by Mary Balogh
He closed his eyes and drew a slow breath. He was still standing in the hallway outside her dressing room.
“I am taking with me as many of my own belongings as I can carry,” he read when he looked back at the letter. “I cannot resist taking my ball gown too. I know you will not mind. And my pearls. They were a wedding gift, I believe, and there was a wedding. I will not feel guilty about taking them, then. They are so very beautiful. I am also taking some of the money I found in the top drawer of the desk in your study. I will need to pay for a ticket to where I am going and for food during the journey. Again, I do not believe you will mind. It is all I will ever take from you. Please tell Augusta that I love her. She will not believe you, but please, please find some way to persuade her to accept that it is true. I am, your grace, your obedient servant, Charity Duncan.”
Charity Duncan. It was like a resounding slap across the face. He crumpled the letter in one hand and really felt for one alarmed moment that he was about to faint. She was Charity Earheart, Duchess of Withingsby. She was his wife—his to protect and support for the rest of his life and even beyond that if she survived him. Whether she chose to live with him or live separately from him, she would always be his. She had written of honor. How did she expect him to retain his honor when she had done this to him?
Where would she have gone? His mind scrambled about in confusion for her probable destination. He was alarmed when he realized that he would not know where in England to begin looking for her. There were only her old lodgings in London. She would have given them up. It was very unlikely she would go back there. No one there would know where she had gone. He doubted she had even told them about Enfield. She had left on yesterday afternoon’s coach. The devil! Had no one seen her leave Enfield—on foot at a guess—and thought to comment to anyone else on that fact or on her failure to return?
His first instinct was to have a bag packed, to call out his carriage, and to set out after her. It seemed not to matter in that first panicked moment that he would not know where he was headed. He would stop at the inn. Perhaps the innkeeper would know her destination—though it might not be her final destination, of course. Somehow he would follow her trail.
But instinct, he realized, closing his eyes and drawing steadying breaths again—he was still standing outside her dressing room—could not always be followed. He could not rush off into the horizon. There were things to be done. A few guests were leaving after breakfast. He must see them on their way. Tillden and his wife and daughter were to leave later. He had promised Charles that he would have a word with Tillden first. He had arranged to have a conference with Will later in the day so that they might set up a working relationship concerning the running of the estates. He had agreed to talk with him at the dower house so that Augusta would have a chance to play with the boys. He had been planning to invite Charity to go with him. There was—ah, there were a thousand and one things that must be attended to today.
Besides, she did not want him to go after her. She did not want to accept his support. She wanted to sever all ties with him. He did not know how much money he had slipped into that drawer in his desk. But he would wager that she had carefully counted out only just enough to purchase her ticket and the most meager of meals. She had taken her pearls, but he knew beyond a doubt that she would not have taken the topaz necklet, which was lying, somewhat incautiously perhaps, in a box on top of that same desk in his study. He had been intending to give it back to her during a private moment—as a gift from both his father and himself.
She did not want him. She preferred freedom and independence and poverty and the life of a governess to the alternative of being in some way beholden to him. He felt blinded by hurt.
Ah, yes, he had been right in his assessment of her the evening after his father’s death. She was a giver. She gave of herself with cheerful, warm generosity. She was not in any way a taker. But did she not understand that there could be a degree of selfishness in being all give and no take? Did she not understand how he would feel at the moment of reading her letter? Did she imagine that he would sag with relief? That he would cheerfully forget her and get on with the rest of his life?
He hated her suddenly.
He saw his guests on their way. He explained to them that his wife was indisposed and sent her apologies. He invited the Earl of Tillden into the library, explained to him that Lord Charles Earheart was to receive a sizable settlement according to the terms of his father’s will and that he himself was preparing to gift his brother with one of his estates, considerably smaller than Enfield, but consistently prosperous. Lord Charles had just the day before expressed his intention of selling his commission and of living as a gentleman, administering his own estate. Lord Charles had asked of his eldest brother—and been granted—permission to pay his addresses to Lady Marie Lucas. He asked permission now through his brother to address himself to the lady’s father.
Charles, the duke did not deem it necessary or even wise to explain to the earl, had had a fondness for Lady Marie all his life, and a deep passion for her for at least the past two years—a love that was reciprocated. His belief in the hopelessness of that love, since she had been intended for the Marquess of Staunton, had precipitated his decision to take a commission in the cavalry.
The Earl of Tillden blustered and bristled and was clearly offended at the offer of a younger son when he had expected the eldest. But Lord Charles was the son and brother of a duke, and he was a wealthy man and was to be a considerable landowner. The boy might talk to him, he agreed at last. He remained in the library while the duke went in personal search of his brother. He was not hard to find. He was pacing, pale-faced and stubborn-jawed and anxious-eyed within sight of the library door.
“He will listen to you,” the duke told him and watched his brother draw in a deep breath and hold it. “Remember who you are, Charles. You are no man’s inferior. You are our father’s son. Good luck.”
Charles walked purposefully toward the library, looking as grimly courageous as he might have looked if he had known for certain that an axman complete with ax and chopping block was awaiting him on the other side of the door.
Augusta could not simply be told that Charity was indisposed. She had to be told at least some of the truth. Charity had had to go away in a hurry, he told his sister while he was sitting on a low chair in the nursery holding her in the crook of his arm as she stood beside him. There was an aunt who was sick and needed her help. He was going to go too as soon as he was able, to find out for himself how long the aunt would need her. If at all possible he would bring her back with him. But sometimes sicknesses could go on for a tediously long time.
He despised himself for not telling the full truth. If he could not find Charity, if he could not persuade her to come home with him and be his wife in total defiance of their agreement, then he was going to have difficulties indeed with Augusta. There would have to be further lies or the confession that he had lied today. But he could not bring himself to tell the truth, to let Augusta know that Charity had never had any intention of staying at Enfield and being a permanent sort of mother to her. It would be unfair to Charity to tell the truth. It would make her sound heartless—and that would be an enormous lie.
Sometimes truth and falsehood were hopelessly confusing things.
Two days passed before he left Enfield in pursuit of his wife. The earl and his family had left—Tillden had come to an agreement with Charles, and the young couple had been permitted fifteen minutes alone together, during which time it had been agreed they might come to an understanding, though of course there could be no formal betrothal until the year of Lord Charles’s mourning was at an end. Lord and Lady Twynham had returned home with their children. Augusta had been granted an extended holiday from the schoolroom in order to stay at the dower house with Will and Claudia. He had merely told everyone that his wife had had to go somewhere in a hurry and he was going to escort her home. No one probed more deeply—he guessed that for tho
se two days he had looked about as approachable as his father had always looked.
Finally the Duke of Withingsby set out on his journey, following a cold trail to nowhere.
CHARITY TRUDGED THE three miles home from the coach stop and walked unheralded through the open front door of the house and into the parlor, where the children were just finishing their tea and were clamoring at Penelope to be allowed back outside to play. David was promising with loud insincerity not to get dirty again and Howard was declaring that his breeches had been torn quite by accident—he had been being very careful. Mary was proclaiming the fact that she had not got dirty or torn her breeches and so there was no reason why Penny should insist on her staying inside. Howard was just in the midst of pointing out the irrefutable fact that Mary did not even wear breeches when Mary spotted Charity standing in the doorway. She shrieked.
And then they were all shrieking or whooping and exclaiming and laughing and talking and hugging and yelling. No one in the Duncan family had ever learned the lesson that talking simultaneously with several other people resulted in little or no communication taking place.
“Well,” Charity said at last, “here I am home again to stay, and you have all grown at least one inch, and if I may just sit down and be allowed a quiet bawl, I shall be myself again in no time at all.”
She proceeded to do just that while Penelope rushed for the teapot and an empty cup and Mary dashed for the plate of scones—or what was left of them—and Howard told Charity how he had torn his breeches quite by accident and had then been falsely accused of being careless. David handed his sister his clean but much crumpled handkerchief.
It felt good beyond belief to be home. She did not tell the truth, of course. But she consoled herself with the thought that there would be no need of any more lies after today—or very few anyway. She told them she had not liked her new employment and so had left it. She told them that she had come home to stay, which would please Phil even if now he would have to bear the burden of their support all alone.
She was not quite sure yet if she really would stay. Perhaps after a while she would try again to find employment, but for a time at least she would be quite happy to stay where she was, licking her wounds, trying to persuade herself that doing the right thing was a virtue in itself and would eventually bring peace and contentment. She had undoubtedly done the right thing.
Penelope was openly relieved to see her. She loved the children and cared well for them, but she did not have quite the firm motherly touch that Charity possessed. Besides, she had a beau—the same gentleman who had offered for Charity once upon a time. Penny was clearly eager to accept his addresses. She was only anxious for assurance that Charity did not want him for herself.
“Of course I do not,” Charity said quite firmly. “If I had wanted him, Penny, I would have had him when he was interested in me—before you grew up enough that he would see you are the prettier.”
“Oh, I am not,” Penny protested, blushing. “But perhaps you refused only because you were needed here, Charity.”
It was partly the truth. But her feelings had not been deeply engaged either.
“I have no intention of marrying,” she said. “I am going to stay here while the children grow up and then I am going to settle in to the congenial life of spinster aunt.” She wondered if she was with child. But that was a complication that would have to be confronted if it proved to be so.
And so she settled back to life at home. She wrote to Philip, who would be happy, she knew. She was not happy about their situation, but miracles when they happened, she had discovered, were not really desirable things after all. Somehow they would manage. Somehow Phil would reach a point at which he would feel able to marry Agnes and begin a life of his own.
She tried not to think of Enfield or of any of the people there. In particular she tried not to think about him. It was impossible, of course. She felt sometimes as if he were actually a part of her, as if the physical oneness she had known with him in his bed had somehow passed into her soul. But she did succeed somehow in keeping him just below the level of conscious thought—for several minutes at a time and several times each day. The nights were a different matter, of course.
She kept herself busy. There was always plenty to do at home, and there was much to do beyond home too. There were friends and neighbors to be visited. She had been away for almost a year, after all. It felt very good to be back.
IT WAS AMAZING how many ladies in brown had traveled on the stagecoach and left it at various destinations to disappear either on foot or in dogcarts or private carriages or other public vehicles in every direction of the compass. He wasted several days pursuing the most promising of the leads only to find that they led nowhere. Finally it seemed he had only two places left to go—back to Enfield or forward to London. She would certainly not have returned to Enfield. Yet if she had gone to London, his chances of finding her were slim indeed. He did have one moment of inspiration when he remembered the letter of recommendation that had been written by the rector of her former parish. But try as he could he was unable to remember the name of the place in Hampshire. The letter with all the applications had been destroyed. Besides, she had left that place because she no longer had a home there. It was unlikely she would go back there now.
He went to London. And since he had to begin his search somewhere, no matter how hopeless he felt, he went to the place where she had had lodgings before she married him. Even doing that was not easy. He could not remember exactly where it was. Fortunately his coachman was a little more sure. He drove to the wrong street at the first try, but they both recognized the second street and the building.
No, Miss Duncan no longer lived there, the landlord informed the duke when he asked, and no, he did not know where she had gone. No, she had not come there within the last week. They were the answers the duke had fully expected, but until he heard them he did not realize how much he had been hoping that he was wrong. Where would he look now? There was a frightening emptiness before him. There was nowhere else to look except all of England, starting perhaps with Hampshire.
“But Mr. Duncan might know ’er whereabouts, guv,” the landlord said after he had turned to leave. “Hif you cares to come back tonight when ’e’s finished ’is work.”
Mr. Duncan? The duke stared blankly at the man. Her father? He was dead. Her husband? Her brother? She had no brothers. Her husband! He felt his hands at his sides ball into fists. He felt his mouth go dry.
“I shall do that,” he heard himself say. “Thank you.” He handed the man a sovereign.
But, he thought as he was clambering back into his carriage, plotting murder, she had been a virgin.
One thing was very clear to him. Charity Earheart, Duchess of Withingsby, had been telling him a lie or two from the start. Not only was she not a quiet brown mouse, she was also not—Damn it, he thought, he knew nothing about her. Nothing at all. Except that she was his wife. Except that he loved her.
The day seemed endless. It seemed a fortnight long. But finally he was back at the rooming house and was informed that Mr. Duncan had returned from work no more than five minutes before. The duke climbed the stairs and knocked with the head of his cane on the door the landlord had indicated.
A rather tired-looking young man opened the door and looked at him inquiringly—a young man who bore an unmistakable resemblance to Charity. His eyes took in the elegant appearance of his visitor.
“Yes?” he said.
“Mr. Duncan?”
“Yes.” The young man looked wary.
“You have a—sister, I believe,” the duke said. “Charity.”
A frown was added to the wary look. “And if I do, sir?” he said. “What business would you have with my sister?”
The duke sighed. “She happens to be my wife,” he said. “May I come inside?”
He did not wait for an invitation. He stepped past the young man, who was staring blankly at him.
“I suppose,” he
said, turning, “there are a dozen other brothers and sisters too. It would explain a few things.” The adept way in which she had managed them all and sorted out all their lives, for example.
“Who are you?” Mr. Duncan asked.
“Anthony Earheart—”
“Her former employer,” the young man said, his brows snapping together again. “You are a married man, sir, with four young children. If I see before me the reason she felt constrained to leave her employment in such haste, then—”
“Yes, I am indeed a married man,” the duke said. “I married your sister the day after interviewing her in Upper Grosvenor Street. We do not yet have four children or even one, but I have hopes. Much depends upon whether I can run her to earth. She appears to be under the illusion that by hiding herself away she can nullify our marriage.”
Mr. Duncan was staring at him as if he had just dropped off some remote heavenly body. “You married her?” he said faintly. “And she has left you? She is hiding from you? What the devil—”
“I feel constrained to add,” his grace said, “that I love my wife. I trust you know where she is. Managing the lives of the other dozen of you, I suppose.”
“You love her? Yet she has run off from you after a mere few weeks?” the other man said. “I confess to total bewilderment, sir. And to a total unwillingness to give you any information that might put my sister in danger.”
The duke sighed. “You have good fraternal instincts,” he said. “I would have despised you heartily if you had fallen upon my neck without further ado and embraced me as a brother. I have Lord Rowling sitting in my carriage outside in the street, doubtless bored to incoherence at the lengthy wait. He was a witness at my marriage. My marriage papers are also in the carriage. I shall fetch both if you will promise not to bolt the door as soon as my back is turned. I mean to find my wife.”
