The Captivating Lady Charlotte

by Carolyn Miller

  Within twenty minutes they had achieved the rose gardens, the only notice they’d attracted was from Henry, who happened upon them in the hall, and offered his arm amid concerned cautionings. His arm she was glad to accept; his chiding less so. As sunlight bathed her face, she gloried in drinking in fresh air, the feeling of freedom at finally escaping her room.

  “Lady Charlotte.”

  A rush of gladness filled her at the voice. She turned.

  And met the duke’s black gaze. Her heart chilled. “Sir.”

  There was an exchange of bow and curtsy. She compelled her lips to remain tilted. “Is it not a glorious day?”

  “I thought you knew to stay inside.”

  “Oh, but—”

  “Featherington, I’m disappointed you condone this behavior.”

  The duke’s words apparently nettled Henry as they did her, but while her brother resorted to flushing, she could not be so circumspect. “I do not wish to be caged like a prisoner.”

  “No?” The dark brows lifted. “What do you wish for?”

  What had upset him? Why did his words hold a faintly ominous tone? She released her brother’s arm and moved closer, forcing herself to smile playfully. “Surely you know the answer to that, sir?”

  He stepped back, eyes unsmiling, refusing to play her game. “I’m afraid I do not.” He turned and walked away.

  Leaving her aching, bereft, and fighting tears.

  Twilight shadows stretched deep across the study. He should get dressed for dinner, but couldn’t be bothered moving. He was a fool. A sentimental fool. Deceived by a fair face and sunny humor. Misled by a broken heart and foolish dreams. Hadn’t her flirtatious ways in the garden this afternoon only revealed the truth?

  “The post, Your Grace,” Travers said, holding out a silver salver.

  He collected the letters, ripped open the one from London, scanned the contents. Let out a long breath. Markham had not been seen for weeks. The doubts roared again, dragon-like, spewing fire across his soul. A scratching came at the study door then it opened. “What now?”

  The footman’s eyes widened. “Pardon the intrusion, sir, but have you seen the young lady?”

  “What?”

  “Sarah, the maid, says Lady Charlotte is nowhere to be found.”

  Fear arrowed within. He pushed to his feet. Went upstairs. Found it only too true, as he met the hand-wringing maid and mother.

  “Oh, dear Duke. Tell me you know where she is!”

  “I have not seen her for several hours.”

  “She was resting after her walk,” Sarah averred. “I only left her for a few minutes.”

  “Evans said—oh, Hartington, I did not see you there.” Henry pushed into the room past the servants. “Evans said no horses have been taken, and the footmen have found no trace of her downstairs.”

  “The attics?”

  “They are searching now.”

  His heart twisted. Surely she hadn’t run off?

  “Oh!”

  He spun on his heel, facing her frightened-looking maid who held a piece of paper.

  “What is that?” The marchioness snatched it from her hands, reading it before stumbling to a chair. “Oh, no! The stupid, foolish girl!”

  Pulse thudding with trepidation, William held out a hand, and the white-faced Henry passed the letter to him. “I’m sorry, Hartington.”

  He scanned the letter, his hopes dropping. “Where did you find this?”

  “In her Bible.” The maid gestured to the book, opened at first Corinthians chapter thirteen.

  He studied the underlined verses, ones to do with love being patient, trusting, hoping always. How love never failed.

  His heart wrenched. Clearly she had twisted such words to justify her feelings for Markham. He clenched his hands.

  “The simpleton!” The marchioness moaned. “I told her Markham would never come up to scratch.”

  William slowly exhaled, tamping down the anger as he turned to her. “You said Charlotte denied it.”

  “She said it was all his doing. You must believe me!”

  “I confess, madam, I find it hard to believe anything you say.” He eyed the maid, cowering in the corner. “Were you aware of your mistress’s affections?”

  “Sir, she might have loved him once—”

  But she had never loved William.

  “But she did no more, I’m certain. Besides, she was so weak she could barely stand after our walk. And how could she leave without anyone noticing?”

  “Enough.” He strode away, the heat blazing across his chest and eyes begging release.

  “Sir.” Henry clasped his arm, looking terribly young at this moment. “I cannot believe Lottie would do this.”

  “No? Unfortunately, I can.”

  Shaking off Henry’s hand, he spun and left, mortification chasing his heels.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  AFTER THE WILD and dangerous imaginings of the past week, this dream was far more delightful. She was being carried, the scent of sandalwood tickling her senses as sweet murmurs filled her ear. “Dearest love, we shall soon be there. Do not worry.”

  She smiled in her sleep. Why should she be anxious? She was safe, held in the arms of the man she loved, whose soft words and dulcet tones assured her he felt the same.

  “I love you, my darling.”

  She sighed, snuggling closer. “I love you, too.”

  Warm lips touched her brow, touched her cheek, touched her lips, tasting of—

  Her eyes opened. She gasped. “You!”

  Lord Markham smiled, teeth glinting in the moonlight. “Of course it is I.”

  Was this delusion? Cool night air nipped at her cheeks. She glanced up at the canopy of twisting branches, then down at her gown, now covered in a man’s black driving coat. “What are you doing?”

  “Rescuing you, my love.”

  “No.” She struggled for release. “Let me go.”

  “We shall both go, my dear.” He chuckled. “Can you guess where?”

  Charlotte stared at him. Dear God, no …

  “Scotland, my love. Tomorrow we’ll be husband and wife.”

  “What?” She wriggled more strenuously. His arms tightened. “Are you mad?”

  He laughed. “Mad with love, my lady.”

  His emphasis sounded possessive, with nothing of the duke’s respectful caress.

  “Ah, here we are. Your chariot awaits.”

  She twisted, writhing even more violently as she saw the carriage. “No! This is wrong. You cannot take me—”

  “Ah, but you are mistaken, for this is right, and I do take you.”

  The door opened, and she was pushed inside. She scrambled to open the door opposite, but was barred by an outstretched arm. Turning, she faced a woman dressed in black, who eyed her with the malevolent glare she recognized from the village before. Charlotte shrank against the seat as Markham pounded the padded ceiling and the vehicle began to move. “Oh, stop, please stop!”

  “Hold your tongue,” the woman said, in heavily accented English, before spewing forth a volley of French Charlotte was pretty certain were blasphemies.

  Fear rushed up her spine. “Who are you?”

  “I serve Her Grace.”

  “Who?” She wriggled from Markham’s hands, to no avail. “My lord, please stop!”

  “But I cannot! To not have you in my arms again after so long is more than I can bear.”

  She struggled as his hand crept to her waist then climbed higher. “Please stop!”

  “Markham!” The woman’s whiplike voice finally stilled his hands, which he brought to rest on Charlotte’s thigh.

  She shuddered, tears clogging her eyes and throat. But she could not yield to crying. She had to think. Had to think! Lord, help me!

  Dredging up a smile, she picked up his hand and held it firmly to the seat. “Not now.” Not ever.

  “You are not worthy!” The woman hissed, before releasing another volley of invectives.

&nb
sp; Ice ran through her veins. “Worthy of what?”

  “You’ll never take her place!”

  “Whose place?”

  “The Duchess of Hartington.” She shook her head. “You’ll never mother her child!”

  “But Pamela is dead!”

  Crack!

  Pain splintered up her cheek as her face was knocked to the side. A rushing filled her ears, muffling Markham’s angry protests. Now the tears leaked. She touched her cheek. Saw blood. Her vision hazed in and out as a torrent of words flowed between the others.

  “Maria! How dare you strike her?”

  “Pah! She’s nothing but a strumpet, pretending to love you, pretending to love that fool duke. Can’t you see she does not love you?”

  “That is not true.” Lord Markham turned to her. “Tell her it isn’t true!”

  “I …” Charlotte glanced between them, terror rising within. What should she do? She pretended to swoon.

  “Now look!”

  “She pretends. See?”

  A savage pinch almost released a scream, but she kept her teeth clenched, her limbs motionless.

  “Maria, stop! I won’t let you hurt her!”

  “You are such a weakling, like that fool Rogerson, like Exeter’s stupid footman, like all men. So easy to manipulate. You see a pretty face, and your brain forgets to work. But what do you really know? She plays you for a fool!”

  Charlotte kept still, forbidding the luxury of a single movement. She had to escape. They were as mad as each other. But what could she do? What could she do? Oh, God, please help!

  Faith wrestled fears. Hope grappled shame. Love struggled to believe.

  After a desperate hour’s search revealed nothing, his guests and servants regrouped in the Great Hall. He could barely look at them, knowing he’d see pity in their eyes, resignation in his sister’s. He’d had enough of pity. And yes, he despised his weakness, falling for another pretty face without character. Did a bigger fool exist on earth than him? Torturous thoughts kept him searching, kept him moving, otherwise he’d be tempted to curl up and hide and never see another soul again.

  A sound drew their attention to the landing. Henry. Listening to the maid. Holding that wretched letter. “Sir, you should hear this.”

  A minute later, Sarah stood tearfully before him, explaining more about the night her mistress had been poisoned. “I just realized, it’s the letter that was on her bed the night she was poisoned. I thought you wrote it, sir—”

  “Why would I do such a fool thing?”

  “But don’t you see? It must’ve been him in her room! The night she nearly died!”

  Something cold swept across his soul. “You think he wants her dead?” Not his Charlotte.

  “I don’t know, but I cannot think she went with him willingly.” She sobbed. “Please sir, she said she heard noises that night.”

  Yes, she had. Had he wronged her, after all? Hope propelled his feet up the stairs to the bedchamber, trailed by Henry and the others. “Where did she think she heard the noise?”

  The maid pointed to the wall near the window. “I think she heard it around there.”

  He took a step back, frowning as he examined the wainscoting.

  “Hartington? What is it?”

  William briefly explained his suspicions to Henry. “I’m hopeful tonight the Abbey might give up more of her secrets. Now, does anything look odd to you?”

  They studied the east wall. It was in two sections, the upper consisting of quite plain wooden panels; the lower tier’s panels marked with scrollwork and four pilasters. About chest height stretched a frieze of intricately carved pears and apples, entwined with roses and the harts of his family emblem. He began knocking on the wall.

  “Sir?” Jensen said. “What are you doing?”

  “Searching for a secret passage.”

  Henry, Ware, and Jensen joined in with tapping, until a hollow sound emanated from the panel closest to the window. “Here!”

  William gripped each piece of fruit, twisting, pressing within. Finally one shifted. With a click of the carved wooden rose, the door spun open silently, as if recently oiled, into blackness. “Voila!”

  As the others rejoiced, Jensen ran to get a lamp.

  “This room used to be the master, remember?” Cressinda said from the door. “Mother didn’t like that it connected to outside, and reorganized the bedchambers when you were a boy.”

  “I don’t recall.”

  She frowned. “But how would Charlotte know about such things?”

  “Perhaps she didn’t.” He sent her an even look.

  His sister’s mouth formed an O, her look of sympathy sending a burn to his throat.

  Jensen returned, the lamplight revealing the passageway’s recent use, the long stringy remains from the destruction of spiderwebs.

  “Sir, look!” Jensen pointed to footmarks. Large boot prints in dust, such as might belong to a man. And small boot prints, such as those belonging to—“A woman passed through here.”

  His heart sank. So she had gone willingly?

  “Your Grace!” Sarah’s anxious face loomed behind him. “They don’t be my lady’s. Her foot is bigger.” She retrieved a boot he recognized as Charlotte’s and placed it next to the mark. It was bigger, by at least an inch.

  “Then …”

  “She was carried, sir.”

  Dear God! One guess by whom.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHARLOTTE PEERED BENEATH her lashes. The carriage was picking up pace, pulling farther away. If she did not escape soon, she’d be hard-pressed to ever find her way home to the Abbey. But what could she do? Oh, Lord, help me!

  Snatches of a plan shimmered into being. She sighed, fluttered her lashes. “Oh!”

  “Darling!” Markham’s hands lifted her up. She fought the shudder, tried to act pleased. “She did not mean it, you know,” hot breath whispered in her ear. “But these French, you know how they can be.”

  “I feel so wretched.” She groaned, clasping her head. “Ever since the poison …”

  “The poison?”

  At the frown in his voice, she glanced up, glad to see a matching scowl on his face. She pointed at the woman seated opposite. “She poisoned me. I nearly died!”

  He growled something before demanding to know if this was true. Maria at first tried denial, but it was apparent Lord Markham did not believe her. “You could have killed her!”

  “Pah! She did not have enough for that—”

  With a curse, Markham leapt at the woman, leaving Charlotte free. As the two wrestled, she saw the woman reach under the cushion, drawing out a pistol. Horror bade her to freeze, but she had no time. She leapt at the door, pressed down the latch, the momentum swinging her outside to tumble down onto the road, just as an almighty bang came from within the carriage.

  There was a shout, and the horses whinnied and took off at a canter. Sobbing, Charlotte pushed to her feet, but her knee buckled and she fell. Gravel bit into her skin.

  Pushing up onto her hands, she half crawled, half limped to the side of the road. She could not stay; they would return. She must hide in the woods. She stumbled into the black forest, thankful for moonlight, but knowing the very thing that aided her would also aid her abductors. She must flee into darkness. “God, help me!”

  “Your Grace! We heard a gunshot.”

  William stumbled from the cellars, the mystery passageway’s terminus, into the pools of pale light on the grass afforded by the Abbey’s windows. “Where?”

  “In the woods. Pattinson just got in, said it happened not more than ten minutes ago.”

  His mouth dried. For ten minutes she might have been lying injured … or worse.

  “Evans, go saddle Neptune. Jensen, get the others, divide up. We must find her.”

  He raced to the gunroom, selected a pistol, his pulse thundering as the last of his doubts tumbled. If a gun had been deemed necessary, surely Charlotte had not gone willingly after all.

&nbs
p; The trees were too big and dark, the night air filled with a hundred noises she did not wish to know. Desperate to return to the Abbey, she stayed along the edge of the road, ears straining for the faintest sound to indicate her pursuers neared.

  Fear rippled through her. A stitch tormented her left side. Her mouth tasted of blood and dread. She had to get home. Had to get home!

  To think she now counted the Abbey as her home! A broken chuckle escaped, quickly smothered in a sob. Not that the duke wished for it. His attitude was very clear. He no longer wanted her. But she did not want the man who professed he did. She tripped over a branch, tumbling into mud. Shuddered out a quiet moan. What would her life be now? Would the duke cry off, the scandal ensuring she be sent to live with an obscure relation, like poor Maria Bertram from Mansfield Park?

  Oh, if only she had told the duke how much she cared! If only she had shown him that she loved him. Her eyes filled, spilled. If only he believed her …

  A faint sound arrested her tears. A horse. She froze. Had they returned on horseback?

  She pushed to her hands and knees, palms stinging with a thousand cuts. With a stifled sob she rushed back to the cover of the trees, stumbling through thickets and stubby trees.

  Now the breeze carried a faint voice. “Charlotte!”

  She pressed on, blood pulsing in her ears. She would not go to Scotland. She would not be forced to marry someone for whom she could not care. She would not!

  A large rock loomed in front of her. She hurried forward, its very bulk providing assurance. As she huddled in the dark, she heard another voice, a much, much fainter voice, calling her to be still, to wait, to trust God.

  She closed her eyes. Lord, forgive me for not trusting. Help me believe Your plans are good. Help me trust Your promises, no matter what tonight brings.

  Gradually the voice calling faded, and her heart’s wicked pace dropped to a mere gallop. She breathed in, wrapping her arms around her knees, wishing she still had the dark cloak to hide beneath. But she’d left that in the carriage. The carriage! Had Lord Markham been hurt? She did not care for him, but—Lord, please don’t let him be injured. She shivered. How could she have ever thought herself in love with him? His actions tonight had proved his love selfish, whereas the duke …