Chapter Thirty-One
This was foolish.
Charlotte stood looking up at the manicured facade of the white stucco townhouse of the Countess of Beaumont and considered abandoning this ill-advised mission before it began.
It was born of desperation, and thus, not well considered or particularly safe.
In fact, Charlotte had felt significantly less concerned for her well-being on any number of her ventures into the stews.
Then, the only risk had been to her person—and she knew how to be careful.
Now, she faced a much more devastating risk—that her own suspicions might well prove true.
Before she had the chance to go through the merits of her fact-finding mission again, the front door opened to reveal an imperious butler. “May I help you, madam?”
“I was just about to knock.” Charlotte refused to feel small and foolish for dallying on the front step. “I am here to call on her ladyship. Is she receiving?”
It was unacceptably early to be calling upon a lady. After Benjamin had sent her home in one of his carriages with a sweet kiss and sleepy eyes full of promise, Charlotte had come straight here. The previous night had stripped her bare, and she did not know what else to do.
The officious man only inclined his head, the afternoon light glinting off the peaks of his perfectly smooth forehead, giving no indication of the lady’s inclination.
“Who, may I ask, is calling?”
“Lady Charlotte Aston.”
The butler’s flat, assessing demeanour did not shift, but he waved her into a receiving room just off the foyer anyway.
“I will see if she is home for callers. Please wait here.”
Charlotte nodded and perched on a small, wildly ornate chaise—the height of Paris fashion, she was sure. This piece alone could feed her for a year.
She smoothed out her skirts—clean and pressed—but not one of the lovely creations Benjamin had bought her. And she waited.
And waited.
When the clock above the mantle struck half past, she considered rising to leave. She had already been there for nearly half an hour. If Catherine was expecting callers, another one was sure to arrive soon. And if she were not, Charlotte should just abandon the idea altogether.
But something—some last hope flickering in her chest—forced her to stay just five minutes more.
Her patience was rewarded when Catherine Beaumont swept into the room, a picture of costly elegance in a deep pink silk day dress. The bold colour flattered her dark hair and smooth complexion, and Charlotte briefly wondered what exactly had possessed her to make this call.
“Charlotte, what a lovely surprise!”
Catherine greeted her with a familiarity that spoke to a much closer acquaintanceship than they had ever enjoyed, and yet still carried the underlying coldness that had been present in the Duke of Wells’ opera box.
“Catherine, thank you for receiving me.”
“Of course, we are old friends, are we not? I am happy to see you circulating in society again. It feels like an age since we last crossed paths before meeting at the opera.” She gestured for the maid, who had preceded her, to set the tea service.
Charlotte only gave her a faint smile. “It is actually that meeting that I wanted to discuss.”
“Oh?” Catherine’s beautiful oval face was the perfect picture of inquiring surprise.
“Since, as you put it, we are old friends, I would like to speak to you plainly about our mutual acquaintance.”
The mask fell away, and Charlotte could see Catherine’s wariness take its place. Her sparkling hazel eyes watched with a newfound interest and calculation.
“You were once intimately involved with Mr. Scarsdale?”
Charlotte posed the question as a means to inform; she knew the answer.
She had known immediately, from Benjamin’s discomfort and Catherine’s angling, that the two of them had some kind of history together.
She would let Catherine fill in the blanks—a task the countess would likely relish—but she did not need further details.
“Yes. We were lovers.” Catherine surprised her with her simple candour.
Charlotte nodded.
“It has not continued. We parted ways last winter. A mutual decision.” Charlotte doubted the last was true, but she did not push.
“But I assure you, we have not been involved since. You need not worry.” Catherine’s posture shifted.
She was now leaning forward, a real earnestness in her eyes.
“I would not be party to such an arrangement, I assure you.”
Charlotte nodded again, her lips pressed in another wan smile. “Thank you, I appreciate you saying that.”
She believed her. That was not what she had come to discuss—Benjamin’s fidelity was not something she had once worried about—but Catherine’s sober assurance was surprising. Perhaps that would make the next question easier.
“What I came here to ask was more nebulous in nature.” Charlotte frowned down at the teacup in her hand. This was proving harder to articulate than she had thought.
“Please ask.” Charlotte looked up to see the countess’s face furrowed in uncharacteristic concern.
“If I can be of help to you here, please dispense with all pretence. In our coming out—when the Count was courting me—you cut through all our differences to warn me. Even though we had always been in competition—and I know I could be…unpleasant towards you—you still approached me at the Powell’s Ball to warn me what kind of man he was.
I was so quick to dismiss you. I thought you were just trying to undercut me.
And honestly, I wanted to ignore my own misgivings as well.
He was such a catch. My family were thrilled, and I had won—not that you can win a season.
” She shook her head and looked down at her own cup and saucer, balanced impeccably in her hands.
“I ignored your warning. And I paid the price.”
Charlotte watched as the woman across from her—one she had once been girls with—was dragged back through time.
The years of unspoken pain played across her face. “If I could return the favour…please. Ask.”
Charlotte blew out the breath she was holding.
And stopped short. How could she ask? “Do you…” She stopped.
For once, the words were not coming. “I know this is beyond all boundaries of propriety. But I had a feeling you might have an insight that could help me make…a decision.” She sucked in another breath.
“Do you think he could…that he is capable of…” The words petered out as she fought the alarming knot crawling up her throat.
Catherine gave her a bleak smile. and in that moment, she knew she did not have to say more. “No, Charlotte.” Her voice was gentle, a shared sadness pulling between them. Catherine was just on the other side.
The countess set down her cup and saucer and took a deep breath, clearly setting her mind to something.
“Benjamin and I met at a gaming evening hosted by the Marchioness of Donnelly last May. I will spare you the details, but we became involved quickly. It was exciting and daring and romantic. In retrospect, I should have gone in much more guarded, given my experience. But he is handsome, clever, and shockingly kind.”
Charlotte could only nod. Every fibre of her being wanted to bolt—to reject anything she heard. But she was fixed to the spot. She had to know. Even if it was excruciating.
“After the first month, I was enthralled. After the third, I had fallen for him. Hard.” Catherine cringed at that and put her hands to her cheeks.
“I was not foolish enough to tell him, thank God. I preserved part of my dignity in that. But he must have known. He became distant. I pushed. I could not resist it. I wanted more of him. More he was not willing to give. By December, he had called it off.”
Charlotte wanted to slink away from the idea of Benjamin being so involved with another woman—this woman. But she also saw the real heartbreak on Catherine’s face. She now knew the same heartbreak was hurtling towards her.
“I would like to say the pain has passed—that I am beyond the rejection of it all. But I think my performance at the opera would make that lie abundantly clear. I hope you can forgive me for that bit of nastiness, if not the rest. I was surprised to see him with another woman—and an unmarried one at that. He never deals with marriage bait.”
“I am hardly—”
“And the way he looked at you,” Catherine carried on as if she had not heard her.
“It all seemed so serious and proper. He got you a chaperone, for goodness’ sake!
” She stopped, clearly fighting to rein in her emotions.
“What I mean to say is, I thought you had caught him. And it crushed me. So I acted out.” There was real regret in her eyes when she looked back up at Charlotte.
“But if you are here now, asking me. I have a duty to warn you: do not expect anything from Benjamin Scarsdale. And above all, do not lose your heart to him.”
Charlotte felt the floor drop out from under her.
She had heard what she came here to hear.
∞∞∞
Benjamin had walked back up the garden steps to the kitchen door, feeling lighter than he had since he had come to London.
Last night had been a revelation. Every touch, every kiss was full of import and promise.
Charlotte must have felt the shift, for she had met him at every stroke.
It was as if more than their bodies had been in communion; the frenetic, deliberate current had carried them forward together.
He had woken with Charlotte in his arms, soft and warm from sleep, and made love to her again before bundling her up to the mews behind the garden and sending her and his coachman back to the Aston townhouse.
He would have liked to have kept her here, holed up together in his chambers for the rest of the day—forever, really.
But that would come soon enough. First, he had some matters to settle.