A Scandalous Publication (25 page)

“And there’s nothing more?” demanded Max, his grip still almost choking the man.

“Upon my honor!”

“Honor? You haven’t any!” Max flung him contemptuously aside.

Mr. Wagstaff almost fell, but saved himself by snatching at a grimy wooden post. Breathing heavily and still terrified that Max hadn’t yet finished with him, he leaned weakly back against the wall, straightening his wig, his frightened eyes shining in the silver light that suddenly bathed everything as the moon slid from behind a cloud.

Max turned slowly toward Charlotte. “It seems that you were telling the truth.”

She said nothing.

“What now?”

She thought of Sylvia’s tears on the night the book was published, tears that were so explicable now the full truth was known. Two things had happened to Sylvia that momentous day: she’d realized the dreadful consequences of what she’d done, and she’d finally fallen in love with Richard. She’d wished with all her heart that she had never taken the manuscript, never sought her revenge this way, but by then there was no going back.

Charlotte looked at Max. “Can’t we just leave the matter as it is? If we point a finger at Sylvia, then a number of innocent people will suffer as well. Richard will, my mother will, and so will the admiral.”

He met her gaze for a long moment and then slowly nodded. “I agree that they’ve done nothing and therefore don’t deserve to suffer, but I don’t agree that everything can be left as it is. You and Sylvia between you have brought my honor into very severe and very public question, and I’m not prepared to let that situation continue when there’s maybe a way that something can be done about it.” He gave an ironic half-laugh. “A man could reasonably be expected to see the writing of such a book by his fiancée as a forgivable sin, but he could hardly keep smiling if she’d gone to the length of having it published as well.”

“And is it a forgivable sin?” she inquired softly.

“No, Charlotte, it isn’t, but I’m prepared to pretend for a while that it is. Do you wish to salve your conscience? And do you think Sylvia wishes to salve hers?”

Charlotte closed her eyes for a moment, but she nodded. “Yes, of course I do, and I believe Sylvia would agree if she were here. If there’s anything I can do to help put all this right, then I’ll willingly do it. You must believe me, Max.”

“Oh, I believe you, since you’re so very anxious to protect everyone else and since what I’m about to suggest will do just that.”

“What is it?”

“I’m willing to go to the ball with you tonight as if nothing has happened, and I’m prepared to pretend to them all that nothing has changed between us, that I still love you and that the book is a nine days wonder that hasn’t made the slightest difference to anything. Your presence at my side will give the lie to the book’s claims concerning my dealings with your father, and if Sylvia conducts herself agreeably toward me as well, then that should greatly assist in scotching the charge that I maltreated my wife and brought about her death. I’m determined to put an end to the whispers once and for all. Charlotte
,
I’ve had more than enough of it, and since you and Sylvia have been instrumental in focusing public attention upon these lies, I think it only right that you should exert yourselves to undo all the damage you’ve done.”

She was silent for a moment, then she nodded, “I’ll do as you suggest and I’ll speak to Sylvia the moment we arrive and tell her what’s happened.”

“There’s just one thing more.”

“Yes?”

“As I said earlier, a man can reasonably be expected to gloss over a certain amount of foolishness from his future wife, but not as much as you are at present presumed by the world to be guilty of. You must be publicly absolved of blame concerning having the book published, and Wagstaff here can stand up in front of them all at the ball and say that the manuscript was sent anonymously to him.”

“But
—”

“No buts, Charlotte. Either you agree to everything, or you don’t.”

She looked away. “Very well, I agree, but I must tell Sylvia first.”

“I see no reason to object to that.”

“How
—how long do you intend keeping up the public pretense of affection between us?”

“Just as Jong as it takes for the fuss to die down. Believe me, I’ve no wish to continue seeing you for any longer than absolutely necessary.”

He was a stranger. It was as if there’d never been any tenderness or understanding between them, never been the sweetness of a shared kiss or glance, never even been the warmth of a fleeting touch. There was no kindness in him at all, and he cared nothing for the hurt he inflicted with each deliberately cruel word. She wanted more than anything to reach out to him, to stretch her fingers toward his and breach the awful chasm that yawned between them both now, but his rejection of her was complete.

He spoke again. “Are you still prepared to go through with this?”

“Yes.” Her voice was very small.

“I trust that you will prove as talented an actress as I think you are, for, believe me, I shall be the finest actor you’ve ever seen.” He turned back to Mr. Wagstaff then. “No doubt you heard all that, so you know what’s expected of you now.”

The man nodded. “I’m to go to the ball with you and tell them all that the manuscript was sent anonymously and not by either Miss Wyndham or Miss Parkstone.”

“You’re not to mention Miss Parkstone’s name at all; you’re merely to exonerate Miss Wyndham from blame, is that clear?”

“Yes, Sir Maxim.”

“And if one further word leaks out about what you’ve heard here tonight…
.
”

“I won’t say anything, Sir Maxim, you may count upon it.”

Max gave a thin smile. “Yes, I’m sure I can.”

Mrs. White was peering anxiously out of the waiting carriage, and she smiled with relief as the three figures emerged from the archway. Max assisted Charlotte into the carriage, releasing her hand as quickly as possible, as if he loathed even this small contact. Charlotte was glad of the semidarkness, for it hid the tears shining in her eyes.

With Mr. Wagstaff sitting uncomfortably in one corner, the carriage pulled swiftly away from Covent Garden, setting off at a spanking pace for Cavendish Square and the Parkstone ball.

The square seemed to be filled with waiting carriages. All around the railed garden in the center there were landaus, barouches, and town coaches, their attendant coachmen, postilions, and grooms standing in quiet groups, some talking and joking, others more intent upon the serious business of dice or cards. The other crowds had at last been moved on, thanks to the efforts of constables as determined as those in Vigo Street.

The Parkstone residence was ablaze with lights, every curtain and shutter having been opened and every room illuminated with as many lamps and candles as possible. Lanterns had been placed along the balconies and the iron railing separating the house from the wide pavement, and the colors were a vivid blaze of red, green, and blue. Music drifted from the open windows, and so did the sound of laughter and conversation as the many distinguished guests indulged in the pleasures of dancing, display, and critical observation of their fellows.

Footmen with flambeaux accompanied the carriage the final few yards to the gaily decorated porch, where garlands and ribbons adorned the columns, and moss, sweet-smelling flowers, and herbs had been carefully strewn over the steps. The music was louder now and the babble of voices almost deafening as the carriage doors were flung open and Max alighted, followed by a sweating, very nervous Mr. Wagstaff, who continually mopped his forehead with a large handkerchief.

The chandeliers in the house cast their warm glow over Max’s face from the open doorway as he turned to hand Charlotte and Mrs. White down too. The diamond pin in his neckcloth flashed brilliantly, but his eyes were still veiled and cold. He beckoned to a nearby footman, instructing him to escort the cook safely back to the house in Henrietta Street, then he turned to Charlotte. “Remember,” he said softly, “from this moment on we’ll merely be acting the part of two people in love, for I no longer feel any love for you.”

She couldn’t meet his eyes, the heartbreak was too great. She didn’t know how she was going to carry this night off successfully. She felt too wretched to conduct herself with the style she knew was necessary, but as she slipped her cold hand over his arm and they proceeded up the flower-strewn steps, with Mr. Wagstaff dutifully following, she felt a sudden strength come to her from somewhere deep within. Was it strength? Or was it a spark at last of the spirit for which she had hitherto been known? Whatever it was, it gave her the courage to face what lay ahead.

The whole house had been opened up for the ball, and the guests were at liberty to stroll wherever they pleased. It was a glittering gathering, the ladies in exquisite silks and satins, with plumes and precious stones in their hair; the gentlemen very dashing and elegant in the finest clothes London’s tailors could produce. There seemed to be music everywhere, echoing around the marble-columned hall with its pale-pink walls and grand double staircase, and lingering sweetly in every anteroom, as if trapped by some invisible force. Everything had been decorated with flowers, garlands, ribbons, and streamers, and there were so many leaves and branches that it was like a sylvan bower.

Entering the crowded hall, Charlotte felt as if she were about to run the gauntlet of the whole of high society, for all eyes swung immediately toward the new arrivals, and she heard one word being whispered, “Kylmerth.” To her intense dismay, the first people to come toward them were Judith and her escort, Mr. Bob Westacot, the dandy who had been outside the opera house the evening before. Had it really only been then? It seemed a lifetime ago now…
.

Judith wore a spangled gown of the richest yellow-gold silk, with diamonds at her throat and in her hair. A fragile cashmere shawl trailed with careful nonchalance along the floor behind her, and a fan and a lozenge-shaped reticule stitched with golden threads dangled from her elegant, white-gloved wrist. She had halted in quick dismay on seeing Max enter with Charlotte and Mr. Wagstaff, and for a moment she’d seemed undecided what to do, but that moment had been very fleeting and now she and her companion were almost upon the trio by the doorway. She opened her fan and her cold glance took in Charlotte and Mr. Wagstaff before she spoke to Max. “Good evening, Max,” she said in her affected voice, “I must say that after your visit earlier today I find your arrival with Miss Wyndham, of
all
people, something of a surprise.”

“A surprise? Why do you say that?” Max’s hand moved to rest tenderly over Charlotte’s, but it was an empty gesture for the benefit of others, nothing more.

The fan began to move more swiftly. “Don’t toy with me, Max. You know perfectly well that when we last spoke, your opinion of Miss Charlotte Wyndham was exceeding low, to say the least.”

“The heat of the moment,” was the bland reply.

Bob Westacot flicked open a jeweled snuffbox, taking a pinch between an elegant finger and thumb. “I say, Max, come off it, eh? You can’t pretend there ain’t the damnedest fuss over this wretched book. It’s the only topic of conversation here tonight, and now here you are with the author of the horrid piece. Judith told me what you had to say this afternoon, so this now ain’t exactly what folk are expecting.”

“Well, you know me, Bob,” replied Max in an exceptionally agreeable tone, “I’ve never been one to do the expected. Besides, what does the book really matter? It’s only a lot of foolishness someone anonymous saw fit to steal and have published.”

Judith was staring at him now. “Someone
anonymous?
Max, only this afternoon you were utterly convinced that it was Charlotte Wyndham and
only
Charlotte Wyndham.”

Charlotte found herself laughing in a tinkling way worthy of Judith herself. “I’m afraid that I’ve been exceeding fluff-headed, writing such a nonsensical book, but I have to swear that although I wrote it, I most certainly didn’t do anything else with it, as Mr. Wagstaff is going to explain to everyone.”

Judith’s fan snapped closed. “How very disagreeable for you, to be sure,” she said sweetly. “So, now we know why Mr. Wagstaff is here; he’s to say his lines like a good boy and clear you of the more odious part of the blame. Well, I suppose it’s a clever-enough ruse and it might indeed fool many, but you and I both know the truth, don’t we,
dear?”
She gave a sugary, false smile.

“Do we?” replied Charlotte in a like manner. “I’m told that you didn’t steal my manuscript after all, and so I suppose I should really apologize for having accused you, but then I have to remember that you quite openly admitted that you wished you
had
done it, so I don’t think an apology would be entirely appropriate, would it?”

A flush touched Judith’s cheeks and she looked swiftly at Max, who hadn’t heard this part of the encounter that morning. “I may have said it,” she explained to him, “but it was simply to get back at her. I’d never really have done it, as I trust you know full well, because I’d
never
be party to such a disgraceful and regrettable affair.” The fan opened once more, moving very busily to cool her suddenly hot face. “So, whoever it was who took the odious scribble to be published, it still remains that she wrote the thing in the first place, which is why I find it astonishing that you and she are together here tonight. Have you really forgiven her?”

Max met her eyes without a flicker. “My dear Judith, you know how hasty my temper is,” he said with easy charm, “and I’m afraid that for a while today I let it get the better of me. Then I had second thoughts and realized that although Charlotte was a little indiscreet to write the book, she hadn’t done anything really unforgivable. Besides, when one is truly in love…
.
” He allowed the sentence to trail away unfinished as he drew Charlotte’s hand to his lips and smiled into her eyes. He was so very convincing that all those watching
—and there were a considerable number—could only believe that he meant every word and gesture; only Charlotte could see the shadow across his eyes. The touch of his lips burned slowly against her skin, a sweet pain that seemed to linger for a very long time.