A Scandalous Publication (7 page)

“So, you can quite understand why it was reprinted three times in as many weeks when it was published last year.”

“Yes, and I can well believe that there were some very red faces in some very important drawing rooms. No one comes out of it very well, but then, as far as I can see, none of them deserve to.”

Her mother looked shrewdly at her. “You believe that you’d have written a much better book, don’t you?”

“I like to think I could,” admitted Charlotte.

“Well, I’m glad that you haven’t put pen to paper, for if we’re destined to reenter society, I wish to be able to look them all in the eye.” Mrs. Wyndham folded her napkin and rose from her chair. “I mustn’t sit here chitter-chattering any longer, I’ve far much to do before Richard arrives.”

Alone, Charlotte poured herself another cup of coffee and then sat back. Her mother’s remark about writing a book like
Glenarvon
had set her mind working. How very satisfying an exercise it would be, if Lord Byron was the perfect model for Glenarvon, how much more splendid model would Max Talgarth be for a similar story…. The thought slid into her head almost before she realized it, and then the more she thought about it, the more excellent a notion it seemed. The terrible things she’d heard said of him the previous day provided plots in plenty, and Max himself, so darkly handsome, satirical, and infamous, was surely a villainous hero second to none.

Oh, how tempting a thought. Slowly she put her cup down. It was
too
tempting
—how could she possibly resist? And what harm would there be? It wasn’t as if, like Lady Caroline, she ever intended trying to publish her scribbles….

She glanced outside, where the rain of the previous day had gone and the sun was shining warmly from a clear May sky. She would go for a walk in Regent’s Park and give the matter of a book of her own some very careful thought.

* * *

Mr. Nash’s magnificent new thoroughfare, Regent Street, now stretched as far north as the old royal park at Marylebone, where it ended in the gracious curve of Park Crescent. The royal land was being laid out at Regent’s Park, a fine, landscaped area to be a fitting end to the new road, which started at the Prince Regent’s residence, Carlton House.

There were originally intended to be at least forty elegant villas in the park, including one for the prince himself, set among groves of specially planted trees and beside the three-branched, serpentine lake, but now it seemed that very few of them would be built. The lake was there, however, glittering brightly beneath the sun, and the only sound, apart from the background noise of the city, came from the workmen on nearby St. John’s Lodge, one of the few buildings to have been begun.

It was just after midday when Charlotte entered the park, strolling at a very leisurely pace as she enjoyed the scenery and thought about her book. After a while she began to sense that someone was watching her. It was an uncomfortable feeling, making her glance around. Away to her right there were two gentlemen riding toward some trees, while down to her left by the lake a laughing party of ladies and children were seated on the grass. There didn’t seem to be anyone paying particular attention to her, but as she walked on again, the feeling that she was being watched became more and more strong. At last she couldn’t bear it anymore and turned around to retrace her steps.

A short while before, she had passed a little pavilion set among flowering shrubs, and as she walked back toward it, a lady suddenly appeared, strolling in the direction Charlotte had been taking herself but a moment before. She was tall and stylish, with short dark hair. Her pelisse was of sapphire-blue velvet, and her ruffled gown of the sheerest cream lawn, its hem enviably stiffened in the very latest fashion. Her shoes were particularly pretty, their cream satin slashed to reveal blue beneath, and she carried a frilled pagoda parasol that she twirled a little as she walked. There was something oddly familiar about her.

The distance between them lessened, and then quite suddenly the lady halted a few feet away. “Good morning, Miss Wyndham.”

Charlotte gave a start as she realized abruptly who the other was: Sylvia Parkstone. “How do you know who I am?” she asked, so caught by surprise that the rather lame inquiry was all that sprang to mind.

“When I saw you with Max Talgarth yesterday, I made it my business to find out.”

Charlotte didn’t care for the thought of someone making secret inquiries about her. “Did you, indeed?” she replied a little stiffly.

“Please don’t be angry,” said the other quickly, “for I mean no insult or impertinence. I’m just deeply concerned that you, of all people, should not fall under that man’s influence. You mustn’t see him again, Miss Wyndham, for it’s my firm conviction that he deliberately brought about your father’s death.” She hesitated, putting out an anxious hand. “Forgive me for saying such a dreadful thing, but I felt I simply had to approach you. You don’t seem surprised by what I say.”

“No, because I already know your feelings on the matter, Miss Parkstone. I was in the library yesterday and heard everything that passed between you and Lady Judith.”

“You were there? But where?”

Charlotte explained the circumstances. “So you see,” she finished, “your conversation was not as private as you imagined it to be.”

“Forgive me if this sounds a little rude, but
I
find it amazing that after all you’d just heard, you should accept a seat in his carriage.”

“Yes, it does sound a little rude, since you do not know exactly what happened.”

“I’ve offended you, and I really didn’t mean to.” Sylvia’s face was crestfallen and her cheeks red.

Charlotte found herself unexpectedly liking her new acquaintance. “I’m not really offended, Miss Parkstone, for I can quite understand that my action does seem a little unlikely. The truth of it is that he didn’t give me much choice. He was very angry indeed because he guessed that I’d been listening to rumors about him. And before you ask, no, I didn’t broach the subject of my father’s death or your sister’s. All that was mentioned was the duel he is soon to have with Lord Westington, a duel which he insists was forced upon him and in which he claims he is the injured party. He was as eloquent in his own defense as you are for the prosecution.”

“And you believed him?”

“I don’t know what to think, and that’s the truth.”

“Are you in love with him, Miss Wyndham?”

Charlotte’s lips parted in astonishment. “Certainly not! Why ever do you ask?”

“You seemed a little…. Well, you seemed as if you were defending him.”

“I can hardly defend him since I don’t know anything about it. Sir Maxim and I do not see eye to eye, Miss Parkstone, so love is one of the last things I feel toward him.”

“Forgive me for having asked such a thing, it’s just that I know how very winning Max can be when he chooses. My sister continued to adore him, even when he treated her abominably, and my cousin Judith…. Well, Judith is beyond redemption.”

“Oh that I will agree with you.”

Sylvia smiled then. “And I hope that you will agree with me on everything else before much longer. Miss Wyndham, would it be too much to hope that you and I might become friends? Or am I being too presumptuous?”

“You aren’t being presumptuous at all, Miss Parkstone. I would very much like us to be friends.”

“Then let us begin by continuing our walk together, and then perhaps you would take tea with my father and me at our house in Cavendish Square?”

“Cavendish Square? You live so close to me?”

“Yes, that’s how I found out who you were. I’d already seen you going to and from your house in Henrietta Street, so when I saw you with Max I knew exactly how to find out about you.” Sylvia looked a little rueful then. “I don’t often go around poking and prying into other people’s affairs, you know; it’s just that I’m determined to one day expose Max Talgarth for the monster he is. Still, enough of him for the moment…. Shall we continue our walk?”

Charlotte smiled and nodded.

* * *

The Parkstone residence was a fine, balconied building on the eastern side of Cavendish Square, facing Henrietta Street. It was a house Charlotte had often noticed before, having many times walked past its jutting stone porch.

The grand drawing room on the first floor had rose brocade walls and a ceiling decorated with very ornate gilded plasterwork. The satinwood furniture was upholstered in gray figured velvet, and there were gold-fringed velour curtains at the tall windows overlooking the square. Dominating the room was the immense white marble fireplace, above which hung a portrait of Sylvia by Mr. Hoppner. Charlotte was silently critical of the portrait, which she did not consider to be a particularly good likeness.

Admiral Henry Parkstone was a tall, personable gentleman of military bearing. His brown hair had not receded or even faded, and his face was that of a man much younger than his sixty or so years. He dressed plainly but fashionably, and he walked with the aid of a stick, having been wounded in the leg at the battle of Trafalgar. There was something very agreeable about his smile, and Charlotte took to him as easily as she had to his daughter.

Sylvia poured the tea from an exquisite Sevres porcelain teapot, and the admiral settled himself comfortably, leaning his walking stick against the sofa. “Tell me, Miss Wyndham, are you by any chance one of the Wyndhams of Kimber Park?”

“Yes, at least we
were
of Kimber Park. Mr. George Wyndham was my father.”

“Ah, yes, a very sad loss indeed. Such a terrible accident.”

Sylvia abruptly put the teapot down. “Accident?”

Her father looked warningly at her. “Sylvia, this is neither the time nor the place
—”

“Maybe it isn’t, but I cannot sit meekly by accepting your description of Mr. Wyndham’s death as an accident.”

The admiral was appalled at such an indiscreet statement. “Sylvia, that’s quite enough! Your private views must be kept private, and certainly should not be aired in front of Miss Wyndham.”

“Miss Wyndham already knows what I think.”

“Which can only mean that you wasted no time at all in telling her. I’m quite ashamed of you, my girl, and I think that you should apologize to her immediately for causing her unnecessary distress.”

Charlotte was embarrassed. “Oh, please, there’s no need.”

He looked apologetically at her. “You’re being too kind, Miss Wyndham. I’m afraid that Sylvia is quite unreasonable where my son-in-law is concerned.”

Sylvia flushed then. “He isn’t your son-in-law,” she said stiffly.

“He was married to Anne, and as far as I’m concerned, that makes him my son-in-law.”

She pointed at the portrait above the fireplace. “Anne would be with us now if it wasn’t for Max Talgarth, and she’d still be the happy, laughing person we once loved so much.”

Charlotte stared at the portrait. So that was why it wasn’t a good likeness; it was a picture of Anne Talgarth, not Sylvia.

The admiral took a long, patient breath. “Sylvia, I’ve had quite enough of all this. I forbid you to say anything more on the subject, is that quite clear?”

Sylvia looked rebellious for a moment but then lowered her glance. “Yes, Father.”

“I suppose I’ve this duel with Lord Westington to thank for your renewed enthusiasm for blackening Max’s character?”

“The duel merely proves that I was right about him all along.”

“Does it? Come now, Sylvia, you no more believe Georgiana Westington’s tale than I do; you’re simply saying you do because it suits you. She’s one of the most immoral and conniving women in London, and has invented the whole story out of spite. What her foolish nonentity of a husband chooses to believe is his business, but I know that
I
believe Max’s side of it.”

Sylvia said nothing more, but the defiant set of her chin showed only too clearly that she did not accept her father’s point of view.

The admiral turned to Charlotte. “You must forgive us, Miss Wyndham, for we are very wrong to foist our family disagreements upon you like this.”

“Please don’t apologize, sir, for there isn’t any need.”

“But there is, my dear, there is. However, let us talk of something more agreeable
—our summer ball in July perhaps? I do hope that you will be able to attend, or will you still be in mourning then?”

“July? No, we will not be wearing black then, sir.”

“We?”

“My mother and I.”

“The invitation will naturally extend to include your mother as well.”

“Thank you.”

“We like to pride ourselves on our summer balls. They are considered to be quite important social occasions.”

“I know, sir, although I’ve never been fortunate enough in the past to attend.”

“We’ll make up for that sad omission this year,” he said, smiling.

She looked at the long-case clock standing against the wall between two of the windows. “Goodness, is that the time? My mother will be wondering where I’ve got to.”

“Allow me to escort you home, Miss Wyndham.”

“That’s very kind of you, sir, but please do not trouble yourself.” She glanced at the walking stick.

“My dear young lady, you cannot spare me, for my leech has instructed me to walk as often as possible. I shall take a stroll this afternoon with or without your company to make it more agreeable.”

She smiled. “Then I should be glad to make it more agreeable, sir.”

Sylvia assisted him to his feet, and when the two young women had made arrangements to see each other again the following day, the admiral and Charlotte left the house in Cavendish Square and walked the short distance to Henrietta Street.

Just as Charlotte was about to go inside, her mother happened to look out of the drawing-room window. The admiral’s tips parted in surprise. “As I live and breathe, it’s Sophia Pagett! Miss Wyndham, your mother was Miss Pagett, wasn’t she?”

“Why, yes, sir. Are you acquainted with her?”

“I was, my dear.”

“Then please come inside, sir, for I’m sure she would be delighted to see you again.”

Mrs. Wyndham was indeed delighted. “Henry Parkstone,” she declared. “I thought you’d long since gone to perdition.”