by Candace Camp
“I didn’t mean that you had snubbed her, my dear Miss Emerson,” Reed hastened to assure Charity. “I meant only that, well, many ladies don’t attend her parties. Especially the older ones. So she is sure that your mother will not bring you. You see, she is not truly one of ‘us.’ Her family is respectable, of course, but only minor country gentry. Not the sort into which a baron’s son usually marries. But Thea’s beauty made Douglas Graves fall in love with her. He was a lieutenant in the dragoons. They never had much money, of course. He was only a younger son, you see. But while he was alive, they were accepted everywhere. Then, after he died, well, many people snubbed Theodora.”
“Because her husband was dead?”
“It was his place in society that got her in. Without him, she was once again just a country nobody.”
“But that’s horrible!” Charity’s ever-ready sympathy was easily engaged.
“No doubt. But that is the way London is, in general. There are some who remained her friend.”
“Like you.” Charity looked up at him. It occurred to her that there must be more to Faraday Reed than there seemed, some hidden depth of feeling.
He made a dismissive gesture. “She and Douglas had been my friends. I could hardly drop his widow, now, could I?”
“I can see that you would not.” Charity smiled at Reed. She could not understand why Dure so disliked this man. “Anyone would be honored to have you for a friend.”
She put her hand on Reed’s arm, and they started toward the carriage.
CHAPTER SIX
AS CHARITY AND MR. REED strolled toward his carriage, they saw a young urchin come trotting up to the side of the victoria. The boy stopped and spoke to Elspeth. She shrank back from the dirty creature, shaking her head. The coachman turned and spoke to the boy, gesturing to him to be off, but he stood his ground. Finally the driver nodded toward Charity and Reed, and the boy turned and ran to them.
“Miss Emerson?” he asked in a thick cockney accent, coming to a halt in front of them. “Miss Charity Emerson?”
“Why, yes,” Charity replied, surprised. “That is I.”
“’ere.” He thrust out a white envelope toward her.
Charity hesitated, then took the missive. “What in the world?”
Reed reached in his pocket and pulled out a coin, which he threw to the boy, and the urchin scampered off. Charity looked at the writing on the front: only her name, in blunt printing.
“How odd,” she said, as she tore open the envelope. “Why would anyone—” She stopped as she opened the folded sheet of paper inside.
“What is it? You’ve gone pale as a sheet.” Reed plucked the piece of paper from her nerveless fingers and read it aloud. “‘Ask him what happened to his wife and his brother’? I say. What does this mean?”
Charity pressed her hand against her stomach. She felt ill. “I don’t know. I wish you hadn’t read that.” She snatched the note back and looked at it again.
“Who sent it?” Reed went on. “Are they talking about Dure?”
“Yes. I’m sure so.” Charity crumpled the note in her hand. “Oh! This makes me so angry! It’s low and sneaky. Wait! Where’s that boy?”
She looked around, but the urchin was already gone from sight. She let out a groan of frustration. “I should have stopped that boy and asked who gave this envelope to him. But I was so stunned, I didn’t even think. Now I still don’t know….”
“Have you gotten others like this?” Faraday asked.
“Yes,” Charity admitted. “I found one at Lady Rotterham’s ball. Someone dropped it on my table. I didn’t see who. At first I didn’t even notice it. Then, as we were leaving, I saw it and picked it up. It said, ‘Don’t marry Dure or you will regret it.’”
“Did you tell Dure?”
“No!” Charity turned horrified eyes on Reed. “I wasn’t going to show him something like that!”
“But he would surely want to know if someone was bothering his fiancée.”
“It would be awful for him to know that someone held such spite for him. Hated him that much—to try to stop his marriage.”
“Well, then, your father. Did you tell him?”
“No. It would only upset him and Mother. I wouldn’t want them to worry. And what if they began to doubt Lord Dure? Besides, there was nothing anyone could do. I didn’t see who dropped the note. And look at how this one is printed—they’ve disguised their handwriting. If only I had thought to ask that street urchin,” she said mournfully.
“You were startled. It’s quite understandable. I was, too.”
“How would they have known to send it to me here?” Charity mused. “Who could have known that I would be here in the park at this moment? How did he know to come to me?”
“I see what you mean. That is a trifle odd. Hmm…I guess that anyone who’d been here in the park and seen you would know. Someone in another carriage, perhaps. It would have been easy enough to dash the note off and find an urchin outside to carry it. All they would have had to do was describe my victoria and tell him your name.”
“Why would anyone want to frighten me?” Charity asked. “Do they hate me? Or is it Dure they hate that much?”
“No one could hate you,” Reed replied, smiling. “I’m sure you have no enemies.”
“But Dure does.”
Reed shrugged. “Every man has enemies.” He paused. “I think you should tell your father or Lord Dure.”
“No. They won’t be able to do anything, either, and it would just upset them. I—I don’t want Dure to see how much someone hates him.”
Reed sighed. “I think you’re wrong. You should seek their help.” He took her hands and gazed earnestly down into her eyes. “But if you will not, then I ask that you let me help you. I will stand as your friend.”
Charity smiled at him and squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Reed. I need a friend, I think.”
He raised her hand and kissed it gently. “You may rely on me.”
Charity told herself that the notes she had received were merely some person’s odd notion of a practical joke, or the work of some spiteful enemy of Lord Dure’s. Except for the outrage they called up in her, and the distinctly uncomfortable feeling she had at social gatherings when she looked around and wondered what person among them might have sent the wicked things, they had done no actual harm. It seemed to her that all the sender could hope to accomplish was to frighten her so that she would cry off her engagement to Simon, thus causing him social embarrassment. And she wasn’t about to do that.
Though the notes frightened her a little, what she felt was primarily uneasiness about the sender, because of the venom and secrecy of the act. About Simon, she never really held any doubts. She did not stop to wonder why she should so trust a man who was literally little more than a stranger to her. She simply knew that Simon could not have killed his wife and brother.
However, she was not so sure that the rest of her family would react with the same aplomb regarding the notes. Despite the advantages of her marrying Lord Dure, her mother would decide against the engagement if she began to suspect there was any truth to the vague rumors about Dure’s past. And, somehow, these notes made the possibility seem more real than society’s typically exaggerated rumors. She did not want to give Caroline even an opportunity to have any second thoughts.
Therefore, she did not mention her notes to anyone, even her sisters. Serena would worry, and Elspeth would doubtless have hysterics, and Belinda would remind her of the times she had said that Dure was reputed to be a dangerous man.
Charity was tempted many times to confide in Dure, for she knew that it would make her feel easier. But she refused to allow his unknown enemy to use her in that way to hurt him. If it shook her to read the notes, how much more must it bother Simon, toward whom the hate was directed? Why, it might even make him begin to wonder if she believed the notes. She wasn’t about to put that sort of gnawing worm right at the core of their marriage.
Bes
ides, she was finding, to her disappointment, that she did not see very much of Simon—at least, not alone. Her days and nights were filled with a whirl of social events, from morning and afternoon calls to soirees and dinners and balls, until it seemed she never had a minute to rest. In the evenings Simon often joined them at one party or another, but they were always surrounded by a crush of people at such events and could do little more than chat or perhaps dance. While Charity found dancing with Simon divine, their rather formal public conversations left her dissatisfied. Even when he came to call on her in the afternoons, there were always other visitors, or at least her mother or sisters, as chaperones, and her mother managed to keep the conversations on the safest, dullest topics.
She wished that she could be alone with him, that their conversation could flow freely, as it had that time in his office. Simon looked as bored as she was with the sort of light social inanities that callers engaged in. And though she often found him looking at her with a spark in his eyes that made her pulse begin to race, there was never any opportunity to find out to what interesting place that look might lead. The traditional yearlong engagement began to seem interminable to her.
There were other amusements, of course. Venetia, true to her word, took Charity out on a shopping expedition. Venetia was a quiet person, but she warmed up quickly around Charity’s effervescence, and the two of them enjoyed the afternoon tremendously. Though Charity’s budget was limited, she had never before been given such license from her mother to buy as she pleased, and to her the amount seemed tremendous. Charity firmly turned down Venetia’s suggestion that Lord Dure pay for her clothes, and barely noticed when Venetia took the modiste of the very elegant establishment aside and whispered a few words to her. Charity was pleasantly surprised to find that the prices of these elegant London gowns were little more than what she would pay in the country, and she was able to buy several gowns and day dresses.
The evening dresses, of course, were the virginal white required of young unmarried girls, but she was able to persuade both the modiste and Venetia that an ice-blue dress would be suitable for afternoons, as would a soft pink one. She had enough left over to purchase a new pair of gloves, as well as pieces of ribbons and lace with which to update several of her old dresses to make them suitable for London wear. Venetia, who had never had to economize in her life, found it delightful fun to rummage through goods, laughing and discussing materials and styles. Later, she realized, it had not been the task so much as Charity’s lively stories about life with her sisters in their country manor that had made the afternoon enjoyable.
They sent their purchases home in Venetia’s carriage, and the two women strolled back to Aunt Ermintrude’s house in Mayfair, chatting contentedly about their afternoon. Venetia, inspired by Charity’s economical approach to shopping, had also bought several new items that were, she said, simply too great a bargain to pass up.
Charity listened to her reasoning with a smile and agreed that Venetia had, indeed, purchased wisely. “Why, you must have saved at least fifty pounds,” she said, looking at Venetia with big, grave eyes.
“Oh, yes,” Venetia agreed. Her eye caught Charity’s and she began to grin. “And at a cost of only several hundred pounds more!”
The two young women began to laugh, and Venetia linked arms with Charity as they continued down the street. “I must have a dinner party,” Venetia went on, “to introduce you to the family, you know. Our uncle, Ambrose, and his son, Evelyn. Uncle Ambrose is Dure’s heir—for the present, that is. He is rather stuffy, but you’ll like Evelyn. He practically grew up with us. Of course, we will have to invite Aunt Genevieve, too, and my sister, Elizabeth. At least Cousin Louisa is out of town, so you will be spared her chatter about her children.”
“I would like to meet your family,” Charity told her. “I know so little about Simon.”
“He isn’t one to talk about himself. And though we are very fond of each other, he is six years older than I. Elizabeth was between us. He has never confided in me.” She paused, frowning. “But I do know that he has not been a happy man these past few years.”
“Since his first wife died?” Charity ventured.
Venetia nodded. “Yes. She and their baby. They died together, you see, at its birth. After that, Simon came to London and spent most of his time here,” Venetia continued. She turned and looked at Charity earnestly. “If you hear tales of his wildness, please do not take them too much to heart.”
Charity murmured a polite denial. She could not tell her that such rumors were not the ones that occupied her mind.
“He did, perhaps, turn to some wicked ways and bad companions, but I think he was almost mad with grief. He did not continue them long, and he was never evil in it. And he was still young, only twenty-three when Sybilla died. He is not an unkind man. He has always been very good to me. Those who say he is hard or cruel don’t know him as I do.”
“He must have loved her very much,” Charity mused softly. Obviously, the truth was the opposite of what the note had said. Simon had grieved greatly for his wife, had been driven to drink by her death. He had loved her, not murdered her. It gave her a strange, almost aching feeling in her chest to think of Sybilla, and of Simon’s love for her. She thought of his insistence on a loveless marriage, and she wondered if he could not give his love to another woman because he was still in love with Sybilla.
“He did,” Venetia agreed, her thoughts so focused on the past that she did not even glance at Charity and see the uncertainty in her face. “It was a love match. My father was opposed to it. He said that Simon and Sybilla were too young. And I suppose they were. Simon was only twenty, Sybilla just seventeen. But Simon was adamant. He and Father argued horribly about it. Father did not disown Simon, in the end, but they were stiff and formal with one another after that, barely speaking. Even after Sybilla died, they remained cool.”
“What was she like?” Charity found herself suddenly consumed with curiosity about this woman of whom she had scarcely thought before. But now she wondered what sort of woman had taken her lord’s heart and left him so wounded.
“Sybilla?” Venetia frowned. “I’m not sure. I was still in the schoolroom then. She was three years older than I, and already out. I didn’t really know her. After they were married, they did not visit much, because Father and Simon were so angry with each other. She was very lovely. She had blond hair, but not like yours, very pale. Gray eyes. And the most beautiful pale skin. She was like a cameo, I thought.”
Charity thought about following such perfection, and even her sturdy spirit quailed a little. She did not expect Simon to love her; she had been quite honest in telling him that she would live contentedly in the sort of arrangement he envisioned. But she had thought that affection would grow between them, a sort of closeness and friendship. Now she wondered if perhaps his heart was too much locked away to permit even that. She did not like to think of living for the rest of her life with a man who compared her always to another, perfect image of a wife.
Venetia sighed and shrugged. “But Sybilla never warmed to me, nor I to her. No doubt I was too young for her to become friends with me, and, I confess, I was rather jealous of her, for she had taken away my beloved big brother.” She smiled a little sheepishly. “I had always worshiped Simon, though I confess back then he hardly seemed to know I was alive. He was closest to Hal, our brother. Only a year separated them, and they had grown up almost as twins—a masculine fortress, you see, against us girls.”
“And Hal died, too.” Once again, Charity thought, the note-writer had written of hatred and murder, yet the truth was that Simon had loved his brother. What drove the writer to so turn the events around? What made him hate Dure so much? “It must have been horrible for Simon.”
“Yes. We all missed him, but Simon most of all. It was only a year after Sybilla and the baby died. I think Simon almost felt as if he were cursed. And people were so cruel…. There were whispers that it was too much for mere bad luck, that S
imon must have played a part in their deaths.”
“Why? Who?” Charity looked at her. Perhaps she could find out the source of the notes through Venetia. Whoever who had spread the rumors might be the same one who had sent the notes.
“I do not know. They were so vague. No one spoke of it to me directly, of course. There were just allusions…and whispers that stopped when I came near. But I knew what they were saying. Even Ashford heard them.” A faint smile curved her lips as she thought of her husband. “Poor George. The most phlegmatic of men—and he almost got into a fistfight at his club one night because of it. He’s always been Simon’s friend.”
“Good for him. The man needed a thrashing, I’m sure, for spreading such rumors.”
“I don’t think there was any malice in him. He was only repeating what he had heard. It was not he who began the rumors.”
“But who, then?”
“I don’t know.” Tears came suddenly into Venetia’s eyes, and she looked away. “It was awful for Simon. That’s one reason why he is so often alone. So often grim. I am sure he was pierced by their unkind suspicions. But he just set his face and went about his life, ignoring them. Giving everyone that haughty stare.” She sighed. “Even now, I still sometimes hear people talk about the scandal in his past.”
Charity’s eyes flashed, and her fists tightened. “They had better not say so to me, or I’ll give them an answer that will make their ears ring!”
Venetia chuckled. “I believe you would.”
“But why would someone dislike Simon enough to spread lies?”
Venetia smiled wryly. “Simon can be blunt, and he cares little what people think about him. He has offended more than one person.”
“But to slander him like that!”
“Once said, words are not easily taken back. Over the years, in the retelling, doubtless the stories have grown and become blacker. And Simon, of course, is too proud to do or say anything to squelch them.”
“Of course.” Charity already knew him well enough to realize that.
