by Sandra Heath
“I seem to recall,” she said coldly, “that you once boasted that your conduct toward me had at all times been correct.”
“I also said that my conduct was always the result of yours, which it is at this very moment. Be sensible, Miss Wyndham, my carriage would be much more convenient for you right now, and I promise you that whatever you may have heard to the contrary, it is not my habit to molest ladies in broad daylight in the middle of London. Your chastity is perfectly safe; you may be perfectly assured of that.”
She felt she had no choice, for she did not like the attention they were attracting. Reluctantly she accepted his arm, stepping from the shelter of the library doorway and across the rainswept pavement to the waiting carriage. He bandied her inside, instructed the coachman to drive to Henrietta Street, and then climbed in as well, slamming the door behind him. The noise of the rain and the busy London street was immediately muffled and more distant.
He sat on the seat opposite, his long legs so close that they brushed against her skirts. His blue eyes were almost lazy then as they rested speculatively on her. “Now, then, Miss; Wyndham,” he said reasonably, “are you going to tell me to what tittle-tattle you’ve been paying foolish attention? Or am I going to have to guess?”
“Has it not occurred to you that my manner is born purely and simply from an instinctive dislike?”
“Yes, that had indeed occurred to me, but I dismissed it immediately because I did not think a daughter of George Wyndham’s would be so foolish as to allow such a thing to completely color her views.”
Hearing her father’s name on his lips so swiftly after the revelations in the library forced her to look quickly away. A sudden rush of mixed emotions beset her and she had to look out at the rainy street to hide her reaction as best she could.
He watched her, a slight frown creasing his brow. “Very well, since you will not tell me, I’m forced to arrive at the answer by a process of elimination. I shall begin with the furor aroused by this idiocy of Lord Westington’s. Ah, I see that I have hit the bull at first shot.”
She was looking at him in disgust. “How can you speak so sneeringly of it? You’ve gravely injured Lord Westington’s honor, and now you have the gall to call his reaction idiocy. You’re beneath contempt, sir.”
A cold fury leapt into his eyes. “Damn you for saying that! If anyone’s honor has been injured in all this, it’s mine.”
“I fail to see how.”
“No doubt, but it so happens that I’m not and never have been—” He broke off sharply as something outside caught his full attention.
The carriage had come to a temporary halt in a crush outside the fashionable haberdashers, Messrs. Clark & Debenham of 44 Wigmore Street, and a young woman was just emerging into the rain. She was dressed in a deep-rose spencer and there were matching ribbons on the dainty hat on her dark, curly hair. She had wide brown eyes and an oval face of quite breathtaking sweetness, but it was her walking gown that held Charlotte’s gaze, for it was of pale-pink muslin, sprigged with silver-gray, and its hem was adorned with satin bows and vandyked lace. The young woman could be none other than Sylvia Parkstone.
At that moment, as if she sensed the close scrutiny to which she was being subjected, she looked directly at the carriage. She met Max’s eyes, her expression cold.
Charlotte was very aware of the atmosphere that suddenly pervaded the carriage, and when she looked at Max, she saw how inscrutable his face had become, and how still. As the carriage jerked forward once more, Charlotte looked out again and for a fleeting moment her glance met the young woman’s, but then the carriage had carried them apart and she could see no more.
Max remained silent for a while, and she couldn’t tell what his thoughts were, but then he looked at her. “As I was saying, Miss Wyndham, if anyone’s honor has been injured in all this, it’s mine. I am not and never have been Lady Westington’s lover, although she has long wished that I was. Oh, no doubt you regard that as the ultimate in male arrogance, but it happens to be the truth. She pursued me without success and now wreaks her vengeance by accusing me of having vilely seduced and maltreated her, which fairy story her fool of a husband chooses to believe. I promise you, Miss Wyndham, that I’ve given him every opportunity to retract, but he persisted in reiterating his accusations very publicly indeed, in the end leaving me little choice but to pick up the gauntlet. That is the truth about this duel, madam, not the idle gossip to which you’ve apparently been lending your gullible ears.”
She said nothing. He sounded so very plausible, but how could she really believe a man whose reputation with other men’s wives was as notorious as Max Talgarth’s? The carnage entered Cavendish Square and at last turned into Henrietta Street, halting at her door, but as she quickly made to alight, he leaned across to prevent her.
“Miss Wyndham,” he said softly, “what other tales you may have given credence to I shudder to think, but this much I ask of you: in future, please allow that there are two sides to every story, and that maybe, just maybe, my side is occasionally the more creditable.” He opened the door then, stepping down to the wet pavement and turning to hold out his hand to her.
She slipped her fingers into his as she alighted, but then quickly snatched her hand away and made to hurry into the house without another word, but his voice detained her.
“Isn’t there something else apart from your manners that you’ve forgotten, Miss Wyndham?”
She turned coldly. “I don’t think I’ve forgotten anything at all, sir.”
“Oh, but there is.” He leaned into the carriage and took out the volumes of Glenarvon, which she’d left on the seat. “Please don’t leave me alone with Lady Caroline, for she is a lady whose word you simply cannot trust.”
Only too aware of the mocking light in his eyes, she hurriedly took the books and then went quickly into the house. When she glanced out from the drawing-room window a moment later, she saw his carriage pulling away. He sat gazing straight ahead, not looking back once.
She made up her mind not to say anything to her mother about what had happened, for it didn’t seem right or necessary to ruin the happiness aroused by the arrival of Richard’s letter. It wouldn’t help her mother in the slightest to know that someone suspected foul play in her husband’s death. Such news would only cause deep distress. It was all better left unsaid, especially as there was no proof at all that Sylvia Parkstone, who was undoubtedly Max Talgarth’s avowed enemy, was being anything other than malicious when she’d suggested what she did in the library.
In spite of this resolution to say nothing, Charlotte’s own doubts were very unsettling, and rather than let her mother see that something had upset her, she spent most of the rest of the day in her bedroom, ostensibly to commence reading Glenarvon, but really to try to come to terms with what she’d overheard.
Her bedroom, at the front of the house, was a soothing place with green-and-white-striped walls and green velvet curtains with golden tassels and fringes. The plain bed had a coverlet of the same green velvet, and the dressing table was draped with frilled white muslin. Beside the plain fireplace was a single comfortable chair, and in the far corner stood a table with a bowl and water jug, and the small wardrobe, which was more than adequate for the few clothes now in her possession.
She sat in the fireside chair, the first volume of Glenarvon open on her lap, but she made no attempt to read it; she just sat there, gazing at the raindrops meandering slowly down the windowpanes. The blue sky was still close by, but could not quite push the clouds aside. A rainbow arced across the heavens to the north of Cavendish Square, its colors brilliant against the reluctantly retreating storm.
For a long, long while she thought about Max Talgarth and what he had said. He had accused her of being woefully disposed to believe only ill of him, and perhaps he was right, for her opinion had been swayed long before she’d met him; he had his reputation and his liaison with Judith to thank for that. And today she’d been further swayed by the words
of a woman who’d made no secret at all of her loathing for him. Was that right or fair? One should never believe all one heard, for if one did, then one would honestly think Bonaparte to be a hideously deformed dwarf who ate only frogs’ legs, and the Prince Regent to be a monster toward his poor, defenseless, virginal wife, Caroline of Brunswick, whose present antics on the Continent proved her to be the very opposite—if, indeed, one could believe those lurid tales either! No, anyone must be considered innocent until proven guilty, and that included Sir Max Talgarth, against whom there was not one shred of proof, no matter how much Sylvia Parkstone may plead.
Charlotte took a deep breath then. Her mind was made up: she would do her best to forget what she’d so unwillingly eavesdropped upon; indeed, she would do her best to forget everything about Max Talgarth, for there was nothing she could do about him anyway. Settling back as comfortably as she could, she applied herself to Glenarvon.
Chapter Six
Mrs. Wyndham was still in high spirits the following morning at breakfast, rattling on at great length about the very cheering prospects opened up by her brother’s letter. As she thought about some of the very grand town houses she knew were available in Mayfair, there was a sparkle about her that had been absent for nearly a year.
Charlotte was quiet. Try as she would, she couldn’t put the previous day’s events from her mind, and after a while her mother noticed her withdrawn mood. “Is something wrong, Charlotte? You’re unusually quiet this morning.”
“I’m quite all right, truly I am,” replied Charlotte, hurriedly rousing herself to look brighter.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Yes.”
“You weren’t up too late reading that dreadful book?”
“Not too late.”
Mrs. Wyndham studied her for a moment. “But you were reading it?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“It’s just that your answer seemed less than enthusiastic. You waited for so long for the wretched thing, and now that you have it, you haven’t said anything about it. Wasn’t it worth the wait?”
“Well, Lady Caroline isn’t the world’s most talented writer, and her plots are so wildly improbable that they’re positively ridiculous.”
“With all due respect, Charlotte, you knew that before you started, and on your own admission your sole reason for acquiring the book was because you wished to read its attacks upon society.”
Charlotte smiled. “Yes, and in that respect it measures up to expectations. Lady Melbourne is caricatured most horridly as the Princess of Madagascar, your poor William is positively pilloried as the heroine’s far-too-worldly husband, Lord Avondale, and Lord Byron is suitably monstrous as the cruel lover, Glenarvon. Lady Caroline herself, needless to say, is the sweet, innocent, misunderstood heroine Calantha, whose ruin is brought about by anyone and everyone but herself. The whole thing is a vitriolic attack on Melbourne House et al. and I’m thoroughly enjoying it, my only quibble being that Judith Taynton fails to make an appearance. If the book had been mine, she wouldn’t have slipped through the net.”
“So, you can quite understand why it was reprinted three times in as many weeks when it was published last year.”
“Yes, and I can well believe that there were some very red faces in some very important drawing rooms. No one comes out of it very well, but then, as far as I can see, none of them deserve to.”
Her mother looked shrewdly at her. “You believe that you’d have written a much better book, don’t you?”
“I like to think I could,” admitted Charlotte.
“Well, I’m glad that you haven’t put pen to paper, for if we’re destined to reenter society, I wish to be able to look them all in the eye.” Mrs. Wyndham folded her napkin and rose from her chair. “I mustn’t sit here chitter-chattering any longer, I’ve far much to do before Richard arrives.”
Alone, Charlotte poured herself another cup of coffee and then sat back. Her mother’s remark about writing a book like Glenarvon had set her mind working. How very satisfying an exercise it would be, if Lord Byron was the perfect model for Glenarvon, how much more splendid model would Max Talgarth be for a similar story…. The thought slid into her head almost before she realized it, and then the more she thought about it, the more excellent a notion it seemed. The terrible things she’d heard said of him the previous day provided plots in plenty, and Max himself, so darkly handsome, satirical, and infamous, was surely a villainous hero second to none.
Oh, how tempting a thought. Slowly she put her cup down. It was too tempting—how could she possibly resist? And what harm would there be? It wasn’t as if, like Lady Caroline, she ever intended trying to publish her scribbles….
She glanced outside, where the rain of the previous day had gone and the sun was shining warmly from a clear May sky. She would go for a walk in Regent’s Park and give the matter of a book of her own some very careful thought.
* * *
Mr. Nash’s magnificent new thoroughfare, Regent Street, now stretched as far north as the old royal park at Marylebone, where it ended in the gracious curve of Park Crescent. The royal land was being laid out at Regent’s Park, a fine, landscaped area to be a fitting end to the new road, which started at the Prince Regent’s residence, Carlton House.
There were originally intended to be at least forty elegant villas in the park, including one for the prince himself, set among groves of specially planted trees and beside the three-branched, serpentine lake, but now it seemed that very few of them would be built. The lake was there, however, glittering brightly beneath the sun, and the only sound, apart from the background noise of the city, came from the workmen on nearby St. John’s Lodge, one of the few buildings to have been begun.
It was just after midday when Charlotte entered the park, strolling at a very leisurely pace as she enjoyed the scenery and thought about her book. After a while she began to sense that someone was watching her. It was an uncomfortable feeling, making her glance around. Away to her right there were two gentlemen riding toward some trees, while down to her left by the lake a laughing party of ladies and children were seated on the grass. There didn’t seem to be anyone paying particular attention to her, but as she walked on again, the feeling that she was being watched became more and more strong. At last she couldn’t bear it anymore and turned around to retrace her steps.
A short while before, she had passed a little pavilion set among flowering shrubs, and as she walked back toward it, a lady suddenly appeared, strolling in the direction Charlotte had been taking herself but a moment before. She was tall and stylish, with short dark hair. Her pelisse was of sapphire-blue velvet, and her ruffled gown of the sheerest cream lawn, its hem enviably stiffened in the very latest fashion. Her shoes were particularly pretty, their cream satin slashed to reveal blue beneath, and she carried a frilled pagoda parasol that she twirled a little as she walked. There was something oddly familiar about her.
The distance between them lessened, and then quite suddenly the lady halted a few feet away. “Good morning, Miss Wyndham.”
Charlotte gave a start as she realized abruptly who the other was: Sylvia Parkstone. “How do you know who I am?” she asked, so caught by surprise that the rather lame inquiry was all that sprang to mind.
“When I saw you with Max Talgarth yesterday, I made it my business to find out.”
Charlotte didn’t care for the thought of someone making secret inquiries about her. “Did you, indeed?” she replied a little stiffly.
“Please don’t be angry,” said the other quickly, “for I mean no insult or impertinence. I’m just deeply concerned that you, of all people, should not fall under that man’s influence. You mustn’t see him again, Miss Wyndham, for it’s my firm conviction that he deliberately brought about your father’s death.” She hesitated, putting out an anxious hand. “Forgive me for saying such a dreadful thing, but I felt I simply had to approach you. You don’t seem surprised by what I say.”
“No, beca
use I already know your feelings on the matter, Miss Parkstone. I was in the library yesterday and heard everything that passed between you and Lady Judith.”
“You were there? But where?”
Charlotte explained the circumstances. “So you see,” she finished, “your conversation was not as private as you imagined it to be.”
“Forgive me if this sounds a little rude, but I find it amazing that after all you’d just heard, you should accept a seat in his carriage.”
“Yes, it does sound a little rude, since you do not know exactly what happened.”
“I’ve offended you, and I really didn’t mean to.” Sylvia’s face was crestfallen and her cheeks red.
Charlotte found herself unexpectedly liking her new acquaintance. “I’m not really offended, Miss Parkstone, for I can quite understand that my action does seem a little unlikely. The truth of it is that he didn’t give me much choice. He was very angry indeed because he guessed that I’d been listening to rumors about him. And before you ask, no, I didn’t broach the subject of my father’s death or your sister’s. All that was mentioned was the duel he is soon to have with Lord Westington, a duel which he insists was forced upon him and in which he claims he is the injured party. He was as eloquent in his own defense as you are for the prosecution.”
“And you believed him?”
“I don’t know what to think, and that’s the truth.”
“Are you in love with him, Miss Wyndham?”
Charlotte’s lips parted in astonishment. “Certainly not! Why ever do you ask?”
“You seemed a little…. Well, you seemed as if you were defending him.”
“I can hardly defend him since I don’t know anything about it. Sir Maxim and I do not see eye to eye, Miss Parkstone, so love is one of the last things I feel toward him.”
“Forgive me for having asked such a thing, it’s just that I know how very winning Max can be when he chooses. My sister continued to adore him, even when he treated her abominably, and my cousin Judith…. Well, Judith is beyond redemption.”
