by Joyce Alec
Mrs. Parker rounded the corner. “Fry is out on an errand, sir,” she said to her agitated employer. “He is not here.”
“Yes,” Edward breathed, trying to calm himself. “Please send him to me the moment he returns. I will be in my study.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” she said with a nod.
Edward fell into the tall chair behind his bulky wooden desk. Charlotte Palmer, of all people, has this information at her disposal. This was all so terribly bad. It would be no time at all before the entire ton knew everything. He would be banned from all good society. It was not to be! He hoped that Fry would have some ideas. The man was truly a gifted steward. He was lucky to have such a man on his side.
Fry sat down at the wobbly wooden table and sipped his tea. “He does love you, milady,” he said to her, sitting the cracked cup down and wiping the spilled tea off his neck cloth.
“How do you know that?” she asked. “After all he has done.” Chloé poured herself another cup and sat beside her confidante.
“You must understand, milady, he was in much the same situation as you,” he pleaded. “You were not particularly amenable to picking up your entire life and moving to another country, were you?” Her eyes softened. She knew where he was going. “Well, neither was he.” Her teary eyes dropped. “He did break his word, I understand, but try to see things from his side.”
“I am not sure, Monsieur.” She ran her delicate fingers around the rim of her tea cup.
“I have watched him every day since you opened your eyes after the ship sank. I had only worked for him for a short time, but he was changed upon his return. You opened his heart.” He reached across the table and placed a fatherly hand on hers.
She gazed at the good-natured man for a moment and then pulled her hand away, rising from the table. “I do not think I can do it,” she said, pained.
Fry nodded and excused himself. He should be getting back. His master would surely be calling for him by now.
Fry entered the townhouse, setting off all the servants. They all knew the master had been screaming for him. He calmly placed down his overcoat and found Edward in the study, head down on his desk.
“Your Grace,” he said, “you need something?”
Edward’s head popped up, his eyes swollen from weeping. “I saw her, Fry. She’s a prostitute. I saw it with my own eyes.”
Fry could not believe what he was hearing. “What? Sir, you must be mistaken.”
“I am not, Fry,” he gasped, almost hysterical. “I saw her in that bawdy house with a man! I am ruined! She is my wife!”
Fry moved closer to Edward, who seemed to be very close to complete loss of control. “Sir… Edward, listen to me,” he urged calmly. “There must be a mistake. I will check into it myself. I will find out the truth.”
Fry already knew the truth, but he would surely lose his position if Edward knew it. Fry despised such deception. He knew this house of cards would one day tumble. And he hated that he was entirely wrapped up in it. It went completely against his nature, but he somehow knew he was the only voice of reason between these two, and it was his duty to right the ship, for lack of a more appropriate analogy.
“Give me the letter,” he said to his duke. “I shall see what I can do.” Edward handed him the tear-stained letter and dropped his head back onto his desk. “Do not do anything until I verify this.” Edward was silent. “Your Grace, you mustn’t.”
Without raising his head, Edward grumbled. “Yes, Fry.”
Fry turned and left his master alone with his tears and his regrets. He left the house immediately. He intended on visiting this Charlotte Palmer and finding out exactly what she knew. He had a sneaking suspicion her motives were to be as suspect as her information.
Within minutes of Fry’s departure, a black day carriage pulled up in front of Edward’s home. Mrs. Parker answered the door, and a giddy Charlotte Palmer breezed into the house before she could say a word. Charlotte burst into Edward’s study, the plump governess hot on her heels.
“Edward,” she sang, dropping her coat on a nearby chair.
Mrs. Parker rushed in behind her. “I am sorry, Your Grace, she just dashed in.”
Edward raised his head and told Mrs. Parker it was all right. She could leave them alone. Mrs. Parker suspiciously backed out of the room, intentionally leaving the door open.
Charlotte scurried behind her and closed it softly, turning and leaning against it. “I can tell by the wretched pain streaked across your face, you saw her with your own eyes,” she said with an obvious false sincerity.
Edward stood to face her. “You need not worry about me, Mrs. Palmer,” he answered her formally, which cut her deep.
She glided toward him, circling behind the heavy desk, and sitting upon it next to Edward. “Charlotte,” she said, running her gloved fingers down the front of his loose white shirt.
He moved away from her, leaving her propped up on his desk like a clumsy lamp. “Charlotte, you have done your part. There is no further need for you.” He walked to the door and opened it.
She slid off the desk and slithered to the door, pushing it almost closed. “Dear Edward,” she cooed, turning to face him. “I am here to save you. Do you not see it? I have the key to your future.”
“I doubt that,” he said, staring her down.
“You, my friend, are in a very sticky situation. Your fiancée is cavorting… and other things… with unsavories, a fact I’m sure you well know will ruin you in society.”
His worst nightmare was coming true. She was here to blackmail him. “What is it that you demand for your silence, Charlotte?”
She smiled and moved closer.
Fry returned with no luck. The Palmer housemaid said the young lady was out. He decided to try again to speak with Edward. He approached the cracked study door and heard a woman’s voice. He leaned in closer.
“You,” Charlotte responded.
“Me?” he asked, not liking where this was going.
“You will marry me,” she said, her plump lips smirking. “And no one will ever know about this unforgivable indiscretion. Never. Your reputation will be saved and your ex-fiancée will disappear into the night.” She walked around him, stringing her finger across his broad shoulders. “We will make up a story that she went to France and ran off with a Marshal. You will be the injured party, and I will be there to pick up the pieces.” She batted her long lashes at him.
Edward’s mind was spinning. He had lost Chloé, of that he was certain. It would not do to lose his reputation as well. Perhaps, Charlotte’s plan would save him. She was abhorrent, that was for sure, but she was fairly acceptable amongst society. He could have his marriage with Chloé annulled for abandonment, and he would be free to remarry. Charlotte was a beauty, and she had her own friends in the ton. She did not truly want him. She wanted his title, which he did not care for anyway. They would interact little, and he could go back to the life he used to love. He saw no other option.
“I shall accept your offer, Charlotte. We will marry,” he said, his defiant chin held high like any soldier in front of a firing squad.
Fry almost fainted in the hallway. He could not believe what he was hearing. Surely Edward was playing a joke on the horrid girl and would cast her out immediately. He listened further, hoping for the best.
“Perfect,” she drawled. “I shall schedule fittings immediately. If I am to be a duchess, I must dress as one. I am so sorry I will not be able to accompany you to Almack’s tonight. I presume you are going. It is Albany’s birthday after all. I want to look perfect for my debut as your fiancée.” Her words all ran together in one excited bubble.
He had completely forgotten about Albany’s birthday. He must go. It would be fine. He could set the stage for their plan and put the word out about Chloé not returning from France.
“Yes, well it is a shame you cannot come tonight,” he chirped sarcastically. “Do let me know when you feel you are adequate enough to accompany me,” he said,
swinging the door open and pushing her out.
She twirled out the front door, ignoring his unpleasant humor and basking in her new title. Duchess of Dorchester. She adored the sound as it rang in her whirling mind.
Neither of them saw Fry, who had escaped down the hallway. Edward returned to his study and Fry, an idea springing to mind, raced up the stairwell.
Chloé answered the door at Number 8 to a panicked Fry. “Dear Sir, whatever is wrong?”
Fry entered with a large package in hand and told her of the horrible Charlotte Palmer’s plan. He pled with her to reconsider. “What of her blackmail?” Chloé asked. “Will she not ruin him if I return?”
“My dear,” the older man said, “No one will believe her if the Duke of Dorchester tells them not to. She is nothing. She is barely acceptable in society.”
Chloé still looked so unsure. She was desperately in love with Edward and believed she did owe him another chance. However, she was equally aware that he may not give her the same chance.
“Dear,” Fry continued, “His Grace shall be at Almack’s tonight alone. I have brought your best dress. This may be your only chance. Please think about it.” He sat the box down on the table and bowed to his mistress. “I must return to the house.”
Chloé opened the box and stared that the lovely gown Fry had chosen for her. He was such a good man. He was the father she needed right now to set her mind straight. She called for Mrs. Harper.
Edward arrived at Almack’s and quickly found Albany. “Happy birthday, old man!” he joked, giving his friend a warm birthday hug.
“Haha, Duke, your wit is neither quick nor truthful. Sit down and tell us what is new with you! Are we ever going to see your lovely again, or has she found out what a rogue you are and cast you off forever?” he laughed at an unamused Edward.
“Well, things have actually changed, yes,” Edward conceded to an embarrassed Albany and friends.
“Oh no, chap,” Albany returned. “That sounds ominous.”
“My ears are burning,” Charlotte’s voice echoed behind Edward. She approached the group and ran her hand across Edward’s shoulders.
The men all looked up at the social climber distrustfully. Edward turned to face her. “I thought you were not coming tonight,” he whispered through clenched teeth.
“Well, I changed my mind,” she crooned, taking a seat next to Edward. “Hello, boys.” They were all exceptionally slow to rise as she sat down at their table. “It sounds as though you were telling everyone about how that horrible Chloé left you for France, never to return.”
“What?” Albany questioned. “That darling flower? Left?”
Edward adjusted himself uncomfortably in the chair. Charlotte threw her arm around his neck, smoothing his hair. “Not to worry, chaps, Edward and I have become quite close since her departure. He is in good hands.” She leaned over and brushed a kiss on his cheek.
The whole group, especially Edward, looked as though they might throw up.
A bright voice buzzed from the table. “Well, it looks as though she changed her mind,” Tembly said, gesturing to the front door. Everyone turned toward the grand entrance.
Chloé stood there, her unique perfection causing its usual stir amongst the crowd. Her eyes were glued to Edward, who was entirely entwined in Charlotte’s arms. The hurt in her eyes pierced Edward’s heart.
She was so wrong. Fry was wrong. He did not love her. He was sitting there wrapped up in another woman’s embrace. And she was standing there like a fool. She turned and disappeared out the door.
Edward started to rise, but Charlotte’s embrace tightened. “Dear Edward, you know it is a bad idea to go after her.” Her voice was measured, and her tone threatening. His body relaxed, and he turned back to face his friends.
“Edward,” Albany whispered, using his given name. “What are you doing?”
Edward straightened in his chair, swallowing hard. “It is best,” he said, not looking at anyone.
Albany sat back, trying to figure out what just happened. “Albany,” Charlotte interjected, trying to change the subject. “It is your birthday. You should be dancing.”
Albany looked hard at Charlotte for a moment, then his eyebrow shot up. “Why, you are absolutely correct, dear lady.” He stood and offered her his hand. “Do me the great honor, madam.”
Charlotte suddenly looked uneasy. It would be detrimental to her social standing to turn down the marquess, so she was forced to oblige him. She stood, squeezing Edward’s shoulder as a fierce warning. Albany took her hand, dragging her onto the dance floor. They lined up for the Allemande, Charlotte’s piercing stare penetrating Edward’s back. The room was again abuzz.
Tembly leaned in toward Edward. “You are playing a dangerous game, my friend. Charlotte Palmer is not to be trusted.”
Edward looked hard at Tembly. “I know.” He sat back, thinking about Chloé. She came back for him. After everything, she made his heart flutter. Perhaps Fry was right. Perhaps he misunderstood what he saw. He knew for sure she was staying in an unacceptable place, but what if that were all? What if? He could not stand it any longer. He rose.
Charlotte’s head jerked toward her new “fiancé,” but Albany held tightly to her waist. “It is insulting to a marquess, dear girl, to not look him in the eye when you dance.”
Society now had a firm grip on Charlotte Palmer, and it might cost her. “Yes, my lord,” she replied with a smile.
Albany twirled Charlotte around and caught eyes with Edward as he headed for the door. A silent thank you parted his lips, and he disappeared through the door.
Chloé sat on the front stoop at Number 8. She had cried all the way there. Her eyes burned like fire, and her tortured heart ached. Her mind could no longer process the distress of the last days, weeks, months. All she could do was cry.
A drunkard in ripped clothing with a dirty face staggered toward her in the darkness, large drops of rain beginning to splash on the ground. She did not notice him until he was upon her.
“Oh, a tart at Number 8 waiting for me?” he said, reaching down and grabbing her by the arm.
“Sir, no,” she struggled. “I am not…”
“Not a bunter? Well, yer lookin’ like one out here.” He pulled her close to him. “And I like the look o’ya.”
He smelled like cheap brandy and cigars. Chloé struggled with the aggressive man, calling out for help. No one was home at Number 8, and all the neighbors stayed to themselves no matter what.
“Let me go!” she screamed.
Once outside, it started to rain. Edward’s carriage was buried amongst hundreds, so he “borrowed” a nearby horse, kicking him into action down the dark street. It was not too far by horse, and Edward needed to see her. He needed to know why she came back, and he needed to know if he could forgive her indiscretions.
He heard the distant cry of someone in distress. “Let me go!” rang through the streets. His horse sped up to Number 8, and he saw it was Chloé. He jumped off the horse and threw his arms around the vagrant attacking her. The man, although drunk, was quite strong. He let go of Chloé and spun to face Edward.
Edward took his opportunity and struck the man hard on the jaw. He barely flinched and lunged at Edward. The men rolled around on the wet ground for what seemed like an eternity before Edward finally got the upper hand and knocked the man unconscious.
Chloé still sat on the ground, her beautiful rain-soaked dress torn and her arm bruised. Without a thought or word, Edward lifted Chloé onto his horse and sped off toward his townhouse. Her arms were wrapped so tightly around him, he could feel her pounding heart. He suddenly did not want to ever let her go again. Ever.
They pulled up to the house and he carried her inside. Fry greeted them at the door, elated to see her, but terribly distressed at her condition.
“I am fine, dearest Fry,” she said, still in Edward’s arms as the older man touched her cheek.
Edward brought her into the drawing room and sat her in f
ront of the blazing fire. “Fry, can you please bring Chloé a warm dressing gown?”
Fry obliged and quickly returned. The two men waited in the hallway for her to change. Fry leaned in to Edward and whispered. “Listen to each other,” was all he said before disappearing into the darkness.
Edward reentered the room after she had changed and sat down next to her in front of the fire. The two young loves stared at each other in silence for what seemed like an eternity before Chloé broke the quiet. “I am sorry.” Her eyes dropped, and a lone tear fell onto her lap. “I should not have gone there, I know. But Mrs. Harper took me in. And she is a very good Christian woman. She just wants to provide a safe place for those girls to lay their heads at night. Some of them are truly in terrible situations.”
Hearing her words, he knew instantly that she was not one of “those girls.” But it still bothered him that he saw a man touching her. “I saw you in there… with a man,” Edward said, almost guiltily.
She looked hard at him. “Edward, I never…” Then it occurred to her that Fry had been there. She did not want to get the man in trouble, but she felt it was honesty time. “It was Fry,” she said softly. “He found me there and tried to convince me to come back.”
“Fry knew you were there?” he asked, hurt that his steward did not tell him.
“Only just…” she answered. “Do not be mad at him. He was there for you. He is the reason I came tonight.”
“I guess it is my time to say I’m sorry,” Edward croaked, his voice trembling. “For so much.”
They talked for hours about everything, including forgiveness. Neither of them wanted any lies or misunderstandings to taint another second of their lives. They shared a warm brandy and fell asleep in each other’s arms.
Charlotte left Almack’s seething. She would not let some French trollop steal her destiny. She would not lose Edward, and she knew exactly how to force his hand. She headed to St. Paul’s Church-Yard where she had a newspaper connection.
