Fortune Knocks Once (2 page)

Treadwell continued to circle the room, goading his guests, ready to swoop down and strike at any sign of weakness, determined to find a willing player so his winning streak could continue. Colin turned his head away, bile in his throat, his mouth flat and grim, his eyes narrowed to tiny slits. He slowly rose from his chair.

His anger and disgust at his companions, the scene in the room and his own dissipation boiled over. Suddenly getting away, running away, was all that mattered.

He had to get out before he put his fist through someone’s face just to raise his spirits. He stalked to the door, slamming it behind him.

~~~

Charlotte stealthily skirted the walls of her uncle’s poorly lit London townhouse, moving quietly and avoiding every squeaky floorboard. She embraced the deep shadows, desperate to keep herself from being detected when roaming the house.

Her pulse was racing and her breathing came in quick, short bursts. Her usually gentle face was set in grave resolve.

Charlotte’s frayed gown, worn slippers and lackluster mahogany locks hanging in her face and loosely down her shoulders laid claim to the years of neglect she had endured in the house of her mother’s much-younger brother and before that in the home of her father’s great uncle.

Small, delicate features complimented alabaster white skin owing more to days spent indoors in dark, damp rooms than to the usual care taken by fashionable ladies to wear bonnets to shield them from the sun. Her face was dominated by large, expressive brown eyes that hid nothing and revealed a painful vulnerability.

Uncle Charles continually warned her, viciously warned her, to stay in her room when his friends were present. But she sometimes eavesdropped on him.

For people like her, listening was the only defense.

The apprehension that always seized her lately when she left the safety of her own room threatened to overcome her, a suffocating fog enveloping and consuming her. She stopped and slowly calmed her breathing. Then she staunchly continued inching down the long first floor hallway toward the library door.

Her room was in the
servants’ quarters on the fourth floor, a choice she had made on arriving at her uncle’s house. She preferred her room high in the house, hidden away from the family quarters on the second floor, which was so close to her uncle’s comings and goings.

As she inched quietly along the wall, her eyes wide and cautious, she darted her head back and forth from front to back of the house. She was alert to any sight or sound of others moving through the rundown, decrepit townhouse, all her thoughts centered on maintaining her tenuous well-being.

Her strong survival instinct had been cultivated through years of being ignored, living as an afterthought to the people who should have loved her and being shuffled around from house to house, life to life, without regard for her unstable existence.

Her only protection, weak though it was, lay in knowing – knowing when her uncle was home and when he was drunk and how drunk. Knowing what was coming next in her life and hiding from it or avoiding it if possible, always balancing the risks against her fragile existence.

When she reached the library door, she stayed in the shadows in the lee of the door so that if it opened unexpectedly she would be concealed behind it. A large table in the hall beside her, originally intended for decorative objects and books, but now piled with plates of congealed food, discarded liquor bottles, rags used to wipe up spills and then thrown carelessly on the table and other detritus from her uncle’s friends, would provide a quick hiding place if one became necessary.

Eight years ago when she had first come to live with her uncle at the age of twelve, she had followed him and listened to his conversations throughout the day. But he had noticed and would berate and rebuke her, or shout threats at her, depending on the amount of brandy he had consumed.

She now only attempted her spying when he was occupied and unlikely to discover her stealthy activity. Her furtive attempts since then had earned her uncle’s contempt. For this and because she rarely spoke, instead of referring to her by name, he, and even some of the servants, consistently called her by the sobriquet, “The Ghost.”

Her uncle and his friends had been in the library at the back of the house drinking for more than four hours now. They weren’t likely to come out of the room; by now they probably couldn’t even walk. She decided that after her espionage she would go belowstairs to the kitchen and see if anything was left from dinner.

Charlotte never joined her uncle’s boisterous dinner parties and the servants had forgotten, once again, to send a tray to her distant room on the fourth floor.

The few servants employed by her uncle had probably been too busy taking care of her uncle and his demanding friends to see about her dinner, but she also knew that her welfare was of no consequence in her uncle’s house - despite the fact that her inheritance paid for everything.

She slipped down into the kitchen and found a few slices of bread and some lamb stew. Carrying a small tray laden with her spoils, she stepped into the front hall to return to her room, and spied a large man by the stairs struggling with his cloak.

But not before he saw her.

She stilled and froze, staring at him.

His face was contorted in a fierce scowl with dark thunderous eyes that seemed to be on alert and anticipating trouble. But as he looked at her, his face softened and relaxed.

Goodness, he’s so beautiful.
Bewildering thoughts ricocheted through Charlotte’s brain.
I should get away while I can…but I wonder who he is?
She felt befuddled, almost bewitched.

Who is he?
His eyes are mesmerizing…he has a kind face…goodness!…what am I doing?...standing here staring…

Despite every nerve screaming to run, she was riveted in place. The man before her was unbelievably handsome and staring at her impertinently with dark, almost black eyes that held her fast. Her breathing slowed until she wasn’t even sure if she was breathing at all. Her unblinking eyes drank in his every detail.

He had unfashionably long, coal black hair, mildly disarrayed with several locks falling over his forehead. His powerfully muscled shoulders and arms were revealed by his closely fitted coat. He was standing perfectly still with his cloak on his arm, his huge, completely masculine physique looming large, just looking at her.

His chin and cheeks were covered with dark shadows that should have put her in mind of the slovenly, unkempt men as usually habituated her uncle’s house and precipitated her usual revulsion.

But somehow he was different. As he gazed at her, she saw something in his face
.
Something she didn’t expect - something warm and comforting and gentle.

Then his mouth very slowly inched up on one side into a half-hearted, half-laughing grin revealing white, even teeth. She smiled back instinctively and then shyly ducked her head.

But when she looked away, she felt hungry for the sight of him and immediately raised her head and stared at him again.

He would never hurt me.

For a fleeting moment, in the hallway, they looked at each other and whatever passed between them, she was unable to give it a name. She felt a strong yearning that was beyond her comprehension and strangely enough, she thought she saw something similar in his face.

Does he feel it too?

Then his smile faded, he winked at her, turned and left through the front door, closing it softly without a backward glance.

Charlotte quickly placed her tray on the floor and then ran from the front hall into the completely dark dining room at the front of the house to gaze out the large window at the attractive stranger leaving the house.

He stumbled down the steps, swaying as he walked, obviously in his cups. He waved down a hackney coach and grasped the light post to support himself.

Then as he stood there waiting and struggling to get his cloak around his broad, strong shoulders, a small cat wandered in front of him and brushed up against his leg.

It was the same cat that frequented the stables behind the house, the black and white spotted tom she called Boots. He was her companion through many lonely days spent taking the air, something she did frequently when she tired of reading. Sometimes outside she could imagine herself back in her home with her parents, playing her beloved piano, taking country walks with her governess or playing with children from the village.

Holding her breath, she watched him, not knowing if he would kick it away or hurt it. It was so small and undernourished. She smuggled food and milk to her little darling when she could but many days she was unable to steal anything away.

He won’t hurt such a pathetic, bedraggled creature, will he? One kick from those big, powerful legs could kill such a tiny thing.

He bent down, picked it up, and crooning all the while, petted and rubbed the pathetic animal’s head and back. Then, when the coach pulled up, he stepped into it, taking the cat with him.

Charlotte was utterly smitten. Her world had just tipped and was spinning wildly. Men aren’t tender and kind. The best one could hope for from the gentlemen of the upper class, or any class, was to be ignored. She had come to expect cruelty or thoughtlessness, at the very least.

Who is he?

She watched the spot where the coach had disappeared until long after it was gone and cherished the calm she felt from this brief interlude with this strange man. Her eyes were glazed over and staring off into the distance, not really seeing the street before them.

One hand clutched her dinner tray and the other was at her throat. Her mind whorled and twirled from one remembered detail about him to the next and she knew that the memory of that moment would be with her for a very long time.

She stood there silent and still, reluctant to leave the window, wearing this newfound feeling like a pretty frock, even knowing that the longer she stood there, the greater her risk of exposure.

But for the first time since she had come to London to her uncle’s house, the safety of her room didn’t beckon to her with its usual promised shelter. The familiar sensation of secure isolation didn’t hold its usual appeal. The heroes of her fairy tale dreams who lulled her to sleep and carried her into a perfect fantasy world didn’t have a chance against the dark, laughing eyes and handsome visage of the stranger in the hall.

~~~

Charlotte tiptoed up the front stairs to make her way back to her small room, basking in the warmth of her brief encounter with the beautiful, mysterious visitor. She avoided the servants’ back stairs because several of them were still awake responding to her uncle’s rowdy demands.

As she passed the library once more, she could hear the voices of the men and realized they were talking about the man who had just left. With her senses on alert she lingered in the shadows, her ear to the keyhole, desperate to hear about him and eager to learn whatever she could.