“Your Grace, may I present my sister, Catherine Yates? Kitty, this”—she accented the word with a sweep of her arm, as if Charlotte were an item on display—“is the Duchess of Langerton.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Yates grew pale. “Oh, my.”
The curtsy into which she lowered herself was so deep she required her sister’s aid to rise again, and the absurdity of the situation—a clean, well-dressed, respectable woman prostrating herself to the dirty, disheveled daughter of nobody—made Charlotte begin to giggle. And once she had begun, she found she could not stop. The hiccups of laughter soon gave way to tears, which made the good Mrs. Yates even more frantic.
“Here, my lady—er, no, that’s not right, is it?—here’s a chair, ma’am. Should I fetch some smelling salts?” she asked, turning away, then back again. “I don’t—I don’t believe I have any smelling salts, now that I think of it. I’ve never been prone to fainting, myself. Maybe an onion? Or a—uh—”
“Kitty! Just let her breathe for a moment,” Jane said, handing Charlotte a handkerchief. “Can’t you see she’s had a difficult time of it?” At that moment, two boys whooped through the hall from the back and ran up the stairs, the elder gripping some prize snatched from the kitchen, the younger trying and failing to get his share. “Boys! Richard, Charles! Stop your tomfoolery this instant!”
Charlotte waved the handkerchief in a feeble hand, trying to forestall Jane’s protest. The tears became laughter again. It was good to see Jane among the loving chaos of her family.
“Would you—that is, do you think you could manage the stairs, my—er, Your Grace?” Mrs. Yates asked.
Jane added, “There’s a proper sitting room upstairs, if the children haven’t made a toss of it.”
“You’re too kind,” Charlotte said, and surrendered herself to their care. Curious children were shooed from the best parlor, though they persisted in peeking through the crack in the door at the visitor. A maid brought tea, which Charlotte fell upon with such unladylike eagerness that an invitation to dinner soon followed. Finally, after a great deal of whispering with her sister and the maid in the corridor, Mrs. Yates extended the offer of a room for the night.
“Merci,” said Charlotte, which resulted in a surreptitious exchange of glances.
Perhaps an hour later, when the bustle of interest surrounding her arrival had died down, when Mrs. Yates had gone to urge the cook to her best efforts, and the maid had fetched up hot water, Charlotte and Jane were left alone in the bedroom Charlotte had been given.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, ma’am.” Jane poured the water in the basin and made as if to help Charlotte out of her dress.
Too tired to protest, Charlotte lifted her arms like a child and allowed herself to be washed and dressed and combed and tressed. “It really was not my intention to come here, to inconvenience your family. But I—I did not know where else to turn.”
“Don’t you worry about Kitty and the rest,” Jane mumbled around a mouthful of hairpins. “This will give them conversation for the rest of the year.”
“Oh, but they mustn’t! What if Robert—what if the Duke of Langerton finds out and makes trouble for them?”
Jane smiled indulgently. “He’s not often spotted in Clerkenwell, ma’am, truth be told.”
“Well, no. I don’t suppose . . .”
“And Kitty’ll have the name mixed up. One side of the street will hear that Lady Somesuch came to call, and the other side will be sayin’ it was the Queen herself.”
Charlotte wrinkled her brow, uncertain whether Jane was teasing. “You weren’t . . . he did not cause you any difficulty, then?”
“Pshaw. He’s enough to do, what with disappearin’ duchesses an’ the like,” she said with a wink. “He had his secretary out to yell at me one morning, told me lyin’ was a sin, and stealin’ too—”
“Stealing?”
“Your trunk went on to Blakemore House, ’course, but I kept your bag right with me. Told ’im it was mine and he hadn’t any cause to go poking his nose in it. Well, eventually, he gave up, and I haven’t heard another peep, ’cept a note sent round with my last quarter’s wages. See for yourself.”
Reaching around, she fumbled through a small drawer in the top of the dressing table, and Charlotte realized the room they were in belonged to Jane. “I can’t—you mustn’t give up your room for me, Jane.”
“Don’t think anything of it, ma’am. I’m up and down the stairs to the nursery so many times of an evening, I might as well sleep there as here,” she insisted, laughing. “Now, see.” She extended the paper for Charlotte’s inspection. “Ten pounds, minus one pound six for missing bag and contents,” she read, and laughed again.
“Do you—?” Charlotte hardly dared hope. “Do you still have the bag?”
“’Course. I hung the dresses in the press, but everything else is just as you left it.” This necessitated rummaging through the bottom of a corner cupboard, but when Jane reemerged, she bore a small carpet-sided satchel in her arms and laid it easily in Charlotte’s lap. “La, ma’am. There you be. Safe and sound.”
With one trembling finger, Charlotte traced a pattern in the rough nap of the fabric. Inside, she could feel the sharp corners of what could only be a book. “Thank you, Jane. I’m afraid I left your bag behind in Gloucestershire.”
“Gloucestershire. That’s west, ain’t it?” Jane asked. Charlotte nodded. “And is the bit about the man true, too, then?”
“Man?”
Jane slid her fingers into her drawer once more and this time withdrew a folded newspaper whose print was distressingly familiar to Charlotte. When Jane held it out for her to see, Charlotte read once more the words about Robert’s suit. But this time, her eyes traveled farther down the page.
Meanwhile, the Disappearing Duchess was last seen headed west in the company of a dark-haired stranger. No doubt she hopes he is possessed of a cure for her late husband’s “infirmities.”
Licking suddenly dry lips, she tried to find an answer to Jane’s question. “I—I—”
That stammering syllable seemed to be all the confirmation Jane required. “Well, I hope he was handsome, ma’am,” she said, with a sly smile. “For your sake.”
Charlotte recalled Jane hinting, none too gently, that Charlotte was now free to use a widow’s license and take a lover. Could indulge in a carefree affaire. Of course Jane would not have been the only one to leap to that conclusion.
By leaving to avoid one scandal, Charlotte had created another: She had become the Disappearing Duchess, who had escaped to taste the forbidden fruits wedded life had denied her. Or at least hoped to deceive the courts into believing her marriage had been consummated.
By giving in to her desire for Edward, she had turned terrible gossip into truth.
With trembling fingers, Charlotte laid aside the newspaper clipping. “He was.”
“Are you all right, ma’am?” Jane asked.
“Yes,” she lied. “Just tired.”
“I’ll leave you to rest up a bit before dinner, ma’am. Shall I?”
“Please, Jane. You’re not my servant now. You—well, you’ve been a better friend to me than even you know. And I hope you’ll consider me your friend, too.”
With a bright smile, Jane turned to leave. “Ooh, la. Fancy me, friends with a duchess.” But she sounded pleased by the suggestion, nonetheless.
Hardly had the door latched before Charlotte reached into the bag to withdraw the battered old book, brushing with one trembling fingertip the cracked spine that had once been touched with gilt, broken when her uncle had thrown it at her with words he had intended to sting. Tu es exactement comme ta mère. You are just like your mother.
When Edward learned what she was believed to have done, would he, too, see things in just that light? Would he think she had gone to his bed merely in hopes of preserving her fortune?
Slowly, she opened the volume to find the rest of her dearly bought legacy untouched. Between the bo
ok’s worn pages lay banknotes. Scores of them. Several hundred pounds in all, almost as if George had anticipated that she might have need of ready money.
If she had never been separated from this book and its contents, she would be living alone, somewhere far from the watchful eyes of Society. Even here, in Clerkenwell, the eyes were rather too intent for her tastes.
But if she had never been separated from this book and its contents, she would never have met Edward. Would have gone on believing that men like him—men who were not afraid to get their hands dirty, who faced adversity and were willing to do anything to save others from a similar fate—only existed in stories meant for children and fools.
A fat teardrop splatted onto the book, temporarily restoring one small circle of its faded vermillion leather cover to a deeper luster. Two more tears followed in rapid succession. With the hem of her sleeve, she tried to wipe away the evidence of her foolishness.
By now, Edward must know all about the Disappearing Duchess. And she felt certain the Earl of Beckley wasn’t sitting somewhere mooning and crying over his loss. More likely, he was breathing a sigh of relief that she was gone.
One night together. For a woman who claimed to crave her independence, it ought to have been enough.
How could she have let herself hope there might be more?
Gathering the book to her chest, she curled atop the coverlet on the narrow bed and wept until sleep claimed her.
Chapter 19
Although Edward had known it would involve a deal of discomfort and a little bit of luck, he had hoped to be in London late the next day. Instead—with none of the luck, but all of the discomfort, including a broken carriage wheel, a lame horse, and a drunk for a driver—he did not arrive until the morning after that.
Further proof that the supposedly romantic quest on which his mother, brother, and Mari had urged him would likely turn out to have been nothing more than a fool’s errand.
The livery where Jack had hired Sykes and his coach could provide no leads as to his whereabouts. One man claimed Sykes had not yet returned, while another insisted he had already gone out again. Charlotte might be anywhere in London. If she had exited Sykes’s coach somewhere along the journey, as Edward half suspected, she might be anywhere.
Though it was the last place he expected to find her, he found himself wandering through the quiet streets of Mayfair to clear his head. Near Grosvenor Square, he paused before the town house belonging to the Earl of Beckley.
In it, according to Jack, their father had lived a quiet, respectable life. His parlor maids and kitchen girls had probably not been so lucky. Edward knew better than to be deceived by an elegant façade. Father had always preferred to indulge his darkest impulses behind closed doors.
Edward had no desire to see inside.
A pair of smartly dressed ladies eyed him uncertainly as they passed. In desperate need of a wash and shave, he did not look as if he belonged here. Not now, certainly. Perhaps not ever. At Ravenswood, at least, he felt he had some purpose, could do some good. But live the life of a Town dandy? Never.
Except, of course, he would have responsibilities here, too. A house and its staff. Service in the House of Lords. In London, he could build the connections that ought already to have been forged at Eton or Oxford, cemented in the coffee room at White’s.
Or attempt to build them, at least. Without an ally from among his own class, it would be at best a difficult task to find his way in the world that was his by birth. Perhaps impossible. And rather than enlist an ally, he had entangled himself with the Disappearing Duchess. Linking his ancient family name to her tarnished reputation would double his burden on this uphill climb.
Surely the wisest thing would be to return to Ravenswood and say she had eluded his pursuit.
But when, with respect to Charlotte, had he ever done what was wise?
Something thumped against his knee. When he looked down, he saw a tiny perambulator, of the sort a child might use for a doll. Except this one contained a gray cat, its striped face framed by the frill of a baby’s bonnet, one white paw poking from the top of the blanket in which it had been swaddled. He could not imagine the creature was pleased by the predicament in which it found itself, although its green eyes were remarkably unperturbed as it blinked up at him. It seemed to be accustomed to such travails.
Pattering footsteps made him look up. A girl with golden-brown curls, her own bonnet nowhere in sight, was chasing after the escaped pram. He expected tears, but instead, a fierce frown lined her little face. “Now, Thomas,” she scolded, “I told you to stay put.”
A second set of footsteps—most certainly not those of a child—came running after. “Rissa, my pet, what did I say about holding on tight? I beg your pardon, sir, we—Cary?”
At the familiar voice, Edward froze. He lifted his gaze higher yet. Surely his ears were playing tricks on him. “Fairfax?”
But it was he: the fair-haired man with the mysterious past who had shown up one day at Harper’s Hill looking for work—though Edward had been quite certain the fellow had never done a day’s work in his life—and stayed there for nearly three years. Almost as if he had been looking for a place to hide. In those years, he had assisted Edward in whatever had needed to be done, and as he had arrived shortly after the death of Mr. Holderin, his help had been invaluable. But as much as he had helped them, Edward sometimes had felt as though Fairfax had needed them more. Edward had been sorry to see the man leave, but equally certain he had had good reason for returning home at last.
“It is you,” Fairfax said and clapped him heartily on the back. “I never thought you’d leave Antigua. Or rather, I never thought Miss Holderin would allow it.”
“She is here now. In England. And—and married.”
Fairfax’s pale eyes lit with surprise. “Fancy that.”
Edward felt a tug on the hem of his coat and glanced down. The little girl was staring up at him. “Who’re you?” she demanded. “An’ how do you know my papa?”
“Your—?” Edward looked from Fairfax to the girl, who must be three or four years old, born—though presumably not conceived—while Fairfax had been in Antigua. “I’m Edward Cary, Miss Fairfax,” he said with a tip of his hat. “At your service.”
“I’m Lady Clarissa Sutliffe,” she corrected primly as she curtsied.
Sutliffe? Not Fairfax? And Lady?
“I’m afraid there were more than a few secrets being kept all those years ago, Cary,” Fairfax said, sounding somewhat abashed. “Please, meet my daughter. And allow me to introduce myself properly, as well. St. John Sutliffe. Viscount Fairfax.”
Before Edward could rise from his formal bow of greeting, Fairfax had clasped his hand firmly between his own in a hearty handshake, a warmer gesture than he had grown to expect from the generally reserved man. Looking at the little girl by his side, it was not difficult to imagine what had produced the change in him.
“Yes,” Edward agreed, with a faint smile. “There were a few secrets.”
There must be—or have been—a Lady Fairfaix, too, he supposed. Had she played some role in Fairfax’s decision to fly to the West Indies? Although Fairfax was cool by nature, Edward had never imagined him the sort of man who would abandon his wife or neglect his duty to his child.
“My wife is at home in Hampshire, I’m afraid. You must come visit us there when you have the time. After listening to all my tales, Sarah has expressed a great interest in meeting you, but I told her you weren’t likely to return to England. She’s—”
“She’s going to give me a baby brother soon,” Lady Clarissa proclaimed, with something very like a scowl.
“Or a sister,” Fairfax reminded her.
Edward could not entirely stifle the laugh that rose to his already upturned lips. “You’ve been busy since you left the West Indies.”
Fairfax laughed, too. “More than you know. Come, come. Sutliffe House is just the other side of the square. Won’t you visit with us? Regrettably, m
y father is away—”
“Your . . . father?” But Fairfax had called himself a viscount. That could only mean . . .
“The Marquess of Estley, yes. He’s in Hampshire with Sarah.”
Edward had never really been one to stand on ceremony. And he had long ago ceased to think of the fact that he was the son of an earl with anything like pride of place. When the crisis of harvest had been upon them, he had often worked in the field alongside the other men. But... “Do you mean to say, I once ordered the son of a marquess to cut sugarcane?”
“No,” Fairfax countered, gesturing for Edward to walk with him, while Lady Clarissa pushed the miniature pram ahead. “You once showed the son of a marquess what it means to be involved with the property one is charged with managing. You never stood to the side when there was work to be done. There’s many a nobleman who could learn from your example—and when you come to Lynscombe, I hope you’ll find it’s a lesson I learned well.”
Rounding another corner, they stopped in front of a set of wide steps. Fairfax handed the cat to his daughter with one hand and hoisted the pram with the other. “We’re short a nursery maid,” he explained, slightly abashed, as a footman bowed them into the marble-tiled entry and relieved him of his burden. “I brought Clarissa to town to stay with Sarah’s parents for a few weeks. What brings you to London?”
Edward hesitated. “A matter of business. Is there somewhere we could talk?”
“Of course.” Once a maid had come to take Clarissa and her preternaturally patient cat upstairs, Fairfax invited Edward into what must be his father’s study. “I know it’s early, but”—his eyes scanned Edward’s travel-weary shabbiness—“you look as if you could use a drink.” He waved one hand in the direction of a sideboard topped with an array of decanters.
“Thank you, yes.” Edward eased himself into a deep leather chair. The room was warm and darkly furnished, a thoroughly masculine domain; its appointments oozed privilege and wealth. No doubt, a visitor would find a similar room in every house on this square. Rooms from which men of power orchestrated their lives. Including the one in which his father had debauched himself to an early death.
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