Hugo hung his head, then, on a swift thought, dropped his hand to her belly. “You couldn’t possibly be — ?"
“I’m not,” she reassured him. “Madame makes certain her girls know how to protect themselves from at least that inconvenience.”
“Lord, Charity, all I want to do is marry you and have children with you.”
“And paint and write poems.”
“Yes, but it’s only because of you that I can do that. Thinking of you unleashes something inside me that makes me feel intoxicated with possibility.”
“Then think of me when you’re gone, and send me those pictures and poems, because that’s what’s going to sustain me while you’re off hunting tigers and picking tea leaves, and laying railway tracks, my darling Hugo.” She drew him down beside her and snuggled into his warmth.
Visually tracing the pressed metal ceiling with his gaze while he thought of how he might incorporate it in a sketch, he said, “I’ve brought you a painting and a poem I‘ve been working on all week. Christmas Charity it’s called. Or Christmas Wedding, I can’t decide which.”
“I’ll treasure both,” she said, reaching up to stroke his face. “But please don’t think of me as a charity case. Between us, we will find a way to grasp the future we thought we had.”
She didn’t believe it but Hugo needed to hear it. And as he kissed her, Charity tried to stop herself from wondering how many more times she’d feel the touch of his lips.
But she was determined to be brave.
“Please don’t go,” she begged when he rolled off her and sat up. “We don’t have much time. I want to make the most of every minute.”
He smiled, his mouth turned up but his eyes grim as he whipped back the covers and kissed the two rosy buds on her breasts, then her belly button and, finally, the mound at the juncture of her legs.
“As do I but my main priority right now is ensuring that you are safe when I’m gone. By God, if I could marry you this moment and not negate my claim to everything that will one day be both of ours, I would.” For a moment he was quiet as he stood over her. “Charity, do you resent me for not whisking you down the aisle? That is, if we had enough time for the banns to be read before I sailed?”
She drew the covers up to her chin and averted her eyes. A small part of her did. “I’d marry you if you were a prince or a pauper,” she whispered, instead.
“But if I marry you now, I will forever be a pauper. We truly would have nothing. My father would pull every string he had to ensure we suffered in perpetuity. I’d have nothing to offer you.”
He leaned over and kissed her lips with even greater tenderness. “Believe me, Charity, if we can survive the next two years, our future is secure. I want to be able to sail back into Southampton to claim my inheritance and marry you in a public ceremony full of pomp and circumstance.” He reached for something and straightened, branding a piece of parchment. “Here’s my poem. Read it when I’m gone. You think I’m capable only of daydreams but I will prove to you that where I am motivated by my muse, I am capable of anything. Now I really do have to leave, my precious. There are still some people I must see in the hopes of finding some respectable employment for you that I can supplement with the wages I shall send you while I’m away.”
Charity tried to be heartened by Hugo’s poem but it only made her cry even harder. How could he imagine a society wedding, with a church filled with guests truly wishing them both the greatest happiness, could ever be their destiny? How could he imagine these same people would be smiling and tossing rose petals at them as Charity and Hugo stepped into a carriage and were borne away into the sunset, towards the estate that would one day be Hugo’s — if he remained unmarried until his twenty-fifth birthday?
Hugo was the sweetest, kindest, most honourable man Charity knew but he was a dreamer.
And so was Charity if she thought there could be a happy ending to their tragic love story.
And now it was her dear friend’s wedding.
In Violet’s small first-floor bedchamber, Charity stared at the girl who’d been so kind to her, a vision in bridal white as the two of them stood before the mirror.
Normal young women in such a setting would have hearts full of joy.
But they were not normal young women and this was not a normal situation.
Violet smiled sadly. She must have seen the tears gathering in Charity’s eyes for she turned to pat her shoulder and whisper, “There now, it’s not a happy ending for me, either. But this is today. Think what could happen tomorrow.”
Violet was always so sanguine about life. Sanguine yet optimistic enough to believe that tomorrow could be better.
Charity touched the exquisite lace veil that partly obscured her friend’s beautiful face. “You have so much more to complain about than I. Yet tonight will be your greatest sorrow for having to acknowledge that your wedding is a lie.”
“He’d marry me if he could — just as Hugo would marry you. Now, come.” Violet held out her hand and together they went out into the cold night air where a hackney was waiting to convey them to the church.
Charity’s role as a witness — a charade — was a revelation. She was unused to being out in the real world amongst society people. To see the genuine tears of joy wet the cheeks of the elderly aunt of the man Violet was pretending to marry gave her a small measure of pleasure.
Lord Belvedere, Violet’s intended who was waiting at the altar, also looked surprisingly in love considering this was a sham marriage to please his dying aunt who desired to see him wed above all else. Innocent Miss Thistlethwaite had no idea who Violet was. Or, more to the point, what Violet really was. She thought her a shop girl yet still she was pleased she was marrying her nephew. Which meant that she thought Charity was a shop girl, too, and yet she was happy enough to say to her, as if they were on an equal footing, “When a girl is as lovely as dear Violet, she can do no wrong.” Then, disconcertingly, she’d asked, as they took their places in church, “And where do you hail from, my dear? Who are your people?”
A reckless gambler? A lowly governess? Charity had not known what to say for one hardly admitted to being the illegitimate offspring of such a mismatched union.
So, she merely lowered her eyes and said demurely, “No one you’d know, ma’am.”
“Come now, my dear. We cannot choose the station into which we are born. And honest toil is always to be commended for that is what this nation has been built upon.”
Emboldened, partly by the woman’s kindness and partly by her own long-held resentment, Charity replied, “My mother was a good and honest woman but my father was not so prudent.”
And now Charity’s only chance of happiness was again to be foiled by excess and vice; the lure of chance at a gambling table.
Miss Thistlethwaite who could not have known the details of Hugo’s ruin and banishment, said, with a shake of her head, “Reckless young men are too rarely called upon to account for the havoc they cause.”
And then she was turning towards the priest, silent and expectant, while her words resonated in Charity’s head.
Who was the reckless young man in all this? It wasn’t only Hugo. It was his slippery cousin who had enticed Hugo as if his main purpose was to ruin him.
Charity recalled what the other girls had said about him and his reputation. Clearly, she wasn’t the only one who thought Mr Adams needed to be called to account.
A deep hush had fallen over the sparse congregation as bride and groom stood before the man who, to all intents and purposes, was officiating over their shared future.
What a terrible sham this all was, and all because some entitled gentleman thought he could run roughshod over the happiness of those more vulnerable than themselves.
At least Violet’s handsome Lord Belvedere had been honest from the outset. The first night he’d met Violet, in fact.
Cyril had simply resorted to slippery deeds to achieve his aims.
Well, he would not succeed.
/> Even at this late stage, when common sense told Charity that it was far too late to change their destinies, she felt the anger within like a flaming torch.
Charity had always been sweet and passive.
And look where that had got her poor, dead, disgraced mother?
Watching Violet intone her vows in a voice that was pure and charged with emotion, Charity decided the time had come when no risk was too great. If Hugo was not able to marry, support or even be with Charity, then what did Charity have to lose.
Surely there was some way of proving Mr Adams the cheat he was?
And, in doing so, maybe — just, maybe — she could save them both.
Chapter 4
Only three more days. Shivering in her thin dressing gown, Charity marked off the calendar on her wall then went to sit on her bed to think.
It was late morning and she could hear a little movement in the house. The chink of buckets wielded by the servants and muted conversation from several of the other girls who were in the passageway.
She heard Rosetta protest something too loudly, as was her wont, and, on impulse, Charity threw open the door of her bedchamber to call after them. Time was running out and she was panicking.
“I need to help Hugo,” she said without preamble. She knew she must look as desperate as she felt. She’d thought she and Hugo might try and come up with a plan together, but Charity feared Hugo didn’t have enough aggression and fire within him to counteract the evil Cyril, when, after a night of deep contemplation, she’d decided that was what was needed.
Emily sat on the bed. “I know he’s a regular at a gambling den called The Red Door.”
“And,” said Emily, “my Thursday gentleman, Mr Mortimer, is willing to let us in, as long as we’re discreet. Yes, you asked for our help, but we’re ahead of you, Charity.”
“We thought you’d be too naïve to know where to start,” said Rosetta, examining her fingernails. She glanced at her friend, then said in a rush. “All of us girls have been discussing it. We don’t want you to have to earn your living like the rest of us. That’s why we’re discovering everything we can so that — ” she shrugged — “you’ll avoid our terrible fate.” Her tone was harsh but Charity recognised the sentiment behind them and tears stung her eyes. These women had been forced into the kind of work Charity was terrified of and appalled by but they still had enough goodness in their hearts to try and protect her from it.
She clasped her hands together. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For both your sakes, I will try and be less naive and — ” she cleared her throat — “more underhand and devious for I do appreciate all the effort you’re going to.”
“I think you shouldn’t try to be underhand and devious unless it’s specifically under our direction,” said Emily hastily with a meaningful look at Rosetta. “We’ve had lots of practise and there’s nothing that can ruin a plan so quickly as a novice with good intentions.”
“Then what should I do?” asked Charity, relieved of course that she’d been let off the hook — to a certain extent, at any rate.
“Come to the Red Door with us on Thursday.”
Charity nodded. A great weight seemed to fall from her shoulders. It was all very well to decide that Mr Cyril Adams should be called to account but, in truth, she’d not had the first idea as to how she could go about it.
Rosetta and Emily, however, were well versed in the ways of this treacherous world.
The fact that they were so motivated to help her made her realise that, with such friends, somehow, Charity would survive.
The red satin gown was lavishly ornamented with bows and sparkles while the feathers in Charity’s hair were the perfect complement.
She looked just as she was supposed to. As, she supposed, everyone imagined her to be: a harlot. A lightskirt. A barque of frailty, a lightskirt, en horizontale. As such, the attention she garnered was not surprising. Gentlemen leered at her through their monocles as she sashayed, in Rosetta and Emily’s wake, into the tobacco-filled air of one of the most insalubrious residences of Soho.
But her palms were sweating inside her elbow-length gloves and she could feel the sheen of it on her carefully applied makeup.
Emily had worked wonders on her face so that she almost didn’t look like herself. Actually, she rather liked the way she looked though she was glad her mother would never see her.
Glad her mother had never lived to see her only child become what she had worked so hard to try to prevent. But, really, that was always rather a vain hope for, without a father who would recognise her, and with no money and no references, what chance had Charity of being anything else?
“There he is!” Rosetta’s excited whisper was augmented with a sharp tug of her skirt and Charity glanced up to follow the direction in which she was pointing.
She’d not seen Hugo’s cousin, Mr Cyril Adams, before. The gentleman had only been described to her as a mischief-maker, an untrustworthy type. So very unlike Hugo.
The fact that she’d sent a note to Hugo asking him to come here was the only reason Charity didn’t crumple up in a heap just to see Hugo’s nemesis. Their nemesis.
Mr Adams was about the same age as Hugo and, from this distance, there was a similarity in visage — the square shape of the jaw — but whereas Hugo’s was moulded in a way that made him appear always pleasant-natured, Mr Adams’, when combined with the sharpness of his expression and the glittering intensity of his eyes, made him seem like a man determined to get what he wanted.
Charity tried not to look at him too pointedly. Was she just imagining this, knowing what Mr Adams had done to her darling Hugo? He’d ruined his own cousin, no doubt to further his own ends. Hugo had said even before all this terribleness, that his father favoured his nephew over his own son and had said in as many words that he preferred a man of action over a poet.
“What if he realises who I am?” she asked in sudden panic as Mr Adams glanced in their direction.
“He won’t and that’s why this plan is such a good one.” Rosetta smiled at her, confident for once. Smug, even. “We have two avenues for seeking success.”
“Two?” Charity had only heard of the first. Her heart did a skittering dance in her chest and didn’t settle down. At the far end of an enormous billiards table, a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman was flanked by a couple of laughing fellows who seemed to be leering at every woman who entered the room. Like they were sport.
A game of roulette was taking place in one corner and several card tables were occupied by some characters with their heads bent low over their hands.
Charity didn’t know the first thing about how to play the games of chance that were the lifeblood of this place.
She gripped Emily’s lace-edged sleeve. “Will I be expected to play?”
Emily shook her head. “No. I might, though. I’m considered rather a dab hand. Rosetta has a keen pair of eyes and she’ll be doing her best to catch him in the act.”
“You think you will?” Charity put her hand to her chest. Her heart was beating so painfully she thought it would burst out of her bodice.
“No.” Emily’s response was matter-of-fact. “That’s why we think we’ll have to work with our second plan.”
“And what’s that? Why didn’t you tell me?” Charity had done everything they’d asked with such blind obedience but now she realised she’d not questioned them at all.
“Our second plan involves going with him to his room where you’ll hopefully find a list of gentlemen our delightful Mr Cyril Adams is currently blackmailing. Or rather, find the reasons he has dredged up in order to make his little ploy so successful.”
“What? Me?” Charity nearly choked on the word. “How can I possibly do that? I mean, I can’t.”
Rosetta, who had been conversing with a gentleman a little distance away, now turned back, slipping into position next to Emily.
“We rather thought you might protest if we told you. But really, Charity, you’re the only one w
ho will have any chance of doing this. He doesn’t know you at all, you’re very sweet and innocent, and so you’re the last person he’d suspect if you go with him to his room.”
“To his room? Why would he even ask me? And if he does, what if he tries to…?”
She saw the other two girls exchange smiles. With a faint shrug of her shoulders, Rosetta said, “If Hugo doesn’t win back his fortune, you’re going to lose him forever. And you’re going to have to hike your skirts and spread your legs for any gentleman who desires it at Madame Chambon’s.” She encompassed the room with a sweep of her arm. “Any gentleman here, for that matter. We don’t want that, as we’ve told you. But surely the risk of doing this just once with Mr Adams is worth it?”
Charity felt her insides shrivel. She closed her eyes as Rosetta went on, “However, if you succeed in finding what you’re looking for, Emily and I have secured promises of enormous gratitude from various of our regulars while it will also ensure your Hugo is vindicated.”
Charity put her hand to her mouth, then quickly altered her expression knowing of course that her shock and horror would only draw attention to them. Forcing herself to look natural, she whispered, “You brought me here to find out what your gentlemen wanted to know? Not to help Hugo?” She’d thought them her friends. Believed they were acting only in her best interests.
Emily grasped her shoulder as she turned away. Drawing her into the shadows of a fringed, red velvet curtain, she spoke as if to an errant child. “We set about discovering how we might protect you from what you see as a fate worse than death, Charity. And if the waters have been muddied, don’t blame us.”
The expression on her normally sweet, placid face, was fierce. “Rosetta and I have been exploring myriad ways we might bring down Mr Adams in order to vindicate your Hugo.” She bit her lip, appeared to hesitate, then ploughed on. “Each evening, when the gentlemen arrive downstairs to choose who to while away a few hours of their time with, we have accepted only those whom we believe might have some useful knowledge of Mr Adams.” Her fingers dug into Charity’s shoulder as she emphasised her point. “Because information is the only currency that can benefit any of us. And the best we could come up with is that your Mr Adams is a cheat but a clever, slippery cheat who has never been caught.” She sighed. “And is unlikely to be caught tonight. But he is suspected of dabbling in blackmail and that is what is of most interest to our gentlemen.” She indicated Mr Adams across the room with a furtive look. He was in conversation now with a couple of other gentlemen, one elderly, one young, neither of them the fast set as far as Charity could tell, if their attire and demeanour was anything to go by.
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