“Sarah.”
Henry looked at him with narrowed gaze. “No, I told you. She adores my sister.”
“Remember? She said something about Charlotte hearing something, waking.”
“That is nonsense.”
“Not necessarily.” He gestured to the ancient walls. “These past months we’ve had a number of strange happenings.”
“The fire.” Exeter nodded.
“Amongst other things. When she stayed before, Charlotte mentioned having seen a strange person on the premises. I did not believe her at the time, but later …” Other memories flickered, surfaced, firmed. “I saw someone, too.”
“Who?”
He strove to remember, but the image remained indistinct. “I cannot say.”
“A man? Woman?”
“I … I do not recall.”
“You think someone wants to harm Charlotte.”
“I think someone wants to harm me, by any means possible.”
“But why?”
Suddenly a name and image solidified, as a very good reason planted certainty in his soul. “Because she wants me punished for wishing to marry again.”
“She?”
“Yes, she.”
“But who?”
A vision of a curse, of a woman driven mad with grief, wavered then formed before him. What had she said? She would make him sorry? He shuddered. Well, she certainly had.
“Hartington?” Henry shook his arm. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
Perhaps he had. He rubbed a hand over his face, wishing the late hour hadn’t made him so weary he could barely think through such fogginess. Ghosts? Death? Curses? He shook his head, as if the action could shake free the darkness encroaching his wavering faith.
Heavenly Father, help me see.
Like mist lifting for a sunny day, his soul’s torment suddenly eased. His God was greater than the fears, greater than evil intent. The God who loved him, who loved Charlotte, did not want to see harm but had plans for good and not for evil, to give them hope and a future.
Truth firmed in his soul, giving courage, giving strength.
“We need to pray.”
Henry flushed. “Fact is, I have been.”
“So have I. But we need to pray here, right now.” Without waiting for embarrassed assent, he closed his eyes, and declared, “Heavenly Father, I thank You that You are in control, that You are a good God who loves Your children.” Conviction solidified, his heart weighty with truth, and a certainty he was being heard beyond the billiard room’s four walls. “Heal Charlotte, heal her completely, Lord, and protect us from the attacks of the evil one. In the name of Your Son, by whose stripes we are healed, amen.”
“Amen,” the others echoed faintly, gazing at William in fascinated interest.
He felt a burn creep across his cheeks, but his faith was not negotiable, and he stared back. This moment called for conviction not hesitation.
Exeter’s cheeks flushed. “I … er, thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank God she still lives, and pray she sees morning.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
SO TIRED. HEAVINESS pressed upon her limbs. It hurt to breathe. Hurt to swallow. She could barely move. Charlotte lifted her lashes. A blurry figure. Sarah. Sitting by the window, her lips moving as if in prayer. She closed her eyes. Thoughts whirled around her brain, a clamor of confusion and nightmare, the thumping in her head echoed in a distant sound. Such odd dreams! Ghosts. Secrets. The duke. A kiss. Tenderness in dark eyes. Passageways. Pain. Life. Loss. Hope. Future. Marriage. Love. Yes?
Yes.
Darkness drew her down.
When she next awoke it was to see sunlight streaming through her window, and a strange man sitting beside her bed. Mama was there, wringing her handkerchief, chattering like a nervous bird to the unknown man. She finally glanced in Charlotte’s direction, her wearying stream of prattle coming to an abrupt halt. “Oh, Charlotte! You are awake! Oh, Doctor! She’s awake!”
“Now, Lady Exeter,” the man—a doctor?—said cautioningly.
“Oh, my darling! I thought I’d lost you!”
Charlotte tried to speak. Coughed instead.
“Here, have some water.”
Instincts recoiling, she drew back, shaking her head.
“It is safe, my lady,” Sarah assured, taking a sip, before helping Charlotte. “See?”
She swallowed. The thirst subsided fractionally. “What …” Her voice grated like a creaking door. “What happened?”
“You’ve been unwell,” Mama said, with a sharp look at the doctor, “but Dr. Lansbury here says you’re getting better now.”
The doctor nodded. “You were quite sick, my lady, but it seems you’re on the mend.”
“I … I dreamed such strange and frightening things.”
“That was not a—”
“Thank you, Lady Exeter,” the doctor said, frowning at Mama.
Her mother pouted, but said nothing more.
From far away came a faint hammering sound, pressing against the ache pounding her head. “That noise …”
“The duke.” Mama’s forehead wrinkled. “Is it too loud? Shall I tell them to cease?”
She shook her head. Pain ricocheted. She winced.
“Oh, my dearest girl! What is it?”
She studied her mother, whose puffy eyes told of tears and turmoil, yet the anxious strain within them spoke more deeply of her love and concern. Tears heated her eyes. How long had she dreamed to see Mama’s love?
“Oh, Charlotte! I could not bear for you to leave us. Not my darling girl. Not my sweet angel. Not my—”
“Come now, Lady Exeter,” calmed the doctor. “No need to become worked up.”
“Oh, but I love her,” Mama turned to her, smiling through her tears. “I love you, dearest.”
“I love you, too, Mama.”
Her mother clasped her hand, speaking soothingly, until the doctor murmured she should leave. “Do not be upset, my dear. Your father will wish to see you, and I shall return after your rest.”
Charlotte’s lips twitched, but she simply said, “Thank you, Mama.”
When her parent had exited, Charlotte eyed the doctor and Sarah, standing nervously behind. “What happened?” she whispered, to avoid aggravating her throat. “Why is Mama acting so peculiarly?”
The doctor sighed, while Sarah clasped her hands. “Something happened three nights ago.” The doctor frowned. “You do not remember?”
“No.”
“Oh, my lady! Such a terrible night! We thought you were—” Sarah stopped.
“You thought I was… ?”
Sarah gulped. “You were so still, see. And none of us knew quite what to do. It wasn’t until the duke came in—”
“The duke was here?”
“Yes. Oh, don’t look like that, my lady. He’s such a good man. Nothing inappropriate happened.”
Heat swept through her body. “He saw me in my nightgown?”
“Yes, but—”
“Oh!” She covered her face with her hands. How embarrassing!
“Please don’t be upset. It’s just that you were so unwell, and he needed to know—”
“What I looked like in my nightwear?” Never would she have picked him as such a man!
“He came to help you, Lady Charlotte,” the doctor said calmly, his voice settling her fractionally. “As your maid said, nothing untoward happened. I believe he maintained the strictest notions of propriety. In fact, if not for him …”
At the doctor’s uncomfortable look, she pressed. “What did he do?”
“He saved your life, my lady.”
What? Charlotte glanced at the doctor, who nodded his confirmation. “I don’t understand.”
In a few words, the doctor explained, leaving her internally cringing, yet with an immeasurable sense of gratitude. “His Grace did that for me?”
“Yes.” The doctor took her pulse, frowned. “Now, I don’t like to see y
ou getting excited. I want you to try to rest some more.”
“Rest. Yes.”
She closed her eyes obediently, listening as the doctor issued instructions to Sarah, before hearing the door open, then close. She peeked to see Sarah drawing close the curtains.
“Sarah.”
Her maid jumped. “Oh, my lady, you gave me such a start! I thought you were asleep.”
“I will soon, but first I wish you to do something for me.”
“Of course.”
Charlotte swallowed, then issued her instructions.
Another fruitless day.
William slumped into his chair, the desk piled high with papers, and closed his eyes. What could he do? He’d thought he’d know more by now, but there had been no news. His men’s search for the nighttime intruder had failed to turn up a single lead, save for the discovery of several tiny rooms the Abbey had finally divulged, necessitating their being nailed shut in recent days. And while he had his suspicions, indeed had shared such suspicions with Jensen and Ware, he rather doubted anyone’s ability to do anything but respond belatedly to any upcoming crisis. William sensed this situation was only set to accelerate further.
Father, help us.
He stilled his mind, waiting for the peace of God to fill him, but the questions and fears refused to be silent. His letter to Bow Street, requesting information pertaining to a certain individual had not yet been answered. He sighed, turning back to the letters requiring attention. Missives from Mr. McAdam, from Hawkesbury, from Barrack’s caregivers, from the Duke of Sussex could wait a day or so. He read a letter from the man tasked with ascertaining Wrotham’s whereabouts. Relief filled him; he’d arrived in New York. He quickly scrawled a response, then another to the letter from Bethlem. The board of trustees would simply have to meet without him. He dared not leave the Abbey, not with matters still in such a perilous state.
He leaned back in his seat, shifting to gaze out the window. Near the boundary he could see a number of workmen ostensibly digging a new garden, their movements thin disguise for their real purpose: protection. But what to do now? How could he move forward, when he always seemed a step behind his adversary? Clearly it behooved him to remove Charlotte from the Abbey to a safe location, but how could he be sure where that would be? Surely any new location would soon be discovered; after all, servants talked, innkeepers talked, other travellers talked. No, between the marquess, Henry, and himself, they had determined she was safest staying here, at least for a little while. But what then? What should he do?
A scratching sounded at the door, and he called for admittance. Surprise filled him at the sight of the maid, Sarah. “Yes?”
“Pardon me, Your Grace.” Her eyes were large, her voice quavery.
His insides churned. Surely Charlotte hadn’t worsened. “How is your mistress?”
“Awake now, sir, thank you. She seems a little better.”
Relief flooded his chest. “Thank God.”
“Aye, sir, that I do.”
She was a praying girl? Good. Charlotte needed all the prayers she could get. “What can I do for you, Sarah?”
She blushed. “Tis not for me, sir, but for my lady. She be asking to speak with you.”
“Now?”
“If it’s not inconvenient, sir.”
“Very well.”
Two minutes later he crossed the threshold into the room of his nightmares, halting at the sight of Charlotte lying in bed, bleary-eyed, weary and wan.
He acknowledged Lord Exeter, sitting on a low chair beside her bed, a book opened as if he’d been reading to her. Her father nodded and rose to remove to a position near the window, from which he assumed a fixed perusal of the grounds. Conscious of the impropriety of being in her room, William remained near the door, and bowed. “Good afternoon, my lady.”
“Good afternoon, sir.” Her voice was too soft, her cheeks too pale.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better, thank you.”
“I’m glad.” He paused. Why was he here? What did she wish to say?
“My father visited”—her eyes seemed tinged with apology—“with a volume of Wordsworth’s. Remember our discussion on his merits?”
Pain slivered through him at the memory of their firelit laughter-filled discussion weeks ago. A lifetime ago. Back when he’d dared believe romance might be possible for him after all. Had she been pretending to agree with him all this time? He jerked a nod. “I’d rather you recall three nights ago.”
A look of surprised hurt filled her face.
He pressed on, ignoring the twinge of conscience. “Do you remember anything about that night?”
“I …” She closed her eyes, but the furrowed brow spoke of concentration. “No.”
She could not remember, or would not remember? He smiled grimly. “Ah, well. I told you our Abbey had many secrets, remember?”
“I remember.” Dull eyes sparked. “Perhaps your Abbey holds ghosts after all.”
“Perhaps.”
A delicate blush transfused her face. “Sir, I … I understand that I owe you my life.”
He stepped forward then checked himself. “No, that is … no. You owe me nothing.”
“That is not what others say.”
Dismay chased the suspicion creeping through him. Surely she wasn’t now going to admit she loved him, out of some misguided sense of obligation? “Lady Charlotte—”
“Sir, I—”
“Please continue,” he gestured, bracing internally.
Blue eyes fixed on his, unwavering. “I cannot begin to thank you. I thought what happened but a nightmare and did not dream I lay so close to death. In those moments, I …”
Here it comes, he thought miserably.
“In those moments I realized how much I wished to live, and live with you as your wife.”
She paused for breath, and he felt the anger spurt again. What about Lord Markham? He glanced at her father then back at her, keeping his voice low. “We shall discuss such matters later when the doctor and your parents believe you well enough.”
As soon as he spoke he regretted his tone, her glistening eyes wrenching pain in his chest. But now was not the time to discuss their future, not with the villain still to be found, not with so much uncertainty, not with all his doubts.
She closed her eyes and grimaced, lifting a hand to her head.
“Charlotte?” William hurried to her side.
Lord Exeter turned, stepped closer. “Charlotte? Shall I send for Dr. Lansbury?”
She rubbed her forehead. “Please.”
As her father exited the room, she licked her lips, leaving him transfixed by the movement. “I’m so thirsty.”
Sarah retrieved a glass, then assisted Charlotte as she carefully sipped. When she turned her head away, indicating she’d had enough, she caught his hand, and gingerly pressed it to her lips. “Thank you, William.”
Heat throbbed at the site of her caress. Twin moonlit oceans beckoned him with light and promise. But he could not yet trust, could not yet believe. Pulse racing, he gently removed his hand and forced his steps away, offering another bow, followed by muttered excuses that he must away.
He returned to his study and sank down at his desk once more, as images and questions continued.
Charlotte. Bewitching as always, beguiling as ever. Holding his hopes prisoner and his dreams captive. The captivating Lady Charlotte. How he wished their vows were said and he could hold her in the way he imagined. A savage pang twisted his heart. How he wished he’d never heard anything Cressinda had said. How could Charlotte look at him like that, speak such sweet words, if she loved another?
He groaned, sank his hands into his hair, as hope battled hurt.
What was he to do?
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Four days later
WHAT COULD SHE do to show him he could trust her?
The duke now knew about Markham—Mama had admitted as much—his mistrust obvious in the way he r
efused to meet her eyes, save that one time in her bedchamber. His short answers, the disappearance of any tenderness, merely confirmed it.
He did not love her. He did not trust her.
Heat pricked the back of her eyes.
Oh, wretched woman his first wife had been, scarring him to such a degree that he struggled to believe any woman now! Her vision blurred; her bottom lip trembled. How could he decide not to love her, when she’d finally realized just how much she cared? She knew now that she loved him, this deep certainty within, a blend of warm affection and high esteem. Coupled with the awareness that throbbed whenever they met, it only underlined her conviction that she would never meet his equal. What could she do to show him she truly meant it when she said she looked forward to being his wife?
A shiver ran through her at the memory of his kiss. While her feelings for William might never excite the same depths of heady passion once induced by Lord Markham, his kiss, his hug, now only made her hungry for more. Her midsection fluttered. William might never wish to read Byron by firelight, but he was someone who would both know how to light a fire and ensure his every tenant be warmed sufficiently. And in a marriage, wasn’t kindness and forbearance to be preferred to romantic sensibility?
That is if they were to be married at all. Even Mama seemed to have her doubts, despite plowing through preparations in a frenzied way, as if determined to complete arrangements before something could prevent them. No. Despite her having undergone an experience worthy of a gothic heroine—something that should have most gentlemen declaring undying love—the duke had said nothing. Surely if he truly cared, he would have said something? Her soul writhed. Except wasn’t she trying now to not be so self-centered? Lord, forgive me my selfishness. Help me be a blessing to William. How can I show him how much he means to me?
She glanced out the window. The rose gardens beckoned, the past few days of warm cloudless skies lifting their scent. “Sarah, please find my parasol.”
“Oh, but the doctor says you must be careful not to exert yourself.”
“And I will be. But I cannot stay inside a moment longer.”
Ignoring further protest, Charlotte hurried into her pelisse. She needed to get downstairs before her mother made her afternoon ascent to the sickroom.
The Captivating Lady Charlotte Page 29
