by Erica Vetsch
Realization dawned.
They thought she was with child. That she had left the party last night because of pregnancy sickness.
She had only been married a month. Surely it was too early to even begin to speculate about such a thing.
But her mother-in-law was looking at her with such tenderness, she didn’t want to disabuse her of the notion. Time would take care of that soon enough. For now she would enjoy the cessation of subtle hostilities.
Conversations resumed, and Charlotte caught snatches, preoccupied as she was with other matters. She hadn’t been missed at the party until after the reveal and it was discovered she wasn’t amongst the revelers.
“I can only hope that the reason Marcus missed the end of the party was that he was so concerned about you. And now he’s out of the house. He’s such a busy, important man, you know.” The dowager spread her attention around, turning to Lady Trelawney.
Everyone seemed in good spirits, if tired, and Charlotte would have to deem the house party a success, at least for her guests. For herself, it had been a disaster. But she only had to get through breakfast and church, and then the house would empty and she could get some space to think things through.
Her husband had deceived her, and only when pressed had he revealed that he was a … spy. Should she believe such a far-fetched claim? Could it be true? Or was it another deception to cover something of a baser nature? She couldn’t keep from looking at her father across the table, dressed for Sunday services, when last night in her very home he had been trifling amorously with yet another woman not his wife.
And here her mother sat, behaving as if she neither knew nor cared.
Charlotte’s stomach soured, and she pushed her plate of toast and jam away. The dowager gave her a knowing smile and a nod, and it was all Charlotte could do to stay in her place at the table.
A stirring in the hall drew her attention, and heads turned as Pippa Cashel entered the room. Pippa, who was supposed to be recovering in her aerie several floors abovestairs. A sense of foreboding swept over Charlotte. The look in Pippa’s eyes matched the expression she’d worn the first time Charlotte had met her in the King’s Place parlor several weeks ago.
This was not the convalescent, nightgowned patient Charlotte had visited last evening. This was the much-sought-after paramour, the proud, confident, beautiful woman. Her cheek still bore the marks of the beating she had suffered, but faintly, and Charlotte surmised she’d used face powder to hide it further.
She wore a beautiful pale gown scattered with yellow daisies and a black spencer, and she had a yellow-and-black poke bonnet tied with long black ribbons framing her face. Imperious, self-confident, and unafraid.
Behind her, Amelia hovered in the doorway, her face a mass of concern and shame. Her eyes darted from her daughter to her former lover and back again, her hands knotted and twisting at her waist.
“I came to bid you goodbye.” Pippa found Charlotte at the end of the table.
Charlotte rose. “You’re leaving?” Despair hit her hard. She had so hoped to convince her to stay at least awhile longer.
“Yes.” She tugged on a pair of black lace gloves. “But not before I have my say.”
The sweetness in her voice didn’t fool Charlotte. She came down the long room, and heads turned, mouths hung open. Pippa stopped beside Charlotte, facing their father.
He sat as if carved from stone, his eyes like iron.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know who I am. At least do me that courtesy. You may wish to behave as if I and my mother do not exist, but the whole of London society is going to know, if they don’t already. You are despicable. This world might look down on me and my mother, saying we’re no better than we should be, that there is a flaw in our nature that makes us how we are—I don’t believe that twaddle for a minute. I am what I am because of you and men like you. You, who claim piety, who will attend church today, celebrating Palm Sunday, while betraying your vows, fathering a child with your mistress, and abandoning them to their fate when you grew tired of them. You claim Christ and act like Judas. You despise women, while at the same time you use them dreadfully. You haven’t an ounce of Christian charity, not like Charlotte, who has shown me nothing but kindness …” She glanced at Charlotte, whose heart lodged in her throat. “… even when I spurned it. Thank you, Charlotte, for everything you’ve done for me. You cannot know what it has meant to me to be accepted and wanted by you.”
She looked from one face to another in the room. “You would all do well to follow Charlotte’s example. I am proud to call her my sister.”
Her eyes paused on one man at the end of the table farthest from the door, and she swayed, grabbing the back of the chair in front of her, her face going pale. She must realize the enormity of what she was doing, confronting the earl at a society party. Charlotte reached to steady her sister, but she wasn’t fast enough. Pippa had gathered her skirts and all but run from the room. Charlotte moved to follow her, but the dowager grabbed her wrist before she got half a step away.
“What on earth do you mean bringing that woman into the house? How long has she been here? I should have been told. Look what you’ve done. You’ve made us the center of a scandal.”
All her sweetness over the prospect of a baby on the way had evaporated.
“Madam, you are not the center of this scandal. That honor belongs to the Earl of Tiptree. It is his behavior you should be appalled at, not mine, not Pippa’s. Now unhand me.” She removed her mother-in-law’s grip, gently but firmly, and headed into the hall to intercept Pippa.
But she was too late. The front door stood ajar, the footman on duty there wore a shocked expression, and a carriage bolted away from the curb.
A clattering of chairs, exclamations, and bumping sounded from the dining room.
“Where has she gone?”
Charlotte turned to see Lord Ratcliffe, his serviette still in his hand, standing behind her. He had no doubt had to force himself around the other guests from his place at the table to arrive so promptly in the hall.
“Has she been here the whole time?” He glared at Charlotte, his diction precise and cold, but his eyes hot. She remembered now why he looked so familiar to her. He was the man who had escorted her sister to the opera. She hadn’t known his name that night, nor when the invitations were issued. Marcus had merely mentioned that it was important that a Lord Ratcliffe be included among the house guests because Marcus had business dealings with him that he wanted to solidify.
She had accepted that, and though the man had looked vaguely familiar when he’d arrived at Haverly House last week, she hadn’t really gotten a good look at him in the opera house, being focused more on Pippa. But now it came together in her mind, and her stomach lurched again.
“Sir, if you will excuse me, I have things that require my attention.” She tried to move past him, but he gripped her upper arm, drawing her up, squeezing like a vise. Pain made her eyes water.
“Where was she going?” He shook her, dangling her on tiptoe, his fury radiating off him in waves.
Fear clawed up her windpipe. What on earth? The change in him was terrifying. Gone was the urbane, suave courtier, and in his place a threatening bully.
“Here, sir, unhand the lady.” The footman rushed forward, but Lord Ratcliffe shot out his fist and punched the young man in the face, sending him staggering, his hand clapped to his eye.
The footman clattered into a small table, upending a vase and sending it crashing to the floor, water and flowers and shards of china scattering across the hall.
“Where was she going?” Ratcliffe yelled into her face, and Charlotte writhed, trying to wrench away, but he was too strong. “Tell me, you infernal chit!”
By this time the rest of the guests had rushed out of the dining room into the hall, and it was General Eddington who came to her rescue. “See here, Ratcliffe, what are you doing?” His voice boomed in the high-ceilinged room, and Ratcliffe froze. Slowly, he turned his
head, spied the score of onlookers, and loosened his hold on Charlotte so abruptly that she stumbled, slipping on the wet floor and barely keeping her balance.
Without a word, Lord Ratcliffe rushed through the open doorway out into the cold morning air.
Charlotte cradled her arm where he had held it so tightly, her heart hammering in her throat. He had been so full of menace when only moments before he had been a genial guest. She had barely paid him any attention all week beyond the usual hosting duties because he had seemed so innocuous and bland. What was it about seeing Pippa that had caused all that simmering anger to erupt? Was this the man who had beaten her sister so terribly? Why?
“Please, see to the footman,” she whispered to the butler, who hovered nearby.
“But, Your Grace, are you hurt?” he asked.
She was more frightened than hurt, though her arm stung. She would probably have a lovely bruise in a few hours. It was the intense hatred in Ratcliffe that unsettled her most.
“I’m fine.” She motioned toward the footman once more. “Take him to the kitchens. He’ll need a beefsteak for that eye.”
None of the other guests seemed to know what to do, milling and whispering, shooting one another questioning looks.
Aunt Dolly stood halfway up the staircase, her knuckles white on the banister. Amelia Cashel stood at the foot of the stairs, her hands clutching her apron. The dowager had sunk into one of the hall chairs, groping for the vinaigrette that hung from a chain around her neck. Charlotte’s parents stood as far from each other as possible.
She should say something, assure everyone that the upset was over and get them to return to the table. As the hostess, she should pick up the shards of the party and put them back together again. But she was frozen in place.
At that moment Marcus entered the tableau, a disreputable cloak—the one he wore when pretending to be Hawk—covering his evening wear from last night. A gray-haired man followed him inside. This was the same man Marcus had spoken to in the card room at the Pemberton party.
Marcus took in the shocked looks, the broken vase, and the footman’s swelling eye, coming to a halt when he locked eyes with Charlotte.
“What’s happened here?”
The butler stepped up. “Your Grace, there was an altercation involving one of the guests and the duchess. He was quite unruly, and when young Pratt here tried to intervene, he was felled.”
“Which guest?” Marcus’s tone would have put frost on the windows.
“It was Lord Ratcliffe,” Charlotte said, a shudder creeping across her shoulders.
“Where is Ratcliffe now?” Marcus asked, his hands fisting.
“He just left,” cut in the dowager, taking another long sniff of her sal volatile, blinking and dabbing at her nose with her lace handkerchief. “Marcus, what kind of ruffians and rogues have you brought into our home? First that … Cashel woman had been staying in our house all week, and no one bothers to tell me, and then she has the nerve to cause a scene over the breakfast table. Then before you know it, there’s practically a brawl in the front hall.” She blinked, her pallor disappearing in a rush of color. “Whatever will people say? I do hope word doesn’t get out about today’s goings-on.”
She seemed oblivious to the fact a score of people stood listening to her every word.
Marcus turned his back on her, coming to Charlotte’s side. “What happened? Are you hurt? Where’s Pippa now? Is she still here?” He glanced at where Charlotte was holding her upper arm, and she let go, straightening.
“I’m fine. I don’t know where Pippa went, but she spoke last night of going back to King’s Place.” Tears pricked Charlotte’s eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Everything seemed to be unraveling. The party was ending in a shambles, her sister had accused her father in front of the ton and then fled back to her life as a prostitute, and her husband had returned from yet another night away from his home pretending to be someone else. Charlotte was estranged from everyone she loved. “Lord Ratcliffe seems to have lost his reason. He wanted to know where Pippa had gone as well, and then he tore out of here like his coattails were on fire.”
Marcus grimaced. “I have to go after them. May God help her if Ratcliffe gets to her before we do.”
“I’m coming with you.” Charlotte motioned to the door at the back of the hall where several of the servants peeked out. “One of you please fetch my heavy cloak.”
Marcus was already shaking his head. “You need to stay here. I’ll find her and bring her back.”
“I’m coming with you. She’s my sister. And I’ve had enough of keeping secrets. If you are who and what you say you are, prove it to me. Let me come with you.” She laid down her challenge like a gauntlet, waiting to see if he would pick it up. “If Pippa is in danger and we had a part in putting her there by having her and Lord Ratcliffe in the same house, then it is up to both of us to find her and see that she’s safe.” Charlotte didn’t outright place the blame on Marcus for Lord Ratcliffe’s presence in the house, nor for keeping his suspicions of the man’s character from her, but she wasn’t far from it.
“Your Grace, she might be helpful.” The older man who had come in with Marcus spoke for the first time. “She might be able to reason with her sister.”
Bless the man, whoever he was. One of the servants hurried up with her cloak, and she slipped it on quickly.
Marcus studied Charlotte for a long moment and then gave one curt nod. “Very well. You may accompany me to King’s Place. If Pippa isn’t at her place of business, I’m leaving you at Aunt Dolly’s with Belinda. Is that understood?”
“Let’s go.” If Pippa was in danger—and from Ratcliffe’s reaction, Charlotte had to assume she was—then the sooner they found her the better. Charlotte could argue with Marcus later about where he might think he could leave her and whether she would acquiesce to that.
The carriage lurched as the coachman urged the horses at Marcus’s behest to make haste. Charlotte was jolted backward into the squabs. The man opposite her righted his hat as he sat up.
“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced, Your Grace. I’m Sir Noel St. Clair. I understand you’ve recently become aware of your husband’s rather clandestine occupation.”
Charlotte blinked. This man knew? Did anyone in London not?
“Perhaps I should explain. I am, in fact, more than Marcus’s friend. I am his supervisor. I run a section of British intelligence for the War Department. Marcus tells me you are suffering some qualms about the legitimacy of his claims to be an agent for the Crown. I assure you he is an agent, and he’s one of my best. I recruited him myself when he was barely more than a lad at Oxford.”
“There you go with the ‘one of’ bit again. I am not one of the best—I am the best.” Marcus kept his tone light, but his hands fisted on his thighs belied his joke. He kept glancing at Charlotte.
Here was what appeared to be proof of his claims, a boss who vouched for him, but she’d been lied to and betrayed before. She wanted to trust Marcus, to understand, and yet she was afraid.
In spite of what she had been taught about men, in spite of what she had heard from his own lips about the place she had in his life, in spite of it all, she’d been foolish enough to fall in love with him, and just moments after that realization, she’d learned he’d been lying to her since the first night they’d met. Trust seemed foolish, knowing what she now knew. And regardless of what she now knew, she still loved him. If she didn’t, his betrayal wouldn’t hurt like this, would it?
“Can’t this carriage go any faster?” She peered out the window to get her bearings.
“We’re nearly there.” Marcus opened his cloak and pulled out a pistol. Charlotte’s heart plunged before rebounding to lodge in her throat. This wasn’t a game. He carried a gun. All those knives and swords in that room in the attic weren’t just a hobby left over from his soldiering days. He was Hawk, the man who had thrown a knife with pinpoint accuracy in order to get those men accosting
her to back off.
What else had he done with his weapons in his role as a spy?
And how could she reconcile the urbane, suave man she knew, the peer of the realm, with the hunter of men that she saw before her now?
Thrusting those thoughts aside, she returned to the problem of Pippa.
“Why? Why does Lord Ratcliffe want Pippa? Why is he so angry?” She felt her upper arm, which was sore from the courtier’s rough handling. “And if you knew he was dangerous, why did you insist he be invited to the house party?”
“Ratcliffe is the man we’ve been after for nearly a year. He’s behind the assassination attempt on the Prince Regent.” Sir Noel drew his own pistol, keeping it pointed at the floor of the carriage as they braced themselves around a corner.
“We recently suspected him, and I wanted him where I could watch him.” Marcus put his arm around Charlotte’s shoulders to anchor her as the carriage lurched, and she didn’t know whether she wanted to thrust his arm away or burrow into his embrace. “It was Pippa who got us onto the right track. Pippa supplied the motive, and another one of my informants supplied the proof. Once we finally had the right motive and were able to run my contact to earth last night, he supplied the missing pieces. We raced back to Haverly House to apprehend Ratcliffe, but we were too late. Now, if we can only find him before he finds Pippa.”
The coach skidded to a stop, and Sir Noel had the door open before Charlotte could ask how it was that Pippa had been involved in the case. Pippa had known Marcus was a spy, and she was one of his informants?
She would leave that for now, but Marcus had a reckoning coming.
They followed Sir Noel up the front steps of the house where Pippa lived, past the parlormaid, and up the staircase. This early in the morning, the place had the air of dissipation and exhaustion.
At the top of the stairs, Sir Noel stopped, and Marcus took the lead. He strode to the end of the hall and rapped on the last door on the right.
Charlotte paused. Marcus knew which room was Pippa’s?
