Once Again a Bride (11 page)

“You might have invited Sir Alexander.”

“And share your attention? Never.” With a speaking glance, Edward put his free hand over his heart.

Charlotte felt a small flutter in the region of her own. This was flirting. It was like the champagne; it bubbled.

“Cousin Alec is so very
worthy,
you see,” Edward added. “Sterling fellow, of course, but he tends to put a damper on things.”

Charlotte didn’t know how to answer. His tone made her uncomfortable, though she’d had similar thoughts. Sir Alexander Wylde could be gruff and dismissive and vastly infuriating. He’d been quite pleasant tonight, though, made her feel so much more at home in this buzzing room.

“Here we are.” They’d reached the far corner of another large reception room, opening at the left of the first. A group of young people had rearranged gilt chairs into a loose circle near the doors to the garden, open for the air. A table that looked like it had come from outside sat in the middle, and two young men were setting food on it.

“George and William raided the supper room,” one of the women told Edward. “Had to overpower a footman guard. But you know George can’t go two hours without eating.”

“Here now, you were the one claimed you were perishing from hunger,” the stockier of the two men replied.

“Attention all, this is Charlotte Wylde,” said Edward.

“The one who was married to your fusty old uncle?” asked the same woman. Charlotte flushed. She hadn’t realized that Edward had talked about her.

“The very one.” No one seemed to think anything of it. Edward began to point. No one seemed to mind that either. “And this motley crew is George and Celia Elliott, William and Margaret Billings, Richard Taylor-Smythe, Sally… er…”

“Beaton,” supplied Margaret, the woman who had spoken first.

“Right. And…”

“Lydia Trent,” said Celia.

“Very pleased to meet you,” said Charlotte, frantically trying to imprint the names on her memory, attached to the right faces. Edward stepped away, and she nearly panicked. But he was back in a moment with another chair. The circle shifted, opened, and he offered her a place in it with a flourish. She sat down, still reviewing the names in her mind.

The stockier man—George, brown hair and round face—gestured at the tabletop. The second man—William, thin, black hair—had taken a chair on the far side of the circle. “We have lobster patties, some promising Stilton, some sort of filled pastry, lemon tarts,” George announced.

“My angel,” put in the plumpish blond woman. Celia, Charlotte reminded herself, who seemed to be George’s wife rather than a sister or some other relation.

“Would I return to you without lemon tarts, my darling?” George teased.

Definitely wife.

A handsome dark young man, with two champagne bottles under each arm, joined them. “Ah, here’s the last of us,” Edward said.

“And the best of us,” the newcomer responded, to a hail of catcalls.

“Tony Farnsworth,” Edward finished.

“Fall to, fall to,” declared George. “Descend like the ravening hordes. I can get more. No mere footman keeps me from sustenance.” He popped a lobster patty into his mouth. “Umm, not bad.” Celia Elliott took two lemon tarts. The rest of the group reached for whatever tidbit tempted them. Tony opened the champagne; someone found Charlotte a glass.

Most of the group had obviously known each other for years. At least, all the men had, Charlotte concluded. They teased each other mercilessly, with references to school and previous Seasons that they all found hilarious. She decided that Margaret had merely married into this melee, while Celia
might
be Richard Taylor-Smythe’s sister. After a while, Edward shifted into the seat next to Charlotte and gave her a running commentary, which he seemed to think explained their arcane jokes. It didn’t really, but she didn’t care. The laughter was exhilarating, and she seemed to have been effortlessly accepted as part of the group.

At one point, a frowning older woman came by and extracted Lydia Trent, leading her away like an erring child. Everyone seemed to find this hilarious. Charlotte’s glass never emptied, somehow, no matter how often she sipped. The food was exotic and delicious. This was the kind of evening she’d imagined, Charlotte thought, years ago in Hampshire, stuck miles from any sort of true society. Here were people with a sense of fun, ready to enjoy themselves and happy to welcome others with the same bent. She grew giddy with the sheer joy of it. She laughed along with them at the jokes she didn’t understand and joined the numerous toasts that Tony proposed. He seemed to have a penchant for toasts.

Much later, driving home, very correctly, with Lady Isabella, she found it hard not to giggle at everything she said. Fortunately, her hostess was preoccupied by some juicy anecdotes she had picked up during the evening. She dropped Charlotte at the Wylde house without lengthy farewells, departing as soon as she saw the front door open.

Charlotte danced in and stopped dead when she discovered that Sir Alexander was the doorkeeper. “Where’s Ethan? Or the other one—what’s ’is name? James. That’s it. Same as your father.” She giggled.

“I sent them to bed. It’s very late.”

“So late it’s gone to early,” she agreed. This had been a phrase of her father’s. “You’re playing footman?” She giggled again.

“I take it you had a pleasant evening?”

“Wonderful!” Arms outstretched, she spun. “If only there’d been dancing. Can’t dance, though. Must mourn for Henry. Stupid!” She twirled faster, loving the way her velvet skirt belled around her, feeling her shawl slip, and letting it. The floor seemed to tilt suddenly; she missed her footing.

Sir Alexander caught her, held her effortlessly upright. She gazed up at him. “You’re frowning. Why frown so fierce?”

She swayed, and his arms tightened. They felt very right around her. Somehow her arms moved of their own accord. Her hands slid over his broad shoulders and laced behind his neck. The evening had been a mere taste of life and happiness. She wanted more.

“You’re… drunk.” Sir Alexander sounded strange.

“Not used to champagne,” Charlotte admitted. She giggled yet again. “It’s lovely, though. All those bubbles.” Moved by hope or impulse or desire, she stood on tiptoes, tugged him down, and kissed him.

It was sheer lunatic experiment at first. She wanted to know what it was like—a proper kiss, and a kiss from this particular man. Her only previous such experience had been with an awkward young man at a country assembly, and it had not gone very well. Charlotte knew there must be more to it, the way people spoke of passionate embraces.

Before she could think any more, Sir Alexander jerked her tight against him and took control of the enterprise with a demand and heat that melted her bones. No, she’d never been kissed before, hadn’t understood the meaning of the word. His mouth educated her, and she rushed to learn with every fiber of her body. This was lightning; this was glory.

Then it was over. He pushed her away, balanced her at a distance with a hand on each shoulder. Bereft, she reached for him. He let her go completely and stepped back. Charlotte swayed a little, mainly from disappointment.

“Can you get to your room without help?” He sounded furious. “Or must I ring for a servant?”

“Of course I can! I am not… drunk.”

“You’re giving a fine imitation of it then.”

Charlotte’s buoyant mood collapsed at his critical tone. He’d begun to sound like his uncle again. “Don’t you ever have fun? Just forget about everything and… and… revel in the moment? You’re so…”

“Unwilling to speak with you in this condition,” he interrupted.

“The condition of enjoying myself?” she taunted.

“I hope you enjoy tomorrow’s headache as much!” He turned on his heel and walked away, heading toward his study despite the hour. The door closed with a censorious snap behind him. Charlotte gathered her skirts and marched up the stairs, refusing to accept the possibility that they were tilting, just a little, now and then.

After a few minutes, Ethan eased through the swinging door at the back of the hall, walked quietly to the front door and shot the bolts. He hadn’t meant to spy; he’d only stayed up, despite the master’s permission to retire, to be sure everyone was safely home and the house locked up. It was his duty, after all, and if the place was wide open in the morning—as it might have been left seeing Sir Alexander’s current mood—they’d look to him for the reason. And so he’d seen what he shouldn’t have, and quite a surprise it’d been, too. For the master as well, if he was any judge—though hardly an unpleasant one. No harm in a kiss, o’ course, as he would tell Lucy if she ever spoke to him again. Even a kiss like
that.
That had looked like a scorcher, for sure, and who would have thought it? Their guest was a widow lady, he reminded himself. Lucy might call her Miss Charlotte, but she was really Mrs. Wylde, and it seemed she knew what she was doing when it came to kisses. Whew!

House secured, Ethan moved quietly to the back stairs and made his way up. At the first landing, he heard footsteps above him. It had to be Lucy, her mistress safely abed. He went faster and caught up to her in the narrow attic corridor that housed the servants’ quarters. “Lucy,” he whispered, very conscious of people sleeping on either side of the hall.

Lucy gasped and whirled, one hand clutched to her chest.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he murmured hurriedly. “I’ve been locking up.” Lucy merely backed toward her room. “Wait. Just talk to me for a…”

“Leave me be,” Lucy hissed.

“I’ve told you I meant no offense.”

“Doesn’t matter what you meant, or what you mean now, I’m having none of it.”

“Shh.” Ethan glanced at the rows of closed doors.

“You’re a vain, lecherous rogue, and you can just stay away from me,” said Lucy between clenched teeth.

“I’m no such thing. Lucy, it was just a kiss.”

“Something that don’t mean nothing,” she replied fiercely. “Something you do all the time. I know it.” Her mouth trembled.

She looked so forlorn. Ethan wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and assure her that it had meant something. But this wasn’t the time or place. His hands curled into fists; there never was a time or place. That was the damnable thing.

“I’m not like that,” Lucy continued. “I don’t go about…” Her voice shook. “What Miss Charlotte would think of me if she ever heard what I done.”

She didn’t need to regret it quite as much as that, Ethan thought. He’d be damned if she hadn’t enjoyed it at the time. “Your ‘Miss Charlotte’ would understand better than you think, seemingly. She was just kissing Sir Alexander in the front hall.”

Lucy gaped at him. “That’s a dreadful lie.”

“Full as she could hold of champagne, too. That’s not the kind of goings-on we’re used to in this house.” The look on Lucy’s face immediately made him sorry he’d said it.

“Is someone out there?” James’s voice came through the door panels. “Ethan?” Bed springs creaked.

With a whisk of skirts, Lucy hurried down the hall and disappeared into the room she shared with Susan. Seething with frustration, Ethan went into his own.

James was sitting up in bed. “Were you talking to somebody?” he asked sleepily.

“Who would I be talking to at this hour? Go back to sleep.” Blearily, James obeyed. But it was quite a time before Ethan was able to do the same.

Alec found the breakfast room blessedly empty when he entered it the following morning. He gathered whatever came to hand, took a pot of tea, and shut himself in his study before that could change. All night, through fitful sleep and restless dreams, his thoughts had been full of Charlotte. Her lips, the feel of her body against his, the brightness of her coppery eyes dimming as he pushed her away. Memories of her drowned his senses and wreaked havoc in his mind. They lingered now, despite anything he could do.

Alec had always seen himself as a sensible son of his sensible father. Of course he had “fun”—Charlotte’s accusation still stung. But he knew where to draw the line; he prized stability, reasonable action. Now, he’d begun to fear that his grandfather’s blood ran strong in his veins as well—his grandfather who’d succumbed to “love” and poisoned the inner sanctuary of his family for decades. At the moment, Alec felt just as reckless, as helpless, as the forebear he’d always—despised? pitied?—because his life had been overturned by a slender girl who’d thrown herself at him like a…

No, it hadn’t been like that. She had fallen into his arms as naturally as… in his house, with his sisters sleeping upstairs, he’d almost swept her up and carried her to his bed. Unthinkable. He wished her gone, or better yet, never met. He wanted so much to see her that he had to resist going to her chamber. When Edward had snatched her away at the evening party, he’d been enraged. He didn’t know what to do. He knew only that this felt dangerous, and he hated it.

Alec forced himself to work, and as he read tale after tale of distress in the letters on his desk, his own problems began to recede. Whole families were starving; he couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to watch one’s children wasting away from hunger. Or, perhaps he could, just a bit. Anne’s illness had driven him nearly mad with helplessness. If it hadn’t been conquered finally, thanks to Charlotte… He was thinking of her again.

He gritted his teeth and opened a report from his steward, Hobbs, who administered a relief fund Alec had established for tenants on his estates. That idea had worked well. The only difficulty was that they were receiving appeals from more and more people who were not tenants. Alec had agreed to respond to those in neighboring villages, but word of the fund had spread further. Requests were coming from all over the county and beyond, far more than Alec could fulfill even if he bankrupted himself. Frustrated, angry, he sat amid the piles of paper and nearly despaired. He would force himself to make another round of visits, urging fellow landholders to help their own people. Some treated him like a beggar, some like a fool for “wasting” his income. Some actually laughed at him. Not that he went to see those sorts more than once.

There was a soft knock, and the door opened to reveal Frances, crisp in a blue morning gown. “May I interrupt you a moment, Alec?”

He remembered that he had meant to speak to her. Another thing swept from his mind by his enchanting houseguest. “Is anything wrong?” he asked, hoping that she knew the question covered past circumstances as well as present.

“Not wrong, really. It is just that Charlotte has given me a great deal to think about.” Her tone was distracted, as if she were only half here.

“Charlotte?” Could he never escape the girl? He met her at every turn.

“Yes. She’s a very thoughtful girl.”

Alec compared this judgment with the twirling siren he’d encountered last night and found no connection.

“Is that house you own near Butterley still vacant? The little manor with the fine gardens?”

“The…?” Alec gathered his wits. “I believe so. I’ve heard nothing of a tenant from Hobbs.”

“Ah. What would you think if I should want it?” Frances cocked her head and smiled at him.

“Want what? The house? What for?”

“Well, to live in. Not at once of course, but eventually. When I leave.”

“Leave?” Alec felt as if he’d gotten so far behind in this conversation that he would never catch up. “Leave… us?”

Frances looked at him with benevolent impatience. “Children do grow up, Alec. You will not need me forever.”

“But… you… we…”

A tap on the door announced Ethan. “That Mr. Hanks is here again, sir,” said the footman.

Frances turned with an airy wave. “This can wait. There’s no hurry, obviously.” She went out in a rustle of cambric. Alec sat at his desk, stunned by the revolution in his household arrangements that she had implied.

“Sir?” said Ethan after a while.

“What? Oh, the Runner. Send him in, I suppose.” The man looked just the same—gray and forgettable with the shaded eyes of a hawk. “You have something to report?”

“Not exactly a report. I wanted to talk to you, like.”

“You have more questions for Mrs. Wylde?”

“In a manner of speaking. After a bit, mebbe.”

Something about the way he said those words puzzled Alec. “Sit down. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“Yes, sir.” Hanks took one of the chairs on the other side of the desk, brooded briefly, then spoke. “Here it ’tis. I en’t much of a believer in coincidence. So it’s always stuck in my craw, so to speak, that this Henry Wylde is killed, and then his house is robbed, if you take my meaning?”

“You think these things are connected.” It seemed obvious once he said it.

“Well, here’s a man with mighty regular habits, no incidents reported. And then, of a sudden, two crimes committed.”

“So you think someone killed him because of his collections?” Alec paused. “You mentioned the last time you were here that my uncle was foolish about his antiquities purchases. Perhaps there was a dispute with someone who cheated him?”

“Good thought, sir.” Hanks nodded his approval. “I en’t found any such thing, however. And I believe I’ve talked to near everyone he bought from.”

“Ah.” Alec’s momentary view of himself as a brilliant investigator receded.

“Here’s the thing.” Hanks hesitated.

“Yes?”

“Well, sir, your common footpad is no killer. He hits ’em, takes when he can get, and runs. Mebbe now and then he hits too hard, accidental, like. But this weren’t like that. Mr. Wylde’s head was beat right in.” Ignoring Alec’s wince, he added, “Murder is mostly personal.”

Chilled, Alec said, “Just tell me what you came to say.”

“I talked to that feller Holcombe.”

“A malicious man and, I suspect, a liar.”

“Yes, sir,” Hanks agreed. “I talked to the other servants as well. Tracked ’em down around the city. And what I learned, reading between the lines and making allowances, you understand, was that Mrs. Wylde was made downright miserable in that house. Just about tormented, I would say. Mebbe enough to… snap.”

Alec thought of things Charlotte had said, that he knew, about her former situation.

“She had every reason in the world to wish her husband…”

“Stop.” Alec struggled with his temper and a sudden fear. “You cannot be about to accuse a young woman of quality of murdering her husband?”

“Not herself, sir, no. She was seen at home that night. But hiring it done p’raps. And I en’t saying for sure…”

“Ridiculous! Outrageous!”

Hanks didn’t quail in the face of his anger. “In such a case, the wife expects to inherit, see, but your uncle’s will put a damper on that, and so…”

Neither man had heard the study door open.

“You’re asking me to believe that Charlotte Wylde hired a murderer, and then a thief…?”

“Well, I ’spect it would be the same man, sir. And I en’t saying fer…”

“What?” asked a quavering voice. Alec looked up to find Charlotte in the doorway, staring at him as if she couldn’t have heard correctly. “What?” she said again.

“Ma’am,” offered Jem Hanks. He didn’t look at all embarrassed. He simply watched her with his raptor’s gaze.

Alec, on the other hand, flushed scarlet. “It is an insane theory…”

“They told me the Runner was here. I came down to help. You are accusing me…?” Hand on the doorknob, she swayed a little. Her face was ashen. “Hiring…? You think that I would…?”

“Of course not.”

She didn’t seem to hear him; she was staring at Hanks. “How would I hire…? Henry gave me no money.”

“Hypothetically, a… person might promise payment from the inheritance. And then when there weren’t none to speak of…”

Charlotte clutched the doorknob like a lifeline. “A ‘person’ might, I suppose. I did not.”

Hanks continued to watch her. Alec suddenly wondered if he had come here to do just that. He looked from one to the other, shaken to the core by the last night and morning. An insidious inner voice suggested that he had taken a stranger into his home, where his young sisters lived. He had accepted everything she said without question. He actually knew nothing of her background, beyond her assertions. Of course these accusations were idiotic. There was no question of murder. Only misunderstanding and a creeping doubt… and encroaching chaos. “I think it would be best…”

“Do not say that to me!” Charlotte shrieked. “Don’t you dare! My father ‘thought it best’ to marry me off to a cold, cruel man. My husband ‘thought it best’ to treat me like a pariah. No one asks
me
! And you… you have no right whatsoever to ‘think it best.’ You have no authority over me.”

Alec was lashed by memories of his grandmother’s tirades. She’d terrorized the family—lied, pitted one relative against another, brutally manipulated. “You are a guest in my house,” he snapped. “That gives me some authority.”

“To be a household tyrant?” Charlotte glared at Alec. “You believe this of me?”

Anne and Lizzy were, blessedly, too young to remember much. He’d vowed they would never experience even the echo of those screaming rants. And here was this woman he barely knew, shouting at him.

“I see.” Charlotte stepped back into the hall and slammed the door behind her. The sound seemed to echo through the room, through the years. Alec felt as if it ricocheted inside his head.

“Hadn’t meant to do that just now,” said Jem Hanks.

“To…?”

“I prefer to have a bit of evidence before I confront the…”

“There will be no such evidence!” What had he been thinking? Had he no trust in his own ability to judge character? He’d talked with Charlotte, seen her with his sisters. He knew her to be an admirable person.

Hanks rose, clearly aware that he was no longer welcome. “Like as not you’re right, sir.”

“Of course I’m right!”

With a nod, Hanks took himself off.

Alec waited another moment to get himself under control. He didn’t want to repeat his foolish mistake. But the pause was just too long. Charlotte was already gone.

***

Tears pooled in Lucy’s eyes. She blinked, then blinked again to keep them from overflowing. Even so, a few fell onto the coverlet as she shoved her things into her bag. Susan had promised to see that Miss Charlotte’s belongings were packed up and sent, but Lucy hadn’t wanted to ask anyone else to take care of her own few possessions. In fact, she hadn’t wanted anyone to see her after she heard that they were going back to that cold, hateful house. And why? She didn’t know. She knew only that Miss Charlotte had slammed out the front door, mad as fire about something. She’d thrown a few words at Ethan and brought Lucy’s world crashing down around her ears.

Lucy wanted to sink onto the bed and weep. It had felt so settled here. She’d stopped thinking about the wretchedness of the last year, the terrors of their days in the empty house. Now, without a word of warning, they were going back. The place waited, like the dreadful castle in fairy tales, to swallow them up forever.

It wasn’t the extra work she dreaded. She liked to work. It was the loneliness and the responsibility. Of course she would always stand by Miss Charlotte, but what could she do all alone? There were so many things about her situation that she didn’t understand.

This time back in a proper household had made Lucy feel younger and maybe even less able to cope. Where she was going there would be no housekeeper or cook to offer advice; there would be no Jennings to teach her useful new skills. Lucy bent her head. It was the closest she’d ever come to flat despair.

Ethan appeared in the open doorway. “I got you a cab.”

Lucy turned away, not wanting him to see signs of tears.

“The fare’s paid and all.” He stepped into the room. “Maybe it’s just a misunderstanding, and you’ll be back in a day or two.”

Lucy shook her head. “Miss Charlotte doesn’t lose her temper very often, but when she does…” She was that stubborn with it. “Anyway, she always meant to go back. It’s her house.” Which she’d known very well, Lucy thought. She shouldn’t have let herself get so comfortable here.

“Well, you can visit…” Ethan began.

Lucy snapped, “I’ll be doing the work of a whole staff! I won’t have time to turn around, let alone go visiting.”

“But you’ll be hiring…”

“I don’t know where to find good servants in London, and neither does Miss Charlotte. If they’re all like that Holcombe and the others…” To Lucy’s horror, she broke down.

Somehow, Ethan was there, an arm around her shoulders. “Ah, don’t now. Don’t cry. I can’t bear it if you cry. I’ll find them for you.”

Torn between pulling away and throwing herself onto his chest, Lucy looked up. She sniffed. “You?”

“Sure. I know lots of folks.”

“It isn’t a fashionable household like this. No chance of tips or fancy food.” Lucy hated herself for the hint of whine in her voice.

“No matter.” Ethan’s handsome face shifted, as if a thought had occurred to him. “I’ll find you some good people. People you’ll like, Lucy. They’ll take care of you.”

“What?”

“Of the house, I mean. Take care of the house.” Ethan squeezed her shoulders. “I will. I promise.”

The obvious conviction in his voice surprised her. Lucy gazed up at him; he seemed determined, as if he really meant it. And he was so big and so competent. A huge bubble of relief bloomed in her chest, ready to overwhelm her. She was afraid to trust it. “You don’t have to do this just because you kissed me.”

He bent closer. “Yes. I do.”

The world seemed to go silent around her. The contours of his lips, inches from hers, reminded Lucy of all the dizzying sensations of the kiss. She longed to lean in and taste that thrill again. The clean scent of him, the strength of his arm, made her reel. She lost herself in his steady, sincere gaze.