“No, it was in the afternoon, after we had the trouble with the coach. Stupid Frenchies gave me a vehicle with a bad wheel! Nearly ended up in the ditch! Lucky we didn’t break our necks. They ought to be whipped, the lot of them, preying on Englishmen, taking good coin for shoddy...”
“It was after that little town, the one with the funny name,” Mrs. Titworthy interrupted, a hopeful smile on her face.
Charlotte felt her heart sink to her knees. They could not tell her. Burgess was somewhere on the road back there, searching, and she had no idea where. She had a sudden urge to mount up and dash off into the fields in an effort to lose him, but she knew she would only get lost, and without food or money her chances were bleak. Her hands trembling as she tried to still her rising panic, Charlotte forced herself to remain standing next her horse.
“I don’t give a damn who he is,” the squire argued with his wife. “He better not try to stop us again, or I will show him the barrel of my pistol!”
“We did not realize how difficult it would be traveling alone, just the two of us, you see,” Mrs. Titworthy explained.
“Harumph!”
“But now that we have you with us... You will ride along with us, will you not? Say you will, Mr. Linley,” Mrs. Titworthy urged.
Charlotte eyed them, their expectant faces awaiting her response, and she managed a shaky smile. Forcing her thoughts away from her pursuer and toward the English couple who were being so kind to her, she nodded. “I would be delighted to accompany you for a while,” she said, pitching her tone deep.
The squire harumphed his approval and his wife tittered and chattered, while Charlotte warily watched the road. Somehow, after what seemed an eternity, her companions managed to enter their coach, and Charlotte swung herself up to ride beside them.
She had no choice. She could not go back knowing that Burgess was there, looking for her, nor could she try to find a way through the unfamiliar countryside. She could only go forward, onward to Paris, and she might as well have company. As the third member of a party of English travelers, Charlotte reasoned that she would be less conspicuous, and if Burgess was coming closer... Well, she would rather not be caught alone on the road.
Charlotte tried not to look behind her, forcing herself to keep a fixed gaze ahead instead, but whenever a rider overtook them, she froze, certain that Burgess had come with a couple of henchmen to drag her back to his château. Despite the squire’s promises, Charlotte suspected that he could not wield his pistol well enough to stop a madman in full fury.
The afternoon dragged by slowly, making her impatient and anxious to ride faster, to lose her pursuers in one last gallop toward freedom, but she kept to the pace of her companions. She was tempted to take the English couple up on their offer to join them in the carriage, yet she dared not. Although the Titworthys seemed too foolish to see through her disguise, Charlotte knew that she made an awfully pretty young man in ill-fitting garments, and she had no desire to test her acting skills in close quarters.
So she rode, hour after hour, exchanging a few words here and there with the squire and his wife through the window of the coach, but spending most of the time consumed with worry. Once a rider cantered by them, nosing about for a look at the inside of the vehicle. He spoke not a word and took off swiftly, leaving Charlotte to wonder whether she should make anything of the incident or not.
By the time evening approached, she was so troubled that she nearly started at every sound. Perhaps it was the close proximity of her destination. Sanctuary beckoned so strongly that she could almost taste it, and to lose it now when she was within reach would be too horrible to bear.
Although Charlotte was far too anxious to notice her weariness or hunger, the Titworthys were not so distracted. Upon discovering what they determined to be a decent inn on the outskirts of the city, they decided to lodge for the night.
They tried their best to persuade their new friend to join them, but even the offer of another free meal could not sway Charlotte. She had to reach her goal before dark, for the thought of spending the night in a strange, foreign metropolis was nearly as frightening as the promise of pursuit.
“I wish you would not go on, Mr. Linley,” Mrs. Titworthy said, a worried expression on her face. “It has been such a comfort to have you with us.”
“You will get along splendidly,” Charlotte assured them. “I have heard that there is quite a colony of English in the city now.”
“Can you not give us your direction, sir?” the squire asked gruffly.
Charlotte hesitated, then shook her head. “I apologize, squire, but I am not certain where I shall be staying.” She lied, not wishing to give away anything to those who might come after her.
“Is there nothing that we can do for you?” Mrs. Titworthy asked, a show of genuine concern in her eyes. Charlotte blinked, the urge to break down and pour her tale into their receptive ears so strong that she had to bite her lip. They were a nice couple, kind, if not very smart, but she remembered their disgust at the story of the runaway bride, and she could easily imagine their horror should they find her to be a woman masquerading as a man.
Charlotte swallowed hard, feeling more alone than she ever had in her young life, then she cleared her throat. “I have a friend...who may be coming this way. If you should chance to meet him, please tell him that you saw me.”
The couple nodded agreeably. “And the name of your acquaintance?” Mrs. Titworthy asked, smiling.
“Wycliffe. The Earl of Wycliffe,” Charlotte said as steadily as she could. “Tell him that...Linley passed through. And now I must be off.” She glanced over her shoulder, half expecting to catch the sun moving lower before her very eyes, and strode toward her mount. She dared not look back, for the mere mention of Max had clouded her vision.
Charlotte found it lonely going without the Titworthys, who, however ineffectual they might prove in an emergency, nevertheless provided some kind of moral support. Her apprehension reached a new level, but as she neared the city, the bustle increased, so that she needed all her concentration just to make her way through the press of people toward Paris.
Finding the hotel proved to be the most difficult task she had assumed so far, for the city was a tangle of interweaving streets and alleys. Heady with victory at reaching her destination, Charlotte was not so stupid as to decrease her vigilance. There was always the possibility that Burgess might be lurking right around the next corner to snatch her from the very doorstep of her sanctuary.
Charlotte moved carefully, ignoring the exotic lure of her surroundings, the excitement of a city that under any other circumstances would have dazzled her. She kept intent upon her goal, and finally she found it—the Rue de Clichy, and the fashionable hotel whose address she had put to memory.
Chevalier answered the door and gave her an odd glance before proclaiming that tradesmen were to enter at the rear of the building, but Charlotte had not come this far to have the door slammed in her face. She stepped quickly over the threshold.
“Who is it, Chevalier?” asked a familiar voice, and Charlotte recognized the silken sway of Sibylle’s skirts. At the sight of her husband’s mother, Charlotte nearly collapsed. The idea of refuge, and above all Max, made her head swim, but she drew upon her last reserve of strength and walked swiftly past the horrified manservant to stand before the dainty dowager. Doffing her hat with a graceful gesture, Charlotte released her hair in a great poof.
“Hello, Mother,” she said.
Although Charlotte was close to collapse, it was Sibylle who almost swooned. She took one look at Charlotte—one horrified, wide-eyed look—and flung her hand to her forehead with a dramatic gasp. Chevaliar was at her elbow in a moment.
“My lady, sit down!” He urged her into a crimson damask-covered chair and called for a glass of brandy. Make that two, please, Charlotte wanted to say, but she could not find her voice.
“Charlotte, is that you?” Sibylle asked in an agitated whisper.
Charlotte
nodded mutely. Overcome with emotion, she could only stare stupidly. She was safe, safe at last...
Her euphoria dimmed as she watched Sibylle’s eyes travel from the top of her tangled hair down her travel-stained men’s clothes to the muddy slippers upon her feet. The dowager’s dainty nostrils flared as though Charlotte’s very smell was offensive, and Charlotte realized, with a gulp, that it probably was.
“Is this some wretched joke perpetrated by Maximilian?” Sibylle asked in outraged accents.
Charlotte shook her head. Suddenly, she wanted to cry. She wanted Max. She wanted to fling herself into the arms of her husband or her father or some member of her family, but the only relation available was her mother-in-law who, Charlotte knew, would not welcome an embrace. She blinked back the tears that threatened and swallowed hard.
“I...I was kidnapped—drugged and dragged away from my wedding reception by Sir Burgess. I believe he is quite mad.” Charlotte shivered at the memory of his convoluted logic. “He thinks to get my marriage annulled, force me to wed him and petition for some title that is in abeyance. He brought me to France, and when I escaped, all I could think of was to find my way to you.”
Charlotte sagged against the wall, certain that her words made no sense and that Sibylle might toss her out at any moment simply because she was not fashionably dressed.
“Oh! You poor child,” Sibylle said. Surprised by the sound of sympathy, Charlotte searched her mother-in-law’s face. She saw concern and a glimmer of affection. It was not much, but it was enough to make Charlotte hurl herself across the space that separated them. And then she was in Sibylle’s arms, her tall frame in filthy men’s clothes resting against the dainty dowager’s bosom.
That was how Chevaliar found them—Sibylle awkwardly patting Charlotte’s back while she sobbed out her relief.
“Come, come, my ladies,” Chevalier said. Urging Charlotte into a chair, he handed her a glass and told her to drink. The unfamiliar liquid burned her throat, but warmed her, making her feel much more comfortable. After the servant gave Sibylle her brandy, too, there was still one glass remaining, and Charlotte smiled when she realized Chevalier had brought himself a portion, which he tossed down quickly and without apology.
“Now what, my lady?” he asked Sibylle as he set his empty glass down upon the tray.
“Firstly, we must get her a bath and some decent clothes,” Sibylle answered. “She is an amazon, mind you, so nothing of mine will fit her.”
“But what if the fiend pursues her here?” Chevalier asked, looking more than a little disconcerted by the thought. Three pairs of eyes turned slowly toward the door before them.
Sibylle was the first to look at the group. “He would not dare,” she said firmly. “But, just in case, have Jean hire some men and set up a guard.” She paused and glanced speculatively at Charlotte. “I do not think we need fear Sir Burgess, for I believe that your own gallant knight shall soon arrive.”
At Charlotte’s blank look, Sibylle smiled crookedly. “Surely, you do not doubt that Maximilian can be far behind you.”
Max! Charlotte’s heart danced at the mention of his name. “Do you think so?” she asked, afraid to hope that he might find her so soon.
Sibylle nodded. “Unlike his father, who was but infatuated with me, Maximilian loves you fiercely...so fiercely that I expect he would lay down his life for you in an instant. Who would have thought that he could become so romantic?” Sibylle shook her dark curls at this seeming riddle and then stared at Charlotte as if the girl in boy’s dress possessed some secret she had spent her life seeking.
Chevalier broke the silence that followed. “Nevertheless, I think we ought to send a message to his lordship, in case he has been detained or misled.”
Sibylle nodded slowly, gazing at Charlotte all the while. “As you wish, but I, for one, am certain that nothing in the world would keep him from his wife. He loves her, you see, in a way that no one has ever loved me.”
When Chevalier said nothing, Sibylle waved him away impatiently. Then she cocked her head in a gesture that reminded Charlotte of Max. “Well, who would have guessed that your little country wedding would result in such excitement!”
“You should have come,” Charlotte said softly.
Sibylle pouted prettily. “What? And not be the center of attention? You should know by now that is something I cannot abide.”
“Why?” Charlotte asked gently.
The preening pose was dropped for a moment as Sibylle looked at her intently. “You and I actually have much in common,” she said, shaking her head in wonder. “I, too, was the beautiful, petted daughter of a scholar. Only I had no patience—or ability—for study. My face was my ticket away from the dusty realm of books into the enchanted world of wealthy society.
“When the Earl of Wycliffe showed an interest in me, I did not care that he was old and stuffy and stodgy.” Sibylle snapped her fingers. “La! It was unimportant. I dazzled a proposal out of him, and I was suddenly a countess! And, unlike you, silly goose, I loved it. I adored it.” She closed her eyes, as if remembering.
“Oh, the parties! The dancing, the food, the drink, the cards...and the houses! The clothes! The jewels! I wanted it all, but Reginald soon tired of such things. He began to treat me as if I were foolish and unworthy of him. I took lovers just to spite him, but he did not care. Once he had Maximilian... The boy was always his sole property, you know,” Sibylle mused. “I think Maximilian was born with the same contempt for me that his father had.”
“That is not true,” Charlotte whispered.
“Oh, it is true, but no matter. I did not need them. I pursued my own pleasures and made a name for myself. Me, a poor tutor’s daughter! Now I am a world-renowned beauty, an unparalleled hostess and an incomparable lover to those upon whom I bestow my favors. I have all that could want!”
Except love. Charlotte felt only pity for the lovely young girl who had never grown up and who, even now, sought attention with her outrageous behavior, like a rebellious child. But Charlotte knew that Sibylle would not welcome her compassion. Instead, she took the older woman’s hand and squeezed it warmly. “You are truly a remarkable woman,” she said.
“I am, aren’t I?” Sibylle agreed prettily.
* * *
Several swallows of brandy later, Charlotte was ensconced in a tub of scented bathwater in one of the bedrooms and feeling a twinge of tipsiness. Abandoning the empty glass, she let a chattering little French maid wash her hair, and then she put on the long, heavy robe that had been laid out for her.
It was obviously not Sibylle’s, but Charlotte hesitated to ask the identity of its owner, since it was a man’s dressing gown. Presumably it belonged to some paramour of Sibylle’s, but Charlotte said nothing. She simply rolled up the long sleeves, sent the maid away and sat down before a gilded mirror to brush out her drying hair.
She was relaxing under the gentle strokes when she heard a commotion in the other rooms. Dropping the brush, Charlotte gasped in alarm. Her first thought was of Burgess, for she could easily envision the madman forcing his way into the hotel.
Glancing around the room in panic, Charlotte searched for something with which to defend herself, for she would not go without a struggle. She briefly considered setting him afire with the lamp, but then her eyes lighted upon the fireplace. In an instant, she was across the room, hefting a long, cruel-looking poker high in the air just as the bedroom door flew upon, banging on its hinges with the force of a blow.
The weapon fell from Charlotte’s grasp as she expelled a long, pent-up breath. “Max!” She raced into his arms, and he caught her, swinging her up as if she were no heavier than her sister Jenny. He hugged her to him so tightly that she could barely draw in air, while he whispered her name over and over.
“Charlotte...Charlotte...Charlotte...”
The sound of his deep, familiar voice was so wonderful she could have listened forever, but he was squeezing her so hard Charlotte felt her ribs might crack. Sh
e was suddenly aware of how much strength was contained within his elegant, aristocratic body, and the knowledge made her shiver in a decidedly pleasant way. He loosened his hold to look into her face. “That bastard...”
“No. Nothing happened. I am fine,” Charlotte said, giving him a tremulous smile.
“Charlotte,” he said shakily, as if he hardly trusted himself to speak. “You were abducted from your own wedding, at the mercy of a madman for days... You have been traveling alone across France, and...you are fine?”
Charlotte ducked her head and smiled in the face of his dismay. She did not want to talk about what had happened, not now, not when he was finally here and she was in his arms, but Max... He would need explanations. He would want all the loose ends tied neatly into knots before proceeding with anything else. “How did you get here?” he demanded roughly.
She noticed suddenly how the strain of the last few days had marked him. He was pale and drawn, his body tense and his brown eyes stark with worry. She wanted only to hold him, to touch him, but she forced herself to speak. “I dressed as a man again.”
At Max’s incredulous snort, she smiled. “Well, I did a little better job of it this time.”
“And you rode all the way here alone?”
“I was with an English couple today for much of the journey,” she said, trying to reassure him.
“They did not see through your disguise?”
Charlotte smiled again. “No, Max. It was all right. Truly.” She lifted her fingers to caress his cheek in an effort to comfort him, but he did not appear consoled. He dropped his hands from her shoulders, his eyes shuttered. “Apparently, I have been laboring under a misconception,” he said softly, “that you needed rescuing.”
Charlotte blinked, astonished by his behavior until she realized that he was hurt because he had not saved her. His male pride was wounded! Despite his constant grousing about it, Max enjoyed playing her gallant protector, she decided with some surprise. Swallowing hard, Charlotte lifted her hands to his face. “Oh, Max, I knew you would come, and I wanted to wait for you, but I was so afraid, so dreadfully afraid.”
The Vicar's Daughter Page 27
