To Seduce a Stranger

by Susanna Craig

  At the same moment, his mother said, “It was Charlotte who guessed.”

  “You’ve met Charlotte?”

  “Mrs. Cary?” Mama’s eyes were bewildered. “She told me she was the steward’s wife.”

  The cross talk, each voice louder than the last, succeeded in rousing Jack from his faint. When he groaned behind them, Mama twisted slightly to bring him into her line of sight. “And who is that young man?”

  “I’m not perfectly sure,” Edward said, shoving the table so that it pushed Jack more upright. “But he’s been telling everyone he’s the long lost son of the Earl of Beckley.”

  Slowly, Jack lifted his head and cracked open one eye with a groan that owed more to last night’s drinking than to Mari’s supposed witchcraft. “I am. His eldest son, in point of fact.”

  “No.” Mama’s voice was firm, but there was uncertainty in her face. “This is my son,” she said, placing her hand over Edward’s where it lay on the table.

  “I don’t doubt it.” Jack gave a bitter-sounding laugh. “That’s been my luck, over the years.” After sending Mari a sidelong glance, he rubbed the back of his head and said, “My name is Jacques Revard.”

  Edward felt, rather than heard, his mother’s sharp intake of breath. “Revard?”

  “You remember my mother, then?” Anger mingled with surprise in his expression.

  “Yes. Of course. Louise Revard was my maid,” she explained to Edward. “When I married, my papa told me I could take her with me to my new home. I was so relieved to have her by. Afterward, I—I wished I had not been so selfish. I wished I had left her behind. Once I fully understood the sort of man I had married . . .” Slowly, she shook her head. “It was too late. She came to me, and she told me she was with child . . . Your father dismissed her, of course. I did not know whether to plead for her, or whether it would only make things worse. And by then I had discovered I was expecting you . . .”

  “The heir,” Jack sneered.

  “Yes.”

  Mari slipped into the chair closest to her, listening unabashedly, and after snagging the entire basket of rolls to himself, Garrick sank into the chair opposite and followed suit. “What became of her?” Mama asked in a whisper.

  “She was forced to . . . hard times,” Jack replied. Edward found himself almost glad when he did not elaborate. “When I grew old enough, I was apprenticed to a printer, who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, wrap his tongue around Jacques. That’s how I became Jack. Once he discovered I had a knack for making a picture as a person described a scene or a face, he found a way to make a pretty penny off me. I drew charcoal sketches of people who’d died, for loved ones who couldn’t afford a portrait. And a time or two, when there was a hunt for a wanted man, the constable brought me in to draw the face on the poster.”

  “That’s how you knew about Charlotte,” Edward said.

  “Yes. Her stepson wanted her picture splashed about. I made the first sketch from his secretary’s description . . . and when I saw her here, I knew.”

  “Knew what?” Mama asked. “Where is she? And what is this about her being Mrs. Cary?”

  “She’s gone, Mama. She left early this morning. And she is not Mrs. Cary. She was . . . is the Dowager Duchess of Langerton, apparently.”

  “Though a nobody by birth,” Jack inserted. “Half French, like me.”

  “And caught up in quite a mess—”

  Jack laughed. “You could say that.”

  “Though I did not know the extent of it until now,” Edward finished, speaking over him. “When I first met her, it seemed clear to me that she needed a safe place to stay. I brought her to Ravenswood. But things here were in such a state of uncertainty that I was reluctant to announce who I was—even to her. So I told everyone I was the new steward. And to keep from raising further suspicions, we decided to claim we were man and wife.”

  As if she suspected all that their ruse might have entailed, Mama said, “All the more reason you should help her now, Neddy.”

  One of Jack’s dark eyebrows arched, giving his face a sardonic cast. “He already has.”

  “Continue with your story, Revard,” Edward demanded. “How is it you came to claim my name?”

  “When Lord Beckley died a few months ago—”

  Mama gasped. “He’s dead?”

  “So he says, Mama. I have not confirmed it, but from the state of things here, it would seem—”

  “It’s the truth,” Jack insisted.

  At his words, some of the pain and fear leached from his mother’s face, leaving her looking years younger.

  “When he died, the story was in the papers again . . . how his son had disappeared, how the loss had almost driven him mad with grief. He spent most of the last twenty years in London, living the quiet life of a respectable gentleman. Or so they say. Occasionally, a servant would escape to tell another tale,” he added grimly.

  “You’d always known he was your father, I suppose.”

  “Oh, yes. My mother made sure I knew. When she was gone, I set out to find him. I never got close enough to speak with him, but now and again, I caught a glimpse. I guessed who you were almost from the moment we met.”

  At that reminder of his resemblance to his father, Edward cut his gaze away.

  “But when I read about the son who’d been missing for years, believed kidnapped, the title that would simply be tucked away and forgotten, the estate that would likely revert to the Crown . . . Well, none of it seemed fair. He had another son, one who was alive and well.”

  “And in need of ready cash.”

  “How was I to know anyone would be hurt by it?” he cried. “Everyone thought you were dead. So I hired a coach to bring me to Ravenswood, just to see what was what. Expected to find a few servants around. Not this. Not you. And certainly not the Disappearing Duchess.”

  “I’m sure she was not expecting you, either,” said Edward. “That’s why she ran.”

  “I am sorry for frightening her. But I could see there was nothing else here to help me. I needed that reward.” He folded his arms on the table and his head drooped forward once more. “Now that’s come to naught, too.”

  “A reward?” Mama asked. “For what?”

  “Her return. The old duke left her something well beyond her dower,” Edward explained. “And his son means not to stand for it. He hopes to have the will voided, and the marriage, too, if he can.”

  “Will he succeed?”

  Jack shrugged. “There’s folks that say the duke will do what he must to keep the money out of her hands.”

  A memory washed over Edward: Charlotte in the inn, glancing over his shoulder, terror filling her dark eyes. Had she been fleeing more than gossip? “Is she in danger?”

  “She could be,” Jack said. “Having met Langerton’s servants, I’d say he’s a man more feared than liked.”

  “What now?” Mama asked.

  “I’ll take the necessary steps to claim my title, then do whatever I must to bring Ravenswood back from the brink,” Edward declared firmly. “No more sleeping in cold stone cottages for you.”

  At his words, an edge of bitterness crept into Jack’s expression. Perhaps he was recalling his own mother’s struggles. Edward’s mother had spoken of Louise Revard with such affection. Perhaps a good woman’s blood was enough to temper the worst of his father’s qualities, Edward thought, glancing toward his own mother. He could not like Jack’s behavior, but he was his brother, and he had been raised in a hard school. Under similar circumstances—without the gentle, guiding hand of Thomas Holderin—might he not have turned out much the same?

  “And you’re right, Jack. It’s not fair. Your mother suffered through no fault of her own. You, too, have paid a steep price for what my—what our father did.”

  “It’s a poor excuse for the way I’ve behaved these last days,” Jack replied, sounding unexpectedly contrite. Then his shoulders sagged as the weight of it all seemed to hit him again. “But there’s still my debts.”
/>   “How much?”

  “Almost two hundred. Mostly doctor’s bills, and what’s owed to my mother’s landlord. And the fee for her grave. I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t let her be buried as a pauper.” When Edward gave a grim nod of understanding, Jack’s expression grew sheepish. “There’s also the tailor’s bill, and the bootmaker’s, of course—I knew I had to look the part, if I was to convince anyone I was Beckley.”

  Two hundred pounds. A paltry sum to force a man to play such a dangerous game. “I think some arrangement can be made to keep you out of debtor’s prison,” Edward said.

  “Thank you.” Jack’s spine straightened, and some of the despair left his eyes. “Lord Beckley. And I hope I will have a chance to make amends with the lady someday. I owe you an apology, too, ma’am,” he added, with a glance at Mari, who granted him reluctant forgiveness with the slightest tip of her head.

  Edward felt as if he was seeing the real man for the first time, rather than the mask Jack had put on for a performance, a role part of him must have detested. Perhaps there was hope yet for Jacques Revard.

  “Once things are settled,” Edward said, “I’ll do what I can to help you. Set you up in a business that would suit. Your own printmaker’s shop, perhaps?”

  Jack’s eyes brightened further, though they still looked wary. “You’d do that? After what I’ve done?”

  Edward smiled. “I’ve had a sister or two, over the years,” he said, extending his hand toward Jack with a sideways glance for Mari. “But never a brother.” Stunned, Jack took his hand, shook it. “But no more drinking to excess,” he cautioned. “No more lies.”

  “No, sir!” Jack exclaimed, then pulled him into a hearty hug. At first, Edward did not know how to respond, but after a moment, he gave in and returned the embrace, slapping his brother on his back.

  “That’s all well and good, Neddy,” Mama said, smiling, when they broke apart. “But when I asked what was next, I meant, what are you going to do about Charlotte?”

  “Do? What can I do? If she wanted my help, she had an odd way of asking for it.”

  “Hmm. Did she say anything else before she left, Mr. Garrick?” Mama asked politely.

  “‘S-sorry,’” the man sputtered, spewing bread crumbs across the table. “She said tell Mr. Cary I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?” Deceiving him? Leaving him? It would be nothing less than hypocrisy if he refused to forgive her for the former. But the latter required some explanation he was not sure he would ever get. And he could not say for certain that she had made the wrong choice, given what he had revealed to her.

  Garrick’s reply was delayed by another bout of coughing, followed by a shrug. “Don’ know. Didn’t ask.”

  Edward eyed the man for a long moment before glancing up at Mari. “Go on. Fetch Garrick a cup of coffee, won’t you?”

  One corner of Mari’s mouth lifted in a smile. At the far end of the table, Jack gave a laughing sort of groan.

  “Sometimes,” his mother said gently, patting Edward’s hand, “the people who need help the most are also the ones most determined not to involve others in their struggle. There must be an explanation. You mustn’t just let her go,” she insisted. “I like her.”

  “As do I,” Mari chimed in.

  His mother’s assertion was hardly surprising. She had always had a warm heart. But Mari? Slow to trust, quick to judge . . . Her approval he had never expected.

  “I—I like her, too,” he said. A dreadful lie. What he felt for Charlotte was so much more. “But . . .”

  But she had left him. After what they had shared. Without a word of explanation. What if the rumors about her motives were right? What if she had taken all she wanted from him?

  “What if she doesn’t want to be found?”

  Mama only smiled. “She does. We all do.”

  Chapter 18

  Mr. Sykes drove at a punishing pace, pausing only to change horses and stopping to sleep only for the few hours when the moon had set and the roads were too dark to continue.

  “My livelihood’s in Lon’on,” he explained as he rousted himself from the driver’s perch before dawn the next morning to hitch the horses to the coach. “I can’t afford to dally.” Uncurling herself from the musty coach seat that had served as her bed, Charlotte prepared to set out once more.

  But beyond the headache and backache it gave her, Charlotte had no complaints to make about the speed of their journey. At just past noon, she caught the first glimpse of the great city on the horizon. The sight filled her with sudden dread. She was exhausted, faint with hunger, filthy—again. If she arrived at Blakemore House in this state, she would only be giving support to Robert’s case.

  She slid open the panel behind the driver’s seat. “Mr. Sykes?”

  “Aye, missus?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble, I wish to go to Clerkenwell.”

  Without slowing the horses, Sykes craned around and peered down into the narrow opening. “You sure ’bout that, missus?”

  “I have a—a friend there. Sister to a butcher.”

  Disbelief sketched across his face, but he shrugged and turned back to his team. “Whatever you say, missus.”

  Clerkenwell was a part of town through which she had never traveled, and she had no idea, really, what she was looking for. It was, at least, a more respectable area than she had been led to believe. Mostly the cramped but decent homes of craftspeople and men of business, with shops—a watchmaker, a milliner, a bookstore—scattered about. Aunt Penhurst would have called it noisy and crowded. To Charlotte, it looked like the sort of place in which a person might simply disappear, for better or worse.

  On the edge of the district, as they drew closer to Smithfield, the wares in the storefronts were no less eye-catching, albeit slightly more stomach churning. An array of bulging-eyed sturgeon were spread out beneath the fishmonger’s sign. Hastily plucked geese hung by their scrawny, web-toed feet at the poulterer’s.

  “Here’s your shop, maybe, missus,” Sykes called out, stopping the coach at the mouth of a narrow alleyway that must lead down to the shambles. Here, the metallic tang of blood was so sharp in the air she could almost taste it when she stepped uncertainly from the coach. “Leastways, I can’t take you no further.” Before she could protest, he had chirruped to his horses and was rattling away down the street.

  With a heavy heart, she entered a butcher’s shop and asked after the family of Jane Hamilton. Her question was met with a cold stare from the woman behind the counter, whether for her now shabby dress or for the accent with which she spoke, Charlotte could not be certain. The only reply was a prim shake of the head.

  She emerged into the midday heat of the alley, shook the sawdust from her hems, and marched farther down the street. Around her, voices jabbered in something that might as well have been another language.

  “Coo. Where to, ma’am?” The boy who spoke at her elbow couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, scrawny, with a dirt-smudged face. But he tugged respectfully at his woolen cap.

  She knew his offer of help might well disguise a plan to lead her down a blind alley to rob her. Well, he had chosen his victim poorly, then, for she had nothing. “I’m looking for the family of Jane Hamilton,” she said, doing her best to disguise her accent. “They have a butcher shop.”

  He gave an eager nod. “Aye. This way, ma’am.”

  And, as she was out of options, she followed.

  By the time he had led her down two more streets and around several corners, her feet ached and she was thoroughly disoriented. Why had she ever imagined this would be better, safer, than going to Blakemore House? If that gossip columnist could see the Disappearing Duchess now, he would certainly have a story to tell.

  “Your Grace?”

  Although she heard the words, they did not immediately register as being addressed to her. She was so intent on not losing sight of the boy, she brushed aside the hand that had touched her arm, to hurry after him.

&nb
sp; But the hand was persistent. “Your Grace? Is that you?”

  Charlotte turned and by some miracle found herself face-to-face with Jane.

  “Why, ma’am! You’re white as a sheet. Are you harmed?”

  “No, Jane. No. Is there—is there somewhere I could sit down?”

  Jane led her a few yards farther, to a short flight of soot-stained steps, and Charlotte sank gratefully onto the middle one. “My sister’s house is just here, ma’am. Come up, once you’ve caught your breath.”

  The boy was leaning against the area railing. “There y’ are, Miss Jane.”

  “An’ what mischief are you up to this fine day, Jem?”

  “Why, none ’t all,” he insisted, laying his hand across his chest as if swearing an oath. “Jus’ helpin’ this ’ere lady what’s been lookin’ for you.”

  “Yes,” Charlotte managed to say. “That’s right. Thank you. But I’m afraid I haven’t anything with which to pay you for your assistance.”

  “Cor, missus. Tweren’t nothin’,” he said with a wide grin and went scampering on his way.

  Jane put a hand beneath Charlotte’s elbow and helped her to rise. “Do come inside, Your Grace, or people will begin to wonder.”

  Far from eager to draw more attention her way, Charlotte followed Jane into the house. “It really isn’t necessary for you to keep calling me Your Grace.” It would only add to the speculation.

  “But, ma’am! It’s only proper. That wicked duke hasn’t succeeded in taking away your due just yet. Sally, fetch your mother.” The last remark was addressed to a girl of perhaps four or five who was staring wide-eyed at Charlotte from around the newel post. When she didn’t immediately move, Jane spoke more sharply. “Sally!”

  “Yes, Aunt Jane.” With a toss of her dark ringlets, the child swung onto the stairs and ascended them with frequent backward glances.

  In a few moments, she returned, clutching the hand of a woman with the same brown hair and eyes as Jane. “What’s happened? Sally said—”