Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
BENNET HALL, SURREY - JULY 26, 1816
LEE
My head gave a perfunctory throb in response to the slammed door. The pain had gotten so much worse in the last quarter of an hour.
My attacks always left me drained, shaken, and tetchy. It wasn’t the worst I’d had in recent weeks—but it was still unpleasant.
I needed to speak to Charlotte, to explain. But the mere thought of that conversation left my chest tight and my mouth dry.
One problem at a time. I found a cloth my wife had used to keep her work area clean. In a predictably futile effort, I rubbed the dry cloth against the yellow prints. It produced no effect whatsoever. I was loath to dampen the cloth, unsure what effect that would have on her mural. Did it matter?
I flopped onto my backside with a sigh. Cass had been thorough in her efforts. Unbelievably thorough. From afar the prints almost resembled little flowers, admittedly less intricate than Charlotte’s. Unfortunately, up close they were very clearly smeared paw prints and no amount of wishful thinking would change that.
Dragging an exhausted hand through my messy hair, I took a deep breath and blew it out in a thoroughly dramatic sigh. A shimmer caught my eye on the floor. A hairpin. Charlotte’s hairpin.
All at once I was flooded with the memories of last night. How had I gotten everything so wrong? It had been progressing so well. She’d felt so right in my arms, soft and sweet-smelling and passionate. I’d never experienced the kind of responsiveness Charlotte had offered me with her clutching fingers and encouraging moans. It was heady, lovely, and wonderful, and I had ruined it in two words.
This was why I hadn’t planned on taking another wife. I wasn’t good at this sort of thing, even before the accident. I was practical, pragmatic, and sensible. All things wives weren’t.
This sham of a marriage should have suited me well, a proper agreement between two rational adults. But Charlotte surprised me at every turn. I had no doubt she could be a doggess given half a mind—she rolled her eyes far too often to convince me she was as compassionate and considerate with everyone as she was with me. But she was. With me she had been thoughtful, generous, and enthusiastic.
It all left me befuddled, floundering for stability. And to ensure I was completely and perfectly ruined, she was so damn beautiful. Bewitchingly beautiful.
Worse still, the clock was running out, ticking away every minute of every day. It was part of our agreement. A concession I had offered without hesitance when I still had my wits. Her stay here was temporary. She would return to town, my name the only reminder of her time trapped here with me. Charlotte would find another man, less horrid than the last, and fall in love with him.
And I would be here, alone with nothing but the stars for company. Mere months ago, I was content with that life. Now… I wasn’t entirely sure how I would survive it.
A sharp rap on the doorframe announced Brigs. “Sir, you have visitors in the drawing room. Mr. Wayland and his wife.”
I blinked slowly, numbly. What the devil was Wayland doing here?
Brigsby, correctly interpreting my expression, added, “He indicated that the road to his estate was flooded from the rains last night.”
CHARLOTTE
Indistinct voices drifted into the hall from the drawing room when I woke from a fitful nap hours later. The familiar baritone of my husband, along with that of a man I didn’t not recognize, and more astonishing still, a feminine lilt.
Lee did not have visitors. Not once in the whole of our marriage had anyone called. Jack slipped out of the drawing room and tried to pass me. I caught his arm and whispered, “Who is in there?”
“A Mr. Wayland and his wife.” He pulled his arm free and continued down the hall, unwilling to abide any further interrogation.
Imogen hadn’t said anything. She must have been unaware or she would have told me.
A quick glance at my stomach told me what I already knew. I was visibly with child, and there was no hiding it, not in this or any dress. Perhaps I could escape to the?—
Lady Juliet Dalton—Wayland—stepped into the hall and shut the door behind her. I learned two things remarkably quickly. She, too, was with child, and she was entirely aware of my condition, if the lack of astonishment in her expression was any indication.
“Oh, Lady James, it’s so good to see you. Lady Champaign, I mean. Forgive me.”
“You as well. Forgive me for my absence. I had no idea of your visit.”
She laughed, a little false note in it. “Neither did we. The road to our home was flooded. And if I’m quite honest, I suspect my husband wanted a peek at the observatory. He spoke of nothing else when we decided to see if you were receiving visitors.” That explained one thing. Lady Juliet was one to be counted on to read social cues, at least. “I hate to be a bother, but I am in need of a bit of privacy. Can you direct me?”
After instructing her, I steeled myself for the drawing room and one Mr. Wayland. If I had a million years I could not say precisely how I felt about that man. He’d kept my late husband from the house at all hours of the night—certainly a note in his favor—but my husband also gambled the entirety of his annual income and more at the man’s club. And of course, he had his wife’s father arrested at my ball two years ago. Which, while it thoroughly disrupted my plans, did leave the evening unforgettable in the eyes of the ton . I considered that a wash.
I stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind me. Not quietly enough. The gentlemen—gentleman and degenerate owner of a gaming hell—noticed me instantly and stood.
“Please, do be seated. Forgive me for not being here to greet you, Mr. Wayland. Your wife indicated carriage troubles?”
“Lady Champaign, lovely to see you. It was not so much carriage troubles as road troubles. You’ll have to forgive our abrupt appearance.”
“Of course.”
“You know Wayland?” Lee asked.
“Oh, Mr. Wayland’s appearance at a ball I hosted a few years ago is infamous.”
My husband merely raised a brow at his visitor.
Wayland’s hand found the back of his neck in a sheepish gesture. “I, uh—I suppose I owe you an apology for that display.”
“It was no worse than the viscount’s,” I retorted.
That earned me a choked laugh at his brother’s expense, just in time for Lady Juliet to return and perch on the settee next to her husband.
Lee’s gaze darted between us, searching for explanation.
“If it makes you feel any better, it is not only your closet they take advantage of,” Wayland added.
“It does not. But I appreciate the sentiment.”
My husband interjected, “I’ve missed something.”
“A great many somethings,” Wayland replied. “You should come to town more often.”
The men proceeded to bicker about their feelings on London and society. I watched carefully as both visitors guests noted my husband’s scars but made no comment or expression. Had that occurred before I arrived? Lee didn’t seem any more self-conscious than he usually was. His cravat wasn’t tugged up, and he hadn’t shifted to one side. A small bite of tension left me with the observation.
The gentlemen soon begged off to explore the observatory. Lady Juliet smiled indulgently with a teasing appeal to enjoy playing with the toys.
At their departure, I caught her eyeing me with interest. She wasn’t usually one for gossip—that was me—but her fascination was still of concern. The tenuous situation with my husband would not be improved with increased scrutiny.
Of course, she was with child too. And farther along than I would have guessed having seen her at the masquerade a few months ago.
“So, it seems congratulations are in order,” I said, unwilling to sit here in this stupid manner for any longer.
“Yes, thank you. You as well. How are you feeling?”
And now I had stepped in it. My nausea had abated after the third month, which I had confirmed last night was typical. But I was too tired to fabricate a story. “Better in the last few weeks. You?”
“Like a whale,” she said, rubbing her bump with a sigh. “I suspect twins, but no one believes me.”
“I’d hardly say whale. How far along are you?”
“The quickening was a few days ago.”
I nodded as if I understood, but I had yet to feel the child inside me move.
“Kate made this look so easy. Not for me. The smell of everything makes me sick. I am swollen and sore. And I cry for absolutely no reason. Yesterday, Michael ate the last tart—which I told him to do—and when I went to find it and it was gone… sobbing.”
“The cat got into the paint,” I replied in commiseration. “Peppermint helped me with the nausea.”
“It has mostly passed. And, as I have no intention of going through this again, I will have absolutely no use for that information. But I appreciate it.”
My laugh surprised me. Lady Juliet and I had never been close. If I was honest, we were barely cordial. But apparently, she was quite amusing.
“Oh, never again,” I agreed half-heartedly.
She raised a brow. “I can see why not. Your husband is a giant. You best hope the babe doesn’t take after him.”
And just like that, the tension in my shoulders eased. She knew, she had to, but she was going to confirm our story.
“He is quite tall.” My agreement was distracted. I was still irritated with Lee and paying him compliments in that frame of mind chafed. Though I could hardly argue the fact that the man was a tree. A tree I’d tried to climb last night. My cheeks flushed at the memory and when I glanced up from the tea, my companion was observing me closely.
“Oh, did you hear? Celine—Lady Rycliffe—has remarried. William Hart,” her bland tone belied the intrigue in her news.
I never would have expected Celine would wed again. As a fashionable widow she had much more freedom. “I do not know a Lord Hart?”
“Mr. He is a solicitor.”
“How did that come about?” My interest was piqued.
“It was quite dramatic. She and Mr. Hart were investigating her late husband’s murder and fell quite irrevocably in love along the way.” I knew about Lord Rycliffe’s murder—everyone did—but in the years since his death there hadn’t been a scrap of news. I was a gossip at heart, and there was no more intriguing subject than murder.
“Did they find who was responsible?”
“Well, they found the actual killer, but he claims he was acting on the orders of another gentleman. And that man has gone into hiding. No one seems to be able to locate him.” Again, her tone did not reflect the nature of her gossip. It was the kind of missive that should have been delivered behind a fan in a ballroom at a loud whisper. Lady Juliet truly must seek to improve herself in this respect.
“Who is the man?”
To my great astonishment, she set her tea aside and took my hands in hers. We did not have that sort of friendship. I did not have that sort of friendship with anyone.
She waited until my eyes abandoned our clasped hands and met hers before she continued. “Mr. Parker.” Her tone was soft, gentle, and there was caring in her eyes.
She knew. She knew everything. And by the gentle way her thumb brushed the back of my hand, she knew this was the only way to relay that intelligence while maintaining our polite ruse.
I felt sick in a way I hadn’t in weeks. “Are they certain?”
“They seem to be. Are you well? I know this is quite shocking news. Is there anything I can fetch you—tea perhaps?”
“I am quite well. Thank you.” My tone was tinny and false, but she politely chose to ignore it.
I could not believe it of Wesley. He may have refused to take responsibility for our child, but murder? There was a huge leap from his moral failing to killing a man. And Celine’s husband died seven, perhaps eight, years ago. I met Wesley less than three years ago. He was affable, funny, and charming with a sharp wit and good looks to match. He could not have been a killer that entire time.
Except, he had avoided every Rosehill function. And Wesley never once flirted with Celine. Everyone flirted with Celine. She was lovely and French and took the amorous comments in stride with a smile and a set down. But I could not recall a single instance in which he spoke to her.
Welsey—My Wesley. A murderer. I was carrying his child. He had touched me with bloodstained hands. Memories swirled red and sticky. Every whisper, every touch, every kiss.
“Charlotte?” Lady Juliet asked, overly familiar.
“I am well. Thank you for telling me,” I said, finally meeting her eyes again.
“I was not certain if it would be best to tell you. Or if it might be too upsetting.”
“I—It was best that I know.” And then a horrifying thought struck me. “How much, do you suppose, children take after their father?” After the words escaped, I realized how fraught a direction that conversation was.
Her head tipped to the side as she considered. “Well, I would like my child to be very much like his father. Perhaps with slightly less penchant for gambling, but that is not a requirement. But… I hope I am not so very much like my father.” She rubbed her free hand across her belly once again. Her father… carted away to debtor’s prison in the middle of my ball. “I imagine you might feel similar? And Lord Champaign is by all accounts an excellent man, and he will be an excellent father, even if his child is a tiny bit shorter than he is.”
Lee would be an excellent father. And he was the father of this child. In every way that mattered, he was the father.
“Thank you.”
“Of course. I know we have not always been… close. But, well, we do have quite a lot in common at the moment,” she said with a nod toward my stomach. “Perhaps we could start again?”
If last night had taught me anything, it was that I needed a friend. Desperately. And she was at least proving discreet and tactful, which were not the worst qualities one could have in a friend.
“I would like that.”
“My friends call me Juliet, or Jules if you are feeling whimsical.”
“Charlotte.”