by Candace Camp
She could see that it was a woman by the spread of skirts around her, but the woman’s head was turned away, and it was too dim to discern who it was. Charity heard the unmistakable sound of a snuffle.
“Who’s there? Can I help?” She went farther into the room.
The figure whirled, letting out a little gasp of dismay. “Oh! Charity!”
“Venetia!” The light from the hall was enough to allow her to make out Venetia’s features, now that she was closer to her. “Is something the matter? What are you doing in here?”
Charity went to the sofa and sat down beside her friend, taking one of Venetia’s hands. In the other hand Venetia held an embroidered handkerchief, and as she moved slightly, Charity caught the gleam of tears on her cheek.
“Yes, it is I.” Venetia gave a watery little chuckle. “I must look a fright. ’Tis as well it’s dark in here.”
“But what is wrong? Why are you in here crying?”
“I wasn’t—Well, only a little bit. You know how it is sometimes, when the slightest thing will upset you.”
“Yes,” Charity agreed. “But that is not like you. You’re usually so levelheaded and calm, like Dure.”
Venetia shook her head a little and sighed. “Oh, Charity, I don’t know what to do. I thought that everything would be better after Reed died.”
A chill ran down Charity’s spine at her sister-in-law’s words. What did she mean by that? Surely Venetia could not be responsible for Reed’s death! She couldn’t believe it. And she was certain that Venetia would never do it in such a way that it looked as if Dure had done it. Venetia loved her brother too much for that. But Charity could not escape the fact of what Reed had done to Venetia, or how much she had hated him for it.
Venetia looked at her more closely. “Why are you staring at me so? Oh! Are you thinking that I might have killed him?”
“Of course not,” Charity responded automatically.
“Well, I had reason enough,” Venetia responded darkly. “But I didn’t. I haven’t the courage. Besides, Dure had told me he would stop him, and I knew he would. I have to confess, I wasn’t at all sorry when he was killed. It’s awful and uncharitable of me, I know, but I couldn’t help thinking that he had reaped what he had sown.”
“Yes…if only everyone didn’t think Simon killed him!”
“I know.” Venetia looked miserable, and fresh tears started in her eyes. “That is one of the things that’s been so awful since then. I hate it that people blame Simon. He would never have shot Reed like that. He might very well have thrashed him, but he would never have done anything sneaky.”
Charity nodded. She knew she was right not to believe that Venetia had killed Faraday Reed. She would have relied on Simon to stop him, just as she said. And there was no possibility that she would have implicated her brother in the death by leaving his handkerchief at the scene of the crime; she obviously loved him.
“Did, ah, Ashford know about Mr. Reed’s threat?”
Venetia stared at her, eyes open wide. “No! Are you mad? He doesn’t even know about what happened between Reed and me. I mean, that was the whole reason for that worm extorting money from me—to keep him from telling Ashford the truth!”
Charity said nothing to her sister-in-law, but she was less sure that Lord Ashford knew nothing about Venetia and Reed’s past. After all, people gossiped, and Charity didn’t doubt that someone might have suspected what had happened all those years ago between Venetia and Reed—or that some servant or other might have revealed that Venetia had run away and Reed had gone to fetch her back. Everyone knew of the enmity between Reed and Simon. Stories, embroidered through the passage of time and speculation, might have reached Venetia’s husband. Or perhaps Reed himself had told Ashford!
Charity’s mind raced, thinking of possibilities. Simon might have scared Reed into leaving Venetia alone, but Reed could have decided to get back at Venetia and Simon. He could have gone to Ashford and revealed the secret, as he had threatened to do. It would not have been wise, considering how angry Simon would be, but he might have been too furious to care. Or he might even have hoped to get money from Ashford himself—no gentleman would care to have that sort of story told about his wife to society at large. It would be a blot on the family honor, and Reed might have assumed that Ashford would be willing to pay to avoid it. But, instead, it might have infuriated Lord Ashford to the point of killing Reed.
Maybe Ashford would even have been so angry about Venetia and Simon deceiving him all these years that he would try to make it look as if Simon had killed Reed. But how would Ashford have gotten one of Dure’s handkerchiefs to plant beside the body? It seemed unlikely that he would have had one ready for such an eventuality.
It was equally unlikely, of course, that the jovial, placid Lord Ashford would be roused to a murderous fury, even by news of his wife’s infidelity. Charity sighed and stood up, reaching down a hand to Venetia.
“Come. We’d best get back to the party.”
Venetia smiled weakly at Charity, dabbing at her tear-streaked face. “You’re right. It wouldn’t do for the hostess to go missing halfway through.”
“Very true. Besides—” Charity grinned “—it is almost time for dinner to be served. We certainly don’t want to miss that.”
“You’re right.” Venetia took Charity’s hand and stood up. She smoothed at her hair and skirt, and stuck her sodden handkerchief in her pocket. “There. Do I look presentable? Will everyone know I’ve been in here crying my eyes out?”
“Of course not,” Charity replied staunchly. “You look beautiful, as always. That’s what everyone will see.”
“Thank you.” Venetia’s smile wobbled a trifle, and impulsively she stepped forward and hugged Charity. “Thank you. You’re so sweet. I am terribly glad Simon married you.”
“So am I,” Charity confessed.
Venetia chuckled and linked arms with Charity, and together they walked back into the hall.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHARITY PROBED AND PRIED as delicately as she could for the rest of the party, but her efforts were largely unsuccessful. She found out little that would indicate anyone’s guilt or innocence, and she worried that one or the other of Simon’s relatives might take offense at her questions.
She spent the majority of the supper in boredom, caught between a prosaic vicar who was a friend of the elder Westports, and Uncle Ambrose’s wife, Hortense, who considered herself a Person of Great Importance and spoke in an affected, clenched-teethed way, all the while tilting her chin so that she looked down her nose at whomever she addressed. Charity realized that the dinner was going to last an eternity.
Midway through the soup course, there was the sound of frantic barking, followed almost immediately by a crash. Charity cringed inside, knowing that Lucky had somehow managed to get into trouble again. She cast a look down the table at Simon, who met her eyes quizzically. There was a shriek from not far away, followed by a—fortunately—unintelligible male shout.
Charity glanced at Chaney, who was overseeing the servers from a position by the door into the butler’s pantry. His usually imperturbable face resembled a thundercloud, and he turned purposefully and started into the butler’s pantry, through which the servants came and went with the courses. The instant he pushed open the swinging door, however, a small furry bundle shot through it.
Charity stifled a groan. The monkey had gotten free! And judging from the sound of barking and claws clicking on the wooden floor in the room beyond, Lucky was in hot pursuit.
Several ladies shrieked as the monkey scampered across the floor and climbed onto the mahogany sideboard. An instant later, Lucky burst into the room, clawing for purchase on the slick marble floor. His back legs went out from under him, and he slid sideways on his rear end. Right behind him came a footman, face flushed and hair straggling, reaching out for the dog.
“What the devil?” Uncle Ambrose blustered.
The footman glanced toward the tableful
of people with an anguished look. “I beg pardon, Your Lordship. My lady. He—I—I don’t know how he got out.”
“Dennis.” Chaney’s voice was low, but so icy that Charity felt sorry for the hapless footman. He started toward man and dog.
The monkey cast a single contemptuous glance at Lucky, sprawling across the floor, and turned his back on the dog to admire himself in the narrow mirror across the back of the sideboard. He tilted his head and chattered to himself, using his paws to comb at his face and head. Cousin Evelyn began to chuckle.
By this time, Lucky had recovered his balance, and had spotted his quarry, and he leaped at the sideboard, barking, just as the footman lunged forward to grab him. The footman sprawled on the floor. Chaney stepped forward, reaching for the dog, but Lucky danced out of his way, barking furiously at the monkey, who had now turned and was spitting similar invectives down at the dog. The butler, belatedly realizing that wherever the monkey went, the dog would follow, changed course and grabbed for the monkey. But Churchill jumped easily off the sideboard and ran across the room to the table.
Grabbing the tablecloth in his tiny paws, he quickly climbed up the cloth and onto the table. Lucky followed at full tilt, shoving his way in between two of the guests and planting his front paws on the table.
“Churchill!” Charity exclaimed. “Honestly! Have you no manners? Down, Lucky!”
The footman and butler closed in on Lucky, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him out of the room. They were less fortunate with Churchill. He scampered down the length of the table toward Charity, chattering and pausing to pluck a dark grape from the epergne in the center of the table. Charity pressed her napkin to her mouth to stifle the giggles that threatened to erupt, and stole a glance down the table at her husband, dreading that he was embarrassed or angry or both at this riotous display in front of their guests. But Simon was watching the little creature with great interest, his dark eyes dancing with amusement.
Some of their guests had pushed their chairs back from the table, eyeing the monkey with alarm. Others, like Evelyn, were laughing, and some simply stared, open-mouthed. Churchill seemed to sense the attention focused on him. He was, after all, used to performing. Turning, he doffed his thimble-size red hat to the people seated on one side of the table, then turned and doffed it toward the other side. A roar of laughter went up around the table. Pleased with the response, the animal promptly held out the cap as if asking for coins to be dropped in it, which brought another burst of laughter.
The monkey scurried toward Charity, but before he reached her, he was distracted by a glittering ornament in Aunt Hortenses’s hair. Lightning-quick, he leaped onto her shoulder and pulled out her jeweled comb. Hortense shrieked hysterically and swatted at Churchill, but he had already jumped from her shoulder to Charity’s. He balanced on Charity’s shoulder, clenching one hand in her carefully coiffed hair to steady himself, while he examined his prize in the other hand.
“Churchill, you little imp!” Charity wrenched the comb away from him. Spitting out what sounded very much like a curse, the animal hopped off onto the table and stretched his paws toward Charity’s soup.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Charity admonished him, whisking her bowl off the table and holding it beyond his reach.
Churchill gave her a long, steady look, then turned and grasped her wineglass and drank from it.
“My word!” Aunt Hortense gasped.
“Eek!” Charity dropped the jeweled comb on the table and reached for her wineglass.
Churchill was loath to give it up, and he held on to the glass stubbornly, even though Charity tugged at it.
“My lady!” The butler, having dispatched the dog and the footman, was now hurrying toward Charity, a horrified look on his face. He turned and shot a significant glare at the serving maid and footman, who were standing flat against the wall at one end of the room, gaping helplessly at the scene before them.
Seeing the danger approaching, Churchill dropped the wineglass. Charity, still pulling on it, jerked her arm back, and the contents of the glass went flying backward, all over Aunt Hortense’s dress. The older woman gasped, and Charity stared in horror at the deep red stain spreading across Aunt Hortense’s skirt. Down the length of the table there were several quickly smothered giggles and one outright guffaw. Charity began to babble apologies.
At the other end of the table, Simon stood up and deftly caught the escaping monkey. “Here you go, Chaney,” he said calmly, holding Churchill out to the butler. “I believe Lady Dure’s wineglass needs to be replaced.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I say, my lady,” Cousin Evelyn began as Chaney solemnly strode out of the room, carrying the monkey at arm’s length before him, “you certainly provide rare entertainment at your dinner parties.”
Charity groaned and covered her eyes.
Though everyone returned to the meal, trying to act as if nothing untoward had happened, the rest of the evening was an anticlimax. After the meal, the ladies retired to the drawing room, of course, while the gentlemen paused for brandy and cigars in Simon’s study. Shortly after the men rejoined the women, however, the guests began to leave. Charity had the suspicion that they were eager to slip away and discuss the new Lady Dure’s bizarre dinner. She was rather downhearted as she and Simon made their way upstairs to their bedroom.
“Come, my love,” he said, accurately assessing her mood and the reason for it. “There’s nothing to be upset about.”
“But all your relatives were there,” Charity moaned. “Your uncle is so stuffy, and it was his wife who got my wine spilled all over her—not to mention Churchill’s stealing her hair comb.”
“You gave the comb back,” Simon said evenly. “And her dress needed to be retired. It was quite hideous.”
Charity’s lips twitched, but she said sternly, “Don’t make fun. I offended your relatives.”
“Some of them, perhaps, but I caught several of them laughing. Evelyn thought it was grand.”
“I know. But what about the others?”
“I never much cared for them, anyway,” Simon said as he opened her bedroom door and stepped aside to let her in. “Believe me, my love, in case you haven’t noticed it before now, I don’t live or die by what others think, including my relatives.”
Simon followed her inside, closing the door behind them, and pulled Charity around to face him. He dropped a light kiss on her nose. “Besides, there was nothing you could do to stop it. Churchill and Lucky were supposed to be put up, you know.”
“Yes, but if I hadn’t brought him home in the first place, none of it would have happened.”
“That’s true. But then I wouldn’t have had anything to lighten a boring evening with my relatives, and, more importantly, you would not be you.” He shrugged off his coat and dropped it across a chair.
“But don’t you think it would be better if I learned some decorum?”
“Ah, I hear your mother speaking.” Simon shook his head at her, undoing his cravat as he spoke. “It wasn’t she whom I wanted to marry. It was your very beautiful, very indecorous self.”
He bent and kissed her on the lips, lingering at the sweet taste of her mouth. When they parted, Charity smiled blindingly up at him. “Truly?”
“Truly.” He took her hand and raised it to his mouth, planting slow, searing kisses across her palm and up her wrist to the tender skin on the inside of her arm.
Charity melted against him, her head on his shoulder, as his lips worked their way up her arm to the short, puffed sleeves of her evening dress.
“Did I tell you how lovely you looked in that dress tonight?” he murmured, raising his head to nuzzle her hair.
“I’m not sure.” Charity let out a languid sigh as she snuggled into his shoulder. “You can tell me again, though.”
“You were beautiful.” He kissed her with each word, moving over her hair and down to her cheek and neck. “Stunning. Glorious.”
Simon paused at the top of he
r low-cut gown, then gently kissed the quivering slope of her breast. Charity smiled with deep satisfaction and breathed, “I love to hear you say so.”
Simon’s mouth moved to her other breast, brushing over its tantalizing softness. “I would rather show you.” His voice was low, and a trifle uneven.
“Mmm…” Charity tangled her fingers through his thick hair. “I think I’d rather that, too.”
He raised his head, a sensual smile curving his lips. His eyes were heavy with desire, and his face was slackening. “You are the most desirable, most responsive—”
Simon kissed her, his mouth hot and seeking, and Charity opened her mouth to him. Their tongues twined around each other softly, silkily, exploring with a lazy heat that would soon build to an all-consuming fire.
Finally they pulled apart, and Simon began to undo the buttons of his shirt. Charity reached up and took the pins from her hair, releasing the heavy mass to tumble down around her shoulders.
“I am afraid I need some assistance,” she told him, turning her back to him and sweeping aside her hair to show the long row of buttons that fastened her dress.
“You know that I am always pleased to help you.” His fingers went to the first of her buttons and began to work their way downward. It was a task he often performed for her. Indeed, Charity’s maid had learned not to wait up for her mistress to retire, as her presence was usually in the way, rather than necessary. Simon was becoming rather adept at handling the little buttons and hooks and eyes that fastened his wife’s clothing.
When he undid the last button, Charity released the bodice of her dress and it tumbled to the floor, pooling around her feet. Simon grumbled when he saw her corset beneath the dress, for he did not like its hard encumbrance. He unlaced it quickly and tossed it aside, gently lifting the soft cloth of the chemise from Charity’s skin, where the tight corset had stuck.
