by Cheryl Bolen
“Put them in water, if you will, Peggy.”
“Yes, ma'am, but I gots to say my piece, seeing as how he's gone and paid all your debts. Lord Rutledge is your guardian angel, if you asks me. As fine a lord as ever there was. He's waiting in his carriage below just so you can command him.”
Carlotta continued to peruse her morning paper. “I fear it will be a very long wait, indeed.” She pretended not to see the frown on Peggy's face as the young servant left to fetch water for the flowers. In Peggy's absence, Carlotta stole a glance through her lace curtains at the carriage below. She was not so unaffected as she liked to appear.
By the time she had finished her breakfast, another knock sounded at her door. So he'd already grown impatient. With a smug expression on her face, she crossed the room and swung open the door, only to gaze at a smiling and panting Mrs. McKay. Carlotta's gaze moved down to Mrs. McKay's non-existent waist, where a small nosegay was pinned. Why that cad was playing all his trumps!
“Won't you come in?” Carlotta asked.
Sighing, Mrs. McKay waddled over to the sofa and plopped on it, removed her handkerchief and wiped her brow while her gaze travelled the room until she spotted Carlotta's flowers in a vase on the tea table. Her smile lost a trifle of its brightness.
“Lovely flowers you're wearing,” Carlotta said. “Lord Rutledge must have been quite taken with you.”
Mrs. McKay straightened and stretched out her neck, lifting one less roll from her sagging chin. “I daresay it's you he's smitten over, Mrs. Ennis. His man tells me his poor master won't move that fine carriage until he can do so with you.”
Carlotta lowered herself into a chair facing her landlady. “I assure you he's not smitten over me. He merely wants to be of service to me—to repay my husband's generosity to him.”
“I understand he's been most generous to you.”
“To the tradesmen I owe, you mean,” Carlotta said, her eyes narrow. “News travels quickly in Bath, does it not?”
“A business woman must stay well informed.”
“Of course.”
“And as a business woman, I have no objection to Lord Rutledge's carriage being in front of my establishment. I couldn't pay for better advertising. Why, half of Bath will be desirous of living here now, so close to nobility, you know.”
“I dare say you're right.”
“But I do feel sorry for Lord Rutledge,” Mrs. McKay said. “Could you not take a ride with him or something?”
“I could.”
“But?”
“But I'm still rather vexed with him over something that happened in the Peninsula.” No use tarnishing the man's reputation here by telling the woman how wretched that something was. He wasn't actually a bad man. He deserved a new start. As did she, she thought bitterly.
Not without effort, Mrs. McKay brought herself to a standing position. “I know it's none of my concern, but he's such a fine man. . .”
A wicked little smile flashed across Carlotta's face. “When he suitably demonstrates to me his reliability, I shall let him off the hook.”
Mrs. McKay, her eyes narrowed, nodded solemnly and left the chambers.
“Peggy! Come help me dress. I believe I'll take a walk.”
* * *
When she left the house, Carlotta did not spare a glance at Lord Rutledge's carriage, but from the corner of her eye saw him disembark. She kept on walking, having no idea where she was going. After a minute she realized someone was on her heels, and she knew very well who that someone was.
He did not wait to be addressed. “Ah, Mrs. Ennis, how lovely you look today,” he said as he drew abreast of her. “I would ask if you minded if I tag along, but I fear I know the answer.”
Her mouth scrunched into a half-concealed smile.
“I am told the waters at the Pump Room can cure whatever ails you,” he said. “Mrs. McKay tells me you have not been well.”
“Therefore, you think I should allow you to accompany me to the Pump Room?” she said, malice now gone from her voice.
“Most definitely.”
She continued walking toward the abbey court. “I must warn you, my lord, about the water at the Pump Room. It's quite dreadful tasting.” It was as close as she could come to offering a truce.
“I believe I'll forgo the water, then, since I enjoy remarkably good health,” he said.
They passed the lending library that was patronized by a steady stream of well dressed customers entering and exiting. Carlotta sighed inwardly. Her subscription there had lapsed, another casualty of her reduced circumstances. But, then she thought hopefully, Lord Rutledge had probably settled that debt, too.
When there was a lull in passing horses and hay carts and sedan chairs borne by sturdy Irishmen, they crossed the street. Then she summoned the courage to remark on Lord Rutledge's kindness in paying her debts. “This is difficult for me,” she began, “but I would be remiss not to thank you for your generosity in settling with my creditors.”
“No thanks needed. 'Twas a debt I owed Captain Ennis.”
A debt that mere money could never repay. Her lips thinned. As they walked along, she wondered how the man had learned of the tradesmen she owed. Had he hired a Bow Street runner? However he had learned of her present whereabouts and pecuniary difficulties showed a great deal of determination. The least she could do was to allow him to try to assuage his conscience with benevolence toward her. He could clearly afford it.
And she clearly needed it.
* * *
The Pump Room was not at all the crowded chamber centered around a rusty pump that James had envisioned. Though over a hundred people mingled within the vast, high-ceilinged classical Roman chamber, it easily held them all with room to spare for strolling.
“You must sign the book,” Carlotta urged him.
“What book?”
“The one that announces all new arrivals. Perhaps one of the soldiers you served with will see it. Do you not find there is something quite gratifying in meeting those we knew in the Peninsula?”
“Indeed, madam.” He caught her lavender scent when she moved closer to him, and memories of Portugal flooded him. Memories of the peaceful refuge found in Mrs. Ennis's lively quarters there. No matter how bleak were the regiment's days, evening card games hosted by the beautiful Mrs. Ennis had suffused him in warmth.
With her at his side, James strode to the podium where The Book stood unguarded. He perused the names, looking for others who had served in his regiment. Not seeing any familiar names, he took up the quill and carefully signed his name and the address of his hotel. Then he shot a concerned glance at Mrs. Ennis. “Will you not take the waters? After all, you could use a restorative.”
Her long black lashes lowered, and she nodded.
He accompanied her to the station where cups of water were drawn from an urn plastered on the wall, and he watched as she drank. She seemed so delicate and frail—altogether different than when she'd been a happy wife.
When she finished, he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and began to stroll about the room, a jauntiness in his step to match the tempo of the soft orchestra music. Unsure of the precarious state of his favor with the widow, he was reluctant to initiate conversation. They walked without talking at all, and when they had nearly completed a turn about the room, her soothing voice anchored him to their setting.
“Even though it's the height of the season,” she said, “I see no one I know. You remember Captain Harrison's wife from the Peninsula?”
He nodded. He remembered Felicity Harrison's flaxen fairness, so perfect a contrast to Carlotta. The soldiers had dubbed them the Goddess of Day and the Goddess of Night. Carlotta, of course, was the Goddess of Night.
“A pity you won't be able to see her,” Carlotta said. “She, too, lives in Bath but is presently in London with her new husband, who's a nabob. You remember Colonel Gordon?”
He quickly gazed at every tall man in the room—and there were many. “He's here?”<
br />
“Hardly. He's dead.”
“No great loss, I should say. Never cared for him,” he murmured.
“And with good reason. We learned much later he killed Captain Harrison on the battlefield because he was in love with Felicity.”
James's mouth dropped open. “He murdered Captain Harrison?”
“Indeed, he did. In fact, he deliberately injured himself so he could escort Captain Harrison's widow back to England. The man was obviously deranged. He did terrible things, but he's dead now.”
They strolled past the musicians. “How did he die?” James asked.
“Felicity's new husband—before he was her husband—rescued her from the colonel, who was abducting her, and the colonel was killed in the ensuing fight.”
He shook his head. “It sounds like something out of one of those Minerva Press novels women are so fond of.”
“Yes, indeed.”
A moment later, he asked, “Did Mrs. Harrison ever have any children?”
“Not with the captain. She and the nabob have a daughter.”
“'Tis good Captain Harrison left no children behind. A boy needs a father.” As they came back to the pump, he asked, “Is your Stevie like his father?”
Her voice was soft and mellow when she answered. “He is very much his father's son. He's enamored of all things military, and he looks exactly like Stephen.”
“I should like to write him a letter telling him what a fine and brave officer his father was.”
Her face grew solemn. “Stevie would like that.”
Even though she had been unwell and had lost weight, he had no doubts that Carlotta Ennis was the loveliest woman in the room. What surprised him was the lack of suitors flocking around her. Her recent illness must have secluded her for a considerable period of time. Another piece of luck for him, no doubt.
“I hope I'm not tiring you,” he said.
“It's actually good to be out and about again.”
“I understand there's to be a Shakespearean production at the theatre tonight.” He stopped short of begging her to accompany him. He wanted to gauge her reaction first.
“Edmund Kean's to portray Hamlet, is he not?” she asked. “I've never seen him, though I would like to some day.”
“It would be my greatest pleasure to take you, madam.”
She looked up into his face, her eyes a smoky lavender. “I don't know . . . I've been avoiding the night chill for so long now.”
“Mrs. McKay was remarking to me how much recovered you are.”
Carlotta shrugged. “Perhaps I could go to the theatre, to see Kean, of course.”
After two turns around the room, he suggested they return to Queensbury Street. “I should not want to tire you, else I would have to forgo the pleasure of your company tonight.”
As they walked back up Milsom Street, he saw a fair haired lad on a pony and thought of Stevie Ennis. “Look, that boy must be the age of Stevie,” he said.
Her gaze swung to the boy, her eyes flinching. “I daresay he is,” she said in a morose voice.
“Does Stevie have a pony?”
“I. . .I don't believe so, though he's horse mad.”
“I would like to select a gentle mount for him.”
“You've spent quite enough.” Carlotta did not look at him. Her mind was too full of her new-found good fortune. Lord Rutledge's generosity seemed an answer to her prayers. She must do whatever she could to stay in his good graces.
And she dare not allow him to learn of her indiscretion. The earl's guilt could not be counted upon to keep propelling him to acts of benevolence. What would he do if he learned of her sullied past? Carlotta bit her lip. To settle her debts so promptly, he very well could have employed a runner. What else did the Bow Street spy tell Lord Rutledge?
Turning on to Queensbury Street, she continued to think about Lord Rutledge. Several times now he had spoken of Stevie. The man clearly wanted to meet her son, perhaps even to sponsor the lad—which meant that Stevie could be her ticket to economic freedom. There was no telling how far Lord Rutledge's generosity would extend if Stevie lived here in Bath with her.
She really ought to send for the boy. But she had no money with which to hire a nurse or to pay for his fare on the post chaise. Then, too, the lad was too young to travel alone.
“I truly wish you could meet my son,” she said.
“As do I.”
“If I were not so . . . so financially strapped, I would have him.”
“A boy should be with his mother.”
“How I wish he could!”
“Would it be presumptuous of me to send my man to Yorkshire—in my chaise—to get the boy and bring him to you?”
Her heart tumbled. She had never before had the responsibility of the boy. What did one do with a small lad? She pushed the brief stab of remembered fear away. Surely a nurse would be engaged. Carlotta could not be expected to know about such things. However, if she did have Stevie, Lord Rutledge was sure to assume some of the responsibility for him—and indulge them both, to boot.
Her lip trembled as she turned toward the earl. “Oh, my lord, nothing could be more wonderful, but I cannot afford a nurse for him.”
“But I can. It's my responsibility—to repay your husband.”
“I shall write to my grandmother today,” she said decisively. “When can they expect your man? And what's his name?”
“Mannington. He should be able to be there late Friday.”
They stopped in front of her house. “The boy is apt to be frightened of traveling so far from home with a stranger,” James said. “Tell him he will have a pony of his very own when he arrives in Bath.”
“That should make him very happy, indeed.”
* * *
Their night at the theatre proved enchanting to James. He'd had no difficulty procuring an excellent box. And the woman who sat beside him stunned him with her beauty. He had almost lost his breath when he called for Carlotta and gazed upon her magnificence. A regal purple gown of soft silk clung to her graceful body, barely covering the ivory smoothness of her full breasts. Her glorious black hair swept back, with soft curls spiraling loosely along her graceful neck. And, as always, she smelled of lavender fields.
“Have you seen Kean perform before?” she asked, turning to face him now.
“Once. At Drury Lane. He gave an impressive performance as Othello.”
“Really? Kean's a superior talent. I dare say he could play any role convincingly.”
When the curtain rose, Carlotta directed her full attention to the stage, while the play held little of James's attention. Like a child awaiting Christmas, he bubbled with anticipation. Just being with Carlotta had filled him with purpose and contentment, and his delight would swell tenfold once Stevie arrived. He had sent to Yarmouth for the boy's pony. He grew anxious to see Stevie's reaction to it.
And now that it was certain he would be staying in Bath for some time, he would need to let a house. A hotel was no place to entertain a child. He would also purchase a chess board so he could teach the youngster to play. And he would buy tin soldiers. Armies of them.
Throughout the first three acts, James made a mental list of all the things he needed to buy for the boy.
When intermission came, Carlotta had no desire to leave the box for refreshment—which surprised James. Women generally enjoyed fluttering about, talking to other women. But not Carlotta. She seemed to have few friends. Of course Felicity Harrison was out of the country . . .
Carlotta turned to James, excitement in her normally seductive voice. “Do you know, I have never seen Hamlet performed before. It's really quite sobering. And I must say Kean is even greater than I expected.”
“A fine actor, indeed,” James agreed.
“When I was a girl, my brother and I used to perform all the Shakespearean plays, and I loved to play Ophelia.”
“Then you must have had a dramatic flair.”
She smiled, her lashes lapping agains
t the satiny skin below her eyes.
“We shall have to perform some lighter plays with Stevie when he comes,” he suggested.
“I cannot wait.”
The theatre lights dimmed, and the curtain lifted on Act Four. During the final two acts, James found himself making a myriad of plans for when Stevie came. He would teach him to ride and to fish. They would explore the Roman ruins and perform plays and rollick in the park. He would tell the lad about Waterloo and present him with the epaulets he had worn there.
Throughout his musings, James would steal glances at Carlotta, her perfect profile evoking thoughts of a Roman goddess. Ah yes, he remembered, the Goddess of Night. And he was stirred by her provocativeness.
When the play was over and the actors took their bows, James could scarcely believe the time had passed so quickly.
Carlotta turned to him, placing her gloved hand on his, her lilac-gray eyes sparkling. “Thank you for bringing me tonight. It was wonderful.”
He stood and offered her his arm. “The pleasure was mine entirely.”
During the short carriage ride to Queensbury Street, James faced Carlotta. Even in the dim light, her beauty shone. “Mannington departs at dawn in this carriage,” he said.
“I cannot believe I will see my baby next week,” she said, her voice a whisper of the night. “Thank you.”
“'Tis nothing. I happen to be a very rich man.”
“I would say you're my rainbow.”
Her rainbow? Whatever did that mean? He pondered it for a moment, then he understood. Or thought he did.
Chapter 4
Lord Rutledge had caused Stephen's death. And she vowed to make him pay for it. If she played her hand shrewdly enough, the earl would indeed be her rainbow. The man's guilt drove him to relentlessly try to win Carlotta's forgiveness. Of course, she could never forgive him, but she could pretend to absolve him of guilt. . .while accepting any generous offering he might happen to throw her way.
The very thought of having Stevie here, though, sent her heart racing. She had no experience at being a mother. Stephen had been killed when Stevie was but one month old. Carlotta was still recuperating from her lying-in when she had plunged into a deep and devastating grief. Scarcely a month before she had lost her husband, her only brother been slain in battle. Then she had lost Stephen, too. The only time she'd had sole responsibility for her babe was when she had sailed home to England with him. As if sensing his father's demise, Stevie had cried incessantly, and nothing she did would satisfy him.
