Caroline Linden (15 page)
Authors: What A Woman Needs
“Thank you,” she said quietly. Her throat was raw from unshed tears and she blinked back a few more as he urged her into her seat and pressed a tumbler into her hand.
“Things will look better in the morning, and there’s nothing you can do tonight at any rate. Now drink.” Like a doll, she nodded, suddenly too drained to move. She sipped the drink—an excellent brandy—and barely noticed when he left.
Stuart let himself out of the library, still not sure what had possessed him to do that. He must be a glutton for punishment, not only putting aside his own problems but in such a way that would throw him together with Charlotte even more. Not that he dreaded it; on the contrary, he looked forward to it far too much. He needed to keep a clear, steady head if he wanted any chance of restoring his fortunes in time to keep Oakwood Park, and she had the very opposite effect on him.
But as usual, he hadn’t been able to hold his tongue. Charlotte’s distress had pricked his conscience, and he felt truly awful at his own role, however peripheral. And once he had her in his arms, he really wasn’t able to control himself anyway.
His mother was pacing in the hall outside, and pounced on him as soon as he closed the door. “Stuart, whatever is going on? You never answered my letters. I was so worried, after the way you left, and now you appear with an Italian woman, out of the blue—”
“She’s English,” he said. “Her husband was Italian. She’s devastated by her niece’s disappearance.”
“Why, of course, the poor woman, but—” She stopped as Terrance stomped toward them, dragging his foot more than usual. Stuart never learned what had left his father with a limp, but when Terrance was angry or upset, it grew more pronounced. At the moment he was practically lame.
“See here,” rumbled Terrance. “You know what I have to say. Take your woman and go, before I have you thrown out.”
“She’s not my woman.” Stuart wished he hadn’t allowed Charlotte to lead them here. At the time it had seemed fitting that she get such a royal comeuppance, but now he was sorry. “We had nowhere else to go.”
“Of course you were right to come here,” said Amelia Drake firmly, giving Terrance a reproachful look. “And you must stay. Was it an adventurer, Stuart dear?”
“I think it must be. The young lady has a large inheritance.”
“You’re not staying here,” Terrance announced.
“Good heavens, has hell frozen over? No? Then of course I’m not staying here,” said Stuart with affected surprise before his mother could speak. There had been a tremendous argument the night Terrance had banished him, one that left his mother weeping. The least he could do was cause as little trouble as possible now.
Terrance glared at him, then limped off. Amelia followed Stuart to the door. Her hands kept fluttering out to touch him, smoothing his sleeve and then his shoulder. He stopped to give her one last kiss. “Take care of her, Mother. I’ll call tomorrow.”
Amelia clutched his hand. “She’s important to you, isn’t she? Of course I would help her anyway, but you’ve never ... Well, of course it’s none of my concern, but is she ... ?” Her face was at once worried and hopeful as she gazed up at him.
Stuart didn’t know what Charlotte was to him. He couldn’t very well tell his mother he thought about bedding her every time he saw her, but they didn’t really have any other relationship. “I’ve promised to help her. That’s all.”
“Of course you did.” Amelia sighed. “Stuart—your father—he’s been worried about you, too, these last few weeks, and I just wanted you to know ...”
“Don’t worry, I know.” He winked, taking his hat and coat from the butler. “I’ve missed you, Mother.”
Her expression cleared, and she beamed up at him. “Dear boy. I’m so glad you’re home.”
“Good night, Mother.” He left her there by the door and walked down the steps. At the bottom he paused to think. Charlotte would be fine—his mother would see to that—but where was he to go? He had no money, and no chance of getting any from his father tonight. His plan to humble himself and beg for another chance had been pretty well scotched, thanks to Charlotte and her pistol. His trunk, as well as Charlotte’s valise, had been taken into the house, and the carriage coach was gone. Turning up his collar against the fog, Stuart turned and started walking.
Twenty minutes later, he climbed the steps of an imposing mansion in Mayfair. He rang the bell and waited until the footman opened the door.
“Good evening. Is Ware in?” The footman bowed, taking his card. Stuart waited in the cavernous hall, amusing himself by counting the suits of armor. How Ware managed to live in this tomb was beyond him.
“Drake.” Stuart looked up. The Duke of Ware himself was coming down the stairs. “What the devil brings you to town?”
He grinned. “The usual. A woman.”
The duke’s eyebrow arched. “Really? I thought that was the reason you left.”
Stuart shrugged. “A different woman.”
“Ah. Well, come in. I’ve just gotten rid of Percy for the night. Fancy a hand of cards?”
“No, thank you,” said Stuart. “I can’t afford even penny stakes.” He followed his friend up the stairs to the luxurious study. A fire crackled merrily in the grate, and the remains of a dinner tray sat on the desk atop a perilous mountain of papers; his secretary might have just left, but it seemed Ware wasn’t finished working. The duke went to the cabinet and poured two drinks while Stuart edged toward the fire, warming his hands.
“What sort of woman is it this time?” Ware handed him a glass and waved him toward the chairs in front of the fire.
Stuart took a long sip, closing his eyes in contentment. He hadn’t had whiskey this good in a long time. “Not the usual sort. It’s too long a tale for tonight, I assure you.”
“I see.”
“I doubt it. I’m both the villain and the knight errant.”
“Indeed,” was all Ware said, sipping his whiskey. Stuart wondered when the man had become so bloody controlled. Jack Lindeville had once been the biggest hell-raiser in London, leaving even Stuart behind. Sometime in the last few years, though, he had become a cipher, and Stuart wondered if he’d made a mistake coming here.
“I came to ask whether Philip is still in Vienna,” he said. “He promised me the use of his rooms, should I need it, and it seems I need it.”
“Philip,” said the duke, “is no longer in Vienna; if I recall correctly, he is in Florence, or perhaps Rome. I am not kept closely apprised of his plans. And of course you may use his rooms, or stay here, if need be.”
That offer, though well-meant, was impossible to accept. Ware ignored the gossips, but the duchess did not. Stuart knew he would not be welcome in her home. “I don’t want to intrude. Philip’s still got the house in Cherry Lane?”
“Yes. There are no servants. It’s been shuttered since he left four months ago. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather wait until tomorrow, after it’s been aired?”
“No, tonight will be fine. I don’t mind the dust.” Ware simply met his eyes for a moment, then got up and went behind his desk to get the key. Stuart wondered fleetingly if Ware ever got lonely in this mausoleum of a house with only his mother for company and a desk that was never cleared of work. Once he would have asked, but not now. “Many thanks, Ware.”
“Have you resolved your financial straits, then?” The duke’s question came just as he reached the door. Stuart’s fingers closed painfully around the key.
“I’m afraid not. Not yet.”
“Ah.” Ware hesitated. “Barclay called on me the other day.”
Stuart’s heart plummeted. Barclay was Ware’s banker, as well as Stuart’s own. He must have finally heard of Terrance’s actions. Stuart waited with dread.
“He had been unable to reach you,” the duke said when Stuart made no reply. “He has heard of your difficulties.” Stuart closed his eyes in resignation. If Barclay knew he had no chance of paying back the loan or the mortgage on Oakwood Park, Stuart had already lost it. “I told him I would guarantee the loans,” said Ware then. Stuart’s eyes popped open in astonishment.
Ware’s steady gaze met his. “You need only time. I have never known you to break your word.”
Stuart swallowed, but nodded. “And I will not this time. Thank you.”
A trace of his old grin crossed Ware’s face, and he inclined his head. Stuart left and walked the few streets to Cherry Lane, where Lord Philip Lindeville lived. Philip called it his “rooms,” but to Stuart it was a house, only slightly smaller than his parents’. He let himself in, not surprised to find it spotlessly clean; even an empty house was cleaned by the Ware servants. The wealthy really were different.
He peeled off his clothes in the spacious master bedroom and fell into bed. He ought to be hungry, but had no appetite. He had hoped Barclay wouldn’t hear of his troubles; his next payment wasn’t due for a few weeks yet, and Stuart was holding tightly to his belief that somehow, something would work out that would enable him to pay it. Nothing had so far, of course, nor even the promise of something, but thanks to Ware he wouldn’t be called to account immediately. As grateful as he was to his friend, Stuart wished he had been able to get himself out of this spot all by himself.
And Charlotte. Stuart sighed, staring at the ceiling. What was he to do about Charlotte? Helping her hunt for her missing niece would only complicate his circumstances, but he could still feel the limp weight of her in his arms, still see the look on her face. He had never guessed she could look so defenseless. Stuart tried to recall what Susan had told him about her aunt, but all he had paid attention to were the things that turned out to be wrong: Charlotte was neither old, nor wizened, nor stone-hearted. She was as fierce as a mother cat when it came to Susan, silly spoiled chit that she was. He ought to thank Charlotte for keeping him from marrying her, he thought as he drifted off to asleep. It was the one indisputably good turn she had done him. And leaving her to search alone was out of the question.
Charlotte woke the next morning feeling at once much better and much worse. The previous evening had blurred in her mind until she wasn’t quite sure what had happened after they had reached London. The only fact she remembered with painful clarity was the magnitude of her mistake; by assuming Stuart was responsible for Susan’s disappearance, she had lost valuable time investigating other possibilities, and now it could be too late. It had just been so easy to believe Susan would run away with Stuart Drake.
But here she was, in his parents’ home, of all places, and hadn’t the slightest idea where to start looking for Susan. Her valise stood at the foot of the bed, and Charlotte opened it, her heart sinking as she surveyed the gaudy clothing Lucia had packed. It didn’t seem right to go downstairs to breakfast wearing red silk and diamonds. With a sigh she turned to her bronze gown from yesterday, lying neatly across a chair. It would have to do until she could send for more.
She dressed and brushed her hair, wishing Lucia had sent her cosmetics. She could certainly use them today, to cover the dark circles under her eyes and the paleness of her cheeks. She opened her door and went in search of her host.
The house was elegantly decorated, a home of comfortable wealth. It reminded her a great deal of her father’s house, all those years ago, and she wasn’t sure if this was good or bad. The more evidence she saw of wealth, the more she wondered why Stuart had none. Charlotte had believed the gossip, that he had tried his father’s patience until the poor man had no choice but to cut off his wastrel son. There was something uglier than that in the way they had spoken last night, though, just as there had been something finer in Stuart’s offer to help her. Was he an immoral rake who seduced young women until his own father turned him out, or was he a gentleman who could offer to help her even after she had almost shot him? Charlotte didn’t know anymore.
A maid directed her to the breakfast room. It was at the back of the hall, tucked behind the main dining room. Just about to enter, Charlotte heard raised voices and paused. She didn’t want to walk in on a private argument.
“Not in my house, I say,” raged a harsh man’s voice. Charlotte pictured Terrance Drake’s stern face, dark with anger, and almost turned to go back to her room.
“Now, Terrance, you’re being unreasonable,” said a female voice; Stuart’s mother, Charlotte guessed. Unlike her husband, she sounded quite calm, even pleased.
“He’s not bringing strange women into this house! She could be anything, his mistress, his whore, or some gullible chit who’s fallen for his lies. I will not allow it.”
She was not going into that room. She would pack her few things and leave; the butler would be able to direct her to a hotel. Charlotte’s face burned with humiliation that they were discussing her. What had Stuart told them, to make his father so furious? She took two steps back down the hall, resolved to leave all the Drakes behind, when another voice stopped her.
“She’s not my whore,” said Stuart. “She’s a widow responsible for her willful niece who’s up and run off with a scoundrel, and I am gallantly offering her my aid. I assure you, she is as disgusted as you are by my failings and would be quite appalled to hear you accuse her of consorting with me.”
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