C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN
“Surely you remember me,” Jeremy Hyde-Jones said with a knowing smile. “I remember you, although not quite this way.”
“It has been my creed in life to learn from my mistakes and then forget them,” she said coolly. “Good evening, sir.” She turned back to face the dancers, although she didn’t see a one. Why in the name of God hadn’t she considered the possibility of meeting him again? She should never have gone out into society. It would have been better to hire a hundred investigators. Just seeing him again made her feel stupid and ashamed.
“Come, Charlotte,” he said, moving closer. “After all we meant to each other?”
“I believe I meant little more than five thousand pounds to you,” she said, staring straight ahead. Where was Stuart?
“You always were a passionate little thing.” He said it with undisguised interest, staring at her bosom. “Although now there is a bit more of you to hold a man’s attention. Your charms have only increased.”
She looked up to where his guinea-gold hair was markedly receding from his forehead. When she knew him, he had been a vain man, with a fine head of hair. “And yours have only diminished.”
His mouth thinned. “Still spirited, I see. I do admire a woman with an agile tongue. Have you learned anything useful, I wonder, since your youth? You had such promise.”
“I have learned to kill the snake instead of playing with it,” she replied. “Once bitten, twice shy.”
“I remember the taste of your skin,” he whispered. “Let me bite you again.”
Charlotte recoiled, incredulous. “How dare you—”
“Ah, now, Charlotte, what did you expect me to do? Your father pointed a gun at me.”
“Would that he had fired.”
He chuckled. “But now there is nothing and no one to come between us.” He smirked. “Drake is panting at your skirts, I know. Surely you have more discernment. He’s completely under the hatches. His own family threw him out.”
She opened her eyes wide. “How odd. Was that not your tale of woe, when you misled me into thinking you were a gentleman?”
“Now, now,” he said, folding his arms. “There’s no need to act the outraged offended spinster. I’ve heard of you through the years. You haven’t scrupled about lovers before. Rumor even holds you enjoyed two men at once. Or did they enjoy you? You’re fortunate I’m making a decent offer; a woman with your reputation won’t last long in society, no matter who introduces her. And that reputation could grow so much blacker, if certain stories were to get out ...” He reached out and flicked one of her curls. “I’m even willing to support you this time. Shall we negotiate an hourly wage, or a lump sum? I can afford it now.”
Charlotte stood motionless and silent even as something inside her wailed in agony. How could she counter lies like the ones he promised to spread? She foresaw a host of debauchery he would ascribe to her, orgies and worse. Even if no one actually believed it, they would still delight in the gossip. It was bad enough to be condemned for what she had done, but to suffer for sins she hadn’t committed ...
And Stuart. Her knees almost buckled as she imagined what Stuart would think when he heard. His father would be enraged that Stuart had brought such a woman into his house, and Stuart would be cut off ... disowned ... run out of town with yet another scandal at his heels. He could never dare associate with her again, if he wanted any chance of respectability. Most likely he would quickly marry someone irreproachable, a sweet proper girl who would redeem him with her goodness, the wife he needed to give him the life he deserved.
If she had been alone, Charlotte would have collapsed. Even though she had told herself she would lose Stuart eventually, she had never imagined it would be so abrupt or so soon or ... or ever. She couldn’t imagine watching him walk out of her life forever. She needed him in a way she had never thought possible. He had given her so much of what she had long since told herself she would never have.
Charlotte felt hollowed out by hatred. The man smirking at her had ruined her life once, and now he would do it again. He would cost her Stuart, her chance of a decent life in England, and even Susan. More pain lanced through her at that thought; she would lose Susan, even when the girl was found. Charlotte could never allow her own blackened name to sully Susan’s. She would have to leave her niece with a hired companion, and return to the Continent in exile, remembered as wicked Aunt Charlotte. After a decade of flitting about, she had hoped to be home at last, and now she would be forced back to her nomadic life in even worse disgrace than before.
“Tell me,” she said slowly, to keep her voice steady, “did you think I would take you back, after the way you lied to me? Did you think the foolish child you seduced wouldn’t grow wiser in all these thirteen years? What makes you think a woman of my experience would want a man like you?” Charlotte laughed in scorn. “It was a lark to you. A country escapade to pass the time, or a quick path to riches, whichever way it turned out.”
“Don’t blame me,” he retorted. “You wanted me as much as I wanted you. Your fortune was attractive, I grant, but you were a beautiful young woman, and not a child.”
“I was barely seventeen.”
His jaw tensed, then relaxed. “That was, as you say, thirteen years ago. You have, as you say, grown up. I have a fortune of my own now. We could explore the possibility that things might have ended differently, if your father hadn’t—”
“Hadn’t saved me,” she cut him off. “The next time I see you I will have my own pistol ready, and I haven’t my father’s restraint.” She dashed the contents of her glass into his face, too enraged to savor the incredulous fury that contorted his expression. “May you burn in hell.” She dropped the glass at his feet with a splintering crash, turned on her heel, and walked away.
She did not see Stuart on her way from the ballroom. She did not see Lord Robert, or the Duke of Ware, or anyone she recognized. She barely saw where she was going. Somehow she walked out of the Throckmorton home and down the steps, and when she found herself at the Drake house, she hardly knew how she had gotten there.
The footman opened the door at her knock, and seemed surprised to see her again so soon. Or maybe not; Charlotte didn’t pay him much mind as she brushed past him, ignoring his confused look when he realized she hadn’t come in a carriage or worn her wrap home. The numbing shock that had sustained her so far was wearing off, and her only wish was to reach the privacy of her room before she broke down.
Charlotte stumbled up the stairs, her breath coming in painful gasps. Her throat felt closed, as if she were choking, and she yanked at her necklace until it came off. She was ruined—unquestionably, irredeemably ruined. Her foot caught on a stair tread, and she fell onto her knee, slumping against the wall. Everything she held dear, gone. Every hope and dream, dashed. Every repentance and regret, wasted. When she had left England the first time, she had been too young and stupid to consider such far-reaching consequences of her actions. When the shock of being sent away had worn off, Charlotte had vowed to live her life day to day, enjoying whatever came her way. She hadn’t intended to become wild and immoral; it had somehow happened a little bit at a time without her noticing how far from her upbringing she had strayed. And once there, it was too hard to go back.
The news of George’s death, and her consequential guardianship of Susan, had sobered her. It had come close on the heels of Piero’s death, when she was at loose ends already, and Charlotte had seen it as her chance to start again. Her home and family, through her brother’s trust, had been restored to her, along with a great responsibility. But though she had tried and tried, her every action since had been wrong.
She leaned her forehead against the baluster, engulfed in despair. She had meant to be a kind and loving guardian to Susan, and the girl had despised her and run away. She had meant to be chaste and respectable, and had fallen into an affair with Stuart, who had made no secret of his plan to marry someone else. She had meant to live quietly, above reproach, and now Jeremy Hyde-Jones would drag her name back down into the mud.
Two maids descended on her then, exclaiming in concern. Charlotte paid them little heed; what did it matter if her gown was crumpled, when her life was coming apart at the seams? She let them help her up to her room, too shattered to protest. Then she sent them away, refusing tea, brandy, and a hot bath.
When the maids had gone and the room was quiet, she sat and considered what she should do now. She couldn’t leave without finding Susan and ensuring her safety, but neither could she allow Stuart to continue helping her. The sooner she parted from him, the better; with luck, he could claim to have been mistaken in her, mislead and deceived. People would believe it, once Jeremy spread tales of her supposed depravity. She knew Stuart was unlikely to accept the necessity of that pretense, though, so she would have to persuade him. And it would take all her strength to do it.
Stuart jostled his way through the crowd to where he had last seen Charlotte and Fairfield. Neither was there. He looked around, and caught sight of Fairfield among the dancers. Charlotte must be with the duchess, he thought, but no: Her Grace was still holding court across the room, alone. Where the devil had she gone? Stuart saw the terrace doors, a mere twenty feet away, and took a step in that direction, his pulse quickening at the thought of intercepting Charlotte in the garden, and with such news from Pitney. Before he could take another step, however, something else caught his eye.
Two servants were falling over themselves helping a man wipe wine from his clothes and face. Jeremy Hyde-Jones, livid with fury. Another servant crouched nearby, sweeping something into a dustpan. Stuart’s blood chilled. It didn’t have to involve Charlotte. The man could have offended anybody in the room. But Charlotte was nowhere to be seen. And she had almost married him years ago.
“Drake, there you are.” Fairfield came up beside him, pausing when he saw what Stuart saw. “Is something wrong? Where is Madame Griffolino?”
“I was pondering that very question.” Stuart watched, stone-faced, as Lord Throckmorton himself strode over, his face creased with polite concern. Hyde-Jones spoke to him with an angry gesture, then calmed down, speaking for another minute. Throckmorton listened and frowned, then nodded and went back the way he had come.
“I left her here, Drake,” said Fairfield in an undertone. “I expected you would return at any moment, and she urged me to go.”
“Never mind,” murmured Stuart. “See if you can find her, and stay with her until I find you.” Fairfield nodded and disappeared into the crowd. Stuart took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders back until the tension eased slightly. He forced a careless smile to his lips and sauntered over to Hyde-Jones, who still bore a dark red stain down the front of his waistcoat. “I say, terrible waste of good burgundy, Hyde-Jones.”
The man looked up, his scowl fading when he recognized Stuart. He smiled. In fact, he positively gloated. Stuart’s hand fisted in spite of himself, and he shoved it into his pocket. “Ah, Drake. How fitting. Your countess has shown her true color: scarlet.” He indicated his waistcoat as he dabbed one more time at his face before tossing the towel at one of the servants. “But then, perhaps you don’t know her sordid history.”
Stuart’s eyebrows shot up. “Sordid? You must be joking.”
Hyde-Jones laughed softly. “Thought you’d found a wealthy widow, did you? She may be, but mark my words, that widow is black through and through.”
“See here,” protested Stuart. “You ought not to say such things about a lady.” Hyde-Jones sent him a sharp glance. “She has a past, I admit,” he added, “but sordid? Black through and through? Surely that’s overstating the matter.”
Hyde-Jones tilted back his head to look down at him. “Ah, yes, your father is another martinet,” he murmured. “He wouldn’t look fondly on a whore in the family, would he?”
Stuart didn’t have to feign his astonishment. “I beg your pardon.”
“A whore,” repeated Hyde-Jones with relish. “Whatever she’s told you, I assure you the truth is ten times worse.”
“Good Lord. I’d no idea.” Stuart gestured toward the terrace doors. “Shall we ... ?”
Hyde-Jones smirked. “Of course.” He strolled out, and Stuart followed, meeting the Duke of Ware’s eyes across the room for a second. Robert Fairfield was at his side. Stuart pushed the terrace door gently closed behind him.
“I pity you, really,” went on Hyde-Jones in the same patronizing voice. “How disappointing it must be, to discover she’s beyond the pale.”
Stuart counted to five. “But she has other charms, of course.” He lifted his gaze to the sky, nodding as if in fond remembrance. “Other delightful charms. A man in my position can’t be too particular. Surely you understand.”
“The charms are real enough.” Hyde-Jones chuckled. “And more bountiful than I remember. I enjoyed them myself once.” He raised one hand, palm up. “But if you dislike sharing them ...”
He couldn’t stop the fury that must have darkened his face. Stuart was a very good liar if he did say so himself, but he couldn’t quite control himself in this. Hyde-Jones, though, seemed amused.