To Seduce a Stranger

by Susanna Craig

  Since Samson’s hooves had first stepped onto Ravenswood land, Edward’s head had been pounding. The state of the house had added nausea to his symptoms of panic. Now his palms were slick with sweat. What sort of person spun lies so effortlessly?

  One who’d had a great deal of practice.

  Garrick dragged smoke into his lungs and nodded. “Bit of a relief, that.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I was afeared you might say t’other one was yer missus.”

  “What other one?” Charlotte asked, every inch the suspicious bride.

  Around his pipe stem, Garrick gave Edward a toothless, knowing smile. “The fancy baggage what come with yer trunks and things.”

  “Fancy . . . baggage? I don’t know what you—”

  A terrible thought struck him. No. He had meant to leave every part of that life behind. She wouldn’t have. Couldn’t have.

  But apparently, she had.

  Edward made himself ask, “Where is she?”

  “Right here, Mr. Edward.”

  Mari Harper spoke from the doorway, her voice clear, her posture erect. Clad in a respectable blue gown of some plain stuff, she would have appeared unremarkable but for the brightly colored turban wound about her head. That, and the color of her skin of course, such a dark brown it almost disappeared into the blackness of the empty corridor behind.

  “Mari!” Frustration sharpened his voice. “What in God’s name—?”

  “You rode in the baggage cart all the way from London?” Charlotte cut across him, stepping to Mari’s side and putting an arm through hers to coax the other woman into the room.

  No one could have guessed that Mari’s appearance—her very existence—must have come as quite a surprise to Charlotte. “I am almost glad I did not know,” she was saying, as if the two were old friends. “I would have been worried sick about you on these muddy roads. You are unharmed by the journey? It was an uncomfortable one, I’ve no doubt . . .”

  “I am well.” Mari inclined her head in that regal way of hers. “Mrs. Cary.”

  Torn between a sigh of relief and a cry of frustration, Edward could not trust himself to speak. So Mari had overheard Charlotte’s ridiculous story, had she? Of all the times for her to decide to play along. He had come back to England to reclaim his life. He had no intention of stepping into someone else’s trumped-up version of it.

  “Now, see here,” he began when he had recovered enough composure to speak. The two women drew closer together, a wall of defiance. Garrick plucked his pipe from his lips so that nothing interfered with his broad grin as he looked from Edward to them and back again.

  “Mrs. Corrvan suggested I come,” Mari explained. “She thought you might have need of assistance.”

  “How . . . thoughtful of her. I shall have to find a way to express my gratitude.” He was half tempted to get back on the road this very night, just for the pleasure of giving her a piece of his mind.

  “Mrs. Corrvan always was the soul of generosity,” Charlotte confirmed. “And as you can plainly see, we can use all the help we can get. Everything here seems to be in a dreadful state.”

  Mari acknowledged the truth of Charlotte’s words with a dip of her turbaned head, although her eyes never left his face.

  He opened his mouth and then shut it again, hard enough that his teeth met with an audible click. “Fine,” he said without parting them again. Everything was in a dreadful state. And clearly nothing would be resolved tonight. “Is the Rookery livable?” he asked, turning toward Garrick. Charlotte believed he had come here to claim the post of steward and had told Garrick as much. Edward might as well make use of the misunderstanding and claim the steward’s cottage for one restless night, before setting out again at first light.

  “Depends.” Garrick resumed chewing on his pipe stem. “How partic’lar are you?”

  “Has it a roof?”

  “Mostly. But yer lady ain’t likely to stand for it,” he added in a confidential undertone.

  “Mrs. Cary can be made reasonably comfortable in the housekeeper’s quarters with me for the time being,” Mari offered.

  “Right,” Edward said, not daring to look at Charlotte. “Then I’m for the Rookery, and it’s back to the stables for you, Garrick. You’ve horses to tend once more.”

  He expected an argument, from any or all of them. But when he raised his eyes, Charlotte and Mari were already receding from view, and Garrick was shrugging into a ragged coat. “It’ll be good t’ have summat to do,” Garrick confessed as he paused to relight his pipe before extinguishing the wretched candle’s smoking flame.

  “There’s certainly work to be done,” Edward agreed, brushing past corridor walls covered with chipped plaster and peeling paper as he made his way outside, where the rain had begun to fall once more. He hitched the collar of his greatcoat higher.

  “Aye. Allus has been. But without a lord, or at least a steward about, there’s been no reason—and no way—t’ do it. T’weren’t easy watching the ol’ place fall t’ ruin. I’m right glad you’ve come, sir.”

  It was not quite the homecoming greeting he had imagined, of course, although he had thought himself prepared for the worst. But his churning emotions made him suspect that in some corner of his mind, he had been secretly nursing a fantasy in which his loving mother welcomed him back with open arms. The sort of story that could only be spun by someone with a gift for invention.

  Someone like Charlotte Blake.

  Mrs. Cary.

  What in God’s name had possessed him to say it? What had he been thinking?

  The truth was, he had not been thinking. The furniture of his mind was in a state not unlike that of the rooms they had passed, dusty and tumbled and shattered. What thoughts he had been able to muster had been solely focused on a quick return to London and the inevitable confrontation with his father, who was now almost an old man. How good it would feel to at last have the upper hand—the advantage in size, in strength. The ability to stand up for himself and others, which he had craved as a child.

  In the stables, they met the coachman Edward had hired to haul his baggage as he stepped from one of the stalls. “Ah, Mr. Dobbs. I’m glad to find you here.” His words were muffled by the rain. “You’ll be returning to London in the morning, I suppose? As it turns out, there’s a matter of business requiring my urgent attention—and I understand you don’t have an aversion to passengers.”

  The man swallowed a guilty smile and shook his head. “You’d be welcome to it, Mr. Cary. But I’m afeared we’ll have a delay.”

  “The weather?”

  “We-e-ell, in a manner o’ speakin’. My off horse, Prince, has a swole fetlock, you see. All that mud.” A slow shake of his head. “If we head out again tomorrow, he’s like to be hurt worse. These horses is my livelihood. Can’t risk it, sir.”

  “No, of course not,” Edward said, mustering a note of false calm. “It won’t be a long delay, I hope?”

  Dobbs shrugged but did not look hopeful. “Jus’ have to wait and see, sir. If that rain keeps up, might be stuck here a few days yet.”

  A few days?

  A steadying breath drew cool, damp night air into his lungs, heavy with the peaty scent of new growth waiting to burst forth. Spring. A time for rebirth.

  He considered Garrick’s words about the work to be done on the estate. As satisfying as it would be to meet his father with angry words, it might be more beneficial to stay, just a day or two. He could familiarize himself with the lay of the land, assess the damage that had been done, and arm himself with a plan of action to right the wrongs that could still be righted.

  A sense of powerlessness had led him to abandon Ravenswood once. He would never abandon it again.

  But was it wise to stay here now . . . with his wife?

  Another deep breath, and this time, he swore he could almost smell the scent of Charlotte’s hair, as if it still teased his nostrils. Could almost feel the curve of her waist, as if his arm were stil
l wrapped tightly around it.

  He shook off the sensation.

  He would not allow himself to be tempted into a dalliance with a beautiful stranger. God knew what might come of it. Mrs. Cary? No. That could never be. Marriage—with any woman—was out of the question, even if it meant the Beckley title would die with him.

  From the looks of things, it was already as good as dead.

  * * *

  It was only a few steps to the housekeeper’s rooms, but far enough for Charlotte to realize that the woman accompanying her, although young and otherwise apparently healthy, had a dreadful limp. As Mari dragged one foot along the stone floor, Charlotte wondered how she had ever managed to surprise them all with her silent appearance in the doorway of Mr. Garrick’s dank cell. Regardless of her physical limitation, however, she carried herself like a queen.

  Who was this woman whom Edward addressed so familiarly? A servant? A slave? Or had Garrick’s guess been right? Was she something else to him entirely?

  Mentally, Charlotte scolded herself. She had been on the receiving end of assumptions often enough to know how they could wound. And in any case, their relationship was no concern of hers.

  She expected to find the housekeeper’s room as derelict as the rest of the house, with dust coating every surface and cobwebs festooning every corner. But a candle gleamed from a still-tarnished candelabra, revealing a freshly swept floor, a clean table, and a small, roll-armed sofa with a blanket masking its no doubt tattered upholstery. Through a partly open door on the far side of the sitting room, Charlotte glimpsed another chamber and a bed freshly made with linens that must have been brought in the luggage with which the woman had traveled. How long ago Mari had arrived, Charlotte did not know, but she had certainly kept herself busy in the interim.

  As soon as they were through the door, Mari released her arm and turned to face her, sweeping her gaze over Charlotte’s muddy gown and tangled hair. She did not speak. Aunt Penhurst was the sort of woman who loved the sound of her own voice, and over the years, Charlotte had grown used to the hum of constant criticism.

  She had forgotten how much disapproval could be communicated through silence.

  “I am Charlotte,” she said after another awkward moment, then extended her hand in greeting. “Charlotte Blake.” For of course, whatever her relationship to Edward, the woman must know Charlotte was not Mrs. Cary.

  Mrs. Cary. Why had he said it?

  Hardly had the question crossed her mind, when the candle’s flickering light caught her wedding ring and gave her the answer. It was only an old-fashioned posy ring, a narrow gold band engraved with a pattern of vines and the motto amore digna: worthy of love—words that had been meant for some other bride, of course, three hundred or so years ago when the ring was made. Nonetheless, its simplicity had gladdened Charlotte’s heart far more than any lavish bauble could have done.

  Mr. Cary must have spotted it and sought to explain its existence to Garrick, and anyone else who noticed. An impulse born of misguided chivalry, she supposed—an attempt to preserve her reputation. But why had she not contradicted his ridiculous assertion? Worse, what had possessed her to embellish upon it, as if they had some history together? Her aunt had often warned her that her stories—her lies—would lead her into trouble.

  But no. She thought of the decay and disarray that lay beyond the walls of this room, recollected Langerton and his spy looming somewhere in the distance. I am in trouble already.

  “Mari Harper,” the woman said evenly in an accent at least as pure as Charlotte’s.

  Although Mari did not take Charlotte’s outstretched hand, she did unbend enough to sit down on one of the rather rickety-looking chairs flanking the table, and she did not protest when Charlotte joined her. The black cat, which had followed them down the corridor, wound its way around Mari’s legs with a plaintive mer-re-row that echoed eerily in the half-empty room.

  Eager to fill the silence that followed, Charlotte tried to explain her presence. “I was stranded at an inn near Chippenham due to a—misunderstanding. Mr. Cary came to my aid. When he described where he was headed, I confess the remoteness of the situation appealed to me.” Certainly that aspect of Ravenswood Manor did not disappoint. No one would think to look for her here, in the middle of nowhere. “I had hoped to secure some employment in the neighborhood, although now that I see how things stand . . .” She allowed her voice to trail off. Despite Mari’s obvious disapproval of her presence, Charlotte was going to have to make the best of things here.

  With . . . her husband.

  “You must have come from the West Indies,” she said after an awkward moment had passed. “With Mr. Cary.”

  A guess. A good one, she decided when Mari nodded.

  “I suppose Mr. Cary often spoke of returning to England.”

  “No, ma’am. Never. Not until she did.”

  “She? Mrs. Corrvan, you mean?”

  Another nod. No further information seemed to be forthcoming, however. The questions crowding Charlotte’s mind were far too indelicate to be asked, and she suspected she would get no answers even if she could find a way to frame them. Feeling suddenly choked, she loosened the tie of her cloak, then brushed absently at the mud on her dress until she realized dried flakes of it were scattering onto the freshly swept floor.

  “This Mrs. Corrvan,” she ventured at last, darting her gaze to Mari with apology in her eyes, “she owns the property in Antigua where . . . where . . . ?” Where Edward was an overseer? Where you were enslaved? Where you and Edward—?

  “She does.”

  “I do not suppose she is an elderly widow, by any chance?”

  “No.” Something wry, not quite humor, lit Mari’s eyes. “She is young. And very beautiful.”

  “Ah.” Charlotte lowered her gaze as embarrassment flooded through her, although she could not say why. Something about Edward’s expression when Mari had mentioned Mrs. Corrvan’s name. Furious and tender all at once. And she suspected he would prefer that no one, especially not a stranger, had caught a glimpse of it.

  Well, that seemed to be the only glimpse of his past she was likely to get. Whatever Mari knew, she showed no inclination to reveal anything more of his life. Or her own.

  Another lengthy and uncomfortable silence was broken by a thump at the door, which swung open of its own volition, the latch long since having rusted to uselessness. Garrick stood there with a basket in one hand and Charlotte’s satchel in the other. He appeared to have knocked with his foot.

  “Mr. Cary thought you’d be wantin’ your things, ma’am,” he said to Charlotte, setting the bag on the floor before carrying the basket to the empty table. “There’s bread here,” he explained. “And a jug o’ water. But don’t try to light a fire ’til I can sweep the chimley in the mornin’. Like t’ burn the house down for a pot o’ tea.”

  Mari only nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Garrick,” Charlotte said, rising. “I don’t know where we’d find tea leaves, in any case.”

  When he had gone, she opened the basket and found half a loaf—torn, not cut—and a stoneware jug, along with two mealy apples that must have been left over from last autumn’s harvest. Dividing the store of food, she laid each portion on two clean handkerchiefs she took from Jane’s valise. “Given the state of the rest of the house, I can only imagine how this room looked when you arrived, Miss Harper,” she said, handing one handkerchief to Mari. “Thank you for your willingness to share it with me.”

  Caught in the act of drinking, Mari sputtered a little, then passed the jug across. Lifting the heavy vessel, Charlotte drank deeply, gratefully, even as she greedily wished there might also be enough for a wash. She caught Mari watching her when she was done. “You are welcome,” Mari said at last. “Mrs. Cary.”

  “Call me Charlotte,” she replied as she took a cautious seat on the blanket-covered sofa, testing whether it would hold her up for the night, or whether she might better make her bed on the floor. “I believe we can reserve ‘Mrs. Ca
ry’ for the moments when Garrick is about,” she explained, curving her lips into a weak smile.

  Beneath Mari’s assessing stare, she almost flinched. “Mr. Edward deserves a good woman,” Mari said at last. Then she pierced the flesh of an apple with even, white teeth and began to chew, leaving Charlotte with the distinct impression that the words had been meant less as welcome than as warning.

  Chapter 4

  Awakened by repeated taps of a soft paw against her face, Charlotte sat up with a start, causing both the sofa and the cat to mewl in protest. In the gray half-light, the furnishings of the housekeeper’s sitting room were little more than indistinct shapes. The sun had only just crested the horizon, and the birds were still serenading it with their songs of welcome. Early as it was, however, she sensed as soon as she rose that she was alone. The door to the inner chamber stood open and the bed within had been neatly made by its silently departed occupant.

  The cat stopped pacing along the back of the sofa long enough to sharpen its claws against the tattered upholstery, then stretched. Charlotte stretched, too, and scratched the restless tom behind the ears before pinning up her braids and putting on a clean dress. When she left the room, she took the muddy one with her, intending to brush it off outside. The cat followed.

  “Do you have a name?” she asked the cat as she walked into the morning air. Weeds choked what had once been a fine kitchen garden. No livestock grazed in the fields beyond. “I suppose you must have a name,” she said, glancing down at the cat as she began work on the dress. Surely Garrick called him something. “But no cat I’ve ever met has been willing to share it. May I call you Noir, then?”

  The black cat paused in the act of cleaning between his hind toes to look steadily at her. Yellow-green eyes blinked once before he went back to his task. Charlotte took the gesture for assent.

  When the dress had been improved as much as she could manage, she laid it over a nearby bush to freshen in the spring air. Hopefully Mari could supply needle and thread to repair the seam under one arm that had ripped when Mr. Cary had jerked her to safety.