother, and Charity had spent some time in Elspeth’s room, retrieving a scarf Elspeth had borrowed. It made Charity’s skin crawl to think of someone slipping into her room like that; she felt violated and uneasy.
Charity glanced around the room, almost as if she would find someone still lurking in her bedroom. Serena gave a final pat to her coiffure and rose from the vanity stool, smiling at Charity.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
Charity wanted to tell her sister about the note, to unburden herself of its evil, but she stopped herself. She could not show Serena that accusation about Simon; it seemed a betrayal of Simon to even admit that someone was accusing him of such a crime. So she fixed a smile on her face and answered her sister lightly, following her out the door and down the stairs to face the afternoon’s callers.
They could hear by the sound of male voices that there were already visitors in the drawing room. Charity paused, tempted for a moment not even to go in. She didn’t want to have to be polite to people she neither knew nor liked, when all she could think of was that note and the treacherous way it had turned up in her room.
Serena stopped at the door and turned toward her, her brows lifted enquiringly. Charity knew that if she didn’t go in, she would have to explain her actions, at least to her sister, and then probably her mother or Aunt Ermintrude would come to see what was wrong. It was easier to put on a social mask and force herself through the call.
She joined Serena, and they entered the room. There were three men inside the room, as well as Aunt Ermintrude. Charity was relieved to see that her mother was not there. Aunt Ermintrude didn’t have the eagle eye that Caroline did; she would not be likely to notice that there was anything wrong with Charity—especially since the old lady was having so much fun flirting. All the men stood up when the two women entered. One of the men was Faraday Reed. Charity’s spirits brightened. Here, at least, was someone she could confide in. She exchanged polite greetings with everyone, and managed to maneuver herself into sitting in the chair beside Faraday.
“How lovely you look, Miss Emerson,” he began, then stopped when he saw her expression.
“I must talk to you,” Charity said in a low voice, looking at him intently.
“You’ve gotten another of them, haven’t you?” he guessed.
“Yes. Just now, in my room.”
His eyes widened. “In your very bedchamber? But that’s—monstrous.”
Charity nodded and began to tell him how she had found it. It was a relief to confide her fears and worries to him, instead of maintaining a polite social front. He had proven himself worthy of her confidence. Despite her fears to the contrary, there had been no mention of the notes from anyone since Reed had found out; obviously he had not seized on the opportunity to spread the juicy bit of gossip about Charity and Simon. Charity thought it was unfair of Simon to dislike the man so much. Even if they had loved the same woman, that didn’t make Faraday a bad person. Faraday did not hold a grudge against Simon over it; it seemed to her that Simon should be able to unbend and get over the old rift, too. If only he knew how helpful Reed had been, how understanding and discreet…
“It was the same sort of thing—a warning that I would be in danger,” Charity explained. “It called Dure a monster, and said that I would be his next victim.” Charity’s eyes flashed at the memory, though she kept her composure enough not to raise her voice. “How could they think I would believe such calumny about him?”
“No one who knew your loyal nature could,” he replied soothingly.
&
nbsp; “Why would they say such a thing? Why would anyone want to break off our engagement?”
“Perhaps a spurned suitor?” he suggested. “You are a beautiful girl—doubtless you’ve broken more than one heart by becoming engaged to Lord Dure.”
Charity stared at him. “You can’t be serious! Why, I never even attended a party here in London until Dure and I were engaged.”
“But could there not be someone from your home in the country?”
Charity couldn’t help but giggle, thinking about the country boys she had danced and flirted with, like the squire’s son, Will, who was far more interested in his father’s hunting pack than in any thoughts of marriage. “No. Really. It could not be that.”
Reed sat silent for a moment, thinking. Finally he said, “Have you thought that perhaps it is someone who does not do it with malicious intent?”
“What do you mean? How could they not?”
“Perhaps it is a person who is merely concerned for you, though not close enough to you to express it. It could be that they really believe that you will be in danger if you marry Dure.”
“What? That’s preposterous! How can you even think that!”
“There have been rumors ever since his wife’s death,” he pointed out reasonably.
“Rumors do not make a thing true,” Charity retorted heatedly. “Do not tell me that you think such a thing of Dure, too!”
“Of course not. Lord Dure and I have had our differences, as you know. But I have never believed that he murdered his wife. I was only pointing out that it might not necessarily be someone malicious or evil doing this, but someone who honestly believes that he is saving you.”
“Well, whoever it is and whatever he thinks, I wish he would show his face, so that I could tell him what I think of him. It’s a coward’s way. If he had any honor or honesty, he would tell me directly.”
“I have tried to find out,” Reed told her. “Discreetly, of course. I could not ask outright questions.”