An Heir of Deception (14 page)

Missy was correct as far as the law goes. Women retained full custody
and
responsibility of their illegitimate children. A punishment for their loose morals and poor character. Charlotte knew that much for a fact.

“He may not have any
legal
claim, but not many will dispute he
is
indeed the father. One only has to look at Nicholas. His resemblance not only to Charles but to the duke himself is striking. And given his rank, his wealth, the duke’s considerable influence and the circumstances, there is every chance the courts would grant him custody.”

“But—”

James held up his hand to stay Katie’s protest. Grave-faced, he addressed Charlotte directly. “The truth of it is Cartwright had every intention of marrying you. You jilted him at the altar. Reports of the incident filled the papers for months. That you should return years later with his son…well this weakens your position—any defense you should choose to mount. The courts could logically conclude had you
not
abandoned him, he would have all the legal rights a married man has to his children.”

Which was whole and absolute.

Good Lord, what was she to do? The walls closing in on her felt as high as the Himalayas and equally unscalable. “I must leave. Go back to America. I have no choice.”

“
No!”
the three cried in unison.

Katie’s grip on her hand tightened enough to impede normal blood flow.

“But what else am I to do?” Charlotte asked as she took in their stricken expressions. “James is correct. If Alex takes the matter to court he will in all likelihood be granted custody.” She inhaled a deep breath. “And although I know I’m to blame for it all, I cannot risk losing my son. I simply cannot.”

“Perhaps, if you went to Alex and explained everything to him. Told him your reasons. Perhaps that would sway him.” Missy spoke calmly despite the loss of color to her face.

“Don’t you think I offered—that I tried to? But none of it matters to him. Not anymore. He says it’s too late for explanations.”

James cursed and came swiftly to his feet. Missy laid a restraining hand on his arm. “Really, James. Such language.”

In no mood to be scolded, her brother circled the chair and began to pace the length of the Oriental rug. “He is being spiteful.”

“Well of course he is. But love, you must look on this from his view point. Naturally he feels cheated. He is only just learned of his son’s existence. His emotions are raw which makes his reaction purely reflexive. He is hurt and now all he wants to do is hurt Charlotte in return. But it won’t last—with Alex it never does. We just need to give him time.”

Charlotte winced. Although she was certain Missy hadn’t meant to, she made her feel like a villain of the worst sort.

Her sister-in-law’s gaze shifted to her. “My dear, I hope you won’t take that as a criticism. I’m merely voicing what I know Alex must be feeling. But I know him, and regardless of what he says, he’s not the kind of man who could or would take a child from its mother, no matter the circumstances. It’s simply not in his character. I’m certain that in a few days his initial anger will pass and another solution will present itself.”

Solution?
There was no solution to this. There was only scandal, ruin and complete social ostracism.

“In the meanwhile, let us not dwell on this when you’ve only now just come home. As the children are fully occupied, why don’t we go into the village and shop for dresses? The girls are in need of new summer frocks and by the look of your wardrobe, you are in need of gowns which actually fit.” A teasing light lit Missy’s eyes.

“Yes, Missy, it’s a lovely day to shop,” Katie said, quick to agree.

Charlotte managed a small smile. Katie had never been altogether keen on shopping but she was trying so very hard. They all were. God how she’d missed them, loved them.

“But do you think it wise for me to be seen out so publicly?” Charlotte asked. She’d had to weather many hardships thus far in her twenty-four years, but she wasn’t sure she was prepared for the storm to come.

“My dear, this isn’t London. And all that happened so long ago. Most will have forgotten the incident by now,” Missy said, all quite straight-faced and the like.

James stopped pacing and looked sidelong at his wife. Katie appeared mesmerized by the black-and-red pattern of the rug.

Charlotte arched a brow at her sister-in-law. The scandal she’d caused was like a book left on a shelf where it grew dusty in a dark, rarely tread corner until the author returned to cast light on its forgotten tale. Her return ensured the whole of London would vividly recall, in every salacious detail, the
incident
as Missy had so prosaically chosen to call it. Charlotte called it the worst day of her life.

“Come, as my mother used to tell Thomas and I when our financial decline made us practically pariahs in Society, if you permit the weeds to grow underfoot, ridding yourself of them later will be all the worse.”

This Charlotte took to mean,
Gird your loins, my dear, and jump into the fray
.

“If you hide yourself away, people will believe that
you
believe you have something to be ashamed of. And I know you, Charlotte, whatever your reasons, I know in my heart you never set out to hurt us.” Missy reached out from where she sat in the adjacent chair, caught her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

Charlotte swallowed hard. What on earth had she ever done to deserve such absolute loyalty and faith in her family? Whatever it was, she was glad of it and relieved she hadn’t arrived home to find herself confronted by walls erected due to hurt, anger and resentment.

“Shall I call for the girls?” Charlotte asked, rising from her seat.

“Oh no, my dear, my daughters have no interest in shopping, which is why I must perpetually take these trips alone. Truth to tell, I have Miss Foster come to the house to fit them when I’m not in a mood to venture out.”

Against a backdrop of neatly stacked leather-bound books on mahogany shelves, James watched her silently, intently. And then slowly, as if the sun nudged aside gray clouds of gloom, a comforting smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Go and enjoy yourself. We’ll have time enough to deal with the matter. Right now, I’m just grateful you’ve finally come home. And whenever you’re ready to talk, I will be here.”

If she spoke now, she feared she’d turn into a watering pot and she’d cried enough in recent days—weeks—to singlehandedly keep the flowers in Kensington Gardens thriving for a good fortnight. So she simply went to her brother and hugged him very tightly. And he hugged her back, just as tightly, whispering a heartfelt, “I love you too,” in her ear.

They fully understood each other.

Chapter Eight

The dressmaker, a Madame Rousseau, presumably a French woman (because all of the truly talented
modistes
hailed from France), kept a small shop on Broad Street, the very heart of Reading commerce.

Two evening gowns, one a silk cream with lace
chevrons
, the other a blue satin, the underskirt of white silk flounced with dark blue lace, decorated the shop window. Included in the display were three bolts of expensive fabric artfully arranged to entice ladies content to window shop to come in, indulge their desire for the latest in fashion, and inevitably part with their coin.

“Oh, I believe that is new,” Missy said, admiring the cream confection. “Come, Miss Foster is waiting for us. I sent word for her to expect us at two.”

Although the sun shone brightly, the air was an icy reminder that winter wasn’t finished with them just yet. Wrapped in their wool, silk-lined pelisses, the three women filed into the shop.

The tinkle of a bell announced their arrival. The women in the shop turned and stared as they entered.

Charlotte’s eyes quickly adjusted to the dim interior lighting as she took in the neat orderliness of the shop. It hadn’t appeared so spacious from outside. It smelled faintly of beeswax, wool and citrus. The floors were broom swept clean, and the bolts upon bolts of colorful fabrics lining two walls of shelves drew the eye and the reels of ribbon, lace and velvet conjured up countless trimming possibilities.

Everyone in the shop—eight women of varying ages and sizes—smiled and a staggered chorus of, “Good afternoon, Lady Windmere, Miss Catherine,” rang out.

While Missy and Catherine responded in kind, Charlotte smiled pleasantly, meeting the women’s gazes one at a time. She’d have to face them sometime; she may as well start as she meant to go on.

The woman Missy had greeted as Mrs. Moreland puckered her brows as her gaze swung like a pendulum between her and Katie. The other women in the shop quickly followed suit, watching them with creased brows. It was some moments before anyone spoke.

“Why Lady Windmere, is this—?” Mrs. Moreland broke from the group, her stride purposeful as the hem of her blue-and-green striped skirts flittered across the floor.

“Ah, Mrs. Moreland, I don’t believe you have had the pleasure to meet Catherine’s sister, Charlotte. It’s quite astonishing how much she and her sister resemble, is it not?”

When Mrs. Moreland flashed a most disingenuous smile, Charlotte forced herself to rise above her fate of social pariah by feigning oblivion. “Mrs. Moreland, nice to make your acquaintance.”

“Miss Rutherford. Oh yes, I’ve heard
much
about you.” The way Mrs. Moreland spoke and the manner in which she perused Charlotte’s form—from top to bottom and then reversing the direction—made it perfectly clear the things she’d heard had not been complimentary.

But
this
Charlotte had expected. She simply had to brave her way through it all. Mrs. Moreland was the first but certainly wouldn’t be the last. And the others may not possess her particular knack for subtlety.

“Yes, and we are delighted to have my sister home.” Even with a flash of white teeth, Catherine’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. Her voice was ostensibly pleasant but her tight jaw and pursed lips practically dared the woman to misspeak.

“Will you be visiting long?” Mrs. Moreland inquired. “I heard you do not frequent these parts much.”

Missy and her sister closed in around her, a bastion of female strength and loyalty, intent on protecting her from all the evils that may befall her. At present, the most notable came in the form of one Mrs. Moreland.

“Our hope is that Charlotte remains.” Missy’s voice had gone from superficially warm to icily civil. “So if we can convince her to stay, you will no doubt be seeing much more of her.”

“Oh how delightful.” This time, the woman didn’t make the slightest attempt to sound unaffected.

“Ah, there is Miss Foster. She is expecting us. Good day, Mrs. Moreland.” Missy’s dismissal was abrupt and unequivocal. Charlotte quickly found herself being steered toward the woman who had just emerged from the back, her arm now hooked through her sister-in-law’s.

The other women in the shop, who had long gone quiet as they’d unashamedly listened as Mrs. Moreland had singled her out, resumed talking, although in decidedly more muted voices than when they’d first arrived.

She is the one who jilted the Marquess of Avondale at the altar. Of all the nerve! Really, who is she to stand up a future duke? Everyone knows she’s barely deemed respectable herself.

Charlotte could practically hear them; certain that was what they were whispering behind their gloved hands as their gazes slammed into her like a runaway train and then cut away with a surgeon’s precision.

“Lady Windmere, Miss Catherine. My apologies to have kept yeh waitin’.”

Focusing her attention on the woman approaching them, Charlotte was shocked—but pleasantly so—to see Miss Foster was a mulatto. A fair one, her complexion a good deal fairer than Jillian’s, but a mulatto to be sure. Her mixed race was evident in her high cheekbones, her fuller lips and the texture of her hair, though it wasn’t as dark a brown nor did it appear as frizzy as her maid’s.

Standing slightly above average height, Miss Foster wore a gray dress with pagoda sleeves that skimmed a slim figure. She was lovely and currently her startling green eyes were just as intent in their study of Charlotte as Charlotte’s were of her.

“Miss Foster, I would like you to meet my twin sister, Charlotte. She’s recently arrived in Reading and is in dire need of a new wardrobe.”

The woman dipped a curtsey. “Pleased tuh meet you.”

Charlotte responded to the genuine warmth in her voice with a smile. “Miss Foster.”

They were immediately led into a private dressing room—which was a welcome relief given the furtive stares she was now receiving from the other women in the shop—where the three sat on cushioned chairs. They pored over fashion plates while Miss Foster paraded in and out of the room with bolts of fabric, swatches of French lace, corded silk and
poult de soie
.