A Scandalous Publication

by Sandra Heath

  “I don’t know how you found out, but you did.”

  “Many qualities and accomplishments I’ve claimed in the past, my dear, but not clairvoyance.”

  A ripple of laughter greeted this, and Mr. Wagstaff looked on with delight, for such an entertaining confrontation would spread interest in the book still further. He could almost have rubbed his hands with glee.

  Unhappy tears pricked Charlotte’s eyes as Richard steered her toward the door. The crowd parted for them to pass. Outside everyone seemed somehow to know what had passed in the shop. The tears were wet on Charlotte’s cheeks as she climbed into the anonymity of the waiting carriage, which pulled quickly away into the busy streets beyond Covent Garden.

  For a long while neither Charlotte nor Richard spoke, but then she looked at him. “What am I going to do?” she whispered. “Now Max will never believe what I say. The last thing I expected was for that man to point a finger at me like that. I should have guessed. I should have realized that Judith wouldn’t leave any trace of her involvement, she’s too clever for that.”

  “There’s nothing for it now but to go to Max and tell him the complete truth.”

  “I can’t!”

  “You have to, Charlotte.” He leaned from the window and directed the coachman to drive to the Albany.

  The front of the great house was impossible to approach, for the crowds gathered there hoping for a glimpse of Max were far greater than those outside her house. The coachman had no option but to drive on, approaching the Albany from the rear, drawing the carriage to a standstill on the corner of Vigo Street. Richard left Charlotte there, walking along the pavement to the entrance of the covered walk, where yet another crowd was being moved on by irate constables and wardens. No one gave Richard a second glance as he went inside.

  Charlotte closed her eyes as she waited. Her heart seemed to be rushing so much that she could no longer count its beats. She felt cold and sick, an awful apprehension holding her in a relentless grip from which she felt she would never again be free. Please let Max believe her, let him forgive her.

  Richard returned and sat opposite, shaking his head. “He wasn’t there, he had an appointment this morning from which he hasn’t returned. He isn’t expected to go back there, he doesn’t wish to inflict the crowds and furor on the other residents. I left a message with his manservant that if Max should return, he was to be told to contact you urgently. That was all I could do, Charlotte. I’m sorry.”

  She received the news resignedly. The moment was postponed, that was all. Now she would have to steel herself still more, knowing that in the end all would be lost.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  She waited all day for word from Max, but none came. His silence became ominous. Had he already been to Covent Garden and been told all those clever lies about her? Had Judith succeeded in everything she’d set out to do? The hours crept by on leaden feet, convincing Charlotte that this was indeed what had happened.

  The crowds still gathered in Henrietta Street and outside the Parkstone residence, where preparations for the ball that evening were still going ahead. The parish constables tried time and time again to clear the streets, but each time they did so, after an hour or so the crowds returned. If it was this bad here, thought Charlotte, gazing from her bedroom window, what must it be like outside the Albany now? The home of Rex Kylmerth himself would be bound to be subjected to even more unwelcome attention, more so as the day wore on and word of the book spread ever further.

  The admiral sent a note to Mrs. Wyndham, begging her to come and help with the arrangements for the ball, as Sylvia was still so upset that she frequently burst into tears. Mrs. Wyndham and Richard immediately set off, finding the way momentarily clear as the constables had only just succeeded in moving the onlookers away for what seemed like the hundredth time.

  The afternoon gave way to evening and Mrs. Wyndham and Richard were still at the Parkstone residence. Charlotte was alone in the house, and as the minutes dragged by, her misery intensified. There was no distraction now, no mother to keep telling her that all wasn’t yet lost and that she must be brave and face the fashionable world at the ball, and no Richard to give her that silent, comforting support that gave her more strength than anyone else.

  The evening shadows were creeping across the garden now and Charlotte sat beneath the cherry tree. She knew as she sat there that her courage wasn’t up to the ball, no matter how much her mother told her it was. Oh, why hadn’t Max come? Why hadn’t he at least acknowledged the message that had been left? Surely he owed her that…. She lowered her eyes then. Did he owe her that? Did he owe her anything at all? She’d appeared to him to have stabbed him in the back by writing the book, and he probably had no wish to have anything further to do with her. She blinked back the fresh tears that again stung her eyes. Doubt flooded miserably through her, draining her of everything but a despair that seemed to tighten its hold upon her more and more as the hour of the ball crept ever closer.

  Charlotte still sat beneath the cherry tree, the hem of her beige muslin gown lifting now and then in the light evening breeze, and the lemon ribbons tying her hair fluttering prettily at the back of her neck. Her face was pale, with no soft color to warm her cheeks, and no brightness to put a sparkle in her sad gray eyes. The onus was upon her to go to Max and tell him the whole truth. Maybe he’d refuse to receive her, maybe his love had already been transformed into the most bitter of hatreds, but she had to go to him and risk whatever form his hurt and resentment took. He didn’t owe her anything, but she owed him a great deal.

  Getting up, she went back into the house, where she encountered Mrs. White by the kitchen door. “Mrs. White, will you do something for me?”

  “But of course, Miss Charlotte.”

  “My mother and Mr. Pagett will return shortly to dress for the ball, and I want them to think I shall be going too, but a little later because I’m feeling slightly indisposed. A headache. I shall go to my room and stay there until they’ve left. I want you to procure a cab for me, to wait around the corner by the chapel.”

  “I’ll do that, of course, but, Miss Charlotte, where are you going?”

  “To see Sir Maxim.”

  The cook nodded understandingly. “I’ll do all you ask, Miss Charlotte.”

  “Thank you.”

  Hearing a stir in the crowd which had returned outside, and Richard’s rather angry voice demanding that a way be cleared, she hurried on up the stairs to her room and was safely inside with the door firmly closed when her mother and uncle came into the house. Charlotte quickly took out a silver tissue ball gown she had intended to wear, laying it carefully over a chair beside her silk stockings, satin slippers, and black-and-silver lace shawl, then she drew the curtains and lay down on the bed in the semidarkness.

  A moment later her mother tapped anxiously at the door. “Charlotte? May I come in?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Her mother came quietly to the bedside. “My dear, I do hope your headache isn’t going to stop you from attending the ball, for I’m convinced that going there would be the wisest thing you could do under the circumstances.”

  “If I rest for a while, I’m sure it will soon go. It’s just been such a strain today.”

  “Yes, it most certainly has. Mrs. White tells me that there’s still been no word from Sir Maxim.”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Then I suppose we must conclude—”

  “That he believes Mr. Wagstaff? Yes, I think we can.”

  “I’m so very sorry, my dear.”

  “I’ll be all right. You attend to your dressing, otherwise Muriel simply won’t have time to put your hair up the way you like it.”

  “I don’t like to go when you’re so upset and unwell.”

  “I’m all right,” replied Charlotte firmly. “Go on now.”

  Mrs. Wyndham bent to kiss her daughter’s white cheek and then hurried out, closing the door softly behind her.

  It seemed
an age before at last Richard’s carriage was brought to the door and the crowd became more pressing as it awaited Charlotte’s emergence. Lying on her bed still, she heard the disappointment ripple through them all as only Richard and Mrs. Wyndham came out to climb into the carriage, which drew away as swiftly as it could through the crush of people. Ahead, in Cavendish Square, it was noisier than ever, as everyone waited to see who arrived at the ball. The Parkstone house was bright with lights and already a number of elegant carriages had begun to arrive.

  Charlotte slipped from the bed and held the lace curtain slightly aside so that she could watch for a moment. She saw the crowds milling around and the carriages conveying the more exclusive to the ball, but even though they were two different worlds, she knew that their sole topic of conversation was the scandalous publication of Kylmerth.

  Lowering the curtain, she went to the wardrobe to select a pelisse to put on over her beige gown, but then she hesitated, glancing at the silver ball gown. A little latent spirit stirred within her suddenly. She’d wear her ball gown and fly dazzlingly in the face of adversity! Taking a deep breath, afraid that this morsel of courage would slip away again, she unbuttoned her gown and stepped out of it, picking up the beautiful silver tissue gown and putting it on. She brushed her dark-red hair up into a light, shining knot and pinned to it the intricate black-and-silver satin bow she had so painstakingly made during Max’s absence at Chatsworth. It was a very pretty ornament, with trailing ribbons and silver spangles, and it sat perfectly on the side of the knot of hair at the back of her head. She could feel the ribbons resting coolly against her skin. Several minutes later her hasty preparations were complete and she was ready to go down. Selecting the most voluminous and concealing hooded cloak in the wardrobe, she donned it over her evening finery before going down the stairs to find Mrs. White waiting anxiously in the hall, Polly beside her.

  “The crowds are so very bad, Miss Charlotte, I’m not sure it would be wise to go.”

  “Have you procured the cab?”

  “Yes, I sent Polly out. It’s waiting outside the chapel, as you asked. Miss Charlotte, you must let me go with you, you shouldn’t go on your own.”

  The cook was right, and Charlotte knew it. “Thank you, Mrs. White, I would be most grateful.”

  The cook nodded with relief, waving Polly quickly away to fetch her best mantle. “I took the liberty a little earlier of looking out into the disused alley at the bottom of the garden, and it was deserted. I don’t think they realize it’s there because its entrance in Vere Street is closed by such heavy gates. Anyway, I thought if we went that way, we’d come out close to the chapel and be able to slip away without anyone being any the wiser. Of course, if you’d prefer to run the gauntlet of the front way….”

  “No,” said Charlotte quickly. “No, I’d prefer to slip out the back way if possible.”

  Polly brought the cook’s mantle and a moment later they were hurrying down through the quiet garden to the narrow gate that opened onto the alley separating the properties of Henrietta Street from those in parallel Oxford Street. They looked out carefully first, for fear that its existence had been discovered after all, but all was quiet and so they crept secretly from the garden and along the dark, overgrown way toward the entrance in Vere Street, to the west. Cool leaves hung over the way, brushing their faces, and tall heads of stinging nettles swayed almost seductively in the light breeze, as if inviting them to touch and be stung. A black tomcat melted away before them, vanishing between an elderberry bush and a tangle of brambles.

  They reached the gates into Vere Street, listening for a moment as they heard a carriage pass. For a heart-stopping moment of wild hope, Charlotte wondered if it could be Max coming to see her at last, but as she listened, the carriage turned the corner of Henrietta Street, driving away to the west, not to the east and the door of her house. The bolts on the gates were rusty from never being used, and it was some time before they could be shifted. With a grinding, complaining resistance, they at last gave way and the cook dragged one of the gates back, crushing the weeds and brambles that had so determinedly grown against them.

  Vere Street was quiet—almost deserted, in fact—and they stepped quickly out and pushed the gate to again. It was as if they had never been moved, for on this more public side there were no weeds to tell the truth with their bruised and broken leaves.

  The rather ancient cab waited patiently outside the red-and-gray-brick chapel on the corner. The coachman slouched on his seat, a blanket over his knees even though it was a fine, warm July evening, and his horse held its head very low, as if too weary to lift it up. Seeing the two women hurrying toward him, the man stirred himself a little, picking up his whip and reins as he recognized the cook.

  “Where to, ma’am?”

  “Albany, Piccadilly,” Mrs. White replied, but Charlotte spoke up quickly. “No, not Piccadilly, go to the rear entrance in Vigo Street.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The man looked curiously at her, catching a glimpse of silver tissue and silk stockings. This was no serving girl or even a governess, this was a fine lady.

  They climbed into the unlovely vehicle with its straw-covered floor and drab upholstery, and as the coachman whipped his unfortunate horse into action, the whole vehicle shuddered, making the glass rattle. It drove down Vere Street and across bustling Oxford Street into the more elegant confines of New Bond Street, where the dandies were to be seen strolling in their finery in this almost exclusively male domain. At the commencement of Old Bond Street, where the narrows almost reduced the way to little more than a single track, they turned east into old Burlington Gardens, drawing to a sudden standstill before reaching Vigo Street.

  The coachman leaned down to speak to them through the slightly open window, “I can’t go on, ladies, Vigo Street’s almost completely closed, the constables are turning away anyone they don’t want going near the Albany. Do you want me to try the Piccadilly entrance?”

  Mrs. White looked quickly at Charlotte. “Surely that way will be even worse.”

  “Yes, we must try this way.”

  “But those constables won’t let us in.”

  Charlotte thought for a moment. “They might, if they think I’m related to someone residing there.”

  “But who? You can hardly use Sir Maxim’s name….”

  “No, but I can use Sir Randall Hopson’s.”

  The cook stared at her. “Who?”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter who he is. It only matters that I know him and he has an apartment in the Albany, close to Max’s. Come on, we’ll walk the last few yards.” She smiled a little wryly. “It’s as well I put on my finery, isn’t it? Now we look just like a lady and her maid, which is just the thing if we want to get past the constables.”

  They alighted and paid the coachman; then, with Mrs. White walking a respectful distance just behind Charlotte, they walked along the pavement toward the beginning of Vigo Street. Two burly parish constables immediately placed themselves in their path. Charlotte tossed her hood back, looking as indignant as she could. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  “No one’s to pass this way unless they’ve good cause.” The taller of the two glanced swiftly over her, taking in the glitter of her silver gown and the costliness of her satin slippers and silk stockings. “Begging your pardon, ma’am,” he added prudently, “but we’re only carrying out orders.”

  “I quite understand.” She began to walk past, but his companion wasn’t entirely convinced, having seen the two women alight from a less-than-elegant cab.

  “Could you identify yourself, ma’am? And maybe state your business?”

  She gave him an affronted look, but did as she was requested. “My name is Miss Hopson, I’m the niece of Sir Randall Hopson, who resides at the Albany. He’s expecting me.” She saw his glance move back toward the cab. “If you’re wondering about my less-than-agreeable mode of transport, sir, it’s because my own carriage has met with a mishap and the cab simply happened to
be passing, Now, then, will you allow me to pass, or must I send word to my uncle that you have refused to let his niece keep her dinner appointment with him?” She held his gaze, marveling that she could behave so calmly and resolutely when all the time she was dreading what her reception might be if she managed to get inside the Albany.

  Her manner convinced the man. “Please go on in, ma’am. I’ll escort you if you wish.”

  “There won’t be any need for that, it all seems admirably quiet.”

  He took this last as praise. “We’ve had a job of it today, ma’am, but in the end we managed to move on all those who shouldn’t have been here. It’s all on account of this book, you know.”

  “Yes, so I understand.” She walked on then, Mrs. White hurrying behind.

  At the opening into the covered walk at the back of the Albany, they were halted again, this time by the vigilant porter, who emerged from his little lodge like a guard dog from a kennel. “Good evening, ma’am,” he said suspiciously, not trusting any face he didn’t know.

  “Good evening.”

  “May I have your name, ma’am?”

  She took a deep breath, hoping that she remained convincing. “Miss Hopson. Sir Randall is my uncle and he’s expecting me for dinner.” She looked him squarely in the eye.

  “Sir Randall? Oh, yes, ma’am. I’ll send word to him that you’re here.”

  Her heart sank, but before she could protest that she’d just go in on her own, he’d diligently dispatched a boy on the errand. She watched as the boy almost ran along the covered walk, past the cream-painted stucco of the new apartments that had been built overlooking the little garden on either side. These buildings were three stories high, with plain, large-paned windows and balconies of the same design as those on the shops by the entrance from Piccadilly.