How to Please a Lady (13 page)

“And what was Lady Rose doing, traveling with you like that? Her parents know? I can't imagine they would approve. Where was her maid?”

Charlie couldn't stop the blush from tingeing his cheeks, and of course his uncle didn't miss his discomfort. “She's traveling to be with her fiancé,” Charlie said, glad he'd been able to tell his uncle, if not the complete truth, then something quite close.

“Getting married, is she? To an American? Usually it's the other way around. American girls heading across the pond to marry some title.”

Charlie grunted noncommittally. He felt hollow inside, as if something important were missing—or had been forcibly removed. Funny, he'd had such stupid hope that Rose might actually see him as a man worth marrying, even before he'd decided to move to America. He'd have cruel fantasies of her looking at him and finally realizing that she loved him as much as he loved her. In those fantasies, she'd left Hallstead and they'd lived in a smart little cottage with enough land to raise horses. How he could have ever thought that Rose would accept such a simple life was beyond him. And to be fair, she had no way of knowing he loved her; even his suggestion about marrying her had sounded like a bit of a joke. The irony of leaving England to get away from Rose only to have her live in the same country was not lost on him. Harry had once asked him if she was the reason he was leaving and he'd lied. She
had
been the reason.

Now, she was gone forever. She'd either marry Cartwright or go home. Either way, he'd probably never see her again and certainly would never feel her soft mouth against his. It would have been better not to have those memories, which would likely torture him for years.

“You start work Saturday,” George said. “Just kitchen work for now. Sweeping and washing dishes. But if you're like me, you'll be running the place before long.”

“I appreciate the chance,” Charlie said sincerely. He knew how difficult it was to find a job like the one his uncle was offering. He took a sip of his beer, thinking only that it wasn't nearly as fine as the ale back home at the Boar's Head Inn.

George, Charlie was quickly finding out, was a man who liked to talk, and his favorite subject was Delmonico's. The food, the staff, the building, the chef, the clientele. As maître d', George had a bit of power over the wealthy patrons who visited the restaurant, and it was clear he relished it. It was he, after all, who could determine if a reservation could be made, a special room reserved, a highly visible table procured. “The mayor himself knows me by name,” George said proudly.

But he'd never invite you to his house, now, would he?
Charlie would never say such a thing aloud, but his uncle's bragging was getting a bit tedious, so he let his mind wander. He wondered if Rose were safe and warm, sitting before a fire in Mr. Cartwright's home, easing into her reason for traveling to New York. She'd be nervous, and Rose tended to talk a bit quickly when she was nervous. How was Mr. Cartwright taking her proposal? Would he laugh? Just the thought made Charlie's blood burn hot. Or would he fall to his knees and thank God such a beautiful woman had deigned him worthy of her?

A noisy group of men pulled him away from his pathetic thoughts. Back home, the pair he was looking at would have been the type to lift a rich man's watch without his being any the wiser. They had that shifty look about them. The young man, his Adam's apple bobbing as he talked excitedly to his friend, dug into his pocket and displayed what appeared to be a handful of coins. And then he saw, resting on the pub's floor, the familiar sight of a carpetbag with cabbage roses embroidered on the material, thick leather handles, and shining brass hardware. He stared at the bag a long moment, his brow furrowed. What were the chances that the man would have the exact same bag that Rose had been carrying?

And then the man pulled out a necklace, its blue sapphire stones glinting in the lamplight.

Charlie didn't remember moving, but the next thing he knew, his large hand was wrapped around the man's throat, the fellow's Adam's apple jutting into Charlie's palm as he tried to swallow.

“Where the hell did you get that necklace?”

The man just stared at him, his eyes bugging out of his head.

“Answer me,” Charlie roared.

“I don't think he can talk wid your hand on his windpipe there, chum.” This from the second man, who watched with near amusement.

Charlie adjusted his grip because he had been choking the life out of the scrawny scoundrel.

“Where. Did. You. Get. That. Necklace.”

The man panted, clutching one hand to his throat. “Some lady just off the boat. She dropped it. It were just layin' there like she was beggin' someone to take it. So I did.”

The roar in Charlie's head made it difficult to understand what the guttersnipe was saying. He didn't care. All he knew was that Rose was in a foreign country, alone, with no money, and no clothing except that which was on her back. Charlie grabbed the hand that was holding the necklace and he squeezed until the man cried out, dropping the necklace to the floor.

“The lady wants her things back, you piece of shit. Now get the hell out of here. If I see you again, I may not be so nice.”

The other man grinned. “You might as well do as he says, Nate. This chap looks like he could mop the floor with you. Just off the boat and already itching to kill an American.” The man laughed at his own wit. “Come, Nate. Cut your losses, eh?”

Nate gave Charlie a scathing and completely ineffectual look before heading toward the door, straightening his jacket as if he'd been the injured party. “Fuckin' foreigners,” he muttered, just before walking out the door.

Charlie picked up Rose's bag and the necklace off the floor. The bag was heavy, which meant most of her belongings were likely still within it.

George came up to him and slapped him on his back. “I think we're going to get along real well, Charlie. What the hell was that all about, anyway?”

“These are Lady Rose's things. And that means she has no money, nothing.”

George let out a low whistle. “She was heading to Fifth Avenue? Those cab drivers wouldn't have brought her anywhere if she couldn't prove she could pay.”

“You mean she's likely walking?” Something dark and painful settled in Charlie's gut.

“Don't know how else she'd be able to get where she was going, unless someone helped her out. It's a good four miles. Maybe more.” George looked out the window at the snow still coming down, blustering in a wind that seemed relentless.

“I'm going to make sure she got to her destination all right,” Charlie said, shoving Lady Rose's bag in his uncle's hands and pocketing the necklace. He knew when he found her, she'd only care about the jewelry her grandmother had given her. “Do you remember the address? Eight hundred and something. Damn, I can't remember.”

“Eight hundred twelve,” George said with certainty, looking at Charlie a bit curiously. “I've got a mind for numbers. That's the address, I'm sure of it.”

“Eight hundred twelve,” Charlie repeated, trying to stem the panic in his heart. Surely someone had taken pity on her, a woman just robbed, new to America, and wanting a ride. Surely she was warm and safe, maybe already sipping a nice cup of hot tea. He refused to allow himself to picture her walking in the snow, cold and sick. And she
had
been sick, no matter that she'd said she was not. Why had he allowed her to go by herself? He should have demanded that she allow him to accompany her. Bloody hell, if something had happened to her, he'd never forgive himself.

D
aniel Cartwright was exhausted and in a foul mood. Having gone directly to Washington, D.C., from England, he was glad to be home but carried with him the disappointment of his work. Nothing had gone as he'd wanted and it looked as though a new trade deal with England would take far longer than his political allies wanted. And, of course, they blamed him and with some good reason.

Now he faced an empty home, a pile of unread correspondence, and rooms that were uncomfortably cold. His staff hadn't expected him so soon and hadn't bothered to light the fires. They were busy doing so now, thank goodness. He headed to his study, the first room to have a fire lit, and settled behind his desk to stare bleakly at the large pile of correspondence that he knew he would have to go through before tackling his next project.

“Sir.” His butler, Mr. Brady, stood in the doorway of his study looking slightly put out. No doubt it had to do with Daniel's neglecting to inform Brady that he would be arriving two days earlier than planned.

“There is a man to see you. He says he's from England and is inquiring about a Lady Rose.”

Daniel furrowed his brow. “Lady Rose?” he repeated, searching his mind, for the name sounded familiar. “Where is he now?”

“In the foyer, sir.”

And that told Daniel at least some of what he needed to know. If the man had been of the aristocracy, Brady would have immediately placed him in a parlor, fire or not.

“I'll see him,” Daniel said wearily.

He walked to the foyer to find a man, snow clinging to his coat, pacing and leaving a trail of water in his wake. The fellow looked up when he heard Daniel's approach, his blue eyes slightly wild. Daniel knew one thing immediately—he had never seen the man in his life.

“Is she here?” the man blurted, coming forward, and Daniel immediately stopped, tensing. He had no idea if this stranger meant him harm and felt slightly comforted knowing that Brady had followed behind him.

“Who, sir?”

“Lady Rose Dunford. She sent a telegram. She was on the
Adriatic
and arrived today. She was coming here, but she was robbed and . . .” The man swallowed, clearly distressed. He stepped forward again, his manner almost threatening. “My God, man, answer me. Is Lady Rose here?”

“She is not.” Daniel, for the life of him, couldn't imagine why she
would
be. He remembered her now, vaguely, a pretty thing who was about to be married to some duke. They'd talked about a mutual acquaintance, Mrs. St. Pierre, but for the life of him that's all he could remember. “Why would she come here?”

“Because she had it in her head that you'd be agreeable to marrying her,” the man growled.

“Good God,” Daniel said.

“Mr. Cartwright, if Lady Rose is not here, it means she's out there,” the man said, his voice cracking. “I have to find her. She wasn't well and she was walking.”

“Walking! From the pier? In this weather?” Daniel turned to Brady. “Get my coat immediately, and have Robert and Phillip report here. What is your name, sir?” he asked.

“Charlie Avery. I worked at Hallstead Manor and escorted Lady Rose here. It's a long and complicated story and I have no time to explain,” he said, backing toward the door. “I'm heading south, toward the pier.”

“Very well. We'll cover the other directions. We'll find her, Mr. Avery. Have no fear.”

 

Charlie had never felt so desperate in his entire life. Where could she be? It was dark and still snowing, though it was finally coming down slower. It had been four hours since he'd said good-bye to Rose at the pier. Four hours she'd been out in this weather. Perhaps she'd found an inn or hotel along the way with an owner who had taken pity on her. Yes, that had to be it. Because it would not take four hours for Rose to walk five miles, even in this weather.

Unless she was ill. Unless she had collapsed on the streets and lay there now, frozen and dying. Tears coursed down his face and he wiped at them impatiently with his shoulder. He could not give up hope. She had to be somewhere; he prayed she was somewhere safe.

The streets were relatively empty, most people home trying to stay warm. Only a few hardy souls were walking, mostly men, heads bent against the howling wind, hands clasping their hats to keep them on. Each time he saw the shadow of someone walking toward him, his steps quickened, only to slow, again and again. It was so damned cold. A body could only take this cold for so long, especially someone as small as Rose.

Why were there so many human-shaped shadows lining the walk? Everything looked like a prone body, stiff with cold. The gaslight streetlamps gave a weak light, illuminating only the snowy patch beneath them. Charlie stopped, his heart sick. He wasn't going to find her. How could he? She could be anywhere. She could have taken a wrong turn, fallen. It was a huge city, sprawling and completely unfamiliar to her. Her coat had not been thick and warm; she'd not had her warmest hat and fur muff as she should have had in such weather. Her shoes. What shoes was she wearing? Certainly nothing serviceable that could have withstood such wet and cold. No doubt she'd donned her best pair, knowing she would be meeting Mr. Cartwright that day.

He wanted to scream. How could he live if something happened to her? If only he'd insisted he accompany her. Why had she been so stubborn? He clutched the top of his head with his hands and looked around desperately, swallowing down another sob. That's when he saw it, a small dark form on a stoop not thirty feet away. It might be a dog or a statue or even some trash the owner had placed in a sack.

Charlie started walking toward the dark form, trying not to get his hopes too high, and failing.
Please, God, please let this be Rose.

“Rose,” he shouted, and the form moved, making his heart soar with hope. “Rose!”

“Charlie?”

He rushed to her side, afraid to touch her, afraid he was dreaming. “Yes, love, it's Charlie.” She looked up at him with a face so pale, his heart stopped in his aching chest. Her lips were blue, her brown eyes glazed and unseeing. Her gloved hands clutched the wrought-iron bars as if they were the only thing preventing her from toppling into the road. Those silly fine kid gloves would do little against the frigid night.

“My God, you're so cold. Here, let me carry you. You're not far. You almost made it. Almost.”

He lifted her effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing. He could have lifted her if she weighed a hundred stone, he was that relieved to have found her alive. She wrapped her arms around his neck and he settled her against him, one arm beneath her legs, the other around her back. She draped across him as if just the energy needed to hold on was too much, and he held her close, his chin resting against her shoulder, her head pressed to his neck.

“We'll have you warm and in front of a fire before you know it, Rose. You'll be fine. And Mr. Cartwright, he was so happy to know you'd be visiting. He's out looking for you, too. Are you still with me, love?”

She managed a sound, it could have been a word but he wasn't certain. All he knew was that he had to get her warm and away from the cold wind and snow. He walked more than a mile, his arms aching by the time he reached Cartwright's home. He'd talked to Rose the entire way, but she'd stopped responding and he realized there was something worse than knowing Rose would never love him.

When he reached the house, he climbed the stairs and kicked at the door. Almost instantly it opened, Cartwright's butler there to usher him in.

“Call a doctor,” Charlie said, following the butler, who led him toward the second floor and to a bedroom not far from the landing. A fire burned brightly in the hearth, making the room feel overly warm to Charlie. He stood, Rose still in his arms, as the butler tore back the blankets so he could gently place her on the bed. She was soaked through, her cheeks unnaturally flushed, her hair wet and plastered against her forehead.

“Mrs. Fitz,” the butler called, walking hurriedly to the door. “We need clean dry clothes for the lady immediately. And someone to assist.”

A young maid arrived within minutes, her arms filled with soft, dry clothes, no doubt donated by the staff.

“Sir,” the butler said, when Charlie hovered by the bed.

Charlie looked at Rose, not wanting to leave her side. She looked so helpless, so lost, so unlike the woman he knew. He wanted to undo everything that had happened that day, to make her well.

“Sir,” the butler repeated, this time with more vigor, and Charlie forced himself to turn away and exit the room.

Downstairs there was the commotion of some of the footmen returning, and Charlie hurried down to let them know Lady Rose had been found.

“I found her,” he called, and the men let out a collective cheer. Charlie went to the foyer and stopped directly in front of Mr. Cartwright. “Sir, if I might have a word with you.”

“Of course, this way.” Cartwright let him to a large study where thankfully another warm fire glowed. Charlie was soaked through, his hands starting to hurt from the tingle of his blood returning to them. When they were inside, Cartwright motioned for him to sit, which Charlie did gratefully. He was suddenly exhausted and more worried about Rose's welfare than he could admit to this man.

“If you could please explain to me what Lady Rose is doing here, I would be grateful,” Cartwright said.

“She sent a telegram,” Charlie said. “Did you not receive it?”

“I've just arrived myself,” Cartwright said, shuffling through his correspondence and unearthing the telegram, which he quickly read. “This says only she is coming to New York to visit. I may have been imagining things, and I sincerely hope I was, but I believe you said something about her wanting to marry. Me.”

“Yes,” Charlie said. “She got it in her head that you would make the perfect husband for her and that you would be agreeable.”

The man looked amused and baffled. “Why on earth would she think that?”

Charlie shrugged. “I couldn't say.”

Letting out a sigh, he stood and headed for a sideboard where a decanter of some dark liquor sat. “Brandy, Mr. . . .”

“Avery,” Charlie supplied. “And yes.”

Cartwright poured, then walked over to where he sat, handing him the thick, crystal glass. It occurred to Charlie that a man of such stature had never waited on him before, nor had he ever held such an expensive glass in his hand. No doubt the brandy was fine as well. He took a sip and sighed. Damned fine.

“You must realize my confusion, Mr. Avery. I met Lady Rose on the night of her engagement. And here she is, in my home, hoping for a marriage proposal. I couldn't be more surprised than if you told me you had a live elephant in your pocket.”

Charlie looked down at the carpet, decorated with swirls and finely rendered flowers, and weighed how much he should tell Cartwright. It was Lady Rose's story to tell, but Charlie felt he should at least hint at her desperation. He wanted, if nothing else, for her to be safe, and this man sitting across from him seemed kind and even-tempered. And he had immediately set out himself to help find Rose.

“She was desperate,” Charlie said at last, keenly aware that Cartwright had remained silent while he thought. “She was to marry the Duke of Weston, but he . . .” Charlie stopped and looked up at Cartwright, who sat, staring evenly at him, waiting for him to continue. “He hurt her,” he said finally, and saw Cartwright flinch slightly.

“Hurt her. How do you mean?” he asked, his voice low but forged with steel.

Charlie shook his head, not wanting to say anything more.

“Did he rape her?”

It was Charlie's turn to flinch. “He wouldn't be alive today if he had,” he said, and was gratified to see Cartwright give him a nod. “But he . . .” Charlie could not say it. He couldn't.

“Did he force her to do something unpleasant?”

Charlie swallowed, feeling sick. His chest felt as if it were on fire, and all he could do was nod.

“That explains it then.” Cartwright said the words without inflection, but it didn't explain anything to Charlie, so he was slightly baffled how it could explain anything to this man. Cartwright took a sip from his glass and stared at the amber liquid for a long time before chuckling slightly.

“I fail to see anything amusing.”

“I'm glad you do not,” he said mysteriously, then sighed. “Lady Rose is a smart girl, if a bit naive.” He shook his head, smiling, and for the life of him, Charlie couldn't imagine what the man was thinking. It was as if he was having an entirely different conversation from the one Charlie was participating in.

Brady appeared at the door of the study and knocked, even though both men looked up at his entry. “Dr. Landsdowne is here, sir. Shall I bring him to the lady?”

Charlie immediately got to his feet. “Yes,” he said, but the man maddeningly looked to Cartwright for an answer.

“Of course, Mr. Brady. Show him up immediately.”

Charlie felt a small bit of panic building in his chest. “Is he a good doctor?”

Cartwright gave him a sharp look, then smiled slightly. “The best. He was trained in Germany. One of my interests is to raise the requirements of men who become physicians. I find many inadequate to the task and some blatantly dangerous. Be assured, Mr. Avery, Lady Rose is being seen by one of the best physicians now residing in this country.”