Edward did not back down. “Only as much as everyone else.” Between what Jack had told him and the information Fairfax had added, he had formed a far more complete picture of the difficult situation into which Charlotte had been thrust by her late husband’s demise—and the bequest to which the man’s son objected so strenuously. “It’s been in all the papers. As you know.”
“Yes, well . . .” Mustering a calmer air, Langerton tugged his coat sleeve into place. “My father’s health was regrettably poor. If you have read the papers, then you know that he was in no condition to be making decisions about the disposition of his property, near the end.”
“I know that’s your position.” Fairfax sounded remarkably unperturbed. “But from what I’ve heard, his friends object to your characterization of him as ‘mad as a hatter.’”
A muscle twitched along Langerton’s jaw. “May I ask how any of this concerns either of you? We have only a passing acquaintance, Lord Fairfax,” he drawled, then flicked a disparaging glance at Edward. “And with Mr. Cary, of course, I have none at all.”
“You may rest assured, Langerton: I want none,” Edward said.
But the duke was now studying Edward’s features, as if seeing him for the first time. “Beckley,” he murmured. “Beckley. The earl’s estate is in the West Country, is it not?” Without waiting for an answer, he gave a low, humorless laugh. “Well, I’ll be damned. You’re the dark-haired stranger the papers have been talking about.”
“Tell me where she’s gone,” Edward demanded.
Langerton lifted one shoulder. “I neither know nor care.”
“Until very recently, you cared enough to offer a reward for information leading to her return,” Fairfax observed. “What’s changed?”
With a flourish, Langerton withdrew a folded paper from his breast pocket and tossed it onto the table. “See for yourselves.”
Edward quickly snatched it up, then found himself reluctant to read it once it was in his grasp. Steeling himself, he dropped his eyes to the paper and saw it contained just a few hastily written lines.
With this letter, I hereby formally abjure all claim upon or interest in the estate of the late Duke of Langerton, my husband. It is my express wish that the inheritance granted to me by his last will and testament be declared the rightful property of his son and heir, Robert Blakemore, Duke of Langerton.
Charlotte Blakemore
The signatures of two others—witnesses—were scrawled across the bottom of the sheet.
Edward dropped the letter as if it were hot. “Why would she do this?”
Lifting the paper, Fairfax quickly scanned it, then let it flutter down to the tabletop. “She’s under no obligation to take the money, of course.”
“But in this case, I strongly suspect coercion.”
With a slow blink, the duke registered his gaze on Edward’s face. “I don’t believe I have to answer to you, Mr. Cary.”
“You’re right,” Edward acknowledged with a jerk of his chin. “You don’t. I haven’t the faintest interest in you or your father’s fortune. I care only about Charlotte’s well-being.”
“Charlotte, is it?” Langerton’s thin lips curled in a derisive smile. “Never say you’ve been taken in by that French whore, too?”
Conventional wisdom would have it that Edward’s return to England marked a return to civilization. But it seemed civilization was not always civil.
Edward knew he possessed the strength to wipe that smile from Langerton’s face. But he had no intention of using it. If twenty years in the bloody West Indies had not turned him into a violent man, Langerton’s words would not be the breaking point. He would find a way to defend Charlotte’s honor without sacrificing his own.
“That’s quite a remark for a gentleman to make about a lady,” Fairfax observed coolly, drawing Langerton’s attention his way. “Fortunately for you, my friend is essentially a man of peace.” Curling his long-fingered hand into a surprisingly formidable fist, Fairfax landed a solid punch in Langerton’s face before the man could react to protect himself. Blood spurted from his nose, spraying the papers scattered across the table and pattering ominously onto Charlotte’s letter. “Unfortunately for you, I suffer from no such compunction.”
“You broke my dose,” Langerton cried, clutching both hands belatedly to his face. “You athaulted a peer of the realm!”
“Call me out,” Fairfax challenged, his voice as soft as his expression was hard. The silvery scar that curled along his cheek leapt into prominence—a relic of the exchange that had sent him into hiding, Edward had always suspected.
Langerton rummaged through the papers for a napkin and raised it to his battered face. “I wouldn’t demean mythelf by giving you the thatithfaction.”
“Suit yourself,” said Fairfax, shaking out his fist. “What now, Beckley?”
Edward started at the unexpected address. “Let’s go,” he answered, moving toward the door. “There’s nothing I want here.”
Langerton lowered the blood-stained napkin and watched them leave. The swelling was already inching outward from his nose. By morning, his eyes would be ringed with bruises. Now, however, they were filled with loathing. When Edward was just about to cross the threshold, he muttered under his breath, “Even my father wasn’t fool enough to fuck her.”
Turning sharply, Edward took one step back into the breakfast room. Fairfax’s hand caught his arm, but he shook it off and crossed to the duke, whose show of resolve faltered. When Edward reached out one hand, Langerton flinched.
But Edward had no intention—no desire—to strike the man. He did not fault Fairfax’s action, could not regret that Langerton had been put in his place. What he wanted would not be gained by shedding more of the duke’s blood, however.
Calmly, he picked up the document Charlotte had written and tucked it into his pocket. “If I am able to confirm that your stepmother gave up her inheritance willingly, I shall return this to you. I hope I shall not find she was coerced . . .”
Despite his injuries, Langerton shook his head vigorously in denial.
As they descended the stairs, they could hear the butler’s exclamations of alarm and pity, the deeper rumblings of Langerton’s voice as he brushed off the man’s offers of assistance. A footman bowed them out the door, and they found themselves once more in the square, squinting against the glare of midday.
Out of the corner of his eye, Edward watched Fairfax flex his injured hand. “I hope Lady Fairfax won’t have your head for those bruised knuckles.”
“She might,” he confessed with a wry laugh.
“Then why did you hit him?”
Fairfax’s expression grew serious. “Because someone needed to, and I couldn’t see letting you sacrifice your principles over someone like him.”
In the lifetime he’d spent learning to control any propensity to temper, eschewing violence despite the viciousness of his surroundings, protecting those who were weaker than he, Edward had never really thought of any of it as a matter of principle. He had merely been determined not to become his father.
But perhaps Fairfax was right. In the end, one’s actions were a matter of choice, not destiny.
“That was smart thinking to take her letter. I hate to imagine what Langerton did to get her to sign away what’s rightfully hers.” Something rather sly passed over Fairfax’s expression. “How do you suppose she’ll express her gratitude when you give her back that paper?”
“If, not when,” Edward corrected, in no mood to be teased. “You forget, I haven’t any notion of where she’s gone.”
The sound of hurrying footsteps behind them interrupted their conversation. Langerton’s butler waved for them to stop, already huffing from his exertions. “My lords. Please, wait.”
Edward regarded him warily. “What business have you with us?”
“You are searching for Her Grace, are you not?” He bent slightly and rested his hands on his knees, the better to draw breath. “I can help.”
“How?”
“She came in a hackney coach, and when she left, I heard her give the direction to her driver. She asked to be taken to a place where she might board the Bristol-bound stage.”
Edward felt his heart lift in his chest—not an entirely comfortable sensation.
“Why would you tell us this, Mr.—?” Fairfax asked.
“Aimes, my lord,” the butler supplied. Some emotion flitted across his hound-like features. “I had not the honor of meeting Her Grace before today. And I have served His Grace only a short time. But from what I have seen, I feel certain she deserves better than she has received from him.”
Edward gave a tight nod. “Yes, she does. Thank you.”
Aimes bowed. “Of course, my lord. You are very welcome.”
Fairfax watched the man return to Blakemore House before he said, “So, she’s headed west.”
“I’m well aware of the direction in which Bristol lies,” Edward said. Far more aware than he’d like, or than Fairfax could guess. “But Bristol’s a port town. She might be bound anywhere.”
“If it was a ship she wanted, she could have found one here in London.”
Such an unnecessary observation earned Fairfax a hard look. Could Edward dare to indulge the hope that had flickered to life in his breast?
“She can’t have got far,” Fairfax insisted as he began to walk in the direction of Sutliffe House at a faster pace. “With a little luck, you might even be able to catch her at Marlborough. Take my coach.”
Edward hesitated. “I couldn’t possibly accept the loan of your carriage. Didn’t you tell me that Lady Fairfax is expecting you to return to Hampshire today?”
Fairfax smiled. “Sarah is a great believer in fairy-tale endings,” he explained, and there was none of the customary cynicism in his voice. “Love can blossom in the unlikeliest circumstance, she’s fond of saying. She would never forgive me if I did not do what I could to smooth the way for true love.” He paused and gestured down the street with his injured hand—quite deliberately, Edward felt sure.
“True love?” he echoed.
“Good God, Car—er, Beckley. If you mean to deny that you’re in love with this woman, I may just have to knock some sense into you as well.” He laughed, but Edward had the distinct impression his friend was not joking. Fairfax slapped him on the shoulder. “When you find her, don’t let her get away again.”
Edward gripped Fairfax’s forearm, met his cool blue gaze, and nodded once. “I won’t.”
Chapter 21
At Marlborough, Edward got the hostler of the posting inn to admit that there might have been a lady traveling alone on the west-bound stage. But as it had come and gone more than an hour ago, and the inn was busy, he simply could not be sure. Fairfax’s coachman insisted his horses would be spry again after a brief rest. Edward did not hesitate to urge the man to drive on.
After the punishing pace they had set that day, however, they managed to go only a little farther before the sun began to dip toward the horizon. Which was how Edward found himself stepping into the shabby, all-too-familiar inn in a small village east of Chippenham. No cold rain stranded travelers this time; instead, many had settled in for the night. The place was crowded.
“No rooms, sir,” the innkeeper proclaimed. “Just gave the last to a gouty old gentleman. On his way to Bath, I suppose.” He scratched behind one ear, disordering a tuft of white hair and added, confidentially, “Fellow could hardly make it up the stairs. You seem fit enough, though. You’re welcome to sit up in the pub.”
Edward glanced through the wide doorway into the public room, taking in the scattered tables, the dingy windows, the long rustic settle beneath a series of cheap prints hanging on the wall. The day had been warm, and the hearth was empty now, but he had no difficulty conjuring an image of Charlotte shivering before it, refusing his offer of help.
“All right,” he agreed reluctantly, bothered less by the room’s uncomfortable accommodations than its uncomfortable memories. Ducking under the low beam that served as a lintel, he chose a table on quite the opposite side of the room from where he had once sat with Charlotte, and ordered a meal and a pint, though he had no appetite.
What if she was not returning to Gloucestershire as he firmly believed—or at least, fondly hoped? If he never found her, could he learn to accustom himself to the weight of his memories? He supposed he might someday forget the feeling of her beneath him—the eager exploration of her fingers, the brush of her lips. Mere physical sensations—both good and bad—faded over time, as he well knew.
But he did not think he could ever forget the host of other images his mind seemed eager to call up: Charlotte covered head to toe with mud, twigs and dead leaves caught in her hair, her curiosity warring with her pride. Charlotte coated in a layer of grime, surrounded by a cloud of dust, determined to bring Ravenswood back into the light. Charlotte with mud oozing between her bare toes, watching the minnows in undisguised delight. Just . . . Charlotte.
No wonder Langerton had disapproved of his father’s marriage. When it came down to it, she had nothing more of a duchess’s dignity than the stiff spine. Based on what Edward had gleaned from their conversations, he could guess that particular characteristic had been born of necessity, meager armor against the barbs and slings of her aunt, her stepson, and the world at large. Everyone around her had insisted she was unworthy—of comforts, of kindness, of love.
And though Charlotte had, in large measure, believed them, she had nonetheless found the strength to escape their cruelty, to run away. If she chose now to keep running, how could he begrudge her her freedom? Even if it meant he would never be free again.
Lost in his ruminations, he might not have noticed the innkeeper bustling past if the man had not jostled his elbow, causing him to slosh half the contents of his mug over the food he had been aimlessly pushing about his plate.
The expected apology did not come, so intent was the man upon his mission. “Fanny,” he called to the barmaid, “have you fetched up that tray for Mrs. Cary yet?”
The bottom of Edward’s pewter mug met the tabletop with a thump. Mrs. Cary? No. It must be a coincidence. Or perhaps he had misheard.
“Naw. I plum forgot. Jus’ a mo’,” Fanny called back, juggling an armful of tankards bound for another table. “Room three, in’t?”
“Aye.”
Against his better judgment, Edward snagged the arm of the innkeeper as he turned to go. “Mrs. Cary, did you say? Dark haired or fair? Young or old?”
“A widow lady,” was the man’s answer, as if that decided all other questions.
When Fanny stepped past a moment later carrying a laden tea tray, Edward pushed back his chair and rose. “Is that for Mrs. Cary?”
“Yes, sir.”
“May I take it up?”
He had expected a denial, or at least an obligatory protest. Instead, Fanny blew a stray lock of reddish hair away from her sweat-dampened forehead, took one look around the busy public room, and handed off the tray with a grateful sigh. “Here you be, then. Top o’ the stairs.”
As he walked, the contents of the tray rattled in his hands, a circumstance he blamed on his general lack of experience with fetching and carrying, rather than his nerves. What if he was wrong? What would he say, or do, if a perfect stranger opened to his knock?
Ah, but what if Charlotte stood on the other side of that door?
At the head of the dark, narrow staircase, he hesitated. By the light of a single sconce, he could see six doors, three to either side, all unnumbered and none, properly speaking, at the top, as Fanny’s instructions had indicated. Which one should he choose? To the left or the right?
He hadn’t long to consider. A creak on the steps behind him signaled the ascent of another guest. Drawing a deep breath, he stepped left to allow the fellow to pass, balanced the tray on one palm, and knocked on the door in front of him.
* * *
Having long since accepted that her request for tea had been
ignored or forgotten, Charlotte jumped when she heard a knock on the door to her room.
After all this time, the tea was bound to be cold. Poor service was to be expected at a run-down posting inn, she supposed; nevertheless, her breath had quickened as the coach had rolled to a stop before this particular inn. When had she become such a creature of sentiment? Perhaps at the same moment she had forced herself to acknowledge that this journey might end in humiliation and disappointment.
What if Edward refused to forgive her?
Better to extend her travels, to delay the inevitable. And if that delay also provided an excuse for indulging in a few memories that ought to be resigned to the past—memories of Edward’s strong arms drawing her to safety, or the sweep of his blue eyes across her face—well . . .
Laying aside her book, now emptied of its banknotes, she rose and went to the door, opening it without looking at who was on its other side. “Just put the tray on the table by the bed,” she said, rummaging in her reticule for a coin. But the person who had entered was not carrying a tray. Was not a maid, but a man—and not the innkeeper either. A man whose weathered face and hair touched with silver were neither familiar nor strange. The man who had followed her once to this inn and apparently had been awaiting her return.
Why, oh why, had she been so foolish as to come back to this place?
Did she scream? No, the harsh sound jangling in her ears was the crash of china and silver. Oh, but her aunt would have her head when she found out Charlotte had been so clumsy as to drop the tea tray. Then she was slipping, scrambling, falling, while her cousins’ faces taunted her from the rim of the narrow trap door that led to the root cellar. How long would her uncle leave her in the darkness this time? A hand, a strong hand extended to help her rise from the mud and the muck at the rear of the Rookery. Edward looking down at her with laughing eyes. No, he was not here—none of them was here. Just her imagination, playing tricks . . .
To Seduce a Stranger Page 25
