Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Volume One

by Emily Larkin

  She lost her smile. “I don’t want your money, sir.”

  “Marcus.”

  A faint flush rose in her cheeks. “Thank you, Marcus, but I don’t want your money.” The set of her chin, the set of her mouth, were stubborn.

  “I won’t even notice it’s gone,” he said, exasperated. Lavinia had always coaxed him for money; Charlotte was refusing it. The irony should have made him laugh. Instead, he wanted to shake her.

  “I still don’t want it.”

  Marcus closed his eyes for a moment. He didn’t want to argue with Charlotte. What he wanted was to give her things. Money. Security. A safe home.

  He opened his eyes and gazed at her. The brown hair. The freckles across her nose and cheeks. The shadowed hollow at the base of her throat where her pulse beat.

  He felt the same need to protect her, the same need to make her world safe, that he’d had with Lavinia. It was visceral, in his organs, in his blood, something he had no control over.

  For a brief moment, Marcus considered marriage—and just as swiftly rejected it. He didn’t want to marry Charlotte. Of course he didn’t. He’d only spent a few hours in her company. She stirred strong emotions in him, but she was little more than a stranger.

  And besides, marriage wasn’t the only way he could protect Charlotte.

  Marcus reached out and took hold of her hand. “What would you say if I bought a house in your name? You could live there. We wouldn’t have to meet at a hotel.”

  Charlotte became very still, like a doe caught grazing in clearing. She didn’t seem to breathe, didn’t seem to blink. After a moment, she swallowed. “Sir . . . Marcus . . . are you asking me to be your mistress?”

  Am I?

  He enjoyed bedding her, but what he felt for Charlotte went beyond that. There was the dangerous tenderness. The protectiveness. He hovered on the brink of loving her—and if he wasn’t careful, he’d fall over the edge.

  But would it be so terrible? To have a mistress he loved? Someone whose company smoothed the sharp edges of each day. A woman he could relax with, could talk and laugh with, not merely have sex with.

  Marcus took a deep breath. “Yes. I am.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Cosgrove’s mistress. Charlotte’s imagination took flight, telling her what that would be like. Not just a few stolen hours in a hired room, but whole evenings, whole nights, in a house that was theirs alone.

  But only on the evenings Cosgrove was free, only the nights he wasn’t engaged elsewhere. Perhaps there’d be the occasional lazy morning, the occasional snatched afternoon, but never full days. The earl had a busy life, and she’d be separate from it. He’d visit when it was convenient, when he felt the need for her. Otherwise, she’d be alone. Waiting for him.

  I’d be Ophelia. Slowly going mad.

  But it was tempting. So very tempting.

  Charlotte stared at him. The black hair, the gray eyes, the strong face. A man of staunch principles, who wasn’t afraid to fight for what he believed was right. A man who made her laugh. Who made her love him.

  What should I choose?

  If she accepted Cosgrove’s offer, she could no longer be Albin. The earl would expect to find her home whenever he visited: day or night. She could be his secretary, or his mistress, but not both.

  Which did she want? Working with Cosgrove, helping him fight his battles? Or the intense pleasure of sharing his bed, when the world retreated and it was just the two of them—candlelight and shadows and intimacy?

  I want both.

  She tried to swallow, but the muscles in her throat were too tight. “And when you marry again?”

  “It will be a marriage of convenience. It wouldn’t alter our arrangement.”

  Perhaps not for you, but for me it would.

  She couldn’t share Cosgrove’s bed if he had a wife.

  The decision became clearer. This wasn’t a choice between mistress or secretary; it was a choice between mistress for a short time, or secretary for a long time.

  Put like that, it was easy to choose.

  Charlotte removed her hand from his clasp. “Thank you, sir. Marcus. But I . . .” She searched for an excuse. “I can’t leave my position.”

  His eyebrows drew together. “Your job means that much to you?”

  My employer does. “I came to London to earn my living. I don’t wish to be dependent on anyone ever again.”

  “You wouldn’t be dependent on me. The house would be in your name. It would be yours should we decide to terminate our relationship.”

  Charlotte shook her head.

  “You wouldn’t need to work again.”

  That’s what I’m afraid of. She shook her head again. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Cosgrove stared at her, his mouth tight, as if her refusal was more important than she’d thought.

  “If . . . if we could just continue as we are? Until you marry?”

  “No,” he said. “From now on I’ll pay. You can’t tell me you earn enough to hire a hotel room each night.”

  Charlotte bit her lip. She looked down at the rug, plucked at a tuft of wool. Five nights had considerably eaten into the money Cosgrove had advanced her.

  “I’ll hire a set of rooms. Will you accept that much?”

  She glanced at him, and nodded.

  His mouth was still tight, his cheekbones and jaw sharp. He’s displeased. He wanted me as his mistress.

  “I’m sorry,” Charlotte said. “I’ve made you angry.”

  Cosgrove’s face lost its angularity. “No. Don’t apologize. It was presumptuous of me. It’s I who should be begging your pardon. Forgive me.” He took her hand again and pressed his mouth to her palm.

  Charlotte’s heart seemed to turn upside down in her chest, like a carriage tipping over.

  His eyes caught hers. “Shall we?”

  Charlotte let him pull her to her feet, let him lead her to the bed.

  The earl smoothed strands of hair back from her face, and bent his head and kissed her. The tenderness of his mouth made her close her eyes, made her want to change her mind and accept his offer.

  Charlotte opened her eyes. Cosgrove’s face filled her vision, strong-boned, beloved. I love you, sir, but I can’t be your mistress.

  She’d made her choice. Albin, not Charlotte.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  October 27th, 1805

  Grosvenor Square, London

  Albin leaned over the desk, studying the sketch of Monkwood’s house.

  “Well?”

  “The study looks easy to find, sir.”

  Marcus glanced at the ebony and gold clock on the mantelpiece. Half past eight. Monkwood would still be abed. “Let’s do it.”

  He locked the door and went to look out the window, giving the lad privacy while he stripped. The rustle of clothes being removed, the knowledge that Albin was preparing to change shape, didn’t make his skin crawl today. It seemed almost normal.

  How quickly we accustom ourselves to the extraordinary.

  Outside, snow drifted gently down. Marcus’s thoughts slid to Charlotte. His hands clenched on the windowsill.

  What would her answer have been if he’d offered marriage instead of a carte-blanche? Would she have accepted? Or refused?

  He had to remarry. It was his duty. He wanted a marriage of convenience this time, more friendly than his parents’ cold, formal marriage had been, but businesslike nonetheless. A cordial relationship with a woman for whom he felt a degree of respect and affection. A sensible woman. A woman who wouldn’t indulge in histrionics or affaires. A woman with whom he’d have careful, amicable sex.

  That was what he wanted—what he knew he wanted—and yet part of him wished for more. Wished for laughter and friendship and love. Wished for the kind of sex he’d been having with Charlotte. Passionate sex. Intimate sex.

  If I asked Charlotte to marry me, would she say yes?

  The expression in her eyes when they lay together . . . He could almost believe
she loved him.

  Marcus scowled at the snowy square. He wanted to protect Charlotte, wanted to give her a home and financial security. But marry her? He barely knew her. A few hours’ acquaintance, a few orgasms. It wasn’t enough to base so important a decision on.

  Damn it. He didn’t want to lose Charlotte. If only she’d agree to—

  “I’m ready, sir.”

  He half-turned. “Let’s be off, then.”

  “You don’t need to come, sir.”

  “I’m coming.”

  “But it’s snowing, sir—”

  “I’m coming,” Marcus said again, an edge of irritation in his voice. He wasn’t going to sit in his study, safe and warm, while Albin risked his neck for him.

  He opened the window. The sill was an inch deep in snow. “Out you go.”

  * * *

  A shaggy white dog met him in the middle of Grosvenor Square. “Are you warm enough?” Marcus asked. He wore top boots, a greatcoat, gloves, a muffler, a hat, whereas Albin was essentially naked.

  The dog wagged its plumy tail. Marcus took that to mean Yes.

  Grosvenor Square was shrouded in white. It felt as if the tall houses had emptied overnight and he was the last person left. Marcus strode through the square and along Brook Street. The only sound was the squick squick of his boots in the snow, the only other creature the white dog loping alongside him. Snowflakes spun gently in the air, landing on his face like light, stingingly cold kisses.

  At Hanover Square, he halted. “You remember which is his study?”

  The dog nodded.

  Marcus looked across at Monkwood’s house. His eyes fastened on the second row of windows, scanned to the right—one, two, three—and halted. Monkwood’s study. Where he and Monkwood had discussed marriage settlements.

  He looked away, and focused on the dog.

  “I’ll come through the square every five minutes.” Marcus dug in his pocket for the stone he’d brought. It was almondlike in his hand, small and oval. “Here.”

  Albin took the stone gently in his mouth.

  “Be careful.”

  Albin wagged his tail.

  Marcus watched the dog trot purposefully across the square. Frustration surged inside him. It should be me. Instead, he was letting Albin take the risks.

  He scowled down at the snow, kicked it. When he looked up, he couldn’t see the dog.

  Marcus walked briskly around the square, his gaze on Monkwood’s house. Was that a bird flying up from the snow-covered ground? Was that a monkey crouched on the windowsill, breaking a pane of glass?

  The ghost of a breeze blew snowflakes into his face. By the time he’d blinked them away, the shape on the windowsill was gone.

  Marcus quickened his pace, his gaze riveted on the study window. He was fifty yards away now, thirty yards, twenty . . . Close enough to see that the lowest pane of glass was missing.

  Albin was inside.

  * * *

  Charlotte arranged the glass on the floor so that it looked like an act of vandalism: a stone thrown from the square, a broken windowpane. She rose from her crouch and glanced around. Desk. Fireplace. Armchairs. Bookcases, some of them glazed, reflecting Albin’s naked image back at her. The study didn’t have the lived-in feel Cosgrove’s did. There were no papers on the desk, no ledgers lying open, no ink-stained quills.

  Charlotte tiptoed to the desk, aware that servants were busy in the house even if Monkwood still slept. She eased open the top left-hand drawer and rifled through its contents—receipts—while her ears strained to hear footsteps in the corridor. A mouse, she told herself. If anyone comes, I become a mouse. But the only sound was the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece.

  An icy breeze crept in through the broken window. Charlotte shivered and opened the next two drawers, finding sheets of paper, unused quills and a penknife for trimming them, bottles of ink, sealing wax, red ribbon.

  She moved to the right-hand side. The topmost drawer held letters. She went through them quickly. Business and personal correspondence. None of them mentioned Cosgrove, or the Reverend Banks and Philadelphia. Charlotte replaced them and glanced at the clock. She’d been inside ten minutes. Cosgrove would be walking through the square a second time.

  The next drawer held letters, too, dozens of them, in bundles bound with red ribbon. A flowerlike scent wafted up.

  Charlotte took out a bundle and examined the top letter. The address was written in a round, girlish hand. The letters were franked. She recognized the scrawled signature: Cosgrove’s.

  The feminine handwriting, the perfume, the frank, told her the letters were written by the earl’s dead wife.

  Charlotte hesitated, shivering, her bare skin covered in goose bumps. Should I look at them?

  There was no reason except curiosity to read the dead countess’s letters. She put the bundle back.

  The bottom drawer contained more letters bound in red ribbon. Charlotte checked them. The handwriting was the same on them all: Lady Cosgrove’s.

  Charlotte closed the drawer. Monkwood had kept his sister’s letters—but nothing pertaining to the Smiths, nothing that connected him to the slanderous Reverend Banks. Was I wrong?

  She scanned the study. One of the bookcases drew her attention. Behind its glazed doors were shelves of small leather-bound volumes.

  Charlotte tiptoed to the bookcase. She tried the doors. They were locked.

  She peered through the tiny diamond-shaped panes of glass. Through Albin’s reflection she saw dozens of slim books that looked like diaries. They filled four and a half shelves.

  The latch was simple. If she broke one of the panes she could reach inside and lift it with a fingertip.

  But Monkwood would know someone had opened the bookcase.

  Unless she made it look as if a maid had accidentally elbowed the glass while dusting . . .

  Charlotte glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes had passed. I must hurry.

  She worked quickly—breaking a corner pane, changing into a sparrow, flying up and hopping inside. Another change and she was a small monkey. Smells enveloped her: leather, paper, ink—and a scent she recognized as Monkwood’s.

  Her nose twitched. Wasn’t it the same smell as on the letter from Philadelphia?

  Her monkey fingers made swift work of the latch. Charlotte leapt down to the floor and changed back into Albin. She plucked the last book from the half-empty shelf. It was small enough to fit into the pocket of a man’s coat, the red calfskin soft and well-worn beneath her fingers.

  She opened it. April 5th, 1805 to October 14th, 1805 was written inside the cover.

  The pages were filled with writing. Charlotte turned to the last one.

  October 14th. Woke at 10.23 a.m. Clothes: yellow pantaloons, cream-and-gold Marcella waistcoat, single-breasted port-red tailcoat, Hessians. Neckcloth: Waterfall, with ruby pin. Cane: gold-topped ebony. The handwriting was nothing like the Reverend Banks’s—rounder, less spiky. She skimmed the page, looking for references to Cosgrove, to the Smiths.

  Monkwood had meticulously recorded everything he’d eaten on the fourteenth, the number of pages he’d read of a novel, details of two letters he’d written, his changes of clothing—but there was no mention of Cosgrove or the Smiths.

  Charlotte thumbed back several pages. When had the earl been attacked in St. James’s Park?

  On October eleventh, below a list of the clothes Monkwood had donned that morning and the food he’d eaten for breakfast, he’d written: Success! Cosgrove injured! Hector Smith injured too, but that is of no consequence.

  “Yes.” The s hissed between her teeth, triumphant. She snapped the diary shut.

  Charlotte selected the six latest volumes, rearranged the others to look as if none were missing, then reversed the steps she’d taken—monkey, sparrow, Albin. The breeze from the broken window settled on her skin like ice. Her bones seemed to shiver inside her.

  She wrapped the diaries with paper from Monkwood’s desk and tied the bundle with
red ribbon. Her fingers were clumsy with cold, clumsy with anxiety. If a servant came now, if someone opened the door and discovered her—

  Hurry. Hurry.

  Charlotte shoved open the window. Snowflakes swirled into the study.

  Was that Cosgrove on the far side of the square, heading this way?

  She leaned out and dropped the diaries, closed the window, changed into a sparrow. Hurry. Hurry. Up onto the windowsill, a careful hop through the broken pane, a swift glide down, another itching change and she was a dog.

  Snow engulfed her paws.

  Charlotte bent her head and took the knot of red ribbon between her teeth. Was that distant pedestrian Cosgrove?

  Yes. The height, the way he held his head, the long strides, were unmistakable.

  She trotted across the square towards him, tail wagging, the bundle banging against her muzzle.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Fifteen minutes later Charlotte was in Cosgrove’s study, soaking up heat from the fire.

  The earl handed her a glass of brandy. “Warmer?”

  “Yes, sir.” Charlotte gulped a mouthful of brandy, felt it burn down her throat, felt it heat her belly.

  Cosgrove walked to his desk. “I didn’t know Monkwood kept diaries.”

  “I’d say he’s been keeping them since childhood, sir.” Sensation was returning to her fingers; they stung as she buttoned her shirt. “You’re in there. And the Smiths.”

  “Anything about the letters?” Cosgrove unknotted the ribbon, tore off the paper, and laid the diaries out on the desk.

  “I only read a couple of pages, sir.”

  Cosgrove pulled out his chair and sat. He opened a diary. “Good Lord. Such detail. Listen to this: Woke at 10.36 a.m. Clothes: cream pantaloons, pale-green-and-cream Valencia waistcoat, double-breasted dark green tailcoat, Hessians. Neckcloth: an Oriental, with the emerald pin.” From Cosgrove’s expression, he didn’t know whether to be amused or appalled. He thumbed through the pages. “You say you found reference to the Smiths?”