A Scandalous Publication (20 page)

He got no further, for Mr. Westacot interrupted in surprise. “Miss
Charlotte
Wyndham?”

Charlotte was a little taken aback. “Yes. Sir, is something wrong?”

He didn’t reply, but glanced around as if he wished himself anywhere but where he was.

Max frowned then. “Yes, Bob, is something wrong? Your manner is, to say the least, odd.”

“Forgive me, it’s just that I’m a little surprised, that’s all.”

“Perhaps you’d be good enough to explain why?”

“Look, Max, I just don’t want to be the one to tell you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll toddle along and mind my own business.” Touching his hat, he turned on his heel and hurried away through the crowds, some of whom were already glancing toward Max’s carriage.

Charlotte sensed that there was a little more to their interest than curiosity about a possible match. Her hand crept a little nervously over Max’s arm. “What’s happened? Why are they looking at us like that?”

“It’s as much a mystery to me as it is to you. Don’t let it spoil our evening.” He smiled, his fingers warm and reassuring over hers. “Shall we go in?” She nodded and they proceeded into the theater, conscious all the while of the stares and whispers that followed them.

The rich red and gold of the opera house glowed in the light of the chandeliers. There were five tiers of boxes encircling the huge, horseshoe auditorium, most of them occupied by ladies and gentlemen of rank and fashion. Their servants and other persons sat in the gallery high above, while down in the pit was Fops’ Alley, where dandies displayed themselves in noisy splendor, rattling their canes and snuffboxes and talking in drawling, affected tones that almost resembled the braying of donkeys.

Max’s box was directly opposite that of the Prince Regent, although the prince wasn’t present tonight. From her gilded chair, Charlotte had a commanding view of the stage and the audience. The curtain trembled now and then, as if someone was moving behind it, and as the orchestra took up its position and began to tune up, there was a momentary hush of expectation before conversation began again. She gazed at the sea of faces all around, the gentlemen in dress uniform or dark, formal velvet, the ladies in silk and satin, their hair adorned with jewels and tall ostrich plumes. There was a great deal of shuffling and clearing of throats, with the occasional louder voice emanating from the more vulgar element high in the gallery.

Charlotte had forgotten the strange incident outside with Mr. Westacot. She was too intent upon watching the orchestra as it continued to tune up, one violin evidently having a little difficulty, but Max hadn’t forgotten, especially as he swiftly realized that he and Charlotte were receiving far more attention than rumors of their forthcoming betrothal would seem to warrant. That there would be interest he did not dispute, for his reputation alone would have assured them of that, but not this veritable stir, a wave of raised quizzing glasses and lorgnettes, and a constant fluttering of fans, behind which lips were murmuring secretly. Too many glances were directed toward their box, and as he watched, he became aware of the hiss of whispering beyond the general drone of conversation.

Looking across at the boxes opposite, he saw the Earl of Barstow and his family and friends, including, of course, Judith. The earl was a thin, hook-nosed man, made even thinner by the tight fit of his evening clothes. He too was intent upon Max and Charlotte, his quizzing glass swinging idly on its ribbon between his bony fingers. Judith was leaning close to the lady at her side, pointing across with her fan and evidently having a great deal to say. The lady’s reaction to whatever she said could only be described as shocked, her lips pursed, her eyes widened, and she began to waft her fan to and fro as if suddenly very hot. After a moment she leaned forward to touch a gentleman on the shoulder, whispering in his ear and pointing across the auditorium. He seemed taken aback, staring at Max and Charlotte, and then he too spread the whisper, whatever it was, to his neighbor. So the buzz spread from person to person, box to box, each new recipient seeming shocked, intrigued, and determined to pass the whisper on.

By now Charlotte was aware of the stir. “Why are they so interested in us? Surely we aren’t
that
noteworthy.”

“That’s just what I was thinking.”

“I know there’s bound to be a certain amount of interest, but not this much.”

He put his hand over hers. “If it bothers you, we can leave.”

“It doesn’t bother me. I just want to know what’s going on. I feel rather too conspicuous, as if there’s some dreadful sign above my head that only I know nothing about.”

At that moment the orchestra began to play the overture to
Zaira,
shortly after which the curtain rose, and all attention was temporarily diverted to the stage. But if Max and Charlotte hoped that that would be the end of the unwelcome stir, they were soon disabused of the notion, for the ripple of interest continued, circulating the auditorium surreptitiously, as if sheltering behind the screen of music.

As the first act ended, a positive buzz of chatter broke out, and Charlotte was now very uneasy and uncomfortable. She had been so looking forward to her first appearance in public with Max, but this wasn’t how she wished it to be.

Max turned to her. “I think we should leave. I don’t like you being exposed to such unwarranted…
.
” He broke off as there was a cautious tapping at the door of the box. In no mood to be particularly polite, he turned sharply. “Yes? Who is it?”

An elderly gentleman peered in almost apologetically. “Max, my boy, there’s no need to snap my head off.”

Max’s eyes cleared. “Randall. Forgive me, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“May I have a discreet word with you?”

“Of course, please come in. Allow me to present Miss Charlotte Wyndham. Charlotte, this is Sir Randall Hopson, my neighbor at the Albany.”

Charlotte smiled at him. “Sir Randall.”

“Miss Wyndham.”

He was a dapper, slightly built man, looking almost fragile in an indigo velvet coat. An immense diamond pin nestled in the lace-edged folds of his neckcloth, and there were a great many rings on his slender fingers. He wore heavy cologne, which wafted over her as he drew her hand to his lips. Then he turned a little uneasily to Max. “May we speak in private?”

Max’s eyes became suspicious then. “I take it that it has something to do with all this damned whispering?”

“Well…
.
” The other’s glance slid awkwardly toward Charlotte. “Look here, Max, I can’t possibly say anything in front of, of
—”

“I rather think you’ll have to, Randall, since whatever it is evidently concerns her as well.”

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

“I don’t relish saying this, Max, but I don’t think you can possibly know about it yet.”

“Know about what? Damn it, Randall, will you get to the point?”

“The book, dear boy, the book. It was published today by that scurrilous wretch Horace Wagstaff of Covent Garden, and already, as you can see, it’s causing a stir and a half. Damned reprobate you may be, but
—”

“What
are
you talking about? What have I got to do with this book?”

“It’s a
roman
à
clef,
just like Caro Lamb’s masterpiece, and the key’s just as pathetically easy to understand as hers. For the princely sum of fifteen shillings, anyone who wishes can read your supposed escapades, for you’re quite obviously meant for the monstrous villain of the piece. Why, the wretched character’s name even sounds like yours.”

Charlotte felt suddenly ice-cold. She felt the color beginning to drain from her face. Surely it couldn’t possibly be…
.
She thrust the dreadful thought away. No, it couldn’t be, it mustn’t be!

Max was staring at his friend. “I’m meant for someone in this book?”

“A damned demon of a fellow, cheating his friends, tormenting and murdering his wife, ruining and conniving at the death of a chap who won’t sell him his house, and then seducing the wretched man’s daughter. I could go on, Max, but that’s the general way of it, and anyway, I’ve already said far more than I should in front of Miss Wyndham, don’t you think?”

Max was very still. “Randall, if this is some kind of jest…
.
”

“Sweet Lord above, do you think I’ve taken leave of my senses? Courage ain’t exactly overpresent in my makeup, and the last thing I’d want to risk is becoming your fifth opponent. Of course it isn’t a jest; it’s only too true, and when I saw you both sitting here so evidently unaware of what was going on, well, I couldn’t let it continue without warning you. I know you, Max, and many a thing you’d do, but not these things. I don’t know who the author is, but whoever it is has seen to it that you’re in for a very rough time socially.”

Max nodded. “So that was why Bob Westacot behaved as he did earlier.” He looked quickly at Charlotte’s pale face, taking her by the hand. “I’m so very sorry you’ve been subjected to this, this…
.
Well, words fail me, I’m so very angry that someone has seen fit to write and publish such a despicable book.”

She couldn’t reply, she was too shocked. It all sounded so horridly familiar, and yet it didn’t. In her book she had accused him of a great deal, but not seducing her; apart from that, it could have been
Kylmerth
Sir Randall had described…
.

Sir Randall looked anxiously at her. “Forgive me, my dear, for no lady should be exposed to such infamy.”

“That
—that’s quite all right, sir,” she said a little shakily.

“Perhaps now is hardly the time, but I gather that congratulations are in order.”

“Thank you.”

He glanced at Max. “I’ll make myself scarce. I’m sorry to have been the bearer of such ill tidings.”

“Thank you for having the goodness to tell us.”

“Think nothing of it, I regard you as a friend.”

As he went to the door, Charlotte suddenly spoke again. “Sir Randall?”

“Yes?”

“What is the name of the book?”

“Name? I can’t recall it for the moment. No, wait a second, it’s
Kylmerth.
Yes, that’s it,
Kylmerth
.
”

The name seared through her like a hot knife. She felt faint, clinging to the arms of her chair to prevent herself from swaying. No, it couldn’t be true, it simply couldn’t! She closed her eyes for a moment. She couldn’t pretend, it
was
her book; someone had stolen it, altered it a little, and had it published. But who would do such a thing? Her eyes flew open then and she stared across the auditorium at the Barstow box. Judith sat there gazing back, a spiteful little smile curving her rosebud lips. Suddenly Charlotte remembered Polly, the little maid who had been so unexpectedly accosted in the street by a lady who answered Judith’s description only too closely. Polly cleaned the bedroom at Henrietta Street, maybe she’d discovered the manuscript hidden away so carefully at the back of the wardrobe. It was the only explanation; by pure chance, Judith had discovered about the book and had had it stolen. This was her revenge.

The second act of the opera had commenced, but the buzz of conversation scarcely died away, droning busily on as the music played. Max took his seat again, his eyes cold and dark, his lips a thin, bitter line. Charlotte sat miserably at his side, her mind spinning at the quandary in which she now found herself. Should she risk telling him and alienating him forever? He had placed such importance upon her believing in his innocence, so how was he going to feel when he discovered that she had so deliberately written all those lies? Would it be wiser to remain silent and hope with all her heart that her guilt was never discovered? This she discarded almost immediately, for the manuscript was hers and if, as was bound to happen, he went to see Mr. Wagstaff at Covent Garden, he would recognize her writing if he saw any of the pages. It was possible, of course, that Judith had had the manuscript copied
—after all, she had apparently changed the ending—but there seemed too little time for everything. No, her guilt was bound to be revealed in the end, and so she had to tell him; to say nothing would anyway be the grave betrayal of love. She steeled herself. “Max….”

He didn’t hear, for abruptly he got up. “I’ve had enough; I’m beginning to feel like an inmate of Bedlam.”

Slowly she nodded, slipping her chill hand into his and rising to her feet. As they left the box, a veritable storm of chatter broke out behind them. She felt quite numb, searching for the right words for her confession as they walked along the silent passage behind the boxes. Liveried footmen bowed, having evidently learned the story, for their curious eyes followed as the two began to descend the grand staircase.

Halfway down, Max halted, taking her hands and turning her to face him. “I swear to you that I’ll seek out and punish whoever did this, I’ll show no mercy.”

“Max, I
—” Again the awful confession hung trembling on her fearful lips.

He put a finger against them, stopping her words. “It must be done, sweetheart, for whoever has done it has insulted my honor beyond all endurance, and has hurt you, which last I shall never forgive. I won’t let it pass unchallenged, you may be sure of that, and I won’t rest until the guilty have been made to pay my price for this monstrous libel. Unfortunately I have a vital appointment in the morning, but my afternoon is free enough. I’ll show Wagstaff no quarter until he tells me what I want to know.”

Her heart twisted with guilt, pain, and dread of losing him, but her confession died unsaid. His bitter anger was too much, and she simply couldn’t bring herself to face him.

Their carriage was at last brought to the door and they emerged into the night, where the air was blessedly cool against her skin. She sat back against the coach’s soft velvet seat, her head leaning wearily against the glass. She had amused herself by writing a silly book, and then she had forgotten about it; now it had come out of the shadows to haunt her and she would have to face the consequences.