An Heir of Deception (41 page)

Charlotte had given up all say in the wedding, leaving all the planning in the duchess’ capable hands. The only thing she wanted was one hundred percent say over who made her wedding gown.

That was when the battle had begun. Her Grace, who was making a grand attempt to be amiable, insisted she use her
modiste
in London. But in this Charlotte remained firm; Miss Foster would make her gown. The duchess finally relented when Charlotte forced Alex to take sides. Of course it had been a sneaky thing to do given Miss Foster had been responsible for saving his life, but Charlotte had learned if she was to win any battles with the duchess, she’d have to be properly armed while utilizing the appropriate ammunition.

Another glance at the clock indicated only two minutes had elapsed since last she’d looked. Miss Foster should have already arrived for their two o’clock appointment and it was now quarter past.

Katie paused to stare out the window of the morning room before resuming her restless pacing. “Where can she be? This isn’t like her. She’s always been punctual.”

“Perhaps something happened to the hackney.” Charlotte refused to worry until she’d been given sufficient reason. Carriages broke down and people lost track of time. The world wasn’t perfect.

When the next fifteen minutes passed and Miss Foster didn’t arrive, that proved reason enough.

“Something must have happened.” Katie regarded her with troubled eyes.

“What has happened?”

Charlotte immediately turned at the sound of her husband’s voice. He strode into the room, his handsome face a momentary but welcome distraction to her mounting concern for the
modiste
.

“Miss Foster has not arrived. She was due to meet with Charlotte nearly a half hour ago. Oh, I just know something is wrong.”

His easy smile slipped. “She sent no word?”

“No and she would never miss an appointment, not ever,” Katie stated with all the conviction of someone who would know.

“Alex, would you mind going to her shop?” Nicholas was due to wake from his nap within the next hour and Charlotte knew her sister was hosting Lady Olivia and Lady Meghan for tea at Rutherford Manor. Neither of them, especially Katie, would rest until they knew all was well with Miss Foster.

“But of course,” Alex said.

When Alex arrived at the
modiste’s
shop, he was informed Miss Foster had not come into work that day and closing was only a few hours away. Unlike his wife and her sister, the woman in charge didn’t appear the least bit concerned.

After securing her address, Alex drove his barouche to her residence.

Now he was concerned.

According to those who’d witnessed him in the throes of his near deadly fever, Miss Foster had saved his life. There wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for her. But to say they shared a close acquaintance would have been a lie. What he’d discerned from several conversations with her was that she was intelligent, ambitious and had a good head for money. A woman like that did not miss a scheduled appointment with a wealthy client.

He pulled up in front of her home and observed the narrow, brown-bricked structure. It was actually much nicer than he expected.

Alex leapt from his seat and onto the curb. Two wooden steps led to the front door where a worn, brown welcome mat marked the door’s threshold.

“Miss Foster, it’s Lord Avondale.” Alex announced himself as he knocked on the door. He didn’t want to frighten her.

Seconds ticked by. The door remained closed and silence reigned inside. Alex knocked again, this time louder and with more urgency.

“Miss Foster, it is Lord Avondale.” No doubt, within hours his visit would be the talk of the town.

From within, he heard the squeaking of hinges as a door opened and then the shuffle of feet along hollow floors.

“Lord Avondale?” A weak cough followed the question.

“Yes, Miss Foster. My sister-in-law and wife sent me,” he explained.

Alex heard the lock turn and then slowly the door opened. Miss Foster, wearing something that resembled a dressing robe, stood stooped in the doorway. Shocked by her drawn face and red-rimmed eyes, Alex swiftly entered the house and closed the door. It was colder in the house than the temperature outside. And the scent of sickness hung heavy in the air.

“You are ill.”

A harsh cough wracked her slender frame as she held her hand over her mouth. When the coughing finally ceased, she said, “Do beg my pardon, my lord, but I forgot the appointment with the marchioness.”
This
she appeared distressed over when she could hardly stand up straight and her every fourth word ended in a coughing fit.

Alex dismissed her apology with a negligent wave of his hand and took her gently by the elbow and started down the hall. “Never mind that, you should be in bed.” Which was undoubtedly where she was before he came pounding on her door.

“This will pass. It always does.” Her voice sounded as if talking required considerable effort.

“Have you seen a physician?” he asked. They passed a tiny parlor on one side and a dining room on the other. As Alex had guessed, both fireplaces in the rooms were unlit. Her bed chamber was probably in the back, as in most houses constructed like this.

Miss Foster’s face was wan, her skin flushed with fever. Although she’d said she was fine, she was now leaning more heavily on his arm as if she welcomed the support. “I have all the herbs I need to take care of this cough,” she replied.

They reached her bed chamber. Alex saw a sturdy-looking bed through the open door.

“Just because you managed to cure my hide, doesn’t mean you do not need the attentions of a physician. I shall send for mine.”

Another bout of coughing. “Please, my lord, that is not necessary,” she protested once she managed to speak again. Her pallor frightened him.

“Come now, you must rest.” She barely weighed a thing he noted as he helped her into bed. “I will also send a maid.” The woman needed care.

Wearily, Miss Foster slid onto her bed, dressing robe and all. He shouldn’t be alone with her in her personal chamber but that couldn’t be helped, the woman had no one. She was mumbling something as her eyes fluttered closed.

Alex regarded her and the stirrings of compassion in his chest grew to encompass him entirely. He may have helped give her a better life than her station dictated she’d otherwise have had, but her life was by no means easy.

Far from it.

Despite the fairly decent living she made with her shop, most doors would never be open to her. A shop she could not even own openly. On the other hand, while slavery had been abolished since 1833, the enforcement of the abhorrent practice was sadly lacking in many areas of the country. She was certainly better off playing the assistant at her own store than toiling in someone else’s kitchens.

Alex glanced around her room. It was a large space in comparison to the other rooms in the house, but it was compact and efficient. A lone brush sat on a vanity that looked as if it had seen better days. The rest of the furniture—a wood chest of drawers and a bedside table—looked worn but solid. Everything neat as a pin save the bed itself, whose lumpy mattress was covered by sheets thin and colorless.

On the floor behind him sat a portrait perched against the wall as if waiting to be hung. Initially, he’d given it a cursory glance, skimming over it before its familiarity struck him hard enough to send his gaze darting back to it and his mind reeling.

His gaze instantly swung to Miss Foster, whose eyes were now open and staring at him with trepidation. It was as if the realization of the portrait’s presence had come too late.

With a sharp look back at the painting, Alex took in the two young girls who were the subjects—mirror images of each other. They appeared to be about five years and were simply dressed, their frocks plain and unadorned. The year at the bottom of the portrait indicated it had been painted in 1845. One very similar to this hung in the picture gallery at Rutherford Manor.

His gaze snapped back to Miss Foster, who clutched her counterpane up to her chin. There was only one question of which he required an answer.

“Why do you have a portrait of my wife and her sister?”

Chapter Twenty-Three

She was pregnant.

Having gone through it before, Charlotte recognized the signs: dizzy spells, nausea that could appear at any hour and the nearly crippling lethargy that sometimes made it hard to keep her eyes open long enough to get through the supper meal.

After emptying the contents of her stomach in the chamber pot, Charlotte hurried to the dressing room to rid herself of the evidence before the maid arrived to clean the room.

“Charlotte, I thought you might like to go riding with Nicholas and….”

Startled, her head whipped around to observe her husband, clad in his riding clothes and gloves in hand, standing in the opening that separated the sitting room from the sleeping area. He’d entered the room so quietly, she hadn’t heard him.

His gaze darted to the chamber pot clutched in her hand. “Are you not feeling well?” His brow furrowed in concern as he immediately approached.

Charlotte shook her head, smiling up at him weakly. “It would appear the fish from last night didn’t sit well with me. Just a small case of stomach illness. Nothing to concern yourself about.”

“Are you certain?” His hand skimmed the bare length of her upper arm lovingly. But if one went by his expression, it didn’t appear as if her assurance had eased his mind.

“Yes, I am quite certain. Now, I insist you go. Nicholas will be waiting. I shall come riding with you another day.” Of all the mornings for him to come to her room. His return could not have been more ill-timed.

“Truly, Alex, I shall be fine,” she urged when he hesitated.

In silence, he stared down at her, his gaze probing, questioning. Then with a heavy sigh, he leaned in and placed a tender kiss on her forehead. “If you insist. But
I
insist
you rest today and eat properly. I shall check on you when I return.”

Charlotte laughed softly. “I shan’t be in bed because I am not ill. Now
go
.”

After he exited the room, Charlotte sagged against the wall, chamber pot still in hand. She should have told him. But the unrelenting fear that she and Katie would be exposed made it difficult to completely enjoy the prospect of another child. Indeed, she found it difficult to look forward when it seemed she would always be looking over her shoulder. Waiting for the day her world would come tumbling down around her.

The irony did not escape her that history was repeating itself. She was practically in the same situation as she had been five years before; pregnant and about to marry the man she loved most in the world and facing a future in peril, fraught with so much uncertainty. This time, however, there’d be no running. This time she’d have to brave the storm head-on if she must. Conquer the weakness inside her that had sent her running the last time she’d been tested.

Would it truly be so bad if people were to discover?

Charlotte laughed to herself. It would probably be far worse. If they’d had trouble accepting her and Katie when they’d been thought to be the by-blow of an earl, they would find them far more objectionable were they to discover they had a slave’s blood flowing in their veins. There’d be no magic wand to turn the men and women in Society into fairy godmothers and heroic knights. But this was the hand she’d been dealt and this time she had no choice but to join the game…and win.

She couldn’t pretend it would be easy for any of them. Her husband, her children, her family. But the person it would undoubtedly affect the most was her sister. Her marriage prospects, which by Katie’s own admission, hadn’t been altogether bright to start, would be all but nonexistent.

Emotion burned her throat as she laid her hand on the flat of her stomach. The idea that her sister would never experience this, a baby and a husband she loved more than any other, pained her beyond comprehension.