A Scandalous Publication

by Sandra Heath

  There were lights at a number of windows, including the drawing room of Max’s apartment. Her heart began to beat more swiftly as she stared at that light, and the sick apprehension seized her more strongly. Would he agree to see her? Would she even get as far as his door?

  The boy was returning now, followed by a rather puzzled-looking Sir Randall, resplendent in evening attire and evidently just about to go out. She seized the initiative, gathering her skirts and almost flying along the walk toward him. “Uncle Randall,” she cried.

  Startled, he halted, but then his eyes cleared as he recognized her. “Why, my dear young lady—” he began.

  “Please, Sir Randall,” she begged urgently, “you must help me! Say that I’m your niece, it’s very important.” She glanced anxiously back at the suspicious porter, who was quickly approaching now that the boy had reported Sir Randall’s puzzlement when told of his “niece’s” arrival.

  Sir Randall hesitated, having already heard all about Kylmerth and the story Mr. Wagstaff was putting about concerning her involvement, but when he saw the desperate anxiety in her large gray eyes, he relented. “Very well, my dear, but if this is any further trickery, I swear that—”

  “It’s not a trick, I promise you.”

  The porter reached them. “Shall I have this person ejected, sir?”

  “Eject my niece? Good heavens, man, what can you be thinking of?”

  The man’s jaw dropped. “You mean, she is your niece?”

  “Of course.” Sir Randall looked him straight in the eye and then offered Charlotte his arm. “Shall we go in, my dear?”

  She gratefully accepted and they proceeded back along the walk toward the house, Mrs. White once again respectfully bringing up the rear.

  Once inside, Sir Randall turned a little sternly to face Charlotte. “Now, then, Miss Wyndham, perhaps you would be good enough to tell me why you are resorting to this subterfuge.”

  “I must speak to Max.”

  “With all due respect, my dear, I very much doubt if he wishes to speak to you. He knows all about your book and—”

  “But I must explain to him.”

  “Explain what? That you didn’t write it? If that is your intention, perhaps I should warn you that he has seen the original manuscript, and the writing is indubitably yours. Now, then, I’ve saved you from embarrassment in front of the porter, but I really think you should now leave.”

  “But, Sir Randall, I love Max with all my heart and have never set out to hurt him, you must believe me. I know that Mr. Wagstaff is saying that I took the book to him, but it isn’t true. I admit to having written the book; I did it before Max and I came to mean anything to each other and I’d forgotten all about it. Someone else took it from my room and saw to its publication. I had nothing whatsoever to do with it. Please believe me.”

  He hesitated then, swayed by the honesty in her eyes and voice. “I don’t know—” he began.

  Another voice broke the silence then. It was Max. “It’s all right, Randall, let her come through.”

  She turned with a quick gasp to see him leaning against the wall by the door of his apartment. His arms were folded and his expression was very cool and guarded. There was something very distant about him, something that told her once and for all that he believed what Mr. Wagstaff was saying about her.

  Leaving Mrs. White where she was in the passageway, Charlotte went slowly toward him. He avoided her glance, remaining where he was as she walked past him into the apartment, then he followed her inside and closed the door. “Well? What is it you wish to say?” His tone offered no encouragement whatsoever.

  She turned to face him, her heart pounding with a rush of guilty desperation. “I know what you think, Max, but I didn’t take the book to Mr. Wagstaff, I swear that I didn’t.”

  “Ah, yes, this mysterious but highly convenient unknown person did it,” he replied dryly, going to pour himself a glass of cognac. “I was rather under the impression that this unknown person was not so unknown after all, since you saw fit to accuse Judith.”

  “I believe she is the one, yes.”

  “She denies it.”

  “She would, wouldn’t she? She isn’t going to admit to such a crime when she still nurses a hope of winning you back again.”

  He held her gaze. “I spoke to her earlier today; I asked her point-blank if she’d done it, and she denied it. I know her too well, Charlotte, well enough to know when she’s lying and when she’s telling the truth. I believe her when she says she didn’t take the manuscript to Wagstaff.”

  “But she has to be the one,” cried Charlotte. “I saw her at the theater, she was—”

  “Gloating?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s hardly the same thing as being guilty, is it? Of course she was pleased, she’d revel in anything that might put my, er, romance with you in jeopardy. She’d have been positively jubilant if she’d known then that you yourself had written the wretched book. I’ve been the original fool, haven’t I? You’ve made a laughingstock of me, holding me up to ridicule for having believed in you. Being subjected to ridicule is a salutary experience, madam, it brings one to one’s senses more swiftly than anything else.”

  She stared at him. “Please, Max,” she whispered, “I admit to having written the book, but it was some time ago now, and I didn’t mean to—”

  “Didn’t mean to write it? Spare me such transparent lies, for you must have sat for many hours writing that vitriolic list of lies.”

  “I don’t deny writing it, but I most strongly deny ever intending to have it published!”

  “How ardently you implore, I swear I could almost believe you,” he said dryly.

  “I’m telling you the truth.”

  “No, Charlotte,” he replied softly, “you’re lying. You wrote the book because you believed all Sylvia Parkstone had told you, and still believed it when you were confessing your love to me. You decided that since you could never prove my guilt where your father was concerned, you’d punish me in another way. Even when you read the letter your father sent to me, you were still convinced of my guilt. You’ve made a fool of me, Charlotte, and I think you’ve come here now to try to continue the farce for as long as possible. It won’t work, madam, I see through you now and I wonder that I could ever have been so blind as to trust and love you.”

  “Nothing you say about me is true,” she whispered, tears leaping into her eyes.

  “Pray spare me another display of feminine tears, I’m immune to your tricks.”

  She struggled to retain her composure. “I’m not resorting to trickery and I’m not lying to you. If I’m close to tears now, it’s because of my utter misery at being disbelieved and even hated by you. I love you, and I want with all my heart to hear you say that you believe me.”

  He gave a scornful laugh. “Just as I wanted you to believe what I said? My, my, how the tables do turn.”

  “I say again that I’ve been telling you the absolute truth. If I’m wrong about Judith, then I must concede to having made an error, but that doesn’t change the fact that someone stole the manuscript and took it to Mr. Wagstaff. I didn’t do it, Max, and I’d swear it upon my father’s memory and honor.”

  He put his glass down slowly. “You should have been on the stage, Charlotte, for you’re undoubtedly the most consummate actress I’ve ever come across.”

  “I’m not acting,” she cried. “I’m telling you the truth! I didn’t do it!”

  His glance was thoughtful as it rested upon her anxious face. “Very well,” he said abruptly, “we’ll put your protests to the test; we’ll go to Wagstaff and face him together. Either he’ll come across with the name of the real culprit, or he’ll merely cling to his original story. Are you prepared to come with me now?”

  “Yes.”

  “But remember this, Charlotte, even if you’re vindicated from having taken the manuscript to him, you’re still, on your own admission, guilty of having written the book in the first p
lace. For that I can never forgive you.”

  He called for his manservant and sent him to see that a carriage was brought to the Vigo Street entrance immediately, then he went to put on his evening clothes. Charlotte waited miserably where she was. There had been such ice in his glance and words, as if his heart was frozen against her; now she felt as if a sliver of that ice had entered her own heart and was slowly freezing her very soul. She’d lost him forever, and the realization was numbing. No matter what happened now, even if the real malefactor was exposed, Max would still despise her for having put pen to paper in the first place. She had no one but herself to blame, she had by her own foolish actions forfeited her right to his love.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The coffeehouse next door to Mr. Wagstaff’s bookshop was bright with lights as the carriage drew up at the curb, and there was laughter and jaunty music coming from the open doorway. The bookshop was in darkness.

  Mrs. White remained in the carriage as Max and Charlotte alighted. Charlotte’s spirits had sunk still lower on seeing no lights in the bookshop, for if there wasn’t anyone in, then her claims couldn’t be confirmed. Max went to the door, rapping his cane upon the glass. There wasn’t any response from within. Peering inside, he saw a thin line of light around the door at the rear of the shop. Someone was there. He rapped more loudly, and after a moment the line of light became brighter as someone looked cautiously into the shop. Seeing Max’s face at the outer door, whoever it was swiftly withdrew, extinguishing the light. Another door slammed somewhere at the back of the building.

  With a curse Max glanced along the street a little way, and seeing an arched alleyway, he went swiftly toward it. Instinctively, Charlotte followed, ignoring Mrs. White’s anxious call. The alley was dark and cobbled, and she could hear Max’s spurred boots as he gave chase to someone in the gloomy shadows ahead. She went hesitantly into the narrow way, turning a corner into a second alley, which passed directly behind the bookshop. A door still stood open, and she knew that whoever had been in the shop had escaped this way. She heard a sudden thump ahead and then a gasp, and she virtually flew toward the sounds, halting with relief when she saw Max standing there, pinning a terrified Mr. Wagstaff to a dark wall with one furious hand.

  The publisher, his wig awry to reveal a completely bald head, was as white as a sheet. “Wh-What do you want with me?”

  “The truth. Now, then, did Miss Wyndham bring that manuscript to you?”

  The man’s eyes were still sly as they slid toward Charlotte. “Yes.”

  Charlotte could have wept with anger and frustration. “You know that I didn’t,” she cried desperately. The man was lying, and yet it seemed there wasn’t anything she could do to disprove his charges.

  Max glanced at her. Something in her tone struck an undeniable note of truth. His grip tightened inexorably on the publisher’s cravat. “If you’re still lying, Wagstaff,” he said, his voice low and menacing, “you’d better beware, for in future you’ll be a fool to ever walk down dark alleys. I’m not a man to stand idly by and let others escape retribution. Do I make myself quite clear?”

  The man swallowed with difficulty, for his cravat was now so tight that it was cutting into his throat. “All right,” he said quickly, “all right, I’ll tell you what really happened. It wasn’t Miss Wyndham who brought it to me; it was Miss Parkstone, Miss Sylvia Parkstone.”

  Charlotte stared, horrified. “No,” she whispered, “no, that cannot be so.”

  “I swear I’m telling the truth,” cried Mr. Wagstaff. “She brought it to me, said that it was yours but that you didn’t know it had been taken. She said the book should be published, for the world should know the truth about the deaths of her sister and Mr. George Wyndham. She paid me well to keep her name out of it and to say nothing about the real author, but then on the night of the first publication day, she came to try to stop me selling any more copies. She said she’d suddenly realized how many people were being hurt by what she’d done and she wanted it to stop. It was too late by then, and I told her so. Besides, the book was a gem; it was selling like the tastiest of hot cakes, and I’m a businessman, not a saint. She was upset when I refused to withdraw the book, but there wasn’t anything she could do about it. It would have been left there, but when you came to the shop the next day, Miss Wyndham, it was obvious to me that there was going to be trouble of some sort unless I put the blame fairly and squarely on you. And so that’s what I did, I accused you in front of everyone and there wasn’t anything you could do about it because I could prove that you’d actually written the book. That’s the truth, I swear it is.”

  “And there’s nothing more?” demanded Max, his grip still almost choking the man.

  “Upon my honor!”

  “Honor? You haven’t any!” Max flung him contemptuously aside.

  Mr. Wagstaff almost fell, but saved himself by snatching at a grimy wooden post. Breathing heavily and still terrified that Max hadn’t yet finished with him, he leaned weakly back against the wall, straightening his wig, his frightened eyes shining in the silver light that suddenly bathed everything as the moon slid from behind a cloud.

  Max turned slowly toward Charlotte. “It seems that you were telling the truth.”

  She said nothing.

  “What now?”

  She thought of Sylvia’s tears on the night the book was published, tears that were so explicable now the full truth was known. Two things had happened to Sylvia that momentous day: she’d realized the dreadful consequences of what she’d done, and she’d finally fallen in love with Richard. She’d wished with all her heart that she had never taken the manuscript, never sought her revenge this way, but by then there was no going back.

  Charlotte looked at Max. “Can’t we just leave the matter as it is? If we point a finger at Sylvia, then a number of innocent people will suffer as well. Richard will, my mother will, and so will the admiral.”

  He met her gaze for a long moment and then slowly nodded. “I agree that they’ve done nothing and therefore don’t deserve to suffer, but I don’t agree that everything can be left as it is. You and Sylvia between you have brought my honor into very severe and very public question, and I’m not prepared to let that situation continue when there’s maybe a way that something can be done about it.” He gave an ironic half-laugh. “A man could reasonably be expected to see the writing of such a book by his fiancée as a forgivable sin, but he could hardly keep smiling if she’d gone to the length of having it published as well.”

  “And is it a forgivable sin?” she inquired softly.

  “No, Charlotte, it isn’t, but I’m prepared to pretend for a while that it is. Do you wish to salve your conscience? And do you think Sylvia wishes to salve hers?”

  Charlotte closed her eyes for a moment, but she nodded. “Yes, of course I do, and I believe Sylvia would agree if she were here. If there’s anything I can do to help put all this right, then I’ll willingly do it. You must believe me, Max.”

  “Oh, I believe you, since you’re so very anxious to protect everyone else and since what I’m about to suggest will do just that.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m willing to go to the ball with you tonight as if nothing has happened, and I’m prepared to pretend to them all that nothing has changed between us, that I still love you and that the book is a nine days wonder that hasn’t made the slightest difference to anything. Your presence at my side will give the lie to the book’s claims concerning my dealings with your father, and if Sylvia conducts herself agreeably toward me as well, then that should greatly assist in scotching the charge that I maltreated my wife and brought about her death. I’m determined to put an end to the whispers once and for all. Charlotte, I’ve had more than enough of it, and since you and Sylvia have been instrumental in focusing public attention upon these lies, I think it only right that you should exert yourselves to undo all the damage you’ve done.”

  She was silent for a moment, then she nodded, “
I’ll do as you suggest and I’ll speak to Sylvia the moment we arrive and tell her what’s happened.”

  “There’s just one thing more.”

  “Yes?”

  “As I said earlier, a man can reasonably be expected to gloss over a certain amount of foolishness from his future wife, but not as much as you are at present presumed by the world to be guilty of. You must be publicly absolved of blame concerning having the book published, and Wagstaff here can stand up in front of them all at the ball and say that the manuscript was sent anonymously to him.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, Charlotte. Either you agree to everything, or you don’t.”

  She looked away. “Very well, I agree, but I must tell Sylvia first.”

  “I see no reason to object to that.”

  “How—how long do you intend keeping up the public pretense of affection between us?”

  “Just as Jong as it takes for the fuss to die down. Believe me, I’ve no wish to continue seeing you for any longer than absolutely necessary.”

  He was a stranger. It was as if there’d never been any tenderness or understanding between them, never been the sweetness of a shared kiss or glance, never even been the warmth of a fleeting touch. There was no kindness in him at all, and he cared nothing for the hurt he inflicted with each deliberately cruel word. She wanted more than anything to reach out to him, to stretch her fingers toward his and breach the awful chasm that yawned between them both now, but his rejection of her was complete.

  He spoke again. “Are you still prepared to go through with this?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was very small.

  “I trust that you will prove as talented an actress as I think you are, for, believe me, I shall be the finest actor you’ve ever seen.” He turned back to Mr. Wagstaff then. “No doubt you heard all that, so you know what’s expected of you now.”