“Hello, my dear.” Burgess sat at a table near the window, obviously finishing some coffee. He looked more alert this morning, and the smell of his obnoxious habit was not in evidence, filling Charlotte with a swift surge of relief. “Will you join me?”
“Thank you, no,” Charlotte answered stiffly. “I wish to be returned at once to my husband.”
Burgess shook his head. “A sad event, that. I do apologize for not getting there earlier, but I did not discover your whereabouts soon enough. I did hope to arrive before the nuptials, but... Ah, well. An annulment shall be easy enough to obtain.”
Charlotte stared at him. Had the man gone daft? “I do not want an annulment. I want to go home!”
“Come now, Charlotte.” Burgess’s lips twisted into a smirk. “We all know that Wycliffe only married you because of the compromising situations in which you two were discovered.”
“That is not true,” Charlotte replied. “Not long ago you claimed that he wanted me for himself. Obviously, you were right.”
“Wanted you, perhaps, but he did not have you, did he?” Burgess asked. “I may have missed the ceremony, but I arrived before the wedding night. The marriage will be annulled quietly, and after things have died down, we will return to England.”
Charlotte stared at him. You are mad. She thought the words, but dared not voice them. The baron had to be insane to think that talk of such a thing would ever die down and insane to kidnap anyone’s bride, let alone Wycliffe’s. The earl would be incensed. Charlotte thought of his carefully planned trip to Greece, and she wanted to weep. In marrying her, he had hoped to put an end these scrapes, and now she had somehow gotten herself immersed in another...the worst yet.
She felt a cold calm descend upon her as she decided that this man would not get the better of her. She had struggled through emotional turmoil to obtain her dream marriage; she did not intend to have it ruined by this interloper. “There will be no annulment,” Charlotte said softly. “For you were indeed too late, Sir Burgess. You see, Max and I have been lovers for some time and married only to give the baby a name.”
The smirk left Burgess’s face to be replaced by a kind of mottled red fury as he half rose from his chair. He sputtered furiously, and Charlotte stepped back a pace. “So! He discovered it, did he? The bastard!”
“Discovered what?” Although Charlotte considered herself no shrinking wet goose, the wild look in Burgess’s eyes was chilling. Her impression that he was mad was magnified tenfold.
“Do not play the fool with me, Miss Trowbridge,” Burgess hissed. “Wycliffe knew all along! That explains his sudden bizarre interest in a vicar’s daughter. He seduced you, got you with child and married you for one reason...to gain the Avundel earldom.”
“The what?”
“The title, you fool!” he said. “It fell into abeyance when your grandmother’s brother had no issue, as well you know.”
“My grandmother?”
“It would have been my father’s, was his by right until your mother threw him over for that pathetic cleric. All my life, I listened to him rant about his missed opportunity and blame my mother. Yes, it was all her fault for getting with child and forcing him to marry her. But now, it all comes full circle. What should have been his will be mine—not Wycliffe’s. Baby or no, the marriage will be annulled, and you will be bound to me.”
Astounded by his rambling, Charlotte searched her mind, trying to make sense of his words. She vaguely remembered her Grandmama Carew, but there had never been mention of an earldom in the family. The widowed lady had lived comfortably in a little house in Sussex, not far from Upper Bidwell, and had died when Charlotte was still a young girl.
“But...why you?” Charlotte sputtered. “If there truly is a title to be had, why would it not go to James or Thomas or Sarah’s husband, since she is the oldest?” A picture of big, quiet Alf waiting on the villagers while they called him “my lord” nearly made her lose her composure.
Burgess snarled in disgust. “Pah! There is not but one drop of decent blood in the passel of the vicar’s brats. They would not even know how to petition for the restoration of the title, and it would never be granted to a penniless vicar’s boy, you stupid chit. I have the blood, and I have the money. I am already a baron, but deserve greater. You shall see. I shall win the title easily, and Wycliffe will have naught.”
Charlotte hesitated to point out to Burgess, who was fairly foaming at the mouth now, that Wycliffe already was an earl and a viscount and a baron, and hardly needed an extra title to add to his lengthy name.
“But why me?” Charlotte persisted. “I am already wed. Why not wait until Jane is of marriageable age?” And you, I hope, are rotting in jail. Although she would as soon sever her arm as see one of her sisters married to Burgess, Charlotte’s immediate thought was to extricate herself from his clutches. If she could just gain some time, she knew Max would make sure that the baron never bothered any of them again.
“Jane? Jane! Do not speak to me of homely children!” Burgess slammed his fist down upon the table in a fury. “I want no part of any of them. It is you I want, Charlotte, and you alone! You are the image of your mother. Did you know that?” His voice softened as he leaned back and studied her. “My father kept a portrait of her in his bedroom. It served to remind my mother that she could never live up to his standards. Of course, she never did, though she died trying...” Burgess’s words trailed off as if he were talking to himself, and then suddenly his attention riveted upon her again like a cat that had sighted its prey. “I still have the painting, you know, though I never imagined that I would possess the original, as it were. You see, Charlotte, I had no idea you even existed until you appeared before me at Bradley House, like a vision. Like a vision,” he whispered. “I have so many visions, sometimes I am not sure...but you...you are real. And you will be my wife.”
Charlotte did not bother to argue, for it was obvious that Burgess was not rational. What surprised her was how easily he had hidden this strange side of himself in London. He had been smooth and silent and polite, giving the impression of a decidedly different man, and when she realized just how close she had come to marrying him of her own free will, she shuddered. Had it not been for Max, she might be spending the rest of her life with this lunatic.
She still might...
The thought made her ill. Reasoning with him was futile, that much was clear. She decided to placate him, instead. “Very well,” Charlotte said. “You will have to manage everything, sir, for I am, at present, indisposed. I would like to go to my room, if you please.”
Burgess stared at her, as if her sudden acquiescence confused—and disappointed—him. For a moment, she wondered if he would let her leave his presence. His wildness seemed to feed upon itself, like some dread disease, and she had the distinct impression that just as one cornered by some beast, if she showed the slightest hint of fear, she would be attacked. She stood very still, her hands folded before her as her mother had taught her.
Finally, his breathing slowed and the hungry light left his eyes. “Go, then. Get yourself settled, for we shall stay here for some time. I shall expect you at dinner.”
Charlotte nodded. She realized why they were in France. No matter how brave Burgess might appear when in his rages, he still feared Wycliffe, and no matter how bizarre his actions, he had the sense to avoid pursuit.
The thought was not comforting.
* * *
Charlotte knew Max would come. She was as certain of it as of the sunrise and sunset. The problem lay in his timing. When would he arrive? How soon would it take him to discover her missing, to suspect Burgess and to take up the trail? The baron might have covered his tracks well, and Max, even now, might be harrying off to Burgess’s estate, expecting her to be there.
In the meantime she would be here, on the Continent, housed with a man who was obviously unstable. Burgess’s behavior downstairs had been frightening, and Charlotte did not trust him to retain his feeble hold upon
his wits. What if he became violent, injured her or locked her away, destroying any chance for her to escape?
And although Charlotte hesitated to think of it, she wondered about the night to come. In truth, Burgess had never even tried to steal a kiss from her, as her other suitors had, and yet that very fact seemed to prey upon her anxiety. The crossing had left her too weak for his attentions, but what if he pressed his advantage now? There would be no one to hear her screams...
Grimly, Charlotte decided she could not risk waiting for Max; she would have to leave on her own.
With her decision came quick action, and she began to search the room for anything that might be useful, but Burgess’s lucidity must have extended to her prison, too. The room was bare except for the furniture and a few gowns that hung in the wardrobe. A promising-looking trunk yielded nothing but more clothes, stored away.
Charlotte dug down deeply in the chest with the vague hope that some decorative sword or fine pistol might be buried beneath the fabrics, but she found nothing. Sitting back upon her heels, she stared at the worn buttons on some country gentleman’s once fine coat, thinking...until she was struck by an idea.
Pulling out a pair of breeches, Charlotte held them up before her only to discard them for a smaller pair. These were overly long and large at the waist, but the best she could do. Heaving a sigh of disgust at the generous bosom that pleased Wycliffe so much, she wrapped it tightly in cloth and covered it with a shirt, a waistcoat and a coat. Taking a rueful look downward, she had to admit that the results were rather dubious. Barring the night before her wedding, it had been a long time since she had dressed as a boy, and her body had changed since those days.
She would not fool anyone.
Charlotte’s eyes swept the room, looking for anything else that might aid in her masquerade, until they lighted upon the bed. Choking back an exclamation, she undid her outer clothing, grabbed up a pillow and stuffed it in her waistband. Covering all up again, she gave herself an assessing glance. Now, at least, she seemed less like a woman and more like a lumpy man.
She tucked up her hair as best she could under an old-fashioned wide-brimmed hat and made a mental note to let no one see her too closely. Then, with one last look about the room, Charlotte climbed out the window.
Years of sneaking out of the vicarage had prepared her for the swing into a nearby tree, and although her moves were a bit rusty, she landed among the branches without incident. Below her, the grounds were deserted. No doubt Burgess did not want many witnesses to her imprisonment, but his caution could work to her advantage.
Despite the seeming quiet, Charlotte crept carefully down from her perch and flitted toward the stables, constantly alert for a sign of discovery from the château. She reached the outbuilding but kept up her guard, wary of surprising a groom. Luckily, she met no one, the only occupants being several horses, and she chose a friendly filly.
Hesitating briefly, Charlotte considered taking all the horses with her to release along the road, but the plan to eliminate that means of pursuit seemed too risky. It would be easier to lead one animal out of the stable, through the copse of trees and over the countryside.
In actuality, it was quite simple, and Charlotte realized that because of Max’s self-assumed role of her guardian, everyone in London might think her incapable of taking care of herself. Burgess obviously expected her to cower in her room, waiting for a rescue that might not come, or he would have kept a closer guard upon her.
Perhaps most of the season’s Toasts could be counted upon not to climb out their windows, she mused as she eased herself onto her mount. Finding themselves alone in a strange country, uncertain of their surroundings, they might be relied upon to swoon, but Sussex girls were made of sterner stuff and, as much as she enjoyed being rescued by her handsome earl, Charlotte could do very well on her own, thank you.
Once in the saddle, she hesitated a moment, for she knew Burgess would expect her to flee toward the coast, to England and her husband. With a grim smile, she decided against that course and urged her horse forward, heading inland.
Charlotte knew enough of the world to understand the location of Paris in relation to the Channel, but exactly how far away the château lay, she was not sure. All she could do was to travel in the general direction of the city and hope that she met no cutthroats along the way, for her destination—a destination Burgess would never dream of—was Paris.
She calculated that she had several hours before her escape would be discovered. If she was lucky, her captor would drift into an opium haze indefinitely, but Charlotte could not count upon that. Presumably, he would sulk until evening, when her absence at the dinner table would rouse him to a fury. However, his behavior was nothing if not erratic, and she was well aware that he might storm up to her room at any moment, demanding entry, only to find her gone.
She hoped he would not discover her escape. She hoped he would not be able to determine her route. She hoped.... Charlotte blinked, clinging to her hopes as she kicked her horse to speed, for she shivered at the thought of Burgess’s reaction should he find her.
By nightfall, Charlotte was breathing easier. She found an old barn beside the burned-out relic of a house and curled up in the straw, trying to sleep, for she knew her brave filly needed rest. If not, she would have continued along the road, with only the moon and stars to light her way, for she was still consumed by too much agitation—and hunger—to doze.
Around midday she had found some wild berries, and later she had stolen a few carrots from someone’s weedy garden, but she wished now that she had sat down to a good breakfast with Burgess before taking her leave. She was all too conscious that illness had driven everything from her stomach just the day before, and she had eaten nothing substantial since. The Trowbridges might not have had much at the vicarage, but they had never gone hungry, and the unfamiliar, gnawing emptiness threatened to keep her awake.
Finally, exhaustion overcame all else. Her last thought was of Max. Where was he? And then she slept.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The next day Charlotte came upon an English couple whose French was not sufficient to communicate successfully with some villagers. When she stepped in to help, they thanked her profusely, and nothing would do but that she join them for a healthy repast at the small inn where they were changing horses.
Although she had thus far avoided any dealings with people, Charlotte’s stomach roared its assent, so she warily accepted the offer. If they thought her an odd young gentleman, with her funny hat and ill-fitting clothes, they said nothing of it, for they were a strange pair themselves.
Old Squire Titworthy was a rotund man who looked lumpier than Charlotte in an overly tight waistcoat and breeches, while his wife, a thin, tittering girl, appeared fairly silly and self-absorbed. It became obvious that the trip to France was her idea, and she had persuaded her husband to agree simply because it was the thing, not because of any great interest she had in the Continent.
The two were as out of place as a fish flopping upon land, and Charlotte often had to hide a smile at their arguments over the food, the roads, the language and all else that was French. For her part, Charlotte said little, but ate in perfect imitation of her brothers an amount that would have put them to shame.
After the meal, the Titworthys would not hear of parting with their newfound English friend. “Young man, you are the first sensible character we have met since our arrival in this godforsaken country.”
“Now, squire,” said his wife, laying a restraining hand upon his arm. She tittered at Charlotte. “He is unaccustomed to foreigners.”
“Foreigners! Harumph!” The squire seemed to use the sound, which gurgled deep from his throat, as an all-encompassing comment. “Our own countrymen are as ramshackle as the Frenchies here. Must be something in the water or the wine... Harumph! Fancy wines! They taste no better than a good cup of ale...”
Mrs. Titworthy tittered again. “I must say we did have a rather wretched encounter
with an Englishman on the road yesterday.”
“Harumph! Bloody cheeky devil!” the squire muttered with renewed outrage. “Demanded that we stop the coach and searched it. Looking for his wife! She probably ran off with some Frenchie. Certainly none of our affair.”
“I told the squire that those nobs are different,” Mrs. Titworthy whispered, as if to suggest that the possession of noble blood explained away a host of eccentricities. Charlotte wanted to smile until the gist of Mrs. Titworthy’s statement became clear. Then her hand tightened so hard on her horse’s reins that her knuckles turned white. A nob was looking for his wife! Max? Was Max here so soon, behind her?
“A nob, you say? Who was he?” Charlotte asked in a voice as low and steady as she could muster.
“Harumph! A baron, he said, though one wonders. The man ought to be setting an example, but instead he’s harrying off over the countryside, chasing a runaway bride and bullying his fellows. Ought to be learning some manners.” The squire shook his head, his face red with indignation at the behavior of his betters.
Burgess! Charlotte’s heart banged so frantically that she thought it might dislodge the pillow that was tucked under her breasts. She glanced back the way she had come, but the road was quiet except for a slow-moving hay wagon. Where was Burgess now? “Where did you meet him?” she asked.
“Meet him? Harumph! The man charged upon us like a lunatic,” the squire complained.
“Where?” Charlotte asked, unable to stop herself. She did not want to draw her companions’ attention to herself, but she had to know. Was Burgess heading toward the coast...or was he behind her even now, gaining on her? Her mount was not fast. She had slept during the night and had wasted precious time sharing a meal with the Titworthys. A man on a good horse could travel so much more quickly... Panic put a hard edge to her question as Charlotte asked again. “Where?”
“It was sometime yesterday,” answered Mrs. Titworthy. “Had we just set out?”
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