A Scandalous Publication (26 page)

Judith’s jealous anger was clearly visible now. “So, after all this, nothing has changed between you? You’re still to marry?”

Max smiled. “Of course we are. You don’t really think I’d let a nine days wonder like this jeopardize my future happiness, do you?”

Charlotte had to look away. Why, oh, why couldn’t what he said be the truth? Why had unkind fate decreed that all of this now was a sham? The hurtful answer came almost immediately: he’d never loved her as much as she loved him; if he had, then he would really be fighting for that happiness, he wouldn’t be standing at her side in this false way.

Judith’s eyes flashed with fury. She’d never finally accepted that it was over between her and Max, now it seemed that it was. “Happiness? My dear Max, you’ll never know a moment of it with this, this…
.
” Words failed her and she tossed a poisonous glance at Charlotte before gathering her skirts and pushing away through the press, followed a moment afterward by a slightly embarrassed Bob Westacot.

There was a buzz of conversation and Max took the opportunity to speak coolly to Charlotte. “I congratulate you, my dear,” he murmured so that only she could hear, “you’re really doing very well; in fact, you’re every inch the magnificent actress I said you were.”

“My talent, sir, is as nothing when compared with yours,” she replied, “but then you probably already know that. There are flaws in my performance, but yours is quite immaculate.” She looked away again, struggling to conceal her unhappiness in a bright smile as another acquaintance greeted her.

Their progress toward the ballroom was very slow indeed, for they had to stop time and time again to converse, behaving as if nothing of any real import had occurred. They acted their respective parts: she pretending to be merely a little shamefaced for having written the book, he appearing almost amused at her indiscretion, and both of them evincing complete mystification about who it could have been who had really taken the manuscript. Mr. Wagstaff, mindful of Max’s dire warning, backed them up to the best of his ability, managing to skirt around his own less-than-gentlemanly conduct as he invented a tale of a mysterious parcel being left on his doorstep in the dead of the night.

By the time the ballroom was at last in sight, all those with whom they’d spoken were convinced that the book itself was nothing more than an absurdity that had got out of hand because of someone’s mischief-making, and interest was centering now upon who that person might be rather than the contents of the book itself.

Charlotte had been looking all the while for Sylvia, but there hadn’t been any sign of her yet, which was a little worrying as she had to be told what was going on before Mr. Wagstaff made his public announcement. Charlotte glanced anxiously around, afraid that something might go wrong and Sylvia might think she was about to be unmasked in full view of everyone, but as they reached the wide marble steps leading down to the ballroom, Sylvia was still nowhere to be seen.

The ballroom lay at the rear of the house and was a truly magnificent room. Decorated in gold and white, with two Ionic colonnades running down its considerable length, its ceiling was a rich, deep blue painted with golden stars and moons, and its walls hung with gilt-framed mirrors. There were flowers everywhere, and the orchestra’s dais at the far end was decked with so much greenery that it seemed to rise like an island above the sea of people. The great floor-to-ceiling windows stood open on to the lantern-lit terrace and the gardens beyond, where all the shrubs and trees were illuminated, and the fountains lit by concealed lights that made the splashing water seem like cascades of diamonds.

There was a moment, as Max gave their names to the master of ceremonies, when Charlotte could observe the scene below unnoticed. She saw her mother and the admiral, seated with the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire, William Lamb, and Lord Palmerston; and at last she saw Sylvia, looking very pale and strained as she danced with Richard. She wore sky-blue taffeta, with matching ostrich plumes springing from her short, dark hair. There were jewels at her throat and in her ears, and more around the wrists of her white-gloved arms. She looked ethereally beautiful, and so very, very vulnerable. Charlotte’s feelings were mixed for a moment. She should despise Sylvia for what she’d done, but somehow she couldn’t. Sylvia was suffering an agony of remorse and self-loathing for what she’d done; the fact was written large on her tense face as she tried to smile at something Richard said.

The master of ceremonies’ staff rapped peremptorily on the marble floor, and everyone looked toward the top of the steps to see who had arrived so very late. The glances became astonished stares then and a murmur of conversation broke out. The stir was so great that the dancing ceased and gradually the orchestra stopped playing. The staff rapped once more. “Sir Maxim Talgarth, Miss Charlotte Wyndham, and Mr. Horace Wagstaff.” The names rang out clearly, and suddenly there was absolute silence.

Charlotte looked anxiously at Sylvia, who was staring at them, her face ashen and her eyes wide with alarm. There was dread in the way her lips parted on a gasp of utter dismay.

Richard was looking toward them as well, his initial dying away as he realized instinctively that all was not as it should be. He turned sharply in the direction of his sister and the admiral, and saw that they too were aware of something being wrong. Mrs. Wyndham rose anxiously to her feet, the folds of her green silk gown by Madame Forestier spilling richly as she gathered her full skins to push her way through the gathering to reach her daughter. The admiral followed her.

Mr. Wagstaff, anxious to get the business over and done with as quickly and efficiently as possible, thought that the moment was right to make his speech, and before either Max or Charlotte realized it, he had stepped forward to commence. “Ladies and gentlemen…
.
”

Charlotte gasped, her hand tightening on Max’s arm, “He mustn’t begin yet; I haven’t been able to warn Sylvia.”

But it was too late, the publisher was saying his piece. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m here tonight to clear the name of a lady I have been maligning concerning the publication of the book
Kylmerth.
I’ve claimed that Miss Charlotte Wyndham not only wrote the book but also brought it to me for publication. This is not so, for the truth is that
—”

He got no further, for Sylvia’s anguished cry halted him. “No! Please! Don’t say it!” Trembling from head to toe, she looked so afraid and guilty that there was no mistaking that she thought she was about to be exposed.

Charlotte stared at her in dismay. “Don’t, Sylvia,” she whispered, “please don’t say another word.”

Richard put an anxious hand on Sylvia’s arm, but she shook it off, pushing her frantic way toward the steps and hurrying up to the trio at the top. She hesitated before them, her whole body quivering and a sob choking in her throat. Her tear-filled eyes were large and distraught. “Please don’t,” she whispered. “I couldn’t bear it.” Then with a haunted glance back at the staring faces in the ballroom, she gathered her skirts and fled toward the hall and the double staircase.

Richard followed her, having paused for a moment to throw an accusing glance at Charlotte that pierced her to the heart.

A babble of conversation broke out then and Charlotte gazed miserably down at her mother and the stricken admiral. Then she looked at Max. Slowly she removed her hand from his arm, turning and walking away from him.

At the foot of the staircase she hesitated, wondering if she should go to Sylvia, but then she heard Richard’s anxious voice begging to be allowed in and Sylvia’s distressed reply begging him to go away and leave her alone. Charlotte walked on out of the house and into the coolness of the night.

The ball continued, but the atmosphere was charged with whispers about the startling new turn the
Kylmerth
scandal had now taken.

Sylvia had locked herself in her private apartment and wouldn’t respond at all to Richard’s desperate entreaties to let him come in. He waited anxiously at the door, agitated and distraught by the heartrending sobs from within. In spite of what she’d done, he loved her still and he wanted to tell her so and comfort her, but the door remained locked and her shame and misery reached out almost tangibly to him. He felt as if his own heart were breaking, and he was angry at the way she had been so publicly disgraced and humiliated. Charlotte and Max may indeed have much to blame her for, but there surely hadn’t been any need to expose her so heartlessly in front of the world.

“Pagett?”

Richard whipped around on hearing Max’s voice behind him. “God damn you, Talgarth! God damn you to hell and back for this!”

Max’s eyes darkened a little. “Have a care, sir, for I rather think you’re about to say something you’ll regret.”

“I won’t regret anything,” said Richard furiously, stepping forward rashly.

“One more step and you’ll discover the error of your conviction,” replied Max coolly, his blue eyes like ice.

Richard hesitated, aware suddenly of the danger he was courting.

Max relaxed a little then. “That’s better, for, believe me, you’re wrong
—about everything, as it happens.”

“How can I be wrong about the callousness of your actions tonight? Maybe that’s your notion of protecting your damned honor, but I call it the act of a despicable coward.”

“Pagett, I’m fast losing patience with you, for whatever you may feel on the subject, the fact is that you aren’t thinking very clearly at all. There was never any intention to accuse Sylvia, even though we knew she was guilty.”

“Then why did Wagstaff say what he did?”

“He spoke before he should have done, and if she’d only let him finish, she’d have escaped all this. He was going to say that the manuscript had been left anonymously with him and that he had no idea who had done it. Her guilt provoked her to react as she did, and that is the truth. Charlotte and I intended smoothing the whole matter over; indeed, we were going to tell Sylvia we knew and say it would be forgotten if she made an acceptable effort to behave sensibly from now on. I didn’t do any of the things that damned book accuses me of, and I have no intention whatsoever of allowing the whispers to continue. If Sylvia and Charlotte seemed publicly to accept me, then within a week or so, I believe, the whole affair would be over and done with, leaving you and Sylvia to look forward to a future together and leaving the admiral and Mrs. Wyndham to presumably do the same. Ever since my wife’s death, Sylvia has taken up this crusade against me; and I’m tired of it all, more tired than you’ll ever know, Pagett, for it’s cost me very dear. Now, then, if you’re still on your high horse and intend to challenge me, then go ahead, but I warn you that I shall take up the gauntlet and I shall do so with every grim intention of seeing the business through to a very final conclusion.”

Richard looked at him and then shook his head. “I’m not going to issue a challenge, Talgarth, for I know when I’m being told the truth.
I
thought…
.
Well, maybe I don’t know you all that well, but Charlotte is my niece and I should have known she wouldn’t have been party to all that. I owe you an apology, sir, and I trust that you will accept.”

Max nodded slightly.

Richard glanced at the door again. “If only she’d let me in…
.
” He thought of something then, looking again at Max once more. “You and Charlotte, there is something wrong tonight, isn’t there? You haven’t forgiven her.”

“I can never forgive her for writing that book.”

“But, damn it all
—”

“The matter is closed, Pagett. Charlotte and I have nothing more to say to each other. She knows that, and what you saw earlier was merely an act, calculated to give the lie to the claims her book made.”

“But she loves you, man,” cried Richard.

“I think not, sir, and what’s more, I care not. I’ve said what I came to say. I’ve already explained everything to the admiral and Mrs. Wyndham, so I don’t think there’s anything to be gained by continuing with this conversation, do you?”

Richard stared at him. “No, I suppose not,” he said after a moment, “except…
.
”

“Yes?”

“Where’s Charlotte now?”

“At home. I took the precaution of sending a footman after her.”

“You cared enough about her to do that, it seems,” said Richard quietly.

Max gave a faint smile. “Don’t read anything into it that isn’t there, Pagett. I feel nothing for your niece now but a very deep regret that I ever knew her, let alone loved her. Good night.” Inclining his head briefly, he turned and walked away.

* * *

From her window, Charlotte saw Max’s carriage leave Cavendish Square. It drove past and she could see him inside, but he didn’t even glance at the house. She watched until it had passed out of sight and then she turned away from the window, going to sit desolately on the edge of the bed, her silver ball gown shimmering in the shaft of moonlight slanting into the room. She couldn’t weep; she felt beyond that. She was drained of all emotion and so weary that sleep should have come effortlessly, except she knew it wouldn’t.

She remained there on the edge of the bed, watching the slow approach of dawn and listening to the carriages departing as the ball ended. She heard the first street cries, and her mother and Richard returning. They came to her door, but she asked them to go away. She couldn’t talk to them yet. Not yet. Curling up on the bed, the ball gown crumpling and spoiling, she hid her face in the pillow. And still the tears had not come.

* * *

The sun was high in the afternoon sky before she emerged from her room. She hadn’t pinned her hair but had just brushed it loose, so that it hung softly to her shoulders. She had at last discarded the ball gown and wore instead a simple white muslin dress with a square neckline, high waist, and little puffed sleeves.

Her mother was alone in the garden and looked up anxiously as she approached. “Charlotte, my dear…
.
”