An Heir of Deception (The Elusive Lords)

by Beverley Kendall

  In no mood to be scolded, her brother circled the chair and began to pace the length of the Oriental rug. “He is being spiteful.”

  “Well of course he is. But love, you must look on this from his view point. Naturally he feels cheated. He is only just learned of his son’s existence. His emotions are raw which makes his reaction purely reflexive. He is hurt and now all he wants to do is hurt Charlotte in return. But it won’t last—with Alex it never does. We just need to give him time.”

  Charlotte winced. Although she was certain Missy hadn’t meant to, she made her feel like a villain of the worst sort.

  Her sister-in-law’s gaze shifted to her. “My dear, I hope you won’t take that as a criticism. I’m merely voicing what I know Alex must be feeling. But I know him, and regardless of what he says, he’s not the kind of man who could or would take a child from its mother, no matter the circumstances. It’s simply not in his character. I’m certain that in a few days his initial anger will pass and another solution will present itself.”

  Solution? There was no solution to this. There was only scandal, ruin and complete social ostracism.

  “In the meanwhile, let us not dwell on this when you’ve only now just come home. As the children are fully occupied, why don’t we go into the village and shop for dresses? The girls are in need of new summer frocks and by the look of your wardrobe, you are in need of gowns which actually fit.” A teasing light lit Missy’s eyes.

  “Yes, Missy, it’s a lovely day to shop,” Katie said, quick to agree.

  Charlotte managed a small smile. Katie had never been altogether keen on shopping but she was trying so very hard. They all were. God how she’d missed them, loved them.

  “But do you think it wise for me to be seen out so publicly?” Charlotte asked. She’d had to weather many hardships thus far in her twenty-four years, but she wasn’t sure she was prepared for the storm to come.

  “My dear, this isn’t London. And all that happened so long ago. Most will have forgotten the incident by now,” Missy said, all quite straight-faced and the like.

  James stopped pacing and looked sidelong at his wife. Katie appeared mesmerized by the black-and-red pattern of the rug.

  Charlotte arched a brow at her sister-in-law. The scandal she’d caused was like a book left on a shelf where it grew dusty in a dark, rarely tread corner until the author returned to cast light on its forgotten tale. Her return ensured the whole of London would vividly recall, in every salacious detail, the incident as Missy had so prosaically chosen to call it. Charlotte called it the worst day of her life.

  “Come, as my mother used to tell Thomas and I when our financial decline made us practically pariahs in Society, if you permit the weeds to grow underfoot, ridding yourself of them later will be all the worse.”

  This Charlotte took to mean, Gird your loins, my dear, and jump into the fray.

  “If you hide yourself away, people will believe that you believe you have something to be ashamed of. And I know you, Charlotte, whatever your reasons, I know in my heart you never set out to hurt us.” Missy reached out from where she sat in the adjacent chair, caught her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

  Charlotte swallowed hard. What on earth had she ever done to deserve such absolute loyalty and faith in her family? Whatever it was, she was glad of it and relieved she hadn’t arrived home to find herself confronted by walls erected due to hurt, anger and resentment.

  “Shall I call for the girls?” Charlotte asked, rising from her seat.

  “Oh no, my dear, my daughters have no interest in shopping, which is why I must perpetually take these trips alone. Truth to tell, I have Miss Foster come to the house to fit them when I’m not in a mood to venture out.”

  Against a backdrop of neatly stacked leather-bound books on mahogany shelves, James watched her silently, intently. And then slowly, as if the sun nudged aside gray clouds of gloom, a comforting smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Go and enjoy yourself. We’ll have time enough to deal with the matter. Right now, I’m just grateful you’ve finally come home. And whenever you’re ready to talk, I will be here.”

  If she spoke now, she feared she’d turn into a watering pot and she’d cried enough in recent days—weeks—to singlehandedly keep the flowers in Kensington Gardens thriving for a good fortnight. So she simply went to her brother and hugged him very tightly. And he hugged her back, just as tightly, whispering a heartfelt, “I love you too,” in her ear.

  They fully understood each other.

  Chapter Eight

  The dressmaker, a Madame Rousseau, presumably a French woman (because all of the truly talented modistes hailed from France), kept a small shop on Broad Street, the very heart of Reading commerce.

  Two evening gowns, one a silk cream with lace chevrons, the other a blue satin, the underskirt of white silk flounced with dark blue lace, decorated the shop window. Included in the display were three bolts of expensive fabric artfully arranged to entice ladies content to window shop to come in, indulge their desire for the latest in fashion, and inevitably part with their coin.

  “Oh, I believe that is new,” Missy said, admiring the cream confection. “Come, Miss Foster is waiting for us. I sent word for her to expect us at two.”

  Although the sun shone brightly, the air was an icy reminder that winter wasn’t finished with them just yet. Wrapped in their wool, silk-lined pelisses, the three women filed into the shop.

  The tinkle of a bell announced their arrival. The women in the shop turned and stared as they entered.

  Charlotte’s eyes quickly adjusted to the dim interior lighting as she took in the neat orderliness of the shop. It hadn’t appeared so spacious from outside. It smelled faintly of beeswax, wool and citrus. The floors were broom swept clean, and the bolts upon bolts of colorful fabrics lining two walls of shelves drew the eye and the reels of ribbon, lace and velvet conjured up countless trimming possibilities.

  Everyone in the shop—eight women of varying ages and sizes—smiled and a staggered chorus of, “Good afternoon, Lady Windmere, Miss Catherine,” rang out.

  While Missy and Catherine responded in kind, Charlotte smiled pleasantly, meeting the women’s gazes one at a time. She’d have to face them sometime; she may as well start as she meant to go on.

  The woman Missy had greeted as Mrs. Moreland puckered her brows as her gaze swung like a pendulum between her and Katie. The other women in the shop quickly followed suit, watching them with creased brows. It was some moments before anyone spoke.

  “Why Lady Windmere, is this—?” Mrs. Moreland broke from the group, her stride purposeful as the hem of her blue-and-green striped skirts flittered across the floor.

  “Ah, Mrs. Moreland, I don’t believe you have had the pleasure to meet Catherine’s sister, Charlotte. It’s quite astonishing how much she and her sister resemble, is it not?”

  When Mrs. Moreland flashed a most disingenuous smile, Charlotte forced herself to rise above her fate of social pariah by feigning oblivion. “Mrs. Moreland, nice to make your acquaintance.”

  “Miss Rutherford. Oh yes, I’ve heard much about you.” The way Mrs. Moreland spoke and the manner in which she perused Charlotte’s form—from top to bottom and then reversing the direction—made it perfectly clear the things she’d heard had not been complimentary.

  But this Charlotte had expected. She simply had to brave her way through it all. Mrs. Moreland was the first but certainly wouldn’t be the last. And the others may not possess her particular knack for subtlety.

  “Yes, and we are delighted to have my sister home.” Even with a flash of white teeth, Catherine’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. Her voice was ostensibly pleasant but her tight jaw and pursed lips practically dared the woman to misspeak.

  “Will you be visiting long?” Mrs. Moreland inquired. “I heard you do not frequent these parts much.”

  Missy and her sister closed in around her, a bastion of female strength and loyalty, intent on protecting her from all
the evils that may befall her. At present, the most notable came in the form of one Mrs. Moreland.

  “Our hope is that Charlotte remains.” Missy’s voice had gone from superficially warm to icily civil. “So if we can convince her to stay, you will no doubt be seeing much more of her.”

  “Oh how delightful.” This time, the woman didn’t make the slightest attempt to sound unaffected.

  “Ah, there is Miss Foster. She is expecting us. Good day, Mrs. Moreland.” Missy’s dismissal was abrupt and unequivocal. Charlotte quickly found herself being steered toward the woman who had just emerged from the back, her arm now hooked through her sister-in-law’s.

  The other women in the shop, who had long gone quiet as they’d unashamedly listened as Mrs. Moreland had singled her out, resumed talking, although in decidedly more muted voices than when they’d first arrived.

  She is the one who jilted the Marquess of Avondale at the altar. Of all the nerve! Really, who is she to stand up a future duke? Everyone knows she’s barely deemed respectable herself.

  Charlotte could practically hear them; certain that was what they were whispering behind their gloved hands as their gazes slammed into her like a runaway train and then cut away with a surgeon’s precision.

  “Lady Windmere, Miss Catherine. My apologies to have kept yeh waitin’.”

  Focusing her attention on the woman approaching them, Charlotte was shocked—but pleasantly so—to see Miss Foster was a mulatto. A fair one, her complexion a good deal fairer than Jillian’s, but a mulatto to be sure. Her mixed race was evident in her high cheekbones, her fuller lips and the texture of her hair, though it wasn’t as dark a brown nor did it appear as frizzy as her maid’s.

  Standing slightly above average height, Miss Foster wore a gray dress with pagoda sleeves that skimmed a slim figure. She was lovely and currently her startling green eyes were just as intent in their study of Charlotte as Charlotte’s were of her.

  “Miss Foster, I would like you to meet my twin sister, Charlotte. She’s recently arrived in Reading and is in dire need of a new wardrobe.”

  The woman dipped a curtsey. “Pleased tuh meet you.”

  Charlotte responded to the genuine warmth in her voice with a smile. “Miss Foster.”

  They were immediately led into a private dressing room—which was a welcome relief given the furtive stares she was now receiving from the other women in the shop—where the three sat on cushioned chairs. They pored over fashion plates while Miss Foster paraded in and out of the room with bolts of fabric, swatches of French lace, corded silk and poult de soie.

  Lord, Charlotte had forgotten what this was like; shopping without the need to watch her pennies. Being able to contemplate such lush fabrics. Not that she’d had this luxury all her life, but when she and Katie had come to live with James, he’d showered them with every possible creature comfort, clearly trying to make up for everything they’d ever lacked. But more important, he and Missy had made them feel loved for the first time in their lives.

  “Lottie, do you not adore this color?” Her sister passed her a swatch, a silk velvet in a color one couldn’t precisely call pink or salmon but something in between.

  Charlotte studied it closely, handling it with care. “It’s beautiful.” After stroking the fabric a moment longer, Charlotte handed it back to her. Before accepting it, Katie grasped her hand in hers. “Isn’t this so much fun?”

  “The most grown-up fun I’ve had in ages,” Charlotte said with a laugh.

  Katie smiled and held her hand a moment longer before relinquishing it and accepting the swatch.

  By the time they departed the shop an hour and a half later having ordered a dozen dresses in total, stockings and various undergarments, a fresh crop of women were milling about in the store.

  Ensconced in the landau, Missy removed her bonnet and placed it on the seat beside her. “You will have to take care should you ever have the misfortune to run into Mrs. Moreland again.”

  “I believe they’ll all be much the same.”

  Katie angled toward her on the seat. “Mrs. Moreland is Lady Mary Cranford’s cousin.”

  Lady Mary. The woman the duchess wanted Alex to marry. Charlotte had to tamp down a stab of jealousy.

  Missy’s gaze flitted between them. “I presume you told her?” she asked, addressing Katie.

  When her sister nodded, Missy exhaled a heavy sigh.

  No one spoke.

  Desperate to change the subject and cover the strained silence, Charlotte asked, “Where was Madame Rousseau? I thought I was to meet her.” And she had thought it curious the shop’s proprietor hadn’t been the one to wait on Missy, who was, after all, the Countess of Windmere.

  “Ah yes, Madame Rousseau. Well it would appear that the latest Madame Rousseau has left for a shop in London.”

  Charlotte regarded her sister-in-law, brows drawn. “What do you mean the latest? Do you mean there is more than one?”

  “Actually, there have been three in the past four years,” her sister said dryly.

  “But—”

  “Madame Rousseau is the name of the shop so every woman who purports to run it must assume the role of Madame Rousseau.”

  None of it made sense and Charlotte’s confusion must have shown on her face because Missy went on to explain, “You see, my dear, Madame Rousseau is really owned by Miss Foster but very few people are privy to the truth.”

  “Then why doesn’t she call herself Madame Rousseau?” Which would have been the most logical thing.

  “Because most of the women in town wouldn’t patronize the shop if they knew she actually owned it instead of merely worked there as a seamstress,” Katie explained in a subdued voice.

  “I see.” And she did. She saw it all too clearly now. How silly of her to not have grasped the reason at once.

  “It is a sad fact, but one we must accept until things change.” Missy spoke as if she had no doubt things would one day change. “I know you’ll say none of this to anyone.”

  “But of course.” Charlotte met her sister’s stare. “And how did you all come to hear about Miss Foster?”

  “I met her when she worked for one of the other clothing shops.”

  “Yes, but when Catherine learned of the deplorable conditions the poor woman had to work under, she appealed to James to find her employment elsewhere.” Missy gave Katie an approving nod.

  “But after speaking to her, she admitted to secretly wanting her own dress shop. Since James owns the building, he offered to lease her the space after the current tenant moved out,” Katie said.

  “I wouldn’t imagine she’d have the money to open a clothing shop,” Charlotte remarked. Miss Foster was a mulatto and a woman. Her disadvantages were many, her business prospects few.

  “She didn’t. Alex gave her the money,” Missy said, brushing back wisps of hair from her forehead.

  Charlotte knew her sister’s reasons for doing what she’d done. However, Alex was an entirely different story. “But why would Alex give her money? Was he acquainted with Miss Foster?” Although, she couldn’t imagine under which circumstances something like that would occur.

  Katie shot Missy an indiscernible look before replying, “She once came to his aid and he never forgot her kindness.”

  What could Miss Foster possibly have done for Alex? But as it was obvious neither woman intended to enlighten her, Charlotte reluctantly allowed the matter to drop.

  After a pronounced pause, Katie said, “I don’t think Alex will court Lady Mary now.”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised if he did not,” Missy agreed.

  “Well it is certainly none of my affair who Alex chooses to court and marry.” Charlotte had no doubt Alex would agree with her on that.

  “Are you saying you don’t care?” Katie asked.

  “No, because who Alex marries will affect me in regards to Nicholas. What I’m saying is I have no say in it.”

  “And your concern is only for how it affects your son?”
Missy sent her a knowing look.

  “My feelings in this do not matter and should not.”

  “But they are your feelings, nonetheless. And you’re entitled to them without shame or guilt,” Missy said.

  The discussion was quickly going the way of all things melancholy and that Charlotte could not take. They were supposed to be trying to keep her mind off the more unpleasant things she may soon have to face.

  Determinedly, she clasped her gloved hands together and plopped them solidly on her lap. It was past time to advance topics and she conveyed it with all the subtlety of a dinner bell; unflinchingly direct and impossible to ignore while not offending the ears.

  “Missy, you must tell me about the children. I can hardly believe how the twins have grown. And Lily is truly a stunningly beautiful child.” She felt no guilt in having taken such ruthless and unerring aim at Missy’s Achilles heel.

  The following silence spoke as words never could. Charlotte watched as the two women’s gazes met and bounced. Katie delicately cleared her throat and pulled her pelisse tighter around her.

  Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief—a faint mist of air in the chilly carriage—when her sister-in-law enthusiastically launched into an enumeration of all her children’s accomplishments.

  The scent of wood shavings assailed his nostrils as Alex followed his friend, Viscount Creswell, into his workshop.

  Shortly after his wedding, Creswell’s wife, Elizabeth had convinced him to turn one of the two still rooms at their residence into a room where he could comfortably work on his carvings.

  In the years since, his friend’s hobby had grown to include the construction of beautiful pieces of furniture and various assortments of toys for his two children.

  Planks of wood in varying sizes were stacked against the wall and on the sawdust-covered floor. The only place to sit was the stool on which Creswell usually worked.

  Alex left him to it, choosing to lean against the table holding four planks of unvarnished wood.