“It matches your ring and your eyes.”
Those eyes met his. Rimmed with doubt? Fear? Guilt? Or was it just nerves?
As they walked back across the graveled path he found himself growing more desperate. He wanted her to enjoy her time, but what had she enjoyed last time?
Suddenly it came to him. “I hope you will find time to honor Rose with a visit.”
Her face lit. “Of course I will.”
But those brief minutes he was privileged to accompany her as she played with his daughter before the dinner gong were only too short. It was perhaps fortunate he had several others to stay, including his sister and Lord Ware, as his betrothed barely looked at him, let alone found a smile to cast his way.
Throughout the evening meal and conversation, he found his own spirits waning. While it was good to see his staff were all solicitude toward her, now they knew her as his intended bride, the cynical part of him could not help wonder if their interest was self-motivated, and they were doing their best to make sure their attentions did not pass unnoticed. Charlotte seemed so tired, pale, with shadows under her eyes. Any attempt on his part to talk with her was quickly interrupted by her overzealous Mama, so he had yet to ascertain if it were illness or some other malady that made her appear so. He could only hope and pray a refreshing sleep would see her health and spirits return.
The next day
“Lady Charlotte, may I have a word?”
Charlotte glanced up. Judging from the look on Cressinda’s face she doubted it would be a single word. Fighting the trickle of fear, she snapped shut The Castle of Otranto and nodded, gesturing to the space beside her on the garden bench.
“Thank you, I prefer to stand.”
Oh dear. Charlotte summoned up a smile. They were to be sisters after all. And it wasn’t as if William would permit his sister to eat her. “How may I help you, Lady Ware?”
“What you can do, my dear, is to start telling the truth.”
She blinked.
“Oh, don’t play innocent with me. You were seen.”
“I beg your pardon?”
For a moment, something like a snarl swept across the older woman’s face. “How can you pretend to love my brother when you kissed another man?”
She felt hot. Cold. Hot again.
“You do not deny it—”
“No! It wasn’t like that!”
“Of course it was.” She eyed the ring. “It sickens me to see you wear my grandmother’s ring. How dare you? I’ve always known you were like Pamela, would play William for a fool. He’s always been too trusting, too naive, better at understanding science books than people. He spent half a lifetime trying to win our parents’ approval, only to carry on with their wishes even when they were dead, and it was obvious what a sad mistake such a marriage would be.” Lady Ware shook her head. “He’s always been too mild for his own good, would never hurt a spider.”
“But he dueled—”
“Well of course he did! Society had spent long enough sniggering behind his back, and the family honor demanded he sacrifice personal scruples, yet here he is again, saddled with you.” She eyed Charlotte with an expression close to loathing. “Such gall! You do not love him.”
Her senses began to swim. She reeled in the lightheadedness, forced herself to focus. “No,” she whispered. “You have it wrong.”
“Love? Pah! You cannot know the meaning of the word!”
But she did! Love was patient, and kind, and long-suffering—
“Can you deny you kissed Lord Markham?”
William stilled. Heard no denial from outside the library windows. The shame slithering into his soul at his sister’s earlier words gave way to a wrenching pain. Hope dissolved in the continued silence. Prayers about trust seemed to crumple, melting like the first fall of snow.
Charlotte did not love him. She had never loved him. She would always love another.
His hands clenched.
Hartington. Markham. Hartwell. Heartsick. Other images interspersed her dreams. Cressinda’s venomous expression. The duke’s averted gaze at dinner. Pistols fired on a dark night. The castle of horror—
Charlotte woke with a gasp. Was it just a dream? Or had she really heard that creak? She lay still, eyes wide open, ears straining, heart thumping painfully in her chest. The noise came again. A creak, followed by the slightest squeak, as if weight moved from one space to the next.
Dear God …
Her prayer was mere breath, then there was a wheeze and a thud, and a patter of something like feet.
“Sarah!”
She hadn’t meant her voice to sound so shrill. Her maid raced into the room, half-drowsed, but fully anxious, holding a lit candle. “What is it, my lady?”
Charlotte huddled against the bedhead, glancing around the room frantically as her pulse beat a wild tattoo. “Were you in here?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Were you here, in my room, a minute or so ago?”
“Of course not.”
Coldness crept along her spine.
Her maid frowned. “Do you think you heard someone?”
Charlotte nodded, but was she sure? Had it been a dream? If she had heard someone, where would they be? Under her bed?
She screamed, jumping off, pointing to the bedclothes.
“Shh, shh.” Sarah patted her back. “There’s no need to be frightened.”
She shuddered, wishing she could beg for Sarah to search under the bed, knowing such a request might be made known below stairs, and any respect the staff here held for her would evaporate completely.
Girding up her courage, and with another muttered prayer, she crept to the side of the bed, flinging up the heavily tasseled brocade valance.
Nothing.
She exhaled. Forced herself to laugh. Met Sarah’s anxious expression with a strained smile. “I must have heard a mouse.”
“I’ve never known you to be bothered by a mouse, my lady.”
“I suspect it’s something to do with staying in such an old house. One must expect creeping things.”
“Especially when one devours the kind of novels as you do. Did you imagine a ghost had come to visit? Not that such a place as this might possess such things, and all.”
Her skin tingled, but she refused to let Sarah see her fear, instead allowing the maid to guide her to bed and prop another pillow behind her back.
“Have a drink of water, and then you can lie back down and dream of far more pleasant things.” Sarah moved to the small table where a jug of water and glass were positioned ready for guests. She poured two fingers worth into the glass, then handed it to Charlotte.
She tasted it, made a face. “Ugh.”
“Come. I know you don’t prefer water. But they say Hartwell water is direct from a spring underground.”
Charlotte coughed. They might say that, but it tasted like it should have stayed there.
“Now, off to sleep with you,” Sarah said, taking the glass. “You best be getting your beauty sleep. Just think on pleasant things.”
Charlotte closed her eyes obediently, glad the sudden vision blurriness ceased. As the liquid stung her throat, her maid’s words reminded her of the letter she’d found earlier, definitely not a pleasant thought.
Her name, in a script unknown, scrawled across a paper propped upon the dressing table. She—and Sarah—had assumed it was from the duke, so she’d waited until her maid had exited before opening and reading.
But it was not.
It was from Lord Markham. Wishing to know if this were the end, or if she would run away and marry him. She’d nearly flung it in the fire but had instead stowed it in her Bible, knowing it was the one place she could be sure Sarah would not search in her ever-assiduous duties. The questions raged, burning through her brain. How had the letter arrived here? Who had placed it here? Did the duke employ someone who could be bribed by Markham to do such a thing? Was it a test from Cressinda? Was she even safe? What would the duke sa
y should he learn of such a thing? Why, he would be horrified!
Her heart stung, her throat constricted, and a pain began in her temple.
She had no wish to hurt the duke. He had been misused by his first wife and she didn’t want him to suffer that way again. Her lips burned at recollection of the kiss Markham had forced upon her, nothing like William’s tender passion that excited her senses. But it was more than that. She loved watching him with Rose, and could well imagine him always the devoted father, devoted husband.
Charlotte twisted to her side, working to ease her discomfort. Husband? No. Yes? Heavenly Father? Did she love him? Could she be patient with his reserve? Share his hope for improving life for others? Enjoy a future built around a mutual love for God? Yes? No, yes. With certainty, yes.
The fire in her head now spread through her chest like a vise.
She coughed. Nothing happened. Tried to speak. Her throat was clamped. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t breathe! The room faded to black.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
WILLIAM DREW in a deep breath, working to keep the anger at bay, as he eyed the drawing room’s other occupants. “I repeat: I do not like to be made a fool. If you have information pertinent to my engagement then I wish to know immediately!”
“Oh, but William—”
“Cressinda, I heard you accuse Charlotte this afternoon!”
His sister flushed. “Perhaps you should ask Lady Exeter.”
William eyed the pale marchioness seated beside her husband and son, whose airs of confusion suggested William wasn’t the only one who had lived too long in the dark. Outside, the night wind stirred ivy to scrape against the windows. “Madam? Am I to understand something has happened between Lord Markham and your daughter?”
“Oh, sir, I’m sure it’s nothing but a silly misunderstanding.” She gave an artificial-sounding laugh. “You must not credit every bit of tittle-tattle.”
“I am not. I merely ask about the veracity of this particular piece of speculation.”
“What is this all about?” Lord Exeter frowned, looking between them. “I thought Markham dealt with months ago.”
“Exactly so,” his wife said, nodding desperately. “Perhaps you could speak with Charlotte tomorrow. Such a shame she retired so early—”
“I wish to know now if the marriage should be called off.”
“Oh no, no, sir! She’d be a fool not to choose you! As it is, she denied planning to meet him—”
“Where? When?”
Her gaze dropped. “In London, on the night of … the night—”
“The night of our engagement ball.” At her nod he slumped in his seat.
“What?” exclaimed Exeter. “Constance, I cannot believe—”
“Duke, Charlotte assures me it was all Markham’s doing!” Lady Exeter said frantically.
“Enough.” He held up a hand. “I cannot stand to hear another—”
A commotion, then a knock, drew their attention to the drawing room doors, which were immediately flung open by a footman. “Pardon the intrusion, sir, but it’s the young lady.”
“Charlotte?” His chest cramped. “What has happened?”
“She’s extremely ill.”
“What?” Lady Exeter paled. “Not my dear Charlotte!”
“Her maid wishes a doctor to be called immediately.”
“Of course. Hurry.” He nodded a dismissal.
“I should go, see what my darling daughter needs—”
“Mama, no,” said Henry, catching William’s eye, as he gently pushed his mother back in her seat. “You know you can never abide illness.”
She allowed herself to be persuaded to remain, to be comforted—or admonished—by her husband, releasing William and Henry to hurry upstairs.
Travers hastened toward them. “I’m sorry, sir, but Lady Charlotte is in a sad way. Her maid thinks it might be poison.”
“How can this be?” He pushed into the room to see a scene reminiscent of his nightmares. Charlotte—his Charlotte—lay curled on the bed, long unbound strands of golden hair spread wildly about, while her teary-eyed maid gently slapped her face. “Wake up! Wake up, my lady!”
Oh, dear God …
He rushed to her side, felt her wrists for a pulse, found a thready beat. “What has been done for her?”
The maid turned a tearstained face to him. “I found her like this. She woke me not half an hour ago, and was complaining of hearing things, but I thought she’d been dreaming. I told her to have a drink of water—”
“What water?”
She pointed to the glass. He dashed it up, sniffed. Felt himself sway. “Oh, dear God!”
“What is it?”
He gently pulled down Charlotte’s bottom lip, and sniffed. The same bitter almond scent tickled his nose. “Henry, help me turn her on her side.”
“What are you doing?”
“I think she drank cherry-laurel water.”
“What?”
“It is lethal when taken in large enough quantities.” Henry helped him reposition her. “How much did she have?” William barked at the maid.
“I don’t know!”
“A swallow? A glassful? How much?”
“I don’t know—I—Not too much. She doesn’t like water, sir.”
His heartbeat grew frantic. “She must wake and expel the poison before it travels farther in her body.”
As her brother slapped her face far more vigorously than her maid had done, Jensen rushed in, holding a spoon and small bowl. “I’ve brought mustard and warm water. When I heard it might be poison—”
“Give it here.” William’s hand shook as he took the teaspoon and directed it to her mouth. “Henry, help her sit upright, and open her mouth. Get some ammonia!” he snapped at her maid, who scurried out.
“She won’t open,” Henry said desperately.
“Force her to! Do you want your sister to die?”
Recriminations rushed over him. Oh, why had he shown her his poisons? Why hadn’t he realized the depths of her despair? Heavenly Father, make her live, make her live!
Henry forced open her lips, allowing William to shove in a spoonful, hear her choke. “Good!”
The maid rushed back with a small bottle. “Quick! Wave it under her nose. She needs to wake; she needs the poison out.”
As Henry continued clutching his sister’s shoulders, the maid waved the bottle of ammonia under her nose. Again a choking sound, then heavy-lidded eyes fluttered open. Blue eyes glanced at him, she seemed to withdraw, but he forced in another spoonful of mustard-laced warm water.
“You will not die, do you hear me?”
She blinked. Coughed. Spluttered. Tried to pull away.
He chased her with the spoon. Another spoonful pushed in. “You will not die!”
She coughed, then gave a kind of heaving breath, before retching.
“Excuse me, your Grace.” The maid bustled him out of the way, holding the bowl as her mistress coughed and upended the contents of her stomach.
William backed away, prayers chasing fears. “Jensen, get coffee. And brandy!”
As the maids hurried to help, Henry shifted from the bed to stand beside him. “I don’t understand.”
He could say nothing. He wished he didn’t understand. But he did, and the fact made him want to weep.
She would rather choose death by poison than marriage to him.
Dr. Lansbury found William and Henry later, holed up in the billiards room with Exeter and Ware, trying to play a clumsy game while their hearts paced more frantically than their fears. At the news of her daughter’s brush with death, the marchioness had collapsed into hysteria, necessitating her maid’s strenuous efforts to calm, before a strong sedative had settled her to sleep. Jensen had sent down a message a quarter hour earlier to say Charlotte was improving, but it had not alleviated their fears. Some form of order and control was necessary, otherwise their pacing threatened to send them all mad.
“How is she?”
Lansbury shook his head. “I don’t like to say. I’ve given her a dose of iron and soda to help balance the system, but this does not always prove effective.”
Henry ran a hand through his rumpled hair. “Why aren’t you still up there?”
“The maids are up there now, caring for her. I cannot do much until we see how the medicine takes effect.”
William cleared his throat. “And you think it was the cherry-laurel water?”
“Aye, I do.” The doctor’s gaze narrowed. “How a young lady came to be in possession of such a thing I do not know. It’s a good thing you knew what to do, sir.” He bowed and exited the room.
Recrimination swirled within. “I showed her the cherry-laurel water today.”
Exeter’s eyes flashed. “Then you are responsible!”
“I did not give it to her! I told her it was harmful. I thought it locked away.”
“But … but why did she have it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t think … ?” Henry’s voice quavered. He pressed his lips together, but his chin trembled. After a moment, he said, “She would not wish to harm herself.”
“Of course not.” Was that a lie?
“No.” The younger man’s voice sounded firmer now, more assured. “No, she wouldn’t. And I cannot believe Sarah would hurt her. She loves Charlotte.”
William’s lips twisted. She wasn’t the only one. Despite the painful revelations from the earlier interview, the past hour had confirmed his love may be bowed but not broken. He’d set her free to marry Markham if she so wished. If she only lived.
“So who is responsible? I want them found and punished!” cried Charlotte’s father.
“You don’t think Wrotham?” Ware murmured, in an aside.
“No.” The last missive concerning that man’s whereabouts had him on a boat to America.
Gradually, the panic besieging William’s heart eased to a dull roar. If Exeter was right and someone had poisoned Charlotte, then perhaps she was not disinclined to marrying him, after all. Could he have been wrong about other things, too? Heavenly Father?
He stilled. Listened. A wisp of memory begged recollection. What was it?
The Captivating Lady Charlotte Page 28
