by Cheryl Bolen
By the time she reached London—and Gran's comforting presence—Carlotta had been content to turn over the babe to Gran's care.
Even when her grandmother returned to Yorkshire.
Thank goodness Lord Rutledge stood by willing to offer assistance with her son. Let him have the responsibility for the boy! Clearly, the man desired to bring Stevie to Bath, and by having him here Carlotta could better manipulate Lord Rutledge . . . and his hefty purse.
She looked around her shabby drawing room. Perhaps Lord Rutledge would even wish to provide a finer place for the lad and her to live. A smile curving her lips, Carlotta vowed to see that he did.
* * *
The day Mannington left, James found himself wondering each hour how far his valet had gone and when he would reach Yorkshire. Time after time he would count on his fingers the amount of days he calculated it to take before he could expect to see Stevie Ennis. He tried to picture the lad as a miniature version of his noble father. Captain Ennis had been possessed of a head of light brown hair that had likely been blond when he was the boy's age. Therefore, James imagined the boy with hair the color of newly minted gold. Would the absence of his parents have rendered the lad solemn? Such thoughts twisted at James's heart. He pledged to do everything in his power to compensate the boy for depriving him of a father.
More than once James winced from guilt. For it was he—and not the slain captain—who was deriving immense satisfaction from Stephen Ennis's lovely wife and he who hoped to become a father to Captain Ennis's young son.
He hoped his manipulations could result in Carlotta becoming a true mother to her son. A frown pierced James's countenance as he momentarily wondered again at the deprivation of mother who could relinquish her ties to her only child.
James had much to do to compensate the boy. In his entire life James had never been driven by such purpose. Not when he had risen to the top of his class at Sandhurst. Not when he stood near the victorious Wellington at Waterloo. Not even when he had inherited the earldom. But now—now that he was supplanting Stephen Ennis—James burst with plans and hope and eagerly looked forward to each new day.
This day he wished to accompany Mrs. Ennis to the Pump Room. He liked to think that her health was being restored by his attentions, but it would not hurt for her to take the water there. He would try anything that might restore the rose in her pale cheeks.
As he walked beneath fair skies to her lodgings, James stopped and bought her posies and purchased a smaller bouquet for her landlady.
“Oh, your lordship, you're much too kind,” the rotund Mrs. McKay soon squealed with delight as he presented them to her when she answered his knock.
“'Tis small repayment for your many kindnesses to Mrs. Ennis,” he answered as he turned away and mounted the stairs to Carlotta's rooms.
Oddly, whenever he was about to behold Mrs. Ennis, James's stomach behaved in a most peculiar manner, not unlike one who feared falling on his face in front of the queen.
Carlotta's maid answered the door, dipped him a curtsey and bade him to come in. “Allow me to fetch me mistress,” she said, scurrying through a door to the bed chamber.
As he took a seat on the faded sofa, it occurred to him these skimpy lodgings were not only unfit for the beautiful, cultured Carlotta Ennis, but they were also completely unfit for little Stevie. The boy would have to have a nurse and nursery and room to play. This place was most inadequate. What had he been thinking of to contemplate his own relocation when it was the lad's mother's relocation which mattered most? James fleetingly thought of how disappointed Mrs. McKay would be to lose her most respectable tenant, then he remembered he had paid her a year's rent in advance—money she was free to keep. He smiled. She would not be too disappointed.
That peculiar feeling in his stomach returned as beautiful Carlotta gracefully swept into the room. She wore a sprigged lilac dress and looked rather like a young girl—not a widow closer to thirty summers than to twenty.
“What a pleasant surprise to see you, my lord,” she said, offering him her hand.
He stood and bent to kiss it, stirred by her lavender scent. “Oblige me by allowing me to escort you to the Pump Room. The waters there should be beneficial to you—given your recent ill health.”
Her brows lowered almost imperceptibly as a flash of some emotion—was it fear?—flitted across her lovely face, to be replaced immediately with dancing eyes and a happy voice. “How very kind of you to be concerned for me,” she said, slipping her arm through his, “but what I really need is sunshine. Please do me the goodness of escorting me to Crescent Fields.”
“Whatever you desire, my dear Mrs. Ennis. Shall you need a bonnet?” Though he did not discuss it, James was keenly aware of Mrs. Ennis's avoidance of the Pump Room.
She turned to gaze at him with those sultry eyes of hers. “I never wear one.”
Of course. Her lack of headwear had not gone unnoticed by him. “Another example of your distinctive style, I should say.”
Her lashes lowered. “Then you've noticed.”
“That you wear every shade of purple known to man?”
She tossed her head back and laughed. “I've never been a slave to fashion. My philosophy is to wear what looks best on one.” She leveled a serious gaze at him. “Hats look hideous on women.”
“I must admit,” he said, opening the exterior door for her, “I'd much rather gaze upon a lady's shimmering hair than a hat.”
She looked up at him. Almost seductively. “I daresay a man thinks of how much he would like to run his fingers through a woman's hair.” Then she swept through the doorway.
He swallowed, breathless at the thought of running his hands through Carlotta's glossy black hair. Now he understood. Carlotta did not dress to please other women. She dressed to please men.
Once they were on the pavement, she looked up at him and smiled. “I could scarcely sleep last night, my lord, for my anxiousness to see Stevie. To think, by this time next week my little lamb will be with me!”
He filled with pride and, smiling, squeezed her hand that rested on his arm.
“There's just one thing,” she said hesitantly.
His brows lowered at the tinge of worry in her voice.
“I fear my lodgings are not adequate for a rambunctious lad.”
He patted her gloved hand. “Not to worry your pretty head. We'll have to procure more suitable lodgings for you—and the nurse we must hire.”
She spoke in a voice barely above a whisper. “You are aware of the fact I have no money?”
“And you must be aware of the heavy debt I owe your husband, the lad's father.” Your husband. It had been some time now since James had thought of Carlotta as belonging to Stephen Ennis. James was suddenly imbued with a bitter jealousy toward a man long dead, a man buried beneath Portuguese soil. “Allow me to let a house for you. In what area should you desire to live?”
She did not hesitate. “This side of the river, I should say. Everything is so much more at hand here.”
“I shall make inquiries today. Perhaps tomorrow we can look at some houses.” He stopped abruptly. “That is. . .I shouldn't want anyone in Bath to get the wrong idea about us. Perhaps you would prefer to go without me.”
For the second time that day, she tossed her head back and laughed. Then, as quickly as she had erupted into laughter, she stopped, and a melancholy look crossed her face. “I'm hardly a maiden, my lord. Having no husband, it's only natural I should ask a gentlemen to help me in matters of tenancy.”
“Yes, of course.” How helpless poor Carlotta was. James vowed to expend all his resources to relieve her of worries.
Few words were exchanged during their walk to Crescent Fields, and it occurred to James that not once since he had been in Bath had Carlotta spoken to a friend. Not that first day at the Pump Room, nor the night at the theatre, nor today—though they had passed dozens of people. Did she have no friends? Being of good birth and being the widow of an earl's son, she quite
naturally should have easily slid into an exalted position in Bath society. That she had not must be a testament to her sadly reduced circumstances. Circumstances he took sole blame for.
* * *
The following day they went house hunting. The first one they looked at, on Camden Crescent, Carlotta dismissed as being too shabbily furnished. The townhouse on Avon Street faced a fish shop, which would not do at all for Carlotta. “I dare say I'd never sleep a wink for smelling three-day old fish,” she declared. The third one, a beautifully furnished townhouse on Monmouth Place, met with her approval.
“Lord Rutledge,” she said in front of the agent, “you'll simply have to make all the arrangements for me. I'm hopeless with anything financial.” Though she no longer possessed a good name she needed to protect, Carlotta wished to prevent James from discovering that fact. She looked at the agent. “Lord Rutledge served with my late husband and is a dear friend of the family. I declare, I don't know what I'd do without him.”
After making arrangements to meet with the agent later that afternoon, James escorted Carlotta back to Queensbury. Her step was lighter than it had been in an age. In her deepest gloom, she had always held hope. “Oh, wind,” she said wistfully to the skies above, “if winter comes, can spring be far behind?”
James was silent for a moment. “May I hope your recitation of Shelley is fraught with symbolism?”
She met his gaze and nodded, then slipped her arm through his. “I can see that we shall get along beautifully, my lord. I love a man who knows his poetry.”
When they turned onto her street, he cleared his throat. “There's one other thing I want to discuss about when the lad . . . your son comes.”
“Yes?”
“I've been thinking. Everything will be so new, so unfamiliar, to him. I shouldn't like to throw too many new people, too many new experiences, at him at once. We should give him time to adjust to us.”
What was he trying to get at? She looked quizzically at Lord Rutledge. “Yes?”
“I think we should allow him to become used to me and to being with you before we thrust a new nurse on him.”
Good grief, would she have to have sole responsibility for the boy? “But, my lord, I'm hardly experienced with lads.”
“Peggy can help you, and it's not as if I won't be around—every minute you'll allow me. I like to think I'm good with children.”
“I'm sure you're wonderful,” she said. If only he could take complete responsibility for the lad. “How . . . how long before we can . . . before the little darling adjusts to his new home? Before we can procure his nurse?”
There was no hesitation in his voice when he answered. “When I'm assured he's comfortable with you, if you must know.”
So he's aware of what an unnatural mother I've been. No matter how inflamed she was, she must not allow him to believe her an unfeeling mother. “Of course you're right, my lord. Stevie likely will be nervous at first—what with the new surroundings and everything.” She dare not tell Lord Rutledge the boy had never been completely comfortable with her.
“When I was nearly the same age as he,” he said in a low voice, “I was sent to my grandmother's during my mother's bereavement, and I still remember how frightened I was to be removed from everything familiar and thrust into a completely alien environment.”
She looked up into Lord Rutledge's handsome face. It seemed queer to think Lord Rutledge was ever a boy. He was so . . . so large and manly . . . and virile. Certainly not one given to fears. Stephen had told her James was a fine and brave soldier. This sensitive side of him—something she would never have suspected of him—was as even more admirable than his generosity. Of course, he was flawed. He had allowed her dear Stephen to die because of his negligence. He would do well with the boy, though. She had no doubt Stevie would get on with him.
* * *
Before the week was out, James helped Carlotta move her pitifully few belongings into the townhouse on Monmouth Street. The following day, Stevie arrived.
Chapter 5
The sight of Stevie oddly stirred Carlotta. He had changed vastly in the two years since she had last seen him. Then, baby fat rounded his cheeks and the lisping four-year-old had more closely resembled a toddler than a young boy. Now, he was a miniature of his father. His thin, stern face looked far older than his six years.
Memories of the boy's father flooded her. She remembered how he had looked that night her brother introduced him to her at Almack's. He had worn his red military jacket with its shining gold buttons, a gleaming sword at his side. One look at him, and her heart was captured. She thought, too, of the heartache of his untimely death. But most of all, she remembered how proud Stephen had been when she bore him a son. Tears filled her eyes. She felt traitorous for sitting in her gilded drawing room that was being paid for by the man responsible for poor Stephen's death.
Forcing a smile, she moved to Stevie, her arms outstretched. “My darling son, how good it is to see you! And how you've grown!” She stooped to gather him into her embrace.
He stood rigid, his arms at his sides, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips as his mother affectionately greeted him.
Holding him at arm's length, she directed a mock scowl at him. “No kiss for your mama?”
Now a full-fledged smile altered his small face as he moved to her and pecked her proffered cheek.
She took his hand and walked him down the hall of their townhouse. “You must come sit on my lap and tell me what you've been doing.”
They entered the gold drawing room, and she sat on a silken settee, beckoning for him sit on her lap.
He stopped three feet short of her. “Will I not muss your gown?”
“Oh, fiddle! You're much more important than any old dress.” A smile on her face, she patted her lap.
He sprang to the proffered seat.
Her arms encircled him. “My goodness, lad, you've grown so thin. I declare, I'm going to have to fatten you up.” Though she tried to make light of his thinness, it disturbed her. He had been nothing like this the last time she had seen him. Was something wrong with the lad? Instantly, she grew angry with her grandmother. Why had Gran failed to notify Carlotta of a condition which might affect her child's health? Had there not been enough food? she wondered with a stab of fear. At the first of every quarter, Carlotta religiously sent half her meager funds to Gran.
By the expression on his face, Carlotta realized her words had disappointed him. She gave him an affectionate squeeze. “I daresay your papa was also thin when he was your age. You're so very much like your father.”
“How am I like my papa?”
She hugged him to her. “Well, first of all, you're the very image of him. Your face is but a younger version of his face, and your hair is just a shade lighter than his was when I met him. He was somewhat on the slender side, too, but he became more muscular with age.”
Stevie's eyes brightened at that comment. “I should enjoy being like my papa when I grow up.”
“I'm certain he would have liked that.”
“Tell me again about his bravery.” He pronounced bravery like bwave-awee. His pronunciation made her smile and caused an unexpected stab of sadness. She had missed so much of his life. “Better than that,” she said. “There's here in Bath a former soldier who served with your papa. He wants to tell you all about your father. His name is Lord Rutledge, and he is very much looking forward to meeting you. He's also bought replica swords and toy soldiers and even a very special present for you.”
“It must be the pony!” he shrieked.
“You'll have to wait until this afternoon, love,” she said. Lord Rutledge had the ridiculous notion the reunion between mother and son should be private. Had she a say in the matter, Lord Rutledge would be sharing this very settee with them right now. She really was at a loss for what to say to a six-year-old lad.
“I know you were very sad last year when your nurse got married. What was her name?”
“Sah-wa.”
“Oh, yes, Sarah!”
“She's got a baby girl now,” he said. “I got to go visit them.”
“Did you now? And how do you like babies?”
“I like them very much.”
“It seems just yesterday you were a wee one,” Carlotta said wistfully. She swallowed. Her son had become a person, and she had missed everything. “And look at how big you are now!”
He grinned up at her.
“I believe it's time I introduce the master of the house to my maid and the other servants.”
* * *
That afternoon James, laden with packages for Stevie, came. Not only was the boy delighted with all that Lord Rutledge brought him, but he shed the reticence he bore with his mother and readily laughed with James, who had a talent for saying what pleased a child of Stevie's age.
As much as Carlotta wished to dislike his lordship for what he had done on The Peninsula, she seemed unable to do so. He was so very selfless—and quite charming.
As soon as he presented Stevie with the toy soldiers, the two of them spread out regiments on the Turkey carpet and completely forgot Carlotta's existence.
For the first half hour, she watched them play, though she was bored beyond bearing. Finally, she excused herself and went to her room and allowed herself the luxury of reading a new volume of poetry which Lord Rutledge had presented her the day before.
She smiled as she remembered how sweet he had been when he had offered it to her.
“I saw this at the booksellers and immediately thought of you—knowing how much you love poetry, that is,” he had said shyly.
