“It is very kind of you to look after him,” Lord Wentwell offered. Charity turned her face to look up at him, expecting a grin that revealed that he was mocking her in some way. Instead, she found only open approval and something else that she did not wish to name for it might easily be mistaken for admiration.
“Thank you,” she whispered, overcome with feeling at the compliment. She could not say why his approval mattered, but it had, greatly.
“Many would have hired a companion.”
Charity nodded absently, thinking Mother had considered a companion, but that would only leave another knowledgeable about the Earl’s condition, and both she and Charity decided that was an unnecessary risk. Only a few trusted servants understood the state of affairs, and it was best that way.
Charity chose her vial, a small bottle that hung from a strip of leather. She thought that her father might like to carry it round his neck so that he might always have the drink available.
Lord Wentwell paid for the drink before Charity had the chance to count the coin from her father’s purse, as she was unused to such financial matters. She looked up at him baffled. She wondered why he was being so kind. As Charity prepared to say her farewell, determined to return to her father as soon as possible, she scanned the crowd for her father’s form spread upon their blanket.
Except… the blanket was empty.
There, in the middle of the crowd sat the empty length of cloth. In the few moments that it had taken her to make her purchase, her father had disappeared. She scanned the crowd with panicked eyes. He was nowhere to be seen.
“Lady Charity, are you quite alright?” Lord Wentwell asked when he observed the fear that was written upon her features and she clutched his arm.
“My… my father!” she cried. Without another word Charity took off at a run to reach her blanket. She cared not what anyone might think of her race through the crowd. He father was missing and the world was spinning around her in chaos as she began to understand the dire situation. This was the opera all over again, and this was worse. This time she did not even have her mother at her side.
Lord Wentwell was hot on her heels as he skidded to a stop at the edge of the blanket.
“Perhaps a servant has taken him for relief,” he offered.
Charity shook her head. “We were here alone. It was meant to be our special day.”
“Whose foolish idea was that?” Lord Wentwell snapped as he scanned the crowd. The benefit of his height allowed him a better view of the occupants of the park.
“Do you see him?” she asked. Charity wanted to grab Lord Wentwell by the front of his coat and shake him until he found the direction of her father. Her fear was overwhelming, and she had no one else to turn to save this man at her side.
With pursed lips, Lord Wentwell shook his head. “No, but he would not have gone home and left you.”
Charity thought he might have tried to. He had done so in the past. She thought of the opera, and her mind refused to focus in its panicked state. She could not make herself think, but think she must.
“I cannot imagine what disaster would have enticed him to leave you unescorted, but I shall help you find Lady Beresford. I believe she is here. I saw her earlier…”
“No,” Charity blurted. “You do not understand.”
“Enlighten me,” Lord Wentwell said crossing his arms over his broad chest.
She paused. Dare she confide in Lord Wentwell, of all people? What choice did she have? “My Father has moments. He wanders off. He has a…” she groped for a word.
“As he did at Covent Garden several months ago,” Lord Wentwell said.
Charity’s mouth went dry. Sweet heavens, he knew. Her mind went completely blank. She did not know what to do.
Lord Wentwell raised an eyebrow. “Do you think he would have called for a carriage?”
Charity held up her father’s purse in explanation.
“Lack of coin is no impediment. He is an earl. Let us hope he has not gone far,” Lord Wentwell added.
Charity wrung her hands around her fan, twisting it violently. Where would her father have gone off to? If his mind had fallen back into its state of confusion he would be lost for certain. There were days when he did not recognize his daughter’s face, how could he recall the path through the streets that would return him to their residence?
She tried to keep herself calm. The last thing that she wanted to do was raise and alarm and cause a scene at the park. Father would be shamed if his mental incapacities led him to be spoken of as if he were an invalid. His condition was not widely known, at least, not the extent that it had taken hold of him.
“Come,” Lord Wentwell offered his arm. Charity took it without hesitation. His ability to take charge of the situation was just what she needed at the present time. “I shall have my driver take you home,” he explained. “If your father appears there, send word straight away. I shall beg a second seat from my good friend Lord Barton, when I find him. I know he and his sister are here somewhere. I will make a round through the park and look for your father.”
Charity shook her head. She could not leave the park without her father. She feared what it would mean to face her mother’s censure when she had created such a horrible disaster.
“Oh,” she cried. She covered her face with her hands, glad they had reached the row of carriages in the lane and her agony could not be seen by the crowd. “I shall never forgive myself. What if he is in danger?” She looked up at Lord Wentwell with wide, pleading eyes. The thought crossed her mind that she might never see her father again. How would he find his way home if he did not remember who he was? Tears flowed freely down her face.
Again, Lord Wentwell offered to send her home. Charity hated the thought and argued vehemently to remain with Lord Wentwell during his search.
“You cannot,” he said patiently. “First it is a wonder no one has noted our walking together unchaperoned, or your upset, and secondly, someone must check your house for your father. It is possible he had the presence of mind to call a carriage, and he is already home, safe.”
Finally, she was forced to admit that someone did need to check the house and make sure Lord Shalace had not simply gone home. She nodded and accepted the offer. What had seemed like the promise of a perfect day had turned into a disaster.
Charity allowed herself to be handed into the carriage. “If he has returned home, I shall send word.” Another day she might have thought about how the sensation of heat on her elbow the lingered long after Lord Wentwell removed his hand. This day, however, she could think of nothing but her worry for her father. He had once been a savvy, intelligent man who could walk these streets once and memorize the crossroads. These days those moments were few and far between. Now, he was more like to get lost in their own house while looking for a slipper that was on his foot. Charity twisted her fan unmercifully in her hands, and the abused item snapped between her fingers. She tossed it aside, and leaned out the carriage door.
“Lord Wentwell,” she said as she turned a tear-streaked face to the gentleman. “Please find him.”
“I shall.” The gentleman nodded and closed the door between them. With a sharp call to the driver, he send to carriage on its way. Charity felt the wheels lurch forward, and she looked out of the window, anxiously hoping she might catch sight of her father. It was all that she could do to pray and prepare for whatever explanation she might give her mother.
~.~
Chapter Seventeen
When Charity arrived at their spacious townhome in the main district of Bath, she was both relieved and worried to hear that her mother had yet to return. What might happen if the Countess heard whispers of the search? Charity would be in a world of trouble. At the same time, she had none to share her panic with save Jean, who wanted to rally the servants to spread out through the town in search of their master.
“We mustn’t,” Charity replied. “Lord Wentwell is searching. We should not wish for this tragedy to become c
ommon knowledge.”
“I shall tell Robert,” Jean said earnestly.
“Tell him to be discreet,” Charity warned. “And we should call for the physician.”
“Of course, milady.”
Once the message was sent to the physician, and Robert was off to help Wentwell search, the ladies agreed to wait by the front window for the arrival of… anyone.
An hour passed and then two. Charity could not help but think that too much time had passed. Something must have gone wrong. Charity’s mother did not arrive which either meant that she was marshalling her forces or still unaware of the trouble. Charity was not sure which she wished were true.
Charity munched on a biscuit but the sustenance did little to calm the knot that had twisted in her stomach. Jean, was surprisingly calm, as she did her needlework. Charity stood and paced. At least, Jean had all the appearance of one who was waiting patiently for any news.
“Perhaps I should send another note to Lord Wentwell asking… well,” Charity admitted, “I am not sure what to ask but this waiting is unbearable. I should rather plod the streets myself than sit by a window and watch the world fall to ruin around me.”
“All shall be right in the end,” Jean murmured but her words held no conviction.
“Perhaps he has come to harm,” Charity worried. She was well past the point of tears. “It shall all be my doing. I shall never forgive myself”
“You could not have known,” Jean replied. “Do not carry this burden, my lady. I assure you, he will be found. You must have faith.”
Charity perched on the edge of the chair beside Jean, but she could not settle herself. She looked out of the window, as if she could will her father home.
~.~
After Neville Collington had Lady Charity safely in the carriage, he scanned the park, looking for Lord Shalace. He had heard of maladies of the mind which affected older people, but he had never been exposed to such until today. He was sure he would be able to find the gentleman and bring him home. After all, he dealt with his brother, Edmund, and the Earl was a good deal older and no doubt less recalcitrant than his own brother. Certainly, he was less robust. The man was elderly. How difficult could it be to find him and bring him home? But first he had to find him.
The thought of Lady Charity’s joy at her father’s return sustained him as he walked through the park, looking high and low. The concert was nearly over by the time he once again met Reg and Patience along with the Beresford brothers and Lady Amelia. Since he had not yet found the Earl, he enlisted their help. Samuel Beresford stood immediately, but his brother Percival expressed some dismay that the Earl may not be able to do his duty in parliament and noted that Lord Shalace had been absent from the stately body for some time due to his illness.
“A malady of the mind is troubling,” Lord Beresford began.
Neville wondered if he should have been more discreet. This was exactly what Lady Charity had hoped to avoid, but Samuel Beresford smacked his brother on the side of the head and ordered him to take his wife and Lady Amelia home and leave the business of finding the Earl to them.
“The man has a bit of forgetfulness,” Samuel Beresford said. “Do not make a mull of it, Percy.”
“We shall be the squires to your knight,” Reg told Neville.
Lord Beresford grumbled, but his wife made him see that there were quite a number of members of parliament who were absent for much less pressing reasons.
“Besides Beresford, it is not like he is always in such a state,” Reginald added. “Why just yesterday I met him at the Grand Pump Room and he was fine. He asked about you in fact.”
“It is no different than a man in his cups, and we all know, there are some members of parliament who imbibe far more than they should,” Samuel Beresford said. Lady Beresford was clinging to her husband’s arm, anxious to go home, and Percival capitulated.
“I suppose,” Lord Beresford agreed, but he accompanied his wife along with Lady Amelia, to their carriage, leaving Samuel and Reginald to help Lord Wentwell with the search for The Earl of Shalace.
Already much of the crowd had dispersed to return home and prepare themselves for the evening’s events.
“Where could the man have disappeared to?” Reginald asked as their servants gathered the blankets and picnic items. “Just take it all home,” he instructed. “And Lady Charity’s as well. We will sort it later.”
“I am sure I do not know where he has gone,” Neville said. “I have made my way through the crowd twice, but I have not laid eyes on the man. He seems to have disappeared into thin air.”
“Lady Charity must be distraught,” Reg said.
“She is,” Neville agreed.
“Where would a man of his age and sensibility choose to go?” Reg asked.
“I would find a drink,” Samuel Beresford said. “It is deuced hot out here even with evening coming on soon.” Samuel began walking in the direction of the pubs and evening entertainment. “I’m parched. I am sure he was feeling quite the same.”
“We need to find him before full dark,” Neville said concerned.
“Don’t worry old chap,” Samuel said slapping Neville on the back as they walked. “We will find him and you can return him to your little bird safe and sound.”
“She is a lady of the Ton,” Neville said smartly, his eyes narrowed at Samuel’s insinuation.
“She is a woman all the same,” Samuel said sipping from the flask that he had carried to the picnic.
“Careful Beresford,” Reg said. “I think this one is different. If you insult her, you may find yourself on the wrong end of fisticuffs.”
Samuel guffawed. “Wentwell? I don’t give a tinker’s damn. I can take him,” he teased. “I have done, and that was when he outweighed me. Why now, he would split his fancy pants with one good swing.”
“He doesn’t have a good swing,” Reginald teased. “He is no fighter.”
“Leave off, Samuel,” Neville said. “Both of you in fact. She is more than a lady. She is a daughter and she was distraught. This is her father we are searching for. We must find him and soon, before he hurts himself or the gossips get ahold of this rare tidbit.”
“Indeed,” Reg intoned, and the men began a systematic search of the grounds, and then the pubs.
The gentlemen had gone in and out of no less than six pubs but to no avail. Neville and Reginald refused to imbibe, but Samuel was half sprung, saying that they could not enter a pub and not patronize the establishment. It was rude.
They were practically at their wits end when Samuel spied the man. With a guffaw and a broad gesture. “Look at that fool in the fountain,” he said, breaking into laughter.
Then they all saw that the man in question was indeed, The Earl of Shalace, sitting not in a pub, but on the edge of a fountain. He had removed his shoes and stockings and had his feet in the water, which was certainly not for bathing. He stood, not at all steadily in the fountain. His trousers were soaked to his knees.
“Fiend seize it,” Reginald intoned.
“Hurry,” Neville said, “before someone recognizes him.”
The threesome rushed forward, but they were already too late. Mr. Crafton peered nearsightedly at the Earl. “Shalace? Is that you?”
“Oh course it’s me,” the Earl said stumbling forward to catch Mr. Crafton by the lapels to steady himself. He nearly pulled Crafton into the fountain with him. “Do you know me?”
“No he doesn’t,” Wentwell said getting between the men.
By then, the three gentlemen had reached the fountain. “Get his shoes and stockings,” Neville demanded as he and Reg man-handled the Earl out of the fountain. “Let’s get you home,” he said to the Earl.
“Do I know you?”
Samuel collected the stockings and wrung out the wet, before picking up the shoes while Mr. Crafton intoned that the Ton would surely stop talking about how drunk he was when they heard about The Earl of Shalace bathing in the public fountain.
Samu
el stood with the shoes in hand, shrugged in the direction of his friends, and gave the man a sharp push. Crafton fell backwards into the fountain himself.
“Must have had you as an example,” Samuel Beresford said. “Or are you still so ape drunk you wouldn’t know your own mother, Crafton?” Samuel asked as he dumped half the contents of his hip flask on Mr. Crafton’s head and left him to make his own way out of the fountain. “Waste of good whiskey,” Samuel muttered as they moved away from Crafton. “But I doubt any will believe ill of Shalace from Crafton now.”
“Good Lord! Who is that in the fountain?” Lord Cornishe asked of the gentlemen as he came out of the pub.
“Crafton,” Wentwell answered as the frog marched the Earl away from danger.
“Is he tossed?” Lord Cornishe asked.
“Drunk as a wheelbarrow,” Neville intoned as they marched the Earl away.
“Wait,” Shalace said dragging his feet. “I didn’t get my drink.”
“I think you have had quite enough to drink, my lord,” Reg intoned. “You are already quite foxed.”
Once they were out of Cornishe’s view, Samuel thrust his hip flask into the Earl’s hand. “Drink up, man,” he said. “Knowing your wife, I think you are going to need it.”
Shalace took a drink from the flask and sputtered. “That isn’t water,” he said.
“No it is not,” Samuel agreed. “It’s the finest Irish whiskey. Enjoy it, Shalace. And you, Wentwell, you owe me.” He pointed a finger at Neville.
“The Earl of Shalace took another drink from the flask. “It is very smooth,” he agreed smacking his lips in appreciation.
“Nothing wrong with this man’s head that I can see,” Samuel intoned.
“What were we celebrating, gentlemen?” the Earl asked as they attempted to usher him into the carriage. “Or is this the wake? Is someone getting leg shackled?”
Samuel guffawed. “Perhaps Wentwell, there,” he said.
The Deceptive Earl: Lady Charity Abernathy: A Regency Romance Novel Page 15
