A Scandalous Publication

by Sandra Heath

  The man nodded. “I’m to go to the ball with you and tell them all that the manuscript was sent anonymously and not by either Miss Wyndham or Miss Parkstone.”

  “You’re not to mention Miss Parkstone’s name at all; you’re merely to exonerate Miss Wyndham from blame, is that clear?”

  “Yes, Sir Maxim.”

  “And if one further word leaks out about what you’ve heard here tonight….”

  “I won’t say anything, Sir Maxim, you may count upon it.”

  Max gave a thin smile. “Yes, I’m sure I can.”

  Mrs. White was peering anxiously out of the waiting carriage, and she smiled with relief as the three figures emerged from the archway. Max assisted Charlotte into the carriage, releasing her hand as quickly as possible, as if he loathed even this small contact. Charlotte was glad of the semidarkness, for it hid the tears shining in her eyes.

  With Mr. Wagstaff sitting uncomfortably in one corner, the carriage pulled swiftly away from Covent Garden, setting off at a spanking pace for Cavendish Square and the Parkstone ball.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The square seemed to be filled with waiting carriages. All around the railed garden in the center there were landaus, barouches, and town coaches, their attendant coachmen, postilions, and grooms standing in quiet groups, some talking and joking, others more intent upon the serious business of dice or cards. The other crowds had at last been moved on, thanks to the efforts of constables as determined as those in Vigo Street.

  The Parkstone residence was ablaze with lights, every curtain and shutter having been opened and every room illuminated with as many lamps and candles as possible. Lanterns had been placed along the balconies and the iron railing separating the house from the wide pavement, and the colors were a vivid blaze of red, green, and blue. Music drifted from the open windows, and so did the sound of laughter and conversation as the many distinguished guests indulged in the pleasures of dancing, display, and critical observation of their fellows.

  Footmen with flambeaux accompanied the carriage the final few yards to the gaily decorated porch, where garlands and ribbons adorned the columns, and moss, sweet-smelling flowers, and herbs had been carefully strewn over the steps. The music was louder now and the babble of voices almost deafening as the carriage doors were flung open and Max alighted, followed by a sweating, very nervous Mr. Wagstaff, who continually mopped his forehead with a large handkerchief.

  The chandeliers in the house cast their warm glow over Max’s face from the open doorway as he turned to hand Charlotte and Mrs. White down too. The diamond pin in his neckcloth flashed brilliantly, but his eyes were still veiled and cold. He beckoned to a nearby footman, instructing him to escort the cook safely back to the house in Henrietta Street, then he turned to Charlotte. “Remember,” he said softly, “from this moment on we’ll merely be acting the part of two people in love, for I no longer feel any love for you.”

  She couldn’t meet his eyes, the heartbreak was too great. She didn’t know how she was going to carry this night off successfully. She felt too wretched to conduct herself with the style she knew was necessary, but as she slipped her cold hand over his arm and they proceeded up the flower-strewn steps, with Mr. Wagstaff dutifully following, she felt a sudden strength come to her from somewhere deep within. Was it strength? Or was it a spark at last of the spirit for which she had hitherto been known? Whatever it was, it gave her the courage to face what lay ahead.

  The whole house had been opened up for the ball, and the guests were at liberty to stroll wherever they pleased. It was a glittering gathering, the ladies in exquisite silks and satins, with plumes and precious stones in their hair; the gentlemen very dashing and elegant in the finest clothes London’s tailors could produce. There seemed to be music everywhere, echoing around the marble-columned hall with its pale-pink walls and grand double staircase, and lingering sweetly in every anteroom, as if trapped by some invisible force. Everything had been decorated with flowers, garlands, ribbons, and streamers, and there were so many leaves and branches that it was like a sylvan bower.

  Entering the crowded hall, Charlotte felt as if she were about to run the gauntlet of the whole of high society, for all eyes swung immediately toward the new arrivals, and she heard one word being whispered, “Kylmerth.” To her intense dismay, the first people to come toward them were Judith and her escort, Mr. Bob Westacot, the dandy who had been outside the opera house the evening before. Had it really only been then? It seemed a lifetime ago now….

  Judith wore a spangled gown of the richest yellow-gold silk, with diamonds at her throat and in her hair. A fragile cashmere shawl trailed with careful nonchalance along the floor behind her, and a fan and a lozenge-shaped reticule stitched with golden threads dangled from her elegant, white-gloved wrist. She had halted in quick dismay on seeing Max enter with Charlotte and Mr. Wagstaff, and for a moment she’d seemed undecided what to do, but that moment had been very fleeting and now she and her companion were almost upon the trio by the doorway. She opened her fan and her cold glance took in Charlotte and Mr. Wagstaff before she spoke to Max. “Good evening, Max,” she said in her affected voice, “I must say that after your visit earlier today I find your arrival with Miss Wyndham, of all people, something of a surprise.”

  “A surprise? Why do you say that?” Max’s hand moved to rest tenderly over Charlotte’s, but it was an empty gesture for the benefit of others, nothing more.

  The fan began to move more swiftly. “Don’t toy with me, Max. You know perfectly well that when we last spoke, your opinion of Miss Charlotte Wyndham was exceeding low, to say the least.”

  “The heat of the moment,” was the bland reply.

  Bob Westacot flicked open a jeweled snuffbox, taking a pinch between an elegant finger and thumb. “I say, Max, come off it, eh? You can’t pretend there ain’t the damnedest fuss over this wretched book. It’s the only topic of conversation here tonight, and now here you are with the author of the horrid piece. Judith told me what you had to say this afternoon, so this now ain’t exactly what folk are expecting.”

  “Well, you know me, Bob,” replied Max in an exceptionally agreeable tone, “I’ve never been one to do the expected. Besides, what does the book really matter? It’s only a lot of foolishness someone anonymous saw fit to steal and have published.”

  Judith was staring at him now. “Someone anonymous? Max, only this afternoon you were utterly convinced that it was Charlotte Wyndham and only Charlotte Wyndham.”

  Charlotte found herself laughing in a tinkling way worthy of Judith herself. “I’m afraid that I’ve been exceeding fluff-headed, writing such a nonsensical book, but I have to swear that although I wrote it, I most certainly didn’t do anything else with it, as Mr. Wagstaff is going to explain to everyone.”

  Judith’s fan snapped closed. “How very disagreeable for you, to be sure,” she said sweetly. “So, now we know why Mr. Wagstaff is here; he’s to say his lines like a good boy and clear you of the more odious part of the blame. Well, I suppose it’s a clever-enough ruse and it might indeed fool many, but you and I both know the truth, don’t we, dear?” She gave a sugary, false smile.

  “Do we?” replied Charlotte in a like manner. “I’m told that you didn’t steal my manuscript after all, and so I suppose I should really apologize for having accused you, but then I have to remember that you quite openly admitted that you wished you had done it, so I don’t think an apology would be entirely appropriate, would it?”

  A flush touched Judith’s cheeks and she looked swiftly at Max, who hadn’t heard this part of the encounter that morning. “I may have said it,” she explained to him, “but it was simply to get back at her. I’d never really have done it, as I trust you know full well, because I’d never be party to such a disgraceful and regrettable affair.” The fan opened once more, moving very busily to cool her suddenly hot face. “So, whoever it was who took the odious scribble to be published, it still remains that she wrote the thing in the firs
t place, which is why I find it astonishing that you and she are together here tonight. Have you really forgiven her?”

  Max met her eyes without a flicker. “My dear Judith, you know how hasty my temper is,” he said with easy charm, “and I’m afraid that for a while today I let it get the better of me. Then I had second thoughts and realized that although Charlotte was a little indiscreet to write the book, she hadn’t done anything really unforgivable. Besides, when one is truly in love….” He allowed the sentence to trail away unfinished as he drew Charlotte’s hand to his lips and smiled into her eyes. He was so very convincing that all those watching—and there were a considerable number—could only believe that he meant every word and gesture; only Charlotte could see the shadow across his eyes. The touch of his lips burned slowly against her skin, a sweet pain that seemed to linger for a very long time.

  Judith’s jealous anger was clearly visible now. “So, after all this, nothing has changed between you? You’re still to marry?”

  Max smiled. “Of course we are. You don’t really think I’d let a nine days wonder like this jeopardize my future happiness, do you?”

  Charlotte had to look away. Why, oh, why couldn’t what he said be the truth? Why had unkind fate decreed that all of this now was a sham? The hurtful answer came almost immediately: he’d never loved her as much as she loved him; if he had, then he would really be fighting for that happiness, he wouldn’t be standing at her side in this false way.

  Judith’s eyes flashed with fury. She’d never finally accepted that it was over between her and Max, now it seemed that it was. “Happiness? My dear Max, you’ll never know a moment of it with this, this….” Words failed her and she tossed a poisonous glance at Charlotte before gathering her skirts and pushing away through the press, followed a moment afterward by a slightly embarrassed Bob Westacot.

  There was a buzz of conversation and Max took the opportunity to speak coolly to Charlotte. “I congratulate you, my dear,” he murmured so that only she could hear, “you’re really doing very well; in fact, you’re every inch the magnificent actress I said you were.”

  “My talent, sir, is as nothing when compared with yours,” she replied, “but then you probably already know that. There are flaws in my performance, but yours is quite immaculate.” She looked away again, struggling to conceal her unhappiness in a bright smile as another acquaintance greeted her.

  Their progress toward the ballroom was very slow indeed, for they had to stop time and time again to converse, behaving as if nothing of any real import had occurred. They acted their respective parts: she pretending to be merely a little shamefaced for having written the book, he appearing almost amused at her indiscretion, and both of them evincing complete mystification about who it could have been who had really taken the manuscript. Mr. Wagstaff, mindful of Max’s dire warning, backed them up to the best of his ability, managing to skirt around his own less-than-gentlemanly conduct as he invented a tale of a mysterious parcel being left on his doorstep in the dead of the night.

  By the time the ballroom was at last in sight, all those with whom they’d spoken were convinced that the book itself was nothing more than an absurdity that had got out of hand because of someone’s mischief-making, and interest was centering now upon who that person might be rather than the contents of the book itself.

  Charlotte had been looking all the while for Sylvia, but there hadn’t been any sign of her yet, which was a little worrying as she had to be told what was going on before Mr. Wagstaff made his public announcement. Charlotte glanced anxiously around, afraid that something might go wrong and Sylvia might think she was about to be unmasked in full view of everyone, but as they reached the wide marble steps leading down to the ballroom, Sylvia was still nowhere to be seen.

  The ballroom lay at the rear of the house and was a truly magnificent room. Decorated in gold and white, with two Ionic colonnades running down its considerable length, its ceiling was a rich, deep blue painted with golden stars and moons, and its walls hung with gilt-framed mirrors. There were flowers everywhere, and the orchestra’s dais at the far end was decked with so much greenery that it seemed to rise like an island above the sea of people. The great floor-to-ceiling windows stood open on to the lantern-lit terrace and the gardens beyond, where all the shrubs and trees were illuminated, and the fountains lit by concealed lights that made the splashing water seem like cascades of diamonds.

  There was a moment, as Max gave their names to the master of ceremonies, when Charlotte could observe the scene below unnoticed. She saw her mother and the admiral, seated with the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire, William Lamb, and Lord Palmerston; and at last she saw Sylvia, looking very pale and strained as she danced with Richard. She wore sky-blue taffeta, with matching ostrich plumes springing from her short, dark hair. There were jewels at her throat and in her ears, and more around the wrists of her white-gloved arms. She looked ethereally beautiful, and so very, very vulnerable. Charlotte’s feelings were mixed for a moment. She should despise Sylvia for what she’d done, but somehow she couldn’t. Sylvia was suffering an agony of remorse and self-loathing for what she’d done; the fact was written large on her tense face as she tried to smile at something Richard said.

  The master of ceremonies’ staff rapped peremptorily on the marble floor, and everyone looked toward the top of the steps to see who had arrived so very late. The glances became astonished stares then and a murmur of conversation broke out. The stir was so great that the dancing ceased and gradually the orchestra stopped playing. The staff rapped once more. “Sir Maxim Talgarth, Miss Charlotte Wyndham, and Mr. Horace Wagstaff.” The names rang out clearly, and suddenly there was absolute silence.

  Charlotte looked anxiously at Sylvia, who was staring at them, her face ashen and her eyes wide with alarm. There was dread in the way her lips parted on a gasp of utter dismay.

  Richard was looking toward them as well, his initial dying away as he realized instinctively that all was not as it should be. He turned sharply in the direction of his sister and the admiral, and saw that they too were aware of something being wrong. Mrs. Wyndham rose anxiously to her feet, the folds of her green silk gown by Madame Forestier spilling richly as she gathered her full skins to push her way through the gathering to reach her daughter. The admiral followed her.

  Mr. Wagstaff, anxious to get the business over and done with as quickly and efficiently as possible, thought that the moment was right to make his speech, and before either Max or Charlotte realized it, he had stepped forward to commence. “Ladies and gentlemen….”

  Charlotte gasped, her hand tightening on Max’s arm, “He mustn’t begin yet; I haven’t been able to warn Sylvia.”

  But it was too late, the publisher was saying his piece. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m here tonight to clear the name of a lady I have been maligning concerning the publication of the book Kylmerth. I’ve claimed that Miss Charlotte Wyndham not only wrote the book but also brought it to me for publication. This is not so, for the truth is that—”

  He got no further, for Sylvia’s anguished cry halted him. “No! Please! Don’t say it!” Trembling from head to toe, she looked so afraid and guilty that there was no mistaking that she thought she was about to be exposed.

  Charlotte stared at her in dismay. “Don’t, Sylvia,” she whispered, “please don’t say another word.”

  Richard put an anxious hand on Sylvia’s arm, but she shook it off, pushing her frantic way toward the steps and hurrying up to the trio at the top. She hesitated before them, her whole body quivering and a sob choking in her throat. Her tear-filled eyes were large and distraught. “Please don’t,” she whispered. “I couldn’t bear it.” Then with a haunted glance back at the staring faces in the ballroom, she gathered her skirts and fled toward the hall and the double staircase.

  Richard followed her, having paused for a moment to throw an accusing glance at Charlotte that pierced her to the heart.

  A babble of conversation broke out then and Cha
rlotte gazed miserably down at her mother and the stricken admiral. Then she looked at Max. Slowly she removed her hand from his arm, turning and walking away from him.

  At the foot of the staircase she hesitated, wondering if she should go to Sylvia, but then she heard Richard’s anxious voice begging to be allowed in and Sylvia’s distressed reply begging him to go away and leave her alone. Charlotte walked on out of the house and into the coolness of the night.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The ball continued, but the atmosphere was charged with whispers about the startling new turn the Kylmerth scandal had now taken.

  Sylvia had locked herself in her private apartment and wouldn’t respond at all to Richard’s desperate entreaties to let him come in. He waited anxiously at the door, agitated and distraught by the heartrending sobs from within. In spite of what she’d done, he loved her still and he wanted to tell her so and comfort her, but the door remained locked and her shame and misery reached out almost tangibly to him. He felt as if his own heart were breaking, and he was angry at the way she had been so publicly disgraced and humiliated. Charlotte and Max may indeed have much to blame her for, but there surely hadn’t been any need to expose her so heartlessly in front of the world.

  “Pagett?”

  Richard whipped around on hearing Max’s voice behind him. “God damn you, Talgarth! God damn you to hell and back for this!”

  Max’s eyes darkened a little. “Have a care, sir, for I rather think you’re about to say something you’ll regret.”

  “I won’t regret anything,” said Richard furiously, stepping forward rashly.

  “One more step and you’ll discover the error of your conviction,” replied Max coolly, his blue eyes like ice.

  Richard hesitated, aware suddenly of the danger he was courting.

  Max relaxed a little then. “That’s better, for, believe me, you’re wrong—about everything, as it happens.”