Once Again a Bride

Sixteen



Charlotte inserted her needle into the length of blue velvet and pulled the thread through. They had found the cloth in a forgotten trunk in the attic, and though faded, it would make far better dining room curtains than the current flowery chintz. If she ignored the main floor, which she did as much as possible, she was more and more satisfied with the look of her house.

She glanced up and discovered Callie sitting five feet away, her tail neatly curled around her front paws. The cat had taken to appearing like a ghost wherever Charlotte was and watching her. “Good morning,” Charlotte said, continuing her sewing. This was the last panel. She hoped they could hang the new curtains before Sir Alexander arrived. Let him see how well she was managing her household now.

Callie stared at the needle slipping in and out of the cloth. Her pupils expanded darkly.

“No,” Charlotte told her. She stopped sewing for a moment and searched her workbasket. Finding an almost empty wooden spool, she pulled off the remaining thread and rolled it along the floor. Callie pounced, batting the spool across the carpet. Charlotte returned to her seam and her thoughts.

Sir Alexander had managed to dim the luster of the rout party last night in more ways than one. After he’d gone, Charlotte had noticed Miss Simmons’s mother fetching her, and finally recognized the pattern. Unmarried girls were not left among Edward’s friends for long. Clearly, it was not felt to be proper. She didn’t see the objection; they didn’t talk scandal or flirt outrageously. Well, there was the champagne, perhaps. With Tony continually filling one’s glass, it was all too easy to overindulge. She’d been careful, the memory of last time still vivid. But otherwise, the group seemed harmless, with a refreshing lack of formality. Margaret Billings had invited her to drive in the park, and she was certainly going. Charlotte plied her needle, entertained by Callie’s twitching tail and the swoop and clatter of the spool from one corner of the drawing room to the other.

How could it hurt—a bit of amusement in a life that had been devoid of it for so long? Yet she had been made to feel irresponsible. And she resented it. Aware of silence, Charlotte looked up. Callie crouched like a sphinx, the spool imprisoned between her forepaws, and stared at her. “Sir Alexander never lets you forget your duty,” she said to the cat.

Callie blinked her yellow eyes slowly. Her brindled fur caught the light streaming in the window.

“It’s not as if I am neglecting what needs to be done. Quite the contrary.” The cat’s yawn flashed small fangs.

“Precisely. It’s tedious to think about one’s problems all the time.”

Callie batted the spool, sending it scuttling across the room. Her hindquarters waggled, and then she was up and after it.

Every creature needed to play, Charlotte thought. She smiled as Callie captured the spool and fought it to a standstill. “Edward is very charming.”

The cat looked at her, spool in mouth. It would forever bear little tooth marks. “But the odd thing is…” Charlotte’s hands stilled on the cloth. “There is something about Sir Alexander. When I am with him I feel more alive, somehow. Even if it is simply a more lively irritation.” She smiled. “Last night, the sky, the scent of flowers; it was as if I hadn’t really noticed them properly before. And I wanted to hold his arm forever.”

Callie brought her prize over to Charlotte and dropped it at her feet like a gift. Her gaze was steady and penetrating.

“Capture what I want and keep it?” Charlotte asked her with another smile. “But he spoiled everything. He is always spoiling things.” She resumed her sewing. “And then I was glad to get away from him. I thought it would be a relief. But… it wasn’t.” Charlotte sighed. “Edward, despite his very good looks, is only… entertaining. He doesn’t make me feel anything in particular. Why should that be?”

“Did you call, ma’am?” Tess the housemaid stood in the doorway.

Charlotte flushed, hoping she hadn’t heard very much of that. “No, I was just… talking to the cat.”

Tess looked around.

Callie had disappeared. “She was just here.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Tess dropped a sketch of a curtsy and went out.

The cat emerged from under the sofa. “Thank you so much,” said Charlotte.

***

Ethan stood outside the door of Sir Alexander’s study, working up the courage to knock. To make good on his proposal to Lucy, he had to speak to him about the forester position. But the difference between dreaming and planning and actually taking a step into the future he wanted was making him sweat. What if Sir Alexander had objections that Ethan hadn’t thought of? What if he already had someone else in mind for the post, or Hobbs had put a candidate forward? Hobbs planned well ahead for the estate, he knew that from his brother. He would be aware that Old Elkins was ready to go. What if he couldn’t offer Lucy a life in the little cottage near the edge of the forest? What if he couldn’t have it himself? He didn’t know what he’d do if that happened. For years, he’d seen himself there.

Even if it all went smooth as silk, there was still his dad. Ethan didn’t want to bring Lucy into the family in the midst of a feud. In his imaginings, they visited with his parents and sisters, were a welcome part of occasions filled with laughter and conversation.

He wasn’t afraid of his father; that wasn’t it. But he hated wrangling. More, he wanted his dad’s respect for the work he chose. Could he be made to understand?

Stop havering, Ethan thought! He forced himself to knock. At a word from inside, he went in. Sir Alexander sat at his desk, but he didn’t seem deep into his work. He was gazing out the windows. That was good. “I wondered if I might speak to you, sir?”

“Yes? What is it, Ethan?” He sounded distracted but not impatient. That was good, too.

“It’s about…” Ethan had gone over this speech in his mind a hundred times. All of that flew out of his head the instant he opened his mouth. “It’s about… about old Elkins, sir.”

“Elkins?” Sir Alexander frowned. “Who is Elkins?”

“Ol… Fred Elkins, the forester, in Derbyshire.”

“Oh. Yes, I recall. What about him?”

“Well, he’s getting on in years, you know, and suffers from the bone ache something terrible.” This was not important! Ethan rushed on, speaking faster and faster in the face of Sir Alexander’s obvious puzzlement. “He’s wanting to go off to Cornwall, to his daughter’s place, and… take it a bit easier, like. And I was hoping to… or, I mean, I wanted to ask you about having his position, sir. My taking it over, I mean.”

“You? As forester?”

He was making a hash of this, saying it all wrong. Nothing to do now, though, but soldier on. “Elkins’s trained me since I was a lad. I spent just about every free minute with him, I was that interested. I know what needs to be done and how to do it, and I’d be… I believe I’d be right good at it, sir. Do a fine job for you.”

Sir Alexander examined him. His surprise had given way to serious appraisal. “I think your family had other hopes for you?”

Ethan set his jaw. “It’s what I love to do. Working in the woods. It’s where I belong.” Here, at least, he sounded dead certain.

“Ah.” Sir Alexander considered him a bit longer. “I see no problem with the request. I will have to discuss it with Hobbs.”

Ethan nodded; he’d expected this. He thought the estate steward would accept him if Sir Alexander brought it up; he knew of no reason why not. Of course, with his brother Sam working right next to him in the office there, word of his request would reach his father like greased lightning. He’d have to get a letter in the same packet Sir Alexander sent home. The thought of composing it made him want to groan.

“I do recall now that Hobbs mentioned Elkins’s wish to leave,” Sir Alexander added. “You understand that no change could be made until we return to the country.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sir Alexander continued to gaze at him. “If it is what you really want, I think it will be satisfactory.”

Ethan felt the grin spread over his face. He couldn’t help it. “Thank you, sir!” he exclaimed. With a small bow, he left while he was ahead.

A bit later, laying the table for luncheon, Ethan’s hands shook with elation and relief. He’d done it! He’d succeeded—or as well as. He’d reached out to get the life he wanted, and he hadn’t been refused. More than anything, he longed to run and tell Lucy. Probably lucky he couldn’t get away to do that. Best to wait until all was signed and sealed and he was sure of the cottage that would be their home.

If he could get her to Derbyshire.

James gave him a look, and Ethan realized he was standing stock still with a handful of forks. Hastily, he began setting them out.

He hadn’t told Lucy about his idea of trying to bring their master and mistress together. Partly, he worried she’d object, and it was the only plan he had. Partly, he had no notion how he was going to manage it, and he didn’t want a rash of unanswerable questions. She’d just disbelieve him then. He’d do it, somehow, because he had to. He’d figure out the details some other time.

For now, he just wanted to think of them married and snug in their new home. Then they wouldn’t have to crouch on a rickety garden bench, fearing the sound of an opening door. Ethan lost himself in memories of their kisses, the feel of her body under his hands. He wanted her as he’d never wanted anything in his life.

“Watch it,” said James.

Ethan had nearly walked right into him. With a mighty act of will, he forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand.

***

Charlotte, Tess, and Lucy did get the curtains hung before Sir Alexander arrived. He didn’t see them, however, as he went directly to the locked room at the back of the house that had been Henry’s domain. Lagging behind, Charlotte heard the key turn. Even more than the main floor, she’d been ignoring Henry’s bedchamber as she transformed the house. It let her pretend he’d never existed. Today, she would have to think of him again.

Of course she was curious, and acutely aware of how strange it was—never to have seen the inside of her husband’s bedchamber. But facing the open door, she mainly felt the sinking sickness that had plagued her so often over the last year. Ingrained habit told her that she would be publicly humiliated if she attempted to enter that room.

Charlotte shook herself and stepped forward. It was dim inside. Sir Alexander pushed back draperies on the back window and then the side, and Charlotte gaped. It was as if she’d left her home, her country, even her time, and been transported to a distant realm.

Against the inner wall stood a small bed that looked more like a table; she recognized the Roman style from a book Henry had once shown her. A carved wooden chair occupied the near corner, a huge terra-cotta urn the far one. But most amazing were the murals. In faded reds and blues and yellows, on every wall and the ceiling, they showed scenes of Roman life—men in togas, vineyards and olive trees, vistas of ancient streets. Each panel was set off by painted columns and arches that mimicked the architecture of another sort of building altogether. The wooden floor had been tiled in a mosaic style showing sea creatures. The only modern element was the heavy draperies, of a red so dark as to be hardly red at all. Oddly, for all the color, the room seemed stark and cold.

“Where did he keep his things?” she wondered aloud. “There’s no wardrobe or…”

“Here,” said Sir Alexander.

Briefly, Charlotte was confused as to where he’d gone. Then she realized that the room was narrower than the one on the opposite side of the hall. She hadn’t noticed at first because the murals confused the eye, but part of it had been walled off.

A small door, painted like the walls, led to a narrow dressing room crowded with a wardrobe, chest, and shaving stand. The space was tasteless and strictly utilitarian. There was no window.

Sir Alexander had lit candles. One drawer sagged open. “Holcombe took some neckcloths,” he said.

Charlotte turned back to the Roman bedchamber. All of this must have been done before she arrived in the house. No wonder Henry had needed money. It must have been very expensive. She looked at the painted trees, the faked stonework. Here was Henry’s secret life, his sanctuary, she supposed. She felt no connection, no chord of sympathy. Why set your heart on a lost time and society, long past all warmth and life?

“We should go through the clothing, check the pockets,” said Sir Alexander.

Charlotte returned and opened the wardrobe. Here were Henry’s coats, dark and sober, hardly less stiff than when he’d worn them; the scent of him wafted out, and she almost felt faint. She couldn’t touch these garments; the idea made her ill. “I’ll get Tess and the Trasks,” she said. “They can take all the clothing away and examine it.” She walked out before he could object and summoned her small staff.

They stared at the strange bedchamber. But the main floor had inured them to oddity, and they were soon carrying out armloads of clothing. “If you find anything in the pockets, no matter how small or trivial, bring it back here,” Sir Alexander told them.

“Are there any family members who would want his clothes?” Charlotte asked, to anchor herself back in the commonplace.

“You could offer them to Edward,” was the dry response.

The thought of his elegant cousin in Henry’s drab garments was ludicrous. “I don’t think he… oh, you’re joking.”

“I was.” His expression was sympathetic. “Send them off to the workhouse. Or see if the Trasks know anyone who could use them.”

“That’s a good idea.” With the clothes gone, she felt better. “Are there papers?”

“Some, in the chest here. Correspondence my uncle didn’t wish anyone else to see. He appears to have been involved with people who are willing to steal artifacts, for a price.”

“Or say they had.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, Henry bought mostly fakes.”

“Ah. A good point. Still, they are clearly unsavory characters. I’ll hand these letters over to Hanks.” Seeing Charlotte’s expression, he added, “He’s best suited to question them.”

“I know. I just…” She turned away from the humiliating memory of his accusations. “I suppose he will want to come here.”

Sir Alexander nodded. “I think he must.”

A note was duly written and dispatched. But they did not wait to begin a thorough search, going over each piece of furniture inch by inch, including the undersides and the backs of drawers. In the end, defeated and dusty, they had only the letters and a lost collar stud from under the wardrobe. “No real help,” concluded Charlotte, disappointed.

Sir Alexander didn’t seem to hear. “I am very suspicious of this wall,” he murmured, gazing at the partition that had been added to the room. “When a man as devious as my uncle seems to have been adds a wall, can he have resisted…?” He ran his fingers along the narrow panels that sheathed the lower half, pressing and prodding.

He was right, Charlotte thought. Henry loved his secrets. But, for one thing, he would never want to bend over them. She surveyed the top part of the wall. It seemed to be smooth plaster, painted in stripes as broad as her forearm of lighter and darker blue. She had thought the scheme strange when she first saw it, out of keeping with the utilitarian nature of the room. Was there a crack parallel to the top of the door frame? Wavering candlelight made it hard to judge. She went to the section of plaster on the right of the door and pressed along the edge of the stripe, the top of the wainscoting, the jamb. Something gave, and three feet of the stripe opened, revealing ranks of narrow shelves fitted into the thickness of the wall.

“Good for you!” said Sir Alexander. He picked up a candlestick and brought it over. They peered inside together.

A small object rested on the lowest shelf. Charlotte took it out. The light gleamed on an oval of amber as large as her palm. A delicate insect floated within it. She heard Sir Alexander’s breath catch. “That, or something exactly like it, belonged to my grandfather. It was always in his study in Derbyshire. He used it as a paperweight.”

Charlotte put it back as he reached to a higher shelf. Their hands brushed in passing. He took down a china cup; gold rimmed the base and lip. “I believe this comes from his club. I’ve seen such settings when I lunched there with friends.”

Something glittered on the top shelf. She couldn’t quite see. Charlotte stretched up. “There’s a fork,” she said incredulously. She tilted it in the dim light, revealing a monogram.

Sir Alexander bent nearer. “That is a piece of my parents’ wedding silver,” he said, sounding outraged. He held the candle closer.

Charlotte replaced the fork and retrieved an enameled snuffbox. It rattled. The lid resisted her fingers, then sprang open to reveal a chunk of polished stone, brightly veined with red.

The top shelf is full of earrings,” said Sir Alexander from his superior height.

“Earrings?”

“Single ones. No pairs.” He reached up and retrieved them.

Charlotte gazed at the glitter of jewels in his hand. “No!”

“What?” asked Sir Alexander.

“That lapis one is mine. One of my favorites. Lucy and I looked everywhere for that earring. Last fall.” They’d ransacked her room and examined every part of the house where she’d been. Charlotte had even dared to interrogate the other servants, who’d sneered at her and tried to convince her that Lucy had stolen it. And through it all, Henry had stood silently by and said nothing. Charlotte shivered. He’d gone into her room when she wasn’t there, into her jewelry box. He’d fingered her things. Had he noticed that she often wore the blue earrings? Had he remembered that they’d been her mother’s? Had she even told him that…?

“Do you recognize any of the others?” The evenness of his voice calmed her a little.

“No.” She picked it out. “I’m taking it back.” Her tone dared him to object, but he didn’t. How had Henry gotten so many women’s earrings? No women visited, and he… but what did she know about where he went and who he saw? “He was a thief. A sneaking thief.”

“He stole from people who were important to him, somehow.”

“I wasn’t important to him,” objected Charlotte. “Except for my money.”

“My uncle was a benighted fool!”

The emotion in his voice silenced Charlotte. She became acutely aware of his shoulder brushing hers. The room seemed warmer suddenly. “Things from his father… his brother. Did he get on with your father?”

“When they were young… I don’t know. Father was five years older. They were both sent to Eton, and I never heard that they didn’t get along. But when my Aunt Bella started her lawsuit, my uncle said he thought she was quite right, and if she were successful, he would do the same. Father was very angry.”

“This was…?”

“Almost fifteen years ago now. You must understand that my aunt and uncle received substantial legacies when my grandfather died, and more when my grandmother followed him three years later. My father did inherit the estate, but he was expected to make his income from managing it well. The liquid assets went to them, which didn’t keep my aunt from accusing Father of deception, forgery, and a dozen other things,” he finished bitterly.

Charlotte shifted uncomfortably. It sounded dreadful, but Lady Isabella had been so kind to her. She contented herself with saying, “Henry would do anything for money.”

“Wait, there’s one more here.” Sir Alexander reached high again. “No, not an earring, this is…”

“My father’s!” Charlotte almost wailed. She stared at the watch fob of sapphire bound with silver, her throat tightening. “My mother gave it to him the day they were married. He thought he’d lost it; it broke his heart. And I…” She’d been so impatient, so unfeeling. His memory lapses were common by then, and she’d blamed him for misplacing a precious remnant of her mother. Henry—damn him, damn him!—had visited around that time, she remembered.

All the regrets, humiliations, disappointments of the last year burst upon her in one great wave. So much lost, such… cruelty. Yes, it was cruelty. What else could you call it? A sob shook her, and the tears descended—unstoppable. They racked her chest, so intense she swayed on her feet.

Sir Alexander’s arms enfolded her, drew her in, held her close. She leaned; she let her head sink on his shoulder, and she cried. The sneers, the rages, the cold night hours when she’d blamed herself for all of it drove those tears. They poured out of her, bitter salt, and his embrace held it all. Safe, it was safe to cry, here and now. She wasn’t alone. She allowed herself to give way completely for the first time since this nightmare began.

She couldn’t have said how long the tears lasted. It seemed long, and yet just a little while before self-consciousness returned. The shoulder of his coat was wet. “I… I’m sorry.” She tried to pull away.

“What have you to be sorry for?” he answered gently. Charlotte looked up, into green eyes full of compassion—and something warmer. She felt the hard muscles of his body pressed against hers. Heat vanquished the last tears. She raised a hand to his cheek, touched it softly. His eyes flared. His arms tightened. She pulled him down to her.

The kiss was like the last time, and different. The revelation of touch returned, the sheer physical joy that his lips could rouse in her. But this time, something deep within Charlotte leapt and melted. It was more than a kiss; it was being kissed by this man. She would never get enough—how could one get enough?—of this glory. It was everything she’d been denied; it was life itself.

She slipped her free hand under his coat—up over his chest, along his ribs. His body was an undiscovered country, a call to explore the heights of sensation. His lips drew her on, fired every inch of her. She was not going to endure an existence that lacked physical passion, Charlotte vowed. She had made mistakes, taken wrong turnings, but she was not going to miss out on something so sweet, so intoxicating.

The knocker on the front door echoed up the stairs. Footsteps padded in response. They sprang apart.

“I… ah…” Sir Alexander cleared his throat.

Charlotte was breathless.

“Most likely Hanks,” he said hoarsely.

She could only nod.

“He… ah… yes. He must see these items.”

“I will not give him my earring!”

“I don’t see why you should.” He seemed about to speak again, but the footsteps approached relentlessly. The two of them stepped back into the Roman bedroom. Charlotte longed, impossibly, to touch him again. Sir Alexander cleared his throat. “I… ah… I cannot imagine wanting to occupy this room. It’s like the ancient sites one visits in Italy, empty and… lifeless.”

“Yes.” It was exactly what she’d felt. “No shred of comfort or vitality.”

They looked at each other. Sir Alexander’s green eyes seemed to hold all the vibrancy missing from the stark chamber. Charlotte was exquisitely sensitive to his height, the breadth of his shoulders, the sheer impact of his masculine presence. In this moment, he seemed the antithesis of Henry in every possible way.

Tess brought the Bow Street Runner into the room. His sharp gaze darted here and there, cataloging every detail. Charlotte’s hackles rose, and she wished she hadn’t consented to have him in her home. She clutched her earring.

Sir Alexander told him what they’d found. “You should ’a waited for me,” was the terse reply. After that, he ignored them, going over the bedchamber and dressing room like a hound on the scent. He noted down the names in the letters and wrote careful descriptions of the items in the secret cupboard. When he came to the earrings, Charlotte stiffened. She still held her own concealed in her fist. Sir Alexander met her eyes and said nothing.

In the end, Hanks looked disappointed. “I’ll pay these gent’lmen a visit,” he said, tapping the pile of correspondence. “Mebbe they’ll say something different from the others. A falling-out among thieves, like.”

He didn’t look enthusiastic. Charlotte shivered on a surge of fear and dislike. He didn’t believe he was going to find anything. He still thought she was the most likely culprit.

“I wondered about Seaton,” said Sir Alexander. “He seemed very eager to wash his hands of my uncle’s affairs. A man of business would usually want to stay involved, gain a new client, perhaps.”

Hanks nodded. “Aye, there’s a fine little weasel.”

“You’ve spoken to him?”

“Once I found him, which weren’t easy. An old hand at covering his tracks, I’d say. I don’t doubt that he knows these fellows.” He tapped the letters again. “I wager he was paid to introduce them, and raked off a fine bit of cash from the dealings, too.”

“If Henry discovered he’d been sold faked antiquities,” said Charlotte, refusing to be intimidated, “he would… I can hardly explain how furious he would have been. He devoted heart and soul to his collection. He would have threatened Seaton—anyone—with exposure, disgrace, the… the full force of the law.”

Hanks nodded again. He hadn’t looked directly at her since he arrived. “Yes, ma’am. And Seaton and all would ha’ threatened right back, to tell the world he was a fool—ignorant and easy to dupe. That they would put it about that his ‘collection’ was a load o’ rubbish. Seems to me, from what I’ve learned, that Mr. Wylde wouldn’t ha’ cared for that overmuch. I’m thinking he would have backed down.”

Charlotte remembered Henry’s love of being the expert, the connoisseur. He’d sneered about fellow collectors who bought unwisely; he’d told stories of mocking them to their faces.

Hanks slipped his small notebook into a coat pocket. “Here’s the matter in a nutshell. Like I told you before, it don’t appear that a footpad killed Henry Wylde in the course of a robbery, accidental, I mean. But, say, someway, that is what happened.” His pale eyes narrowed. “I’d be able to get word of it, see? I got ways of finding out. People don’t want to be on my bad side.” He rocked on his heels and gazed out the window. “Murder for hire’s somethin’ else, o’ course. Deeper waters. Still, criminals ain’t smart, mostly. I shoulda been able to hear somethin’. But I squeezed and squeezed and come up dry.”

“And what is that supposed to tell us?” demanded Sir Alexander.

“That it weren’t a criminal which done it. Like I said, a killin’ like this looks personal.”

Charlotte felt cold.

“You tell me Mr. Wylde didn’t have no friends, and he didn’t visit with his family…”

“My cousin Edward saw him at his club,” Sir Alexander interrupted.

Hanks looked aggrieved. “You never told me that.”

“Of course I did.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but you did not.”

“Well, I am telling you now,” replied Sir Alexander stiffly. Anger showed in the lines of his face.

Hanks’s notebook came out again. “That toffee-nosed feller at the club didn’t care to speak to me. Mebbe you could tell him that he should…?”

“This is ridiculous!” exclaimed Charlotte. “Edward did not kill Henry.”

Finally, Hanks looked at her. His expression made it obvious that he thought he was gazing at the person who had somehow accomplished the deed. And that he was determined to prove his suspicions correct.

She’d forgotten this, Charlotte thought, when she was summing up her reputation in society. Not only widowed and penniless, but a suspected murderess. Indeed, she had no reputation to lose.