Caroline Linden

by What A Woman Needs

  What a mess. It appeared the girl really had eloped, although obviously not with him. Clearly Susan hadn’t been as in love with him as she had professed. It had been the life she thought he was offering her, much the same way he had wanted the financial independence and security she offered him. That was no more than he deserved, Stuart conceded. But faced with the fact, he suddenly felt quite terrible that he hadn’t made a greater effort to convince Charlotte he had nothing to do with it. When she told him Susan was gone, Stuart had assumed the girl had simply run off and would likely turn up at a friend’s home, if she didn’t return on her own. He had let his uncontrollable interest in Charlotte quiet his better judgment, and given in to her demands because it suited his desires.

  He cleared his throat. “Have you any idea whom she might mean?”

  Her eyes focused on him. “Romeo. And you told her she was Juliet.” Stuart felt worse and worse.

  “Have you no other information?” he asked gently. “When did she disappear? Did she take anything? Have you questioned her maid, or the rest of your household?”

  She shook her head, wilting again. “The maid knows nothing. Some of Susan’s dresses are missing, but not many. I spoke to her last night, when we returned home; she never came down to breakfast or luncheon, and I assumed. . . and I did not go to her. But she ran away—and I’ve no idea with whom, if not with you ...”

  “Were there no other suitors she might have favored?”

  “You were the only one she ever mentioned,” she whispered.

  “Are you sure she would have come to London?” he asked quickly, trying to turn the subject from him.

  She closed her eyes. “Susan talks of nothing but going there. It’s her fondest dream.” Now that he thought about it, Stuart realized, he knew that. All Susan’s conversation had revolved around their future life in London, with its shopping and society and entertainments. Perhaps there wasn’t a man at all, and she had simply set out on the adventure she dreamed of.

  If that were the case, though, she shouldn’t be hard to find. Since she hadn’t been kidnapped, she would likely go out and see the sights; haunting the theaters and shops would turn her up in a matter of days. She probably had little money, and might be found simply by waiting at her family solicitor’s office. They could hire an investigator as well—Stuart stopped himself, realizing he was planning a search when Charlotte would hardly welcome his participation.

  “I’m sure she’ll turn up soon,” he tried to console her. “A few days away, and she’ll see the error of her ways.”

  “A few days?” Sudden fury banished the emptiness in her eyes. “A few days! What sort of person do you think I am, to sit and wait a few days? My niece is lost, gone, spirited away by some lying, conniving villain! How like a man, to suggest sitting and doing nothing.” She shot to her feet, setting Stuart off balance. “I shall not wait. I have to find her!”

  A vision of Charlotte charging alone into every nook and cranny in London filled Stuart’s head. He stood and caught her arm when she would have brushed past him. “Where do you plan to look?”

  She tried to shake him off. “Everywhere!”

  “You’re mad,” he said in disbelief. “What will you do, break into every house you suspect? Most people aren’t as kindly disposed towards housebreakers as I was, you know.”

  “I did not ask your advice.”

  Stuart grabbed her other arm and forced her to look at him. “I will not let you charge off on your own.”

  “You have no right to stop me.” Charlotte struggled in his grip. “She’s my niece, and my responsibility. You have no right—” A sob of terror caught in her throat, terror that almost overwhelmed the humiliation of being so grossly wrong. Dear God, what if she had shot him? They would have hanged her. Well, they would have hanged her anyway if she had killed him, but it would be a thousand times worse if she had actually shot an innocent man. She would have been thrown into prison and then hanged, and there would be no one in the world to search for Susan. Her poor niece would simply vanish, and no one would care.

  She pounded against his chest, and he caught her hands. Another sob welled up, and another, and then Stuart closed his arms around her, pressing her face into his shoulder. “There,” he murmured. “Don’t despair. It’s not hopeless.”

  “I’ve got to find her—I can’t just wait around—she may be in danger... .” Trapped in the circle of his arms, she clutched at him convulsively.

  “I know.” He held her even tighter, forcing her to be still. “But you must stay calm and rational, to find her as soon as possible.” Charlotte dimly acknowledged the sense of his words through her haze of panic, and sucked in deep breaths, trying to compose herself. “We’ll find her,” Stuart added softly. “I swear.”

  She lifted her head in pure astonishment. “We?”

  He rested his forehead against hers. “She can’t have gone far. A thorough search, begun immediately, should have a very high chance of success.”

  Charlotte could only stare. He was offering to help? Stuart Drake was offering to help her? What would make him do that, after the way she had treated him? She searched his face, but there was nothing but kind concern there. Her chin wobbled a bit; it would be easier to say no, to leave and never see him again, but she couldn’t. She would be a fool to refuse any help, no matter what it meant to her pride. Not when it was Susan’s safety at stake.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly. Her throat was raw from unshed tears and she blinked back a few more as he urged her into her seat and pressed a tumbler into her hand.

  “Things will look better in the morning, and there’s nothing you can do tonight at any rate. Now drink.” Like a doll, she nodded, suddenly too drained to move. She sipped the drink—an excellent brandy—and barely noticed when he left.

  Stuart let himself out of the library, still not sure what had possessed him to do that. He must be a glutton for punishment, not only putting aside his own problems but in such a way that would throw him together with Charlotte even more. Not that he dreaded it; on the contrary, he looked forward to it far too much. He needed to keep a clear, steady head if he wanted any chance of restoring his fortunes in time to keep Oakwood Park, and she had the very opposite effect on him.

  But as usual, he hadn’t been able to hold his tongue. Charlotte’s distress had pricked his conscience, and he felt truly awful at his own role, however peripheral. And once he had her in his arms, he really wasn’t able to control himself anyway.

  His mother was pacing in the hall outside, and pounced on him as soon as he closed the door. “Stuart, whatever is going on? You never answered my letters. I was so worried, after the way you left, and now you appear with an Italian woman, out of the blue—”

  “She’s English,” he said. “Her husband was Italian. She’s devastated by her niece’s disappearance.”

  “Why, of course, the poor woman, but—” She stopped as Terrance stomped toward them, dragging his foot more than usual. Stuart never learned what had left his father with a limp, but when Terrance was angry or upset, it grew more pronounced. At the moment he was practically lame.

  “See here,” rumbled Terrance. “You know what I have to say. Take your woman and go, before I have you thrown out.”

  “She’s not my woman.” Stuart wished he hadn’t allowed Charlotte to lead them here. At the time it had seemed fitting that she get such a royal comeuppance, but now he was sorry. “We had nowhere else to go.”

  “Of course you were right to come here,” said Amelia Drake firmly, giving Terrance a reproachful look. “And you must stay. Was it an adventurer, Stuart dear?”

  “I think it must be. The young lady has a large inheritance.”

  “You’re not staying here,” Terrance announced.

  “Good heavens, has hell frozen over? No? Then of course I’m not staying here,” said Stuart with affected surprise before his mother could speak. There had been a tremendous argument the night Terrance had banished him,
one that left his mother weeping. The least he could do was cause as little trouble as possible now.

  Terrance glared at him, then limped off. Amelia followed Stuart to the door. Her hands kept fluttering out to touch him, smoothing his sleeve and then his shoulder. He stopped to give her one last kiss. “Take care of her, Mother. I’ll call tomorrow.”

  Amelia clutched his hand. “She’s important to you, isn’t she? Of course I would help her anyway, but you’ve never ... Well, of course it’s none of my concern, but is she ... ?” Her face was at once worried and hopeful as she gazed up at him.

  Stuart didn’t know what Charlotte was to him. He couldn’t very well tell his mother he thought about bedding her every time he saw her, but they didn’t really have any other relationship. “I’ve promised to help her. That’s all.”

  “Of course you did.” Amelia sighed. “Stuart—your father—he’s been worried about you, too, these last few weeks, and I just wanted you to know ...”

  “Don’t worry, I know.” He winked, taking his hat and coat from the butler. “I’ve missed you, Mother.”

  Her expression cleared, and she beamed up at him. “Dear boy. I’m so glad you’re home.”

  “Good night, Mother.” He left her there by the door and walked down the steps. At the bottom he paused to think. Charlotte would be fine—his mother would see to that—but where was he to go? He had no money, and no chance of getting any from his father tonight. His plan to humble himself and beg for another chance had been pretty well scotched, thanks to Charlotte and her pistol. His trunk, as well as Charlotte’s valise, had been taken into the house, and the carriage coach was gone. Turning up his collar against the fog, Stuart turned and started walking.

  Twenty minutes later, he climbed the steps of an imposing mansion in Mayfair. He rang the bell and waited until the footman opened the door.

  “Good evening. Is Ware in?” The footman bowed, taking his card. Stuart waited in the cavernous hall, amusing himself by counting the suits of armor. How Ware managed to live in this tomb was beyond him.

  “Drake.” Stuart looked up. The Duke of Ware himself was coming down the stairs. “What the devil brings you to town?”

  He grinned. “The usual. A woman.”

  The duke’s eyebrow arched. “Really? I thought that was the reason you left.”

  Stuart shrugged. “A different woman.”

  “Ah. Well, come in. I’ve just gotten rid of Percy for the night. Fancy a hand of cards?”

  “No, thank you,” said Stuart. “I can’t afford even penny stakes.” He followed his friend up the stairs to the luxurious study. A fire crackled merrily in the grate, and the remains of a dinner tray sat on the desk atop a perilous mountain of papers; his secretary might have just left, but it seemed Ware wasn’t finished working. The duke went to the cabinet and poured two drinks while Stuart edged toward the fire, warming his hands.

  “What sort of woman is it this time?” Ware handed him a glass and waved him toward the chairs in front of the fire.

  Stuart took a long sip, closing his eyes in contentment. He hadn’t had whiskey this good in a long time. “Not the usual sort. It’s too long a tale for tonight, I assure you.”

  “I see.”

  “I doubt it. I’m both the villain and the knight errant.”

  “Indeed,” was all Ware said, sipping his whiskey. Stuart wondered when the man had become so bloody controlled. Jack Lindeville had once been the biggest hell-raiser in London, leaving even Stuart behind. Sometime in the last few years, though, he had become a cipher, and Stuart wondered if he’d made a mistake coming here.

  “I came to ask whether Philip is still in Vienna,” he said. “He promised me the use of his rooms, should I need it, and it seems I need it.”

  “Philip,” said the duke, “is no longer in Vienna; if I recall correctly, he is in Florence, or perhaps Rome. I am not kept closely apprised of his plans. And of course you may use his rooms, or stay here, if need be.”

  That offer, though well-meant, was impossible to accept. Ware ignored the gossips, but the duchess did not. Stuart knew he would not be welcome in her home. “I don’t want to intrude. Philip’s still got the house in Cherry Lane?”

  “Yes. There are no servants. It’s been shuttered since he left four months ago. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather wait until tomorrow, after it’s been aired?”

  “No, tonight will be fine. I don’t mind the dust.” Ware simply met his eyes for a moment, then got up and went behind his desk to get the key. Stuart wondered fleetingly if Ware ever got lonely in this mausoleum of a house with only his mother for company and a desk that was never cleared of work. Once he would have asked, but not now. “Many thanks, Ware.”

  “Have you resolved your financial straits, then?” The duke’s question came just as he reached the door. Stuart’s fingers closed painfully around the key.

  “I’m afraid not. Not yet.”

  “Ah.” Ware hesitated. “Barclay called on me the other day.”

  Stuart’s heart plummeted. Barclay was Ware’s banker, as well as Stuart’s own. He must have finally heard of Terrance’s actions. Stuart waited with dread.

  “He had been unable to reach you,” the duke said when Stuart made no reply. “He has heard of your difficulties.” Stuart closed his eyes in resignation. If Barclay knew he had no chance of paying back the loan or the mortgage on Oakwood Park, Stuart had already lost it. “I told him I would guarantee the loans,” said Ware then. Stuart’s eyes popped open in astonishment.

  Ware’s steady gaze met his. “You need only time. I have never known you to break your word.”

  Stuart swallowed, but nodded. “And I will not this time. Thank you.”

  A trace of his old grin crossed Ware’s face, and he inclined his head. Stuart left and walked the few streets to Cherry Lane, where Lord Philip Lindeville lived. Philip called it his “rooms,” but to Stuart it was a house, only slightly smaller than his parents’. He let himself in, not surprised to find it spotlessly clean; even an empty house was cleaned by the Ware servants. The wealthy really were different.

  He peeled off his clothes in the spacious master bedroom and fell into bed. He ought to be hungry, but had no appetite. He had hoped Barclay wouldn’t hear of his troubles; his next payment wasn’t due for a few weeks yet, and Stuart was holding tightly to his belief that somehow, something would work out that would enable him to pay it. Nothing had so far, of course, nor even the promise of something, but thanks to Ware he wouldn’t be called to account immediately. As grateful as he was to his friend, Stuart wished he had been able to get himself out of this spot all by himself.

  And Charlotte. Stuart sighed, staring at the ceiling. What was he to do about Charlotte? Helping her hunt for her missing niece would only complicate his circumstances, but he could still feel the limp weight of her in his arms, still see the look on her face. He had never guessed she could look so defenseless. Stuart tried to recall what Susan had told him about her aunt, but all he had paid attention to were the things that turned out to be wrong: Charlotte was neither old, nor wizened, nor stone-hearted. She was as fierce as a mother cat when it came to Susan, silly spoiled chit that she was. He ought to thank Charlotte for keeping him from marrying her, he thought as he drifted off to asleep. It was the one indisputably good turn she had done him. And leaving her to search alone was out of the question.

  Charlotte woke the next morning feeling at once much better and much worse. The previous evening had blurred in her mind until she wasn’t quite sure what had happened after they had reached London. The only fact she remembered with painful clarity was the magnitude of her mistake; by assuming Stuart was responsible for Susan’s disappearance, she had lost valuable time investigating other possibilities, and now it could be too late. It had just been so easy to believe Susan would run away with Stuart Drake.

  But here she was, in his parents’ home, of all places, and hadn’t the slightest idea where to start looking for Susan. Her vali
se stood at the foot of the bed, and Charlotte opened it, her heart sinking as she surveyed the gaudy clothing Lucia had packed. It didn’t seem right to go downstairs to breakfast wearing red silk and diamonds. With a sigh she turned to her bronze gown from yesterday, lying neatly across a chair. It would have to do until she could send for more.

  She dressed and brushed her hair, wishing Lucia had sent her cosmetics. She could certainly use them today, to cover the dark circles under her eyes and the paleness of her cheeks. She opened her door and went in search of her host.

  The house was elegantly decorated, a home of comfortable wealth. It reminded her a great deal of her father’s house, all those years ago, and she wasn’t sure if this was good or bad. The more evidence she saw of wealth, the more she wondered why Stuart had none. Charlotte had believed the gossip, that he had tried his father’s patience until the poor man had no choice but to cut off his wastrel son. There was something uglier than that in the way they had spoken last night, though, just as there had been something finer in Stuart’s offer to help her. Was he an immoral rake who seduced young women until his own father turned him out, or was he a gentleman who could offer to help her even after she had almost shot him? Charlotte didn’t know anymore.

  A maid directed her to the breakfast room. It was at the back of the hall, tucked behind the main dining room. Just about to enter, Charlotte heard raised voices and paused. She didn’t want to walk in on a private argument.

  “Not in my house, I say,” raged a harsh man’s voice. Charlotte pictured Terrance Drake’s stern face, dark with anger, and almost turned to go back to her room.

  “Now, Terrance, you’re being unreasonable,” said a female voice; Stuart’s mother, Charlotte guessed. Unlike her husband, she sounded quite calm, even pleased.

  “He’s not bringing strange women into this house! She could be anything, his mistress, his whore, or some gullible chit who’s fallen for his lies. I will not allow it.”