Once Again a Bride, page 6
“Lizzy told her maid Susan, who mentioned it to the housekeeper, who immediately informed me. If you wish to keep secrets, do not tell my little sister.”
“It wasn’t a…”
“Of course.” Was there no way to put this girl at ease? “The remedy?”
“It is an herbal mixture. A doctor in Bath recommended it when my father was visiting there, and we ordered it at once. It was very helpful to him.”
“In curing his cough?” She nodded. “Tell me the name, and I will send out for a supply.”
Finally, she smiled a little. “Anne said you would have London ransacked for it.”
“Of course.” Now she looked startled again, and he couldn’t fathom why. It seemed she was odd. Of course, she would have to be, to have married Henry Wylde.
Silence fell over the table. Alec missed Anne more than ever. Even when they didn’t talk, their morning silences were companionable, not stiff and empty like this one. He examined Charlotte Wylde. She hunched over her plate, head down, eyes on her breakfast. She wore a shapeless black thing that he thought he’d seen before. Her coppery hair was pulled up too tight. She was pale, the very definition of subdued.
Alec was suddenly reminded of a thoroughbred he’d come across in a neighbor’s stable, a roan with exquisite lines and a lovely delicacy of movement. The minute they approached, the mare had shied and cowered, backing as far away from them as she could and shivering at any touch. It was obvious she’d been mistreated, even ruined. Alec had bought her on the spot, paying the man’s exorbitant price because he could barely speak through his fury. It had taken long patient months to convince that mare that her high spirits were permissible, even welcome, and his opinion of that particular neighbor was forever changed.
Alec caught himself. He was being ridiculous—probably offensive—comparing the girl to a horse. She looked up, caught him watching her, and dropped her eyes. Her cheeks reddened, and he felt his do the same as he looked away.
“What is going on at my house?” she blurted out, as if she must say something, however random.
Alec found he had to clear his throat. “As planned, I have two stout men stationed there. They will take it in turn to watch for intruders. Wycliffe is making a report to the authorities, at this moment, probably.”
“But you can’t just leave these men there forever. Where am I to…?”
“Exactly. That is why I think it best that we engage an investigator. You have heard of the Bow Street Runners?”
“No.”
“It is an organization that hunts down criminals, with a good record of success.”
“Engage…?” She frowned. “For pay?” When he nodded, she added, “Are they very expensive?”
“They are well worth the money, I understand.”
“But where is it to come from?”
“This is certainly a proper use of my uncle’s estate…”
“Further reducing what I am left with. I should have some say in the decision.”
“There is no reasonable alternative.” Her head was up now; back straight, her eyes glittered with emotion. It was an attractive change, even if she had no idea what she was talking about.
“That’s not true. The… the burglar might come back, and be caught by your ‘men.’”
“Highly unlikely.”
“You can’t be so sure of…”
“We are faced here with an extremely serious situation,” Alec pointed out. “First, my uncle is killed, and then his house is broken into. Surely, you would not wish to live there continually wondering if you are in danger?”
“No! Of course not. That’s not what I…”
“The Runners know the criminal underworld. You do not. I do not. Turning the matter over to them is the only sensible choice.”
She glared at him, cheeks glowing, her pale complexion positively transformed by their exchange. She had no argument, of course, because there wasn’t one. His plan was the only sensible course of action. Satisfied that he had convinced her, Alec rose. “If you will excuse me, I have a good deal of work to get through this morning.”
She merely shrugged, but Alec didn’t hold it against her. He knew it was difficult to be bested in a dispute. Lizzy would have tossed a slice of toast in his face.
***
She could have said “Work?” in a sarcastic, disbelieving tone, Charlotte fumed. She hadn’t thought of it until he was gone. With obvious wealth and a house full of servants, what could he know about real work? Of course, dictating to everyone around him probably took a great deal of time. It must be such a burden to always know better! He had talked to her as if she were a child or a fool.
The worst of it was—an investigator was a good idea. If she’d known about such people, she would have hired one herself. She was perfectly capable of doing that.
Charlotte sighed and sat back in her chair. She could have; she would have. But she had to admit it was pleasant not to need to make the arrangements, to have the matter decisively and intelligently handled by someone else. Whenever she thought back to the stealthy footsteps in the night, she couldn’t help but tremble. A weakness, no doubt, which just made her angrier.
She turned back to her breakfast. Her eggs were cold, but she could go to the sideboard and replace them if she wished to. The tea was delicious—better than she’d brewed for Henry, she supposed! There were sausages and crisp toast and homemade marmalade—all of it much nicer than the meals she and Lucy had been scraping together. It was a very comfortable house. The servants seemed cheerful, and the sisters happy, aside from Anne’s illness. It reminded her of home. She closed her hands on her napkin. The past was past; she must stop being melancholy and get on with life.
No one else had appeared by the time Charlotte finished breakfast. Returning to the front hall, she wasn’t sure what to do with herself. She didn’t feel like sitting in her bedchamber. She had no duties. In the flurry of packing, she’d forgotten to put in her sewing or her book. Tentatively, she began to explore. She discovered the dining room, a formal parlor, and a butler’s pantry before coming upon the library at the back of the house. Going in, closing the door behind her, she felt suddenly much more at ease. The room was smaller than her father’s library, but also much tidier. Shelves covered every bit of wall not needed for the door, fireplace, and two windows; the books on them looked handled, not merely decorative. The bright fire and comfortable chairs showed that the room was often used. She trailed her fingers along a row of bindings, chose a book, and curled into an armchair to read. Contentment settled over her like a warm blanket. For the first time in days, weeks, Charlotte relaxed.
Sleet spattered the windows; the fire popped. She drifted a thousand miles away on an account of travel in the wilds of Turkey and was aware of nothing nearer until a female voice said, “There you are.” Charlotte started, dropped the book, and came to her feet. The older woman she had barely met yesterday stood in the doorway. “Forgive me for startling you. You must enjoy reading, Mrs.…”
“Charlotte. Please.”
She inclined her head. “And I am Frances.”
She looked far more composed this morning, her dark hair fashionably dressed, her lilac gown immaculate. Charlotte envied her air of refinement and grace. “I love to read, yes.”
“I suppose Henry has… had a great many books.”
“Not really. He collected other things, and the volumes he had were too rare to be touched.”
Frances looked surprised, and Charlotte immediately wished she hadn’t answered so honestly. She had held things pent up for so long, now they just came tumbling out. She couldn’t seem to stop it.
“Come up to the drawing room. We’ve had no opportunity to get acquainted.”
Following the lady of the house up the stairs and into an elegant room hung with green brocade, Charlotte was again aware of her stuffy black gown, her unusual situation. What must Frances Cole think of her?
“I hope you found your room comfortable?”
“Perfectly.” Charlotte sat on the delicate sofa beside her. “Thank you so much for allowing me to visit without warning in this…”
Frances waved this aside. “We’re delighted to have you.”
She said it; she smiled; but Charlotte didn’t believe her. “I hope not to put you to any trouble. I would be glad to…”
“Oh, trouble.” Frances gestured again, and Charlotte glimpsed something beneath her polished demeanor. Was it weariness? Anxiety? She wasn’t sure. “You are no trouble at all.”
The emphasis suggested that others were more troubling. Charlotte didn’t know what to reply.
“It is a relief to have another woman in the house,” Frances added. “It has always been just me, you know, ever since Elizabeth died.”
“Eliz…”
“My cousin Elizabeth—the children’s mother.”
“Ah, yes.” Frances gazed across the room as if looking into another time. Charlotte wondered if she had forgotten who she was talking to.
“The family chose me, you know, to help out when she died. Well, there I was—no money and I hadn’t found a match in the two seasons Papa could afford. Living at home; twenty-nine years old. Clearly an old maid. I had to go; there was no choice. And then, of course, James…” She blinked and seemed to return from wherever her thoughts had taken her. “I beg your pardon. I… I had meant to ask if there was anything else you needed?”
“Nothing at all,” Charlotte assured her. She felt an impulse to say more—but what? The door burst open, and Lizzy danced in.
Frances’s expression tightened. “Lizzy, you are supposed to be doing your schoolwork.”
“I’ve finished.”
“All of it?”
“Every bit.”
Frances’s smile was strained. “She stays ahead of me on all points.” The bell rang downstairs. “Who could be… where is the cat?”
“I shut Callie in the schoolroom, as ordered.” Lizzy pouted.
“Good.” Frances turned back to Charlotte. “I am not at home to callers this morning, but best to be…”
An imperious voice penetrated from the stairs. “Nonsense, of course she will receive me.”
“Drat!” exclaimed Lizzy, and bolted from the room.
She was replaced by a nervous young footman, not the one Charlotte had seen yesterday. A woman somewhat older than Frances and a younger man who might have been her son were right on his heels. “Er, Lady Isabella Danforth and Mr. Edward Danforth,” he said.
“Oh dear,” breathed Frances, not quite inaudibly, as she stood up.
Six
“Was that Elizabeth running down the corridor? Really, Frances, she’s become a positive hoyden,” said the newcomer. She raised her brows at the footman. “Are you going to take our things, young man?”
Charlotte had thought the Wylde ladies’ clothes very fine, but as the footman hurried to divest the callers of a beautiful fur-trimmed pelisse and a many-caped overcoat, she knew herself to be in the presence of true high fashion, such as she’d seen only in magazine illustrations. The woman’s deep green morning gown was intricately and exquisitely cut, its high neck and long sleeves severely elegant and very flattering to her small wiry frame. The younger man’s pale pantaloons and dark blue coat fit him perfectly; his neckcloth and mirror-bright boots proclaimed a Pink of the ton. They also had a distinct air about them—she couldn’t define it exactly—confidence perhaps.
Lady Isabella Danforth’s sandy hair and green eyes suggested she was related to the Wyldes. Her companion, on the other hand, had coal-black hair and blue eyes, and a narrower, more delicate face, with the advantage of thick, dark lashes. He was one of the handsomest men Charlotte had ever seen. Noticing her gaze, he smiled at her.
“Hello, Bella,” said Frances as the footman went out. “Charlotte, this is Alec’s aunt—Henry’s sister—and her son, Edward Danforth. Bella, this is Mrs. Charlotte Wylde.”
The caller turned avid eyes on Charlotte, surveying her from head to foot, as if committing every detail of her appearance to memory. “It is true then? Henry was secretly married? We only just heard.”
“It wasn’t a secret,” said Charlotte, flushing under her scrutiny.
“But he didn’t tell anyone.” Lady Isabella looked from her to Frances. “Unless… you and Alec knew?”
Frances shook her head.
“How very odd.” Lady Isabella’s sharp gaze shifted back to Charlotte. “Quite a… romance.”
Charlotte grimaced at the revolting thought and saw that the visitors noticed.
“Edward saw Henry quite often at his club, you know. I can’t conceive why he didn’t mention you.”
“Because all he cared about was spending my money on his wretched collection.” Charlotte flushed. She’d done it again, blurted out her thoughts like a gauche schoolgirl. Had a year of misery obliterated all her social skills?
“Really? My dear, how dreadful for you. Are we going to sit down, Frances?”
Their hostess’s cheek reddened. “Of course.” She gestured at the sofa and sat. The others followed suit.
“If only I had known,” Lady Isabella continued. “I could have introduced you into society, shown you the way to go on, you know.” She smiled at Charlotte, then looked away. Charlotte had the feeling that her ugly black gown positively hurt the visitor’s eyes. “Poor Henry was quite… eccentric, of course. I don’t believe he ever accepted an invitation, but not even to tell his family that he had married!”
“He never talked of anything but some chunk of pottery or bit of parchment he’d gotten his hands on,” said Edward Danforth. His voice, low and melodious, matched his appearance. “Not once, in all the times I ran into him in the clubroom.”
Charlotte nodded feelingly. She and Edward Danforth exchanged a knowing glance, which held long enough for Charlotte to feel a flutter of warmth.
Lady Isabella shrugged. “Ah, well, Henry was secretive even as a child. I remember once—he must have been about five, because it was the year James left for school—little things began to go missing around the house. Trinkets, mostly, but then one of Mama’s diamond earrings disappeared. It was such an uproar—the house turned upside down, the servants being questioned, one of the housemaids nearly taken before a magistrate. And then all the things were discovered in a box hidden in Henry’s bedchamber. He was furious when they were taken away.”
“He didn’t care that the housemaid…?” began Frances.
“Not a whit.” Lady Isabella made an airy gesture.
Charlotte had no trouble believing it. Things had meant far more to Henry than people.
The young footman returned with a tray, setting it on a low table in front of Frances. “Will you have some tea?” she asked.
Edward shook his head, but his mother nodded. “Charlotte… may I call you Charlotte? We are family, after all.”
“Please.”
“We met the strangest man when we called at Henry’s house. Quite… rough-hewn. He would scarcely speak to us; it was difficult even to discover that you were visiting here.”
“He is keeping watch over the house. Someone broke in during the night and stole one of Henry’s… artifacts.”
“No!” Lady Isabella put a hand to her cheek. “While you were at home?”
“Yes. It was very frightening.”
“Terrifying, I should think.” She took a cup from Frances and sipped.
“You should get rid of the whole lot,” Edward put in. “Sell it as fast as you can.”
“I should like nothing better, but I cannot. Henry’s will made the collection into a museum. If anything is sold, even one object, the entire estate goes to the British Museum, including the house.”
Lady Isabella drew herself up so abruptly she almost spilled her tea. “That is outrageous!”
Charlotte was touched by the older woman’s visible anger. “But perfectly legal, I’m told.”
“You poor thing. And so you are left all alone.”
“Hardly alone, as she is quite welcome here,” said a voice from the doorway. Sir Alexander walked in and took up a station by the fireplace. “Hello, Aunt Bella. Edward.”
“Alec, dear,” replied Lady Isabella. Her son merely nodded.
Charlotte heard the lack of enthusiasm in both their voices, and wondered at it. The atmosphere in the room seemed to tighten.
“You do know that rumors are flying all over town,” she added, almost as if it were Sir Alexander’s fault. “First Henry’s murder—murder, unthinkable! And now I hear there has been a robbery as well. In our own family! We can only be thankful that the Season hasn’t really started.”
“Indeed.”
“What do you intend to do?”
Charlotte expected him to explain about the Bow Street Runner and the investigation, but he merely repeated, “Do?” in the tone she herself found uniquely irritating.
“To stop the talk, of course. The Wyldes have practically become a scandal. You should hear all the tiresome jokes being made on the name.”
“I’m sure I have, Aunt, at one time or another.”
“Of course he has,” Edward said to his mother.
Charlotte couldn’t help but compare his soothing manner to Sir Alexander’s rigidity. The cousins seemed to be opposites in many ways.
A small movement caught her eye. One of the double doors leading to the corridor shifted a bit, but no one entered. A moment later a small dark shape was pushed through the opening. Charlotte glimpsed a white hand helping it along. The door closed. The cat Callie skittered across the floor and disappeared under the table holding the tea tray.
“What was…?” began Lady Isabella. A paw flashed out and snagged the fringe on one of the armchairs. “It’s some sort of animal!”
“Just a cat, I think, Mother.” Edward sounded amused.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Sir Alexander bent, reached under the table, grabbed, and missed. Callie erupted from the other side, raced across the room, and clawed her way up one of the brocade curtains. She hung there, well above all their heads, glaring. Edward laughed.
Lady Isabella, on the other hand, went rigid, as if the incident had been designed to offend her. “A little joke of Elizabeth’s no doubt. I have told you and told you to send her to school.”
