A Scandalous Publication Page 12

  Mrs. White came to clear away the chocolate tray, and at last Charlotte went softly up to her room, tiptoeing past her mother’s door. She undressed in darkness, knowing that if Richard saw a light under her door, he would be bound to speak to her again.

  She lay in the bed, listening to the voices in the adjoining room. After a while Richard left his sister. He paused outside his niece’s door and then tapped softly. Charlotte didn’t reply and a moment later he went on to his own room.

  The house was suddenly quiet. The shadows across the ceiling from the streetlamps seemed strangely oblique as she stared up at them, and when the watch went past calling the hour, his voice seemed harsh and almost alien. Nothing seemed right tonight, because nothing was right. Her happiness, resting so very tenuously upon Max Talgarth’s smile and charm, had been dashed to the ground by his anger and loathing. She turned away from the shadows then, burying her face in her pillow as she wept.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Before noon on Waterloo Day, the eighteenth of June, huge crowds had gathered on the banks of the Thames for the opening of the new bridge. Every possible vantage place had been taken, and the murmur and laughter of so many people seemed to fill the air like the drone of a colossal beehive. There was a fair on one shore, with swingboats, wheels of fortune, booths of all description, and many other amusements and diversions associated with such events. On the river itself bobbed an armada of barges, wherries, pleasure boats, and countless other small craft, their bunting flapping gaily in the summer breeze. The new bridge was decked with flags and streamers, and a military band was playing, the brisk martial music vying with the noise of the crowds and the fair.

  Admiral Parkstone’s private barge was a very elegant vessel, its high prow graced by a figurehead of mermaid with long flowing hair. There were cushioned seats amidships, shaded by a very fine blue-and-white-striped canopy; very few craft could claim to be superior, although many were larger. As became so distinguished a naval officer, the admiral took command himself, taking up his position at the stern and maneuvering her to an excellent place close to the bridge. From here his small party of guests would be able to view the entire proceedings, from the very first moment the royal barge appeared from the direction of Whitehall.

  Richard stood beside the admiral, having earned that gentleman’s praise by proving a more than adequate sailor himself after learning a great deal during his years in America. Wearing a gray coat and white trousers, the unstarched folds of his large neckcloth lifting now and then in the breeze sweeping upriver from the distant sea, he glanced frequently at the seats beneath the canopy, where Sylvia and Mrs. Wyndham sat talking together.

  Mrs. Wyndham had been much gratified by the number of people who now acknowledged her once more, news of her wealthy brother’s return having quickly spread throughout society. She was delighted to have already received several noteworthy invitations, especially one from the Duke of Devonshire. So pleased was she with the way the day had gone so far that she had quite forgotten her much-dreaded inclination toward mal de mer; indeed, it hadn’t even crossed her mind. Wearing sky blue, which became her plump rosiness very well, she was enjoying her interesting conversation with Sylvia, who was dressed in pure white and looked very beautiful indeed. They were discussing the forthcoming ball, a subject that was causing Sylvia a great deal of difficulty because it seemed that every arrangement she made was destined to fall through in one way or another. Gunter’s, the fashionable caterers of Berkeley Square, had that very morning informed her that they couldn’t provide precisely the menu she had requested, and barely an hour after that she had learned that the orchestra she wished to engage was not available on that particular day.

  It really was too much, she declared with great feeling to a sympathetic Mrs. Wyndham, and there were times when she wished the annual Parkstone ball had never been thought of.

  Charlotte sat apart from them, lounging on comfortable cushions at the prow. She had no wish to be drawn into their conversation and so sat slightly turned away from them, gazing out across the water, her thoughts elsewhere. She wore a lilac silk gown and a white pelisse handsomely adorned with military frogging, so very appropriate for Waterloo Day. Her hat was trimmed with tassels and braid, and there was even dainty braiding on her gloves; she could not have been more fashionable or exquisitely turned out, but she took no pleasure from knowing this; she was too miserable on account of Max Talgarth.

  She and Sylvia had not spoken again on the subject of the IOU, or indeed about anything else connected with Max. It was as if there was some tacit agreement not to raise the subject again. Outwardly they seemed as friendly and close as before, but Charlotte knew that her confessed love for Max had alienated Sylvia, whose own confessed loathing for him placed her on the other side of an invisible line. Charlotte was saddened by the situation, but she couldn’t lie about her feelings; she had to be honest. She wished to be honest with Richard too, but knew that in this instance it would be wiser not to be, for he might feel honor-bound to confront Max, and so she had been avoiding him or, when cornered, had so far managed to avert his questions. He had tactfully declined to press her too much, but she knew that he was very concerned about the quiet, withdrawn mood that had overtaken her since the visit to Kimber Park.

  She was just beginning to wonder when the official ceremony would begin when there was a momentary hush as a detachment of Horse Guards arrived to take up positions on the bridge. It was three o’clock precisely, and a salute of cannon announced the approach of the royal party. There were 202 guns, in honor of the number taken at the Battle of Waterloo, and as the booms rang out over the river, a flotilla of barges, headed by the royal barge itself, appeared in the distance. The spectators began to cheer, the cheers becoming louder and louder as the crimson-and-scarlet royal barge slid beneath the center arch of the bridge and landed on the Surrey bank. The Prince Regent alighted, accompanied by his brother, the Duke of York, and by the hero of Waterloo himself, the lean, angular Duke of Wellington. The prince was very fat and had been lightly corseted into a flamboyant uniform he had designed himself. He was hardly an inspiring figure, nor was his equally rotund brother, and the cheers of the crowd were directed at the Duke of Wellington, who alone of the three was not acknowledging the adulation.

  To the accompaniment of the military band, the royal party took their place at the head of the procession that had formed in readiness, and then they proceeded across the bridge to the Middlesex side, followed by a train of noblemen, gentlemen, ministers, and members of both houses of Parliament.

  The pomp and ceremony continued for some time before the royal party re-embarked to sail back to Whitehall. The official side of things over, the crowds remained to enjoy the day, and the armada of little boats still bobbed on the water as the tide began to turn. The change in the river made the admiral’s barge sway a little more than before, and Mrs. Wyndham suddenly felt decidedly unwell. The admiral, most concerned and anxious, immediately brought the vessel to the shore, assisting her quickly onto the steadiness of dry land, where he led her to a bench.

  As Charlotte prepared to step ashore, something made her turn to look back at the river. A very large barge was anchored close to the bank, and on it there were many elegant guests. It was the Earl of Barstow’s private vessel, and Charlotte found herself looking straight into Judith’s cold green eyes. Wearing a vibrant yellow gown, the matching ribbons of her straw bonnet fluttering loose in the breeze, she stood by the railing watching the small party alighting from the Parkstone barge. For a long moment the two women looked at each other, then Judith turned slowly away and mingled with her father’s guests. Charlotte glanced at the gathering, but there was no sign of Max. Then Richard spoke to her and she turned quickly toward him.

  He smiled. “Are you going to hover there for the rest of the afternoon, or are you going to take pity on the aching arm I’ve been holding out to you for the past minute or more?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I was jus
t thinking.”

  “So I noticed.” His fingers closed around hers as he assisted her onto the bank. “Charlotte, you’d tell me if there was something very wrong, wouldn’t you?”

  “There’s nothing wrong.”

  “Don’t fib. I’ve been watching you since you came back from your day at Kimber Park, and I can tell that all is far from well. Is it something to do with Talgarth?”

  “No,” she said quickly. “Truly, Richard, there’s no need to worry.”

  “Did he…?”

  “No! Please, Richard, don’t worry about me, I’m perfectly all right.”

  He studied her. “Well,” he said wryly, “if this is how you are when you’re perfectly all right, I’d hate to see you when things aren’t going well.”

  He said nothing more, escorting her to the bench where her mother was still looking a little pale.

  Charlotte took her hand. “How are you feeling now?”

  “A little better. Oh, dear, how foolish I feel, losing my sea legs on a day as calm as this, and I was doing so well too. I do hope I haven’t ruined things for everyone.”

  “Of course you haven’t,” replied Charlotte, smiling.

  The admiral was anxious to reassure her as well. “We’ve all had more than enough of water for one day,” he said, “and that’s the truth, even from this old naval man.”

  Mrs. Wyndham smiled up at him. “You’re being kind to me, Henry.” She looked past him then as a face in the crowd caught her attention. “Isn’t that Sir Maxim over there? Yes, I’m sure it is. Oh, I do believe he’s going to speak to us.”

  Charlotte’s heart seemed to miss a beat. He was walking toward them. He wore a maroon coat, brown waistcoat, and fawn trousers, and a dark, silver-handled cane swung gently in his hand. She stared at him, unable to believe he was going to have the effrontery to speak. After all he’d done, he was surely not going to utter empty civilities! But then, why not? He’d spoken before and couldn’t know his dark deeds had been uncovered.

  Sylvia glanced at Charlotte’s suddenly still face and then turned quickly to Richard, asking him to accompany her to find a glass of water for his sister. They’d gone when Max reached the bench and bowed to Mrs. Wyndham and the admiral, subtly contriving to completely exclude Charlotte from the greeting. “Good afternoon. I trust you are enjoying the occasion.”

  Mrs. Wyndham, who hadn’t noticed her daughter’s recent odd mood, smiled at him. “Good afternoon, Sir Maxim. Yes, we have indeed been enjoying the day; at least, we were until I disgraced myself by feeling seasick.”

  “That is surely not a disgrace, madam, since Lord Nelson himself suffered greatly from the same indisposition.”

  Charlotte watched him. How cool and gallant he was, so polished and agreeable…and so false. He was so believable that it was hard to remember that he was addressing the widow of a man he’d deliberately set out to ruin.

  The admiral, meanwhile, was all smiles at seeing his former son-in-law again. “Max, my boy, it’s good to clap eyes on you again. How’s life treating you these days?”

  “Life?” Max’s glance moved fleetingly toward Charlotte’s stony face. “It’s treating me tolerably well, I suppose.”

  “No more duels in the offing, I trust?”

  “I sincerely hope not.”

  Mrs. Wyndham sat forward a little, “Sir Maxim, how are you liking it at Kimber Park?”

  “I like it very much indeed, Mrs. Wyndham. It is indeed the most beautiful estate in the realm.”

  Charlotte couldn’t endure it anymore and turned angrily away, afraid that the outrage she felt would spill over into words.

  Max saw her action. His eyes darkened a little and he turned suddenly to Mrs. Wyndham. “Madam, would it be possible for me to speak with Miss Wyndham?”

  “Why, of course,” replied Mrs. Wyndham. “Charlotte?”

  Charlotte had no option but to turn back and face him again. She forced a stiff smile to her unwilling lips. “You wish to speak to me, sir? I cannot imagine why.”

  His smile was equally frozen as he offered her his arm, speaking in such a low tone that only she could hear him. “Don’t conduct yourself with such a bad grace, Miss Wyndham. You’re supposed to know how to go on in society.”

  She was furious, but still managed to conceal it from the others as she put her hand over his sleeve and walked a little way along the embankment with him. The moment they were out of earshot, however, she turned coldly toward him. “As I said, sir, I cannot imagine why you wish to speak with me, for I have absolutely nothing I wish to say to you.”

  “No? You do surprise me, for looking at you right now I’d say there was a great deal you seem to wish to say to me.”

  “I don’t want to waste my breath on you, sirrah, for you’re not worth the effort.”

  “No, but I’m worth your fury, it seems. One kiss would appear to have had a diabolical effect upon your temper.”

  “Your kiss was eminently forgettable, sir, so don’t flatter yourself that my temper now is due to its effects.”

  “Then, what exactly is it due to? Surely you aren’t still listening to silly whispers?”

  “No,” she breathed, “this time it’s much more serious than mere whispers, sir. This time I’ve seen proof of your misdeeds.”

  A cold veil slid across his eyes. “Have you, indeed?” he said softly. “Are you going to elaborate upon that statement?”

  “Do I really need to? Surely you aren’t still acting the outraged innocent?”

  “Have a care, Miss Wyndham, for we may be in a public place but I will not put up with endless insult at your caprice. Either explain yourself or have the courtesy to keep a civil tongue in your head, and in future conduct yourself with some semblance of refinement.”

  “Considering what I now know of you, sir, I feel that today I’ve acquitted myself with admirable restraint and decorum, for if I was a man I’d—”

  “Yes?” he interrupted in a voice that was dangerously soft. “What, exactly, would you then do, Miss Wyndham?”

  “I’d call you out,” she whispered.

  “Indeed? And no doubt your fate would be the same as my previous opponents: you’d either be dead or steeped in ridicule. Now, then, madam, I’m still waiting for your explanation. What do you now think you know about me?”

  She raised her chin defiantly. “You ruined my father, Sir Maxim, you ruined him so that you could force him to sell Kimber Park to you. That didn’t succeed, so you resorted to other foul means to dispose of him. I despise you, sirrah, I despise you with every fiber of my being. You had the gall to tell me I was beneath your contempt; well, you’re so far beneath mine that I would gladly tread on you for the loathsome insect that you are.”

  Close to tears and trembling still with fury and emotion, she turned on her heel and walked away. She struggled to compose herself as she returned to the bench where Sylvia and Richard had rejoined the others. She managed a smile, brushing aside their curiosity about the purpose of the interview by saying that Max had merely been inquiring if a scarf found at Kimber Park was hers. To her relief, at that moment the band on the bridge began to play again and attention was diverted. She took a deep breath to steady herself, for she was still trembling like a leaf, conflicting emotions tumbling through her in bewildering succession. She had told him she despised him, and she knew that that was what she should do, but in the very depths of her heart she knew she still loved him. What did he have to do before she was released from his spell? Why, oh, why, did her heart have to rule her head, and her conscience?

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was proposed that they all go to the Clarendon Hotel that evening for a French dinner, but Charlotte cried off, knowing that in her present mood she would almost certainly be a blight on the proceedings. The house was very quiet after they’d gone, for both Mrs. White and Polly had the evening off. After a while the quietness became almost oppressive, for it allowed too many unwelcome thoughts to intrude, and so as it was a ver
y fine evening, she decided to go for a walk.

  Regent’s Park was very lovely in such weather, and a great many people were to be seen strolling along the paths and among the trees. There were long shadows across the grass when at last she turned back again, and the sun was sinking beyond the groves in a blaze of glorious crimson and gold that was reflected like molten gold in the waters of the lake.

  She paused at the entrance of the park to look back again at the sunset, and so didn’t notice the carriage that had been waiting at the curb nearby for some considerable time now. Its blinds were down as it moved slowly forward toward where she stood, and as it halted almost alongside, there was a commotion nearby. A young blood driving a curricle far too fast around the curve of Park Crescent clipped the wheel against a bollard and was flung into the road as the vehicle toppled over. Thus everyone’s attention was diverted from Charlotte as the door of the mysterious carriage opened and a gentleman stepped silently down. No one saw as he came up stealthily behind her, putting a hand over her mouth and dragging her back to the carriage. It was over in seconds. He thrust her inside and climbed quickly behind her, slamming the door. The coach immediately drove off, the team’s hooves clattering on the cobbles as they were brought quickly up to a very smart pace, entering Regent Street and mingling anonymously with the traffic that constantly thronged the fashionable thoroughfare.

  Dazed, frightened, and too shocked to scream for help, she lay motionless where she had fallen on the seat. It was so dark inside that her captor was only a shadowy shape as he sat opposite. He didn’t say anything, and for a moment the noise of the carriage seemed very loud. Trembling and afraid, she sat slowly up, pushing a stray curl back beneath her bonnet. “Who—who are you?” she asked at last, still unable to see who her abductor was. “Why are you doing this?”