A Scandalous Publication

by Sandra Heath

  By now Charlotte was aware of the stir. “Why are they so interested in us? Surely we aren’t that noteworthy.”

  “That’s just what I was thinking.”

  “I know there’s bound to be a certain amount of interest, but not this much.”

  He put his hand over hers. “If it bothers you, we can leave.”

  “It doesn’t bother me. I just want to know what’s going on. I feel rather too conspicuous, as if there’s some dreadful sign above my head that only I know nothing about.”

  At that moment the orchestra began to play the overture to Zaira, shortly after which the curtain rose, and all attention was temporarily diverted to the stage. But if Max and Charlotte hoped that that would be the end of the unwelcome stir, they were soon disabused of the notion, for the ripple of interest continued, circulating the auditorium surreptitiously, as if sheltering behind the screen of music.

  As the first act ended, a positive buzz of chatter broke out, and Charlotte was now very uneasy and uncomfortable. She had been so looking forward to her first appearance in public with Max, but this wasn’t how she wished it to be.

  Max turned to her. “I think we should leave. I don’t like you being exposed to such unwarranted….” He broke off as there was a cautious tapping at the door of the box. In no mood to be particularly polite, he turned sharply. “Yes? Who is it?”

  An elderly gentleman peered in almost apologetically. “Max, my boy, there’s no need to snap my head off.”

  Max’s eyes cleared. “Randall. Forgive me, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “May I have a discreet word with you?”

  “Of course, please come in. Allow me to present Miss Charlotte Wyndham. Charlotte, this is Sir Randall Hopson, my neighbor at the Albany.”

  Charlotte smiled at him. “Sir Randall.”

  “Miss Wyndham.”

  He was a dapper, slightly built man, looking almost fragile in an indigo velvet coat. An immense diamond pin nestled in the lace-edged folds of his neckcloth, and there were a great many rings on his slender fingers. He wore heavy cologne, which wafted over her as he drew her hand to his lips. Then he turned a little uneasily to Max. “May we speak in private?”

  Max’s eyes became suspicious then. “I take it that it has something to do with all this damned whispering?”

  “Well….” The other’s glance slid awkwardly toward Charlotte. “Look here, Max, I can’t possibly say anything in front of, of—”

  “I rather think you’ll have to, Randall, since whatever it is evidently concerns her as well.”

  “If you insist.”

  “I do.”

  “I don’t relish saying this, Max, but I don’t think you can possibly know about it yet.”

  “Know about what? Damn it, Randall, will you get to the point?”

  “The book, dear boy, the book. It was published today by that scurrilous wretch Horace Wagstaff of Covent Garden, and already, as you can see, it’s causing a stir and a half. Damned reprobate you may be, but—”

  “What are you talking about? What have I got to do with this book?”

  “It’s a roman à clef, just like Caro Lamb’s masterpiece, and the key’s just as pathetically easy to understand as hers. For the princely sum of fifteen shillings, anyone who wishes can read your supposed escapades, for you’re quite obviously meant for the monstrous villain of the piece. Why, the wretched character’s name even sounds like yours.”

  Charlotte felt suddenly ice-cold. She felt the color beginning to drain from her face. Surely it couldn’t possibly be…. She thrust the dreadful thought away. No, it couldn’t be, it mustn’t be!

  Max was staring at his friend. “I’m meant for someone in this book?”

  “A damned demon of a fellow, cheating his friends, tormenting and murdering his wife, ruining and conniving at the death of a chap who won’t sell him his house, and then seducing the wretched man’s daughter. I could go on, Max, but that’s the general way of it, and anyway, I’ve already said far more than I should in front of Miss Wyndham, don’t you think?”

  Max was very still. “Randall, if this is some kind of jest….”

  “Sweet Lord above, do you think I’ve taken leave of my senses? Courage ain’t exactly overpresent in my makeup, and the last thing I’d want to risk is becoming your fifth opponent. Of course it isn’t a jest; it’s only too true, and when I saw you both sitting here so evidently unaware of what was going on, well, I couldn’t let it continue without warning you. I know you, Max, and many a thing you’d do, but not these things. I don’t know who the author is, but whoever it is has seen to it that you’re in for a very rough time socially.”

  Max nodded. “So that was why Bob Westacot behaved as he did earlier.” He looked quickly at Charlotte’s pale face, taking her by the hand. “I’m so very sorry you’ve been subjected to this, this…. Well, words fail me, I’m so very angry that someone has seen fit to write and publish such a despicable book.”

  She couldn’t reply, she was too shocked. It all sounded so horridly familiar, and yet it didn’t. In her book she had accused him of a great deal, but not seducing her; apart from that, it could have been Kylmerth Sir Randall had described….

  Sir Randall looked anxiously at her. “Forgive me, my dear, for no lady should be exposed to such infamy.”

  “That—that’s quite all right, sir,” she said a little shakily.

  “Perhaps now is hardly the time, but I gather that congratulations are in order.”

  “Thank you.”

  He glanced at Max. “I’ll make myself scarce. I’m sorry to have been the bearer of such ill tidings.”

  “Thank you for having the goodness to tell us.”

  “Think nothing of it, I regard you as a friend.”

  As he went to the door, Charlotte suddenly spoke again. “Sir Randall?”

  “Yes?”

  “What is the name of the book?”

  “Name? I can’t recall it for the moment. No, wait a second, it’s Kylmerth. Yes, that’s it, Kylmerth.”

  The name seared through her like a hot knife. She felt faint, clinging to the arms of her chair to prevent herself from swaying. No, it couldn’t be true, it simply couldn’t! She closed her eyes for a moment. She couldn’t pretend, it was her book; someone had stolen it, altered it a little, and had it published. But who would do such a thing? Her eyes flew open then and she stared across the auditorium at the Barstow box. Judith sat there gazing back, a spiteful little smile curving her rosebud lips. Suddenly Charlotte remembered Polly, the little maid who had been so unexpectedly accosted in the street by a lady who answered Judith’s description only too closely. Polly cleaned the bedroom at Henrietta Street, maybe she’d discovered the manuscript hidden away so carefully at the back of the wardrobe. It was the only explanation; by pure chance, Judith had discovered about the book and had had it stolen. This was her revenge.

  The second act of the opera had commenced, but the buzz of conversation scarcely died away, droning busily on as the music played. Max took his seat again, his eyes cold and dark, his lips a thin, bitter line. Charlotte sat miserably at his side, her mind spinning at the quandary in which she now found herself. Should she risk telling him and alienating him forever? He had placed such importance upon her believing in his innocence, so how was he going to feel when he discovered that she had so deliberately written all those lies? Would it be wiser to remain silent and hope with all her heart that her guilt was never discovered? This she discarded almost immediately, for the manuscript was hers and if, as was bound to happen, he went to see Mr. Wagstaff at Covent Garden, he would recognize her writing if he saw any of the pages. It was possible, of course, that Judith had had the manuscript copied—after all, she had apparently changed the ending—but there seemed too little time for everything. No, her guilt was bound to be revealed in the end, and so she had to tell him; to say nothing would anyway be the grave betrayal of love. She steeled herself. “Max….”

  He didn’
t hear, for abruptly he got up. “I’ve had enough; I’m beginning to feel like an inmate of Bedlam.”

  Slowly she nodded, slipping her chill hand into his and rising to her feet. As they left the box, a veritable storm of chatter broke out behind them. She felt quite numb, searching for the right words for her confession as they walked along the silent passage behind the boxes. Liveried footmen bowed, having evidently learned the story, for their curious eyes followed as the two began to descend the grand staircase.

  Halfway down, Max halted, taking her hands and turning her to face him. “I swear to you that I’ll seek out and punish whoever did this, I’ll show no mercy.”

  “Max, I—” Again the awful confession hung trembling on her fearful lips.

  He put a finger against them, stopping her words. “It must be done, sweetheart, for whoever has done it has insulted my honor beyond all endurance, and has hurt you, which last I shall never forgive. I won’t let it pass unchallenged, you may be sure of that, and I won’t rest until the guilty have been made to pay my price for this monstrous libel. Unfortunately I have a vital appointment in the morning, but my afternoon is free enough. I’ll show Wagstaff no quarter until he tells me what I want to know.”

  Her heart twisted with guilt, pain, and dread of losing him, but her confession died unsaid. His bitter anger was too much, and she simply couldn’t bring herself to face him.

  Their carriage was at last brought to the door and they emerged into the night, where the air was blessedly cool against her skin. She sat back against the coach’s soft velvet seat, her head leaning wearily against the glass. She had amused herself by writing a silly book, and then she had forgotten about it; now it had come out of the shadows to haunt her and she would have to face the consequences.

  As the carriage pulled away down the Haymarket, she struggled again to find the right words, to soften the blow her confession would deal him, but the words wouldn’t come. She sat in stricken silence, an almost overwhelming sense of sick apprehension flooding secretly through her. Courage was something she had never lacked before, but now it deserted her completely. By the time they reached Henrietta Street it was too late.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Richard and Mrs. Wyndham were alone in the house, and it was immediately apparent that they too had learned about the book. They expressed their sorrow at what had happened, assuring Max that they did not for a moment give credence to the lies printed in Kylmerth. He stayed for a while while they discussed the situation, and Charlotte sat miserably with them, not saying anything and wishing that she could find the courage to tell the truth. But her tongue seemed frozen, turned to ice by the bleakness of Max’s cold fury at what had been done.

  How she endured the remainder of that dreadful evening she didn’t know. She moved in a dream, as if she wasn’t really there but was observing everything from afar. She felt utterly devastated, plunged into the depths of despair by the actions of a jealous, discarded mistress who bore her only malice and who had undoubtedly succeeded in what she had set out to do.

  When Max had gone, having again promised her that he would leave no stone unturned in his quest for the culprit, she went back in to the drawing room, knowing that she must tell Richard and her mother what she had been too afraid to tell Max.

  Richard had already observed that there was more to his niece’s strained silence than just upset at being the focus of so much unwelcome attention. He went to her as she came back into the drawing room, put his arm around her shoulder, and squeezed her gently. “Are you going to tell us what’s really wrong?”

  Mrs. Wyndham smiled anxiously as well. “Yes, Charlotte, are you? It’s obvious even to me that there’s something very distressing on your mind.”

  Tears suddenly flooded into Charlotte’s eyes. “I wrote the book,” she whispered. “I wrote it, and it was stolen from my wardrobe.”

  They both stared at her.

  “Oh, please don’t look at me like that,” she pleaded. “I’m so miserable I wish I was dead!” Flinging herself onto a sofa, she hid her face, her shoulders shaking convulsively with her sobs.

  Mrs. Wyndham went hurriedly to comfort her. “Charlotte, Charlotte my dear, please don’t cry.”

  “I don’t know what to do. I feel so wretched. I wanted to tell him, but he was so cold and angry that I just couldn’t. He’s bound to find out, and then he’ll hate me. He set such store upon my believing in him, so what will he feel when he discovers that I wrote all those things?” Charlotte’s heart was breaking; happiness was fleeing from her outstretched fingertips, and try as she would, she knew she couldn’t cling to it or gather it back safely again.

  Mrs. Wyndham was almost in tears herself at seeing her daughter so distraught. “Please, Charlotte,” she begged, “don’t take on so, You’ll make yourself ill. Richard, bring a glass of cognac.”

  He had been standing there, not knowing what to do. “Yes. Yes, of course.” He hurried out.

  Mrs. Wyndham shook Charlotte’s shoulders gently but firmly. “Charlotte,” she said a little sternly, “take a grip on yourself immediately. This won’t do at all and it just isn’t like you. Now, then, sit up and take this handkerchief.”

  The firm tone had a calming effect, and taking gulping breaths to try to steady herself, Charlotte sat up, taking the handkerchief.

  Richard came back in. “It seems the admiral had the last of the bottle earlier. Mrs. White’s sent Polly down to the cellar to bring another one. It won’t be long.” He went to Charlotte, taking her shaking hand. “Are you feeling a little better now?”

  She took another deep, tremulous breath. “Yes,” she said almost inaudibly, “at least, I think so.”

  At that moment Polly came hurrying in with a tray on which stood the decanted cognac and several glasses. Seeing the maid, whom she suspected of assisting Judith, Charlotte rose swiftly to her feet, fixing the startled maid with a furious gaze. “You did it, didn’t you, Polly? You saw that manuscript in my wardrobe and knew what it was, so that when Lady Judith approached you and offered you money if you could tell her anything to harm me, you took my book and gave it to her. Didn’t you?”

  Polly’s eyes were as round and frightened as a rabbit’s and she began to shake so much that she would have dropped the tray had not Richard rescued it. “M-Miss Charlotte? I d-don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “I heard Mrs. White talking to you about seeing you with a lady in a yellow carriage.”

  “But I didn’t tell her ladyship anything,” wailed the maid. “I said that there wasn’t anything to know and that she shouldn’t ask me. Please, Miss Charlotte, you must believe me.”

  Charlotte was shaking with distress again. “I can’t believe you when I know you spoke to her. You have access to my room every single day. Do you really expect me to believe you didn’t know the manuscript was there?”

  Polly was distraught too. “I saw it—of course I saw it—but I didn’t know what it was.”

  “I don’t believe you!”

  “But, Miss Charlotte,” whimpered the maid, her cheeks wet with tears, her little apron crumpled between her trembling hands, “the manuscript could have been anything. I can’t read.”

  Charlotte stared at her.

  “I can’t read. I saw only sheets of paper with writing on, that’s all. You must believe me. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, truly I wouldn’t.”

  “Oh, Polly,” whispered Charlotte, conscience-stricken. “I’m so sorry, please forgive me. I could only think that you gave it to Lady Judith.”

  “I wouldn’t do that, Miss Charlotte, nor would Mrs. White. Whoever took your book to her ladyship, it wasn’t anyone in this house; it was an outsider.”

  Charlotte lowered her eyes and nodded.

  “Can—can I go now please?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  The maid scuttled out thankfully.

  Mrs. Wyndham took a deep breath. “Charlotte,” she said reproachfully, “you should be a little
more sure of your facts before you accuse someone like that.”

  “I thought I was sure, now I just don’t know. Someone took the manuscript and gave it to Judith.”

  “Are you even sure that Judith is responsible?”

  “She promised to have her revenge, and if you’d seen her at the theater tonight, well, you’d have seen that she’d done it. She was like a great yellow cat, licking its paws after the finest dish of cream ever set before it.”

  Richard led her to a chair. “Sit down and tell us all about it, from the very beginning.”

  In halting tones she told him how the story of Rex Kylmerth had come into being, starting with the inspiration she’d been given by Glenarvon and ending with the last time she’d put the manuscript away in the wardrobe and forgotten all about it. “The book that has in so short a time set society by the ears is mine,” she finished. “It’s the same in every detail except that Judith has altered the ending to include my seduction. Apart from that, I recognize my work only too well.”

  Mrs. Wyndham looked sadly at her. “Oh, my poor dear,” she murmured, “what a fix you’ve got yourself into.”

  “What am I going to do? I know that I should have told Max the moment I realized, but I just couldn’t. I tried, more than once, but I simply couldn’t put it into words. I love him so much, but he’s going to hate me when he finds out. He’s going to the publisher in Covent Garden tomorrow afternoon, and he’ll recognize my writing, I know he will. I’m going to lose him and I don’t think I can bear it.”

  Richard put a firm hand on her shoulder. “Max may be angry now, but when he realizes that you wrote the book before there was anything between you, and when he understands that you never had any intention of having it published—”