Caroline Linden

by What A Woman Needs

  She was not going into that room. She would pack her few things and leave; the butler would be able to direct her to a hotel. Charlotte’s face burned with humiliation that they were discussing her. What had Stuart told them, to make his father so furious? She took two steps back down the hall, resolved to leave all the Drakes behind, when another voice stopped her.

  “She’s not my whore,” said Stuart. “She’s a widow responsible for her willful niece who’s up and run off with a scoundrel, and I am gallantly offering her my aid. I assure you, she is as disgusted as you are by my failings and would be quite appalled to hear you accuse her of consorting with me.”

  “Anyone with you must be suspect,” growled his father. Charlotte realized her mouth was hanging open. Did Stuart’s father hate him? She turned around and walked into the room, unwilling to leave him to face such animosity while he was defending her.

  “Good morning,” she said clearly. Mr. Drake glared at her before turning back to his breakfast. Mrs. Drake beamed at her. Stuart was already on his feet, coming toward her.

  “Good morning,” he said, sketching a brief bow. Between them, where his parents could not see, he pressed her hand quickly and lightly. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She smiled, determined not to display their differences. He seemed taken by surprise; he blinked, then escorted her to the table and seated her. Charlotte turned to her hostess, whose eyes were flitting curiously from her to Stuart and back. “Thank you, Mrs. Drake, for your kind hospitality. I was not at all myself yesterday.”

  “Naturally!” Amelia waved one hand. “How terrible for you. You are welcome to remain with us for as long as it takes to find your poor niece.”

  “Thank you, but I don’t wish to intrude. Perhaps you could direct me to a hotel—”

  “Of course not!” Amelia declared. “You must remain here. I insist. Stuart, help me to persuade her.”

  “Madame Griffolino is quite capable of making her own decisions.” Stuart set a plate in front of her and gave his mother a warning glance. Flustered at being served by him, Charlotte looked up, straight into his midnight-blue gaze. “Have you any more ideas where Susan might have gone?”

  “No, I—”

  “But Madame Griffolino,” said Amelia with too much enthusiasm, “you simply must stay! A hotel is so impersonal. You shall be like one of the family here.”

  Charlotte glanced up, aware that Mr. Drake was glaring at her as if she were Jezebel incarnate. It didn’t seem to her that family was very well received here. Beside her, Stuart sat down and continued eating, apparently unruffled by the hostility. If it didn’t bother him, why did it bother her? “It’s really not necessary to invite me into your home,” she murmured to him.

  “He’s not staying here,” snapped Terrance.

  A muscle twitched in Stuart’s jaw. His mother spoke in a high, rushed voice. “Stuart never stays here, if he can help it. Why, we haven’t seen him for breakfast in years! Such a pleasure it will be, to have two young people about the house.”

  Stuart shoved back his chair. “We should call on your solicitors directly,” he told Charlotte. “Susan may approach them for funds.” Even though she had yet to eat a bite, Charlotte nodded, and he all but yanked her chair from the table. He hurried her out the door, pausing only to toss her cloak around her shoulders and hand her her bonnet.

  On the street, he seemed to relax, and slowed his pace to hers. He folded her hand securely around his elbow. Charlotte realized he intended to walk. “We can stop for a bite if you’re hungry. I didn’t intend to take you from your breakfast.”

  “Please stop.” Charlotte tugged, and he stopped, but didn’t release her hand. “It’s quite kind and generous of you to offer as you did last night, but I would understand. . . that is, I cannot hold you to it. I was ... unfair, and did not intend to coerce your help—”

  “You coerced nothing. I offered sincerely.” He reached out and tucked a loose curl back into the confines of her bonnet. “I’ve already inquired about an investigator; I can give you his direction, if you wish, but I would like to help you.”

  She stared in amazement. “But ... why?”

  A slight smile curved his mouth as he studied her. “Let us say, I’m trying to redeem myself. You’ve still got your pistol if I fail. Truce?”

  She thought of searching for Susan alone, in a strange city. She thought of having no one to talk to, for the search must be conducted discreetly to preserve as much of Susan’s reputation as possible. Stuart’s hand was so firm and steady on hers, so comforting. Her resolve to release him from his offer wavered, and crumbled.

  “Truce,” she agreed.

  His hand tightened for a second. “Good.” He gave a short laugh, almost awkwardly. “Thank you. I want to help.” He cleared his throat. “Shall we, then?”

  Charlotte nodded, taking his arm again. She felt awkward herself, accepting thanks from the man she had held at gunpoint yesterday. He ought to have been angry, or vengeful, or even smug, as she would have been in his place. Instead he offered to help. Insisted on helping. It poked yet another hole in her image of him, and made her wonder again just how wrong she had been.

  CHAPTER NINE

  For a week, there was no news. The investigator, Mr. Pitney, was unable to turn up the slightest clue to Susan’s whereabouts. Stuart sent his valet, Benton, back to Kent, and he was also unable to discover anything. Lucia wrote in nearly illegible Italian with no news of anything except the young Englishman, who had progressed from reading her poetry in the lending library to taking her to the tea room.

  He moves with the pace of a snail, her letters complained.

  Already an Italian would have seduced me. But I cannot complain too much. He is a sweet boy, and when he finally acts, I will be ready—more than ready! Of Susan, I hear nothing, but, oh! The town is alive with talk of you. Are you truly Mr. Drake’s mistress now? What a game you play, letting me think you hated him, when you wanted him yourself! I do not condemn your taste, naturally, and if you ever find he is too old—I will be pleased to divert him. The English, they need longer to learn the art of love; my young poet requires a manual ...

  “Any news?” Charlotte jumped at Stuart’s question as he entered the drawing room. She folded Lucia’s letter quickly, trying not to think about what she had just been reading.

  “Lucia has begun unpacking all the crates,” she said. “The house looks like an Italian villa.”

  He dropped onto the chair opposite her sofa. “Did you ever catch your thief?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “Lucia hopes to catch him by displaying everything and waiting up at night with a pistol, but he hasn’t returned.”

  “No?” Stuart looked thoughtful, then smiled slightly. “Thank God I’m in London. Whitley has his hands full, I see.”

  “Whitley?”

  Stuart’s grin turned wicked. “Angus Whitley is courting your friend; didn’t you know?”

  Charlotte looked down at her letter, surprised. “I didn’t realize you knew him.”

  Stuart nodded. “He went into Kent to keep me company, but I didn’t expect him to last a month.”

  “Neither did Lucia,” murmured Charlotte. “How old is Mr. Whitley?”

  Stuart’s eyebrows shot up. “Nine-and-twenty, I believe. Why?”

  She smirked. “Lucia thinks a man is at his best before thirty.”

  He closed his eyes, a long-suffering expression on his face. “I’ve come to propose a new course,” he said, changing the subject. “Pitney hasn’t uncovered a breath of information, and it’s been six days. If you’re still certain she came to London, I think we should try something else.”

  “What?” Charlotte put aside her letter. “I still believe London is the most likely place she would be, the place she would most likely agree to go with someone.”

  “It makes the most sense,” Stuart agreed. “If we still have no leads in a few days, we should consider other places, but for now London
is our best hope.” She nodded, watching him expectantly. Stuart gripped his hands together and drew a deep breath. “I think you should go out in society.”

  “You can’t be serious,” she said in disbelief. “I am not in town to see the sights and dance until dawn. I could never enjoy it, as long as Susan is missing—”

  “Not for your own enjoyment,” he interrupted, having expected this. “Although it wouldn’t do you any harm. Fretting and worrying all day isn’t healthy. But there are two strong reasons that it may aid our search. First, there may be helpful gossip floating about. One hears everything about everyone in London, sooner or later, and you are the one best able to discern what might be useful, since you know Susan best.”

  “I don’t really know Susan so well,” she confessed, lowering her eyes. “If I did, this mightn’t have happened.”

  “Nonsense. Charlotte, it is not your fault.” She nodded, but didn’t look up. “My other reason is more complicated,” Stuart went on, choosing his words with care. “I’ve been thinking a great deal about the way she disappeared. What sort of man could persuade a girl to run off with him? To persuade her to elope with him, he must be a charming fellow; young girls might not consider a man’s prospects, but they do pay attention to his face and manner.”

  Charlotte gave him such a dour look, Stuart belatedly realized he had just described his own relationship with Susan. He hurried on.

  “But we have no idea who he might be. You’re certain there were no suitors from her home.” He paused, and Charlotte shook her head. “Then she met him in Tunbridge Wells,” he went on. “My intuition says she would be flattered by a man who appeared to know a great deal about her, and who approached her romantically. A mysterious stranger, charming and handsome, who appears and sweeps her off her feet with words of love.”

  “Or adventure,” added Charlotte. “Susan craved adventure. Her father was a scholarly man, and raised her very quietly. I suspect she hoped I would be more fun.”

  Stuart nodded. “Right. He woos her dramatically, whether she knows him or not, and she’s upset at you, so she’s easily persuaded. If he offers her romance and adventure, she might accept on impulse.”

  “Yes,” said Charlotte after a pause. “On impulse. Susan would do that.”

  “How long had you lived in Tunbridge Wells?”

  “A month. I returned from Italy in late spring, and collected her from Honeyfield, George’s property. I wanted her to wait a year before she had a Season in London, and so we went into Kent.”

  “I knew her a fortnight while you were away, and then a week after,” Stuart said. “That leaves only a week. Since she was still ... er ... attached to me the night before she disappeared, it doesn’t seem likely he was someone she had considered previously.”

  “But who?” Charlotte jumped to her feet and began pacing. “The servants never saw her pay any mind to anyone but you.”

  “Why did you have the servants spy on her?” he asked, diverted. Her mouth thinned, and a slight frown touched her brow.

  “To protect her. I still had matters to attend to in London, both my own affairs and Lucia’s as well as George’s estate, and I worried I would miss something significant. So the servants were supposed to report to me about her health and so on, and if she was an object of interest to fortune hunters.”

  “Ah. I see,” he murmured.

  Her frown deepened. “They told me about you, yes. As did Susan, in her own way.”

  “And you rushed back to put an end to my suit?” This was rather interesting, Stuart thought, sitting forward.

  “I didn’t hear much good of you in town,” she retorted. “Seducing women, carriage racing, gambling and drinking—”

  “I am a blot on humanity,” he agreed. “But no worse than most men. And you repeated all this to Lady Kildair, I presume?”

  “I simply wanted you to leave town,” she said, dodging the question. “I was sure it would show Susan the error she had made.”

  “Am I really that bad?”

  “You were wrong for Susan,” she said stiffly, her back to him. “But ... perhaps ... I overreacted somewhat.”

  “Well.” He sat back, seeing he wouldn’t get much more. She hadn’t wanted to admit even that. “Such praise will go to my head. Shall we return to the question of recovering your niece?”

  “A charming, brash fellow,” she said at once. “Unknown or slightly known to Susan? Couldn’t it be someone she knew and trusted?”

  “Was there any such person in town?”

  “No.” Her shoulders slumped. “Not anyone who’s since disappeared.”

  “What was his motive in making off with her, then?”

  “Her fortune, undoubtedly.”

  “But she’s not of age, and you control her funds for several more years.” Stuart moved to the edge of the sofa. “So either he has funds of his own to last until then, or he thinks to convince you, perhaps by presenting Susan as his wife, possibly with child.” Charlotte shuddered. “Or, there could be some other reason entirely,” he continued, watching her closely. “A thief wanted something from your house.”

  All the color left her face. “Surely you don’t think he wanted Susan.”

  Stuart shook his head. “No. He was searching the crates. If he had wanted only her, why bother? He wanted something specific, and he wanted it badly.” He closed his scarred hand in reflex. It was still painful.

  “But the crates are filled with Piero’s collection of art. That can’t be what the thief was seeking.”

  “Why not?” he asked in surprise.

  Charlotte turned away. “Why, he looked in every crate and took nothing. If he had wanted something from Italy, he would have taken it.”

  “Perhaps he thinks you’ve hidden it,” he said slowly. “Perhaps he thinks Susan may be able to help him get it.”

  “Why Susan instead of me? Why not send a ransom note if so? Why run away with her? Why not court her in Kent, near the object of his desire, until he gets what he wants?” Charlotte began pacing again, her nerves taut. “I can’t believe that happened—surely she wouldn’t trust a stranger—surely she wouldn’t have been so foolish—”

  “Stop.” He had come up behind her, and now took hold of her arms with a gentle shake. “We don’t know, we are only guessing. Until we find her, no possibility can be discarded, no matter how unflattering or unlikely.”

  Charlotte gulped. “Of course not. I just ...” She shook her head. “I feel I shall go mad from not knowing!”

  “I know.”

  For a moment she thought he would draw her into his arms, let her rest her head against his shoulder. Charlotte was shocked to realize she wanted him to. How had she come to rely on him so much in only a matter of days? When the task of finding one girl in the teeming city had seemed overwhelming and impossible to Charlotte, Stuart had stepped into the breach, finding an investigator, setting his valet to searching, asking questions and posing possibilities Charlotte would never have considered herself. And while he had presented her with these choices, along with his own thoughts and advice, he had let her make all the decisions. Really she couldn’t have asked for a better person at her side.

  But then he released her, and she stepped away to cover her absurd disappointment. “If the thief kidnapped Susan, he did so to make you suffer. If you don’t appear to be suffering, he may give himself away out of pique.”

  Charlotte hesitated. What he said made sense, if the thief and the kidnapper were one, but she couldn’t believe that. The thief had wanted something from Italy; Susan had no knowledge of or connection to Italy at all. The fact that the burglaries had stopped at the same time Susan disappeared was coincidental. It was more likely his encounter with Stuart had scared the thief away. As if sensing her thoughts, Stuart added, “And if Susan simply eloped or ran off, she may hear of your doings and come to you.”

  Charlotte’s mouth twisted in a heartsick smile. Yes, jealousy would bring Susan out of hiding. Jealousy had s
ent her into hiding, after all. Charlotte had told Stuart she would do anything to get her niece back, and he had taken her at her word. Even the thought of going into London society, which made her stomach knot, was worth it. Charlotte had lived a scandalous life and she knew it; proper ladies did not jaunt about Europe by themselves, or with their lovers. Her husband had been an old man, and no one would doubt she had married him for money. If people connected her to her past, it would ruin her, no matter how modestly she was living now. But what did that matter next to Susan’s safety? “What do you suggest?” she murmured.

  She heard Stuart let out his breath. He turned her to face him, his hands lingering on her shoulders. “The most visible place possible,” he said gently. “The opera, or the theater.”

  Charlotte held herself perfectly still. If she had to do this, let it be in true Italian fashion. “The opera.”

  Stuart arrived early that night. He firmly believed everything he had said to Charlotte that afternoon, and would have wagered heavily that this would yield results, if he had had anything to wager. Pitney’s men had scoured the seedy side of London, been to Dover and a number of other ports, and even gone to Gretna Green, destination of more than one eloping couple. But all had turned up nothing so far. Either Susan had been swept away by a genuine suitor who had secreted both of them away in some lover’s hideaway, or the mysterious thief had something to do with her disappearance. It was too strong a coincidence that the burglaries had stopped at the same time something infinitely dear to Charlotte had vanished.

  Still, he barely managed not to pace as he waited. His other reason for wanting to escort Charlotte was more selfish, and he was loath to admit it even to himself. He disliked seeing her tense and worried, wracked with guilt over something he privately considered outside her control. He wanted her to laugh and smile again, to be the woman who had so fascinated him. As he had watched her quiet suffering this past week, he had come to feel a great deal more than lust for her. She was brutally honest and forthright, and when it wasn’t directed at him, he liked her dry wit. Even when it was, he had to confess, he still appreciated it. The woman gave no quarter, but she asked none, either, and Stuart respected that.