An Heir of Deception (2 page)

Directing his attention back to Rutherford, Alex stared at the envelope unclaimed in his friend’s hand, knowing its contents promised to deliver him the felling blow.

“What does she say?” he asked, his voice a hollow imitation of his former self.

“I did not read it,” Rutherford muttered gruffly, extending his arm so the tan paper touched the flesh exposed at Alex’s wrist.

The fires of perdition could not have singed his skin more at the contact and Alex retreated several steps as he surveyed it with abhorrence.

“What did she tell you?” he asked quietly, dragging his gaze up to Rutherford’s.

Three years ago when his friend had paced the halls outside his wife’s bedchamber awaiting the birth of their twins, he’d worn the same expression he did at present, a helpless sort of fright.

“What does she say!” Alex’s voice exploded like a cannon blast in graveyard silence. “Isn’t it in the letter she sent to you?”

Isn’t it in the letter she sent to you?

The echo transcended the room to storm the corridors of the prestigious church.

Rutherford appeared to be rallying his courage, swallowing and then drawing in a ragged breath before he said, “The footman brought the letters only moments before your arrival. I was coming—”

“God dammit, man, quit all your blasted blathering. Just tell me what she wrote!”

Rutherford made an uncomfortable sound in his throat before replying in graveled tones, “She wrote to beg my forgiveness for any scandal or shame her actions may bring upon the family but…says she can’t marry you.”

A roar sounded in Alex’s ears as he grasped the back of a nearby chair, the coolness of the metal frame muted by his silk white gloves. He blinked rapidly in an effort to halt the stinging in his eyes and swallowed to douse the burning in his throat. And a numbness such as he’d never known assailed him, turning his limbs into leaden weights.

“Where is she?”

Stark pain and fear flashed in Rutherford’s pale blue eyes. “I do not know. She’s quit the Manor but gave no indication as to where she’s gone. She merely states she is safe and that we must not concern ourselves unduly over her.”

The weight on Alex’s chest threatened to crush every organ beneath it. But such destruction would do little to his heart, for it had already broken into a multitude of pieces.

Like that, with the flourish of a pen, she was gone.

Alex turned to the open door. Around him, he felt rather than saw his friends move in chorus toward him. He stopped abruptly, angled his head over his shoulder and met their gazes. “Let me be. I shall be fine.” But he wouldn’t lie to himself; he would never be fine.

The three men did not advance any farther.

Alex blindly put one foot in front of the other. With every step, he discarded a piece of the life he’d foolishly dreamt to have with her…until there were none.

He took his leave of the room, his leave of the church, to start his way back to a life obliterated to a pile of nothingness.

Chapter One

Berkshire, 1 March 1864

Her sister was gravely ill.

The knowledge plagued Charlotte Rutherford, consuming her with such fear that a proper night’s sleep had been impossible since her dear friend, Lucas Beaumont, had informed her upon his return from England.

The news had catapulted her into a frenzy of activity for two days thereafter. In that time, she’d arranged passage to England and closed up her small townhouse in Manhattan. What came next required all of her endurance: an eleven-day voyage across the Atlantic Ocean.

With too much time to her solitary thoughts, she’d been wracked with inconsolable grief and the bitterest regret...and heart stopping fear that her presence there would open a Pandora’s Box of a different sort.

Now two weeks to the day after she had learned of her twin’s illness, Charlotte was here. The place she’d once called home. And after an absence of nearly five years, the reality of once again being on English soil—standing at the doors of Rutherford Manor—brought with it the heartbreak of old.

All of that, however, paled in the light of her sister’s illness. For Katie, Charlotte would endure anything, even if it meant risking exposure and opening a wound that had never healed. One she feared might never
truly
heal.

With her heart in her throat and anxiety now a familiar—albeit unwelcome—companion, Charlotte lifted the knocker of the oak door and brought it down three times in rapid succession.

The ensuing seconds seemed to stretch on endlessly. Were they home? She hadn’t even considered that possibility when she’d arrived in Town and had proceeded directly to Paddington Station to catch the train to Reading. She shot a glance over her shoulder and regarded the carriage parked in front of her hired coach. Someone must be in residence, as it appeared they had company. Something else she hadn’t considered.

Upon the opening of the door, she gave a nervous start and spun back around. Reeves, the Rutherford butler of thirty odd years, stood in the doorway, his tall, spare frame and lined visage reminiscent of happier times in days long past. But the advance of age had left its mark. Once possessed of a head of hair with equal amounts of gray and brown, his hair now rivaled the unadulterated white of Father Christmas. And his stature, which formerly would have been the envy of any uniformed man, now gently rounded at the shoulders, proving once again how time spared no one.

Given he was a man disposed to typical English butler demeanor, she’d never imagined he had it in his personal repertoire to blanch, but that is precisely what he did upon viewing her. He said nothing for several seconds, simply stared, his eyes wide and unblinking. Charlotte stifled a laugh—one of the nervous sort—fearing any attempt at speech would cause her to dissolve into a heap of polka dot skirts at his feet.

Behind her, a horse whinnied and stomped its hooves and birds continued their cheerful chirping while Reeves appeared to be struggling to find his tongue.

At length, he exclaimed softly, “Miss Charlotte.” He spoke as if he believed she was but a vision and any undue noise would send her off into obscurity.

Charlotte managed a tremulous smile, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. “Hullo, Reeves. I-I’m delighted to see you looking so well.” The greeting seemed hardly adequate, but she was at a loss to find something fitting to say after so long an absence. So sudden a departure.

Her voice appeared to galvanize him into action. Throwing open the door, he ushered her through an entrance hall as large as the ground floor of her townhouse and into the vestibule. She’d quite forgotten just how large an estate her brother owned.

“I fear we were not apprised of your arrival. Such a shame as, just this morning his lordship and her ladyship went into London with the children. However, Miss Catherine is in residence. She will be happy that you’ve returned.”

In all the years Charlotte had known him, she could scarcely remember a time when she’d seen him looking anything less than unwaveringly stoic. At present his mouth curved into something close to a smile.

“I hadn’t time to send word of my coming.” She’d naturally assumed everyone would be home with her sister doing so poorly. She was more than a little surprised James had gone off to London and left Katie in the care of the servants—and no doubt the attending physician. Actually, it was inconceivable he would do so.

Charlotte pivoted sharply to face the elderly butler. She laid a restraining hand on his black-clad arm as he made a move to relieve her of her pelisse. “Reeves, can you tell me anything of my sister’s condition?”

Reeves stilled at her touch. He lowered his hands to his sides, staring down at her with white furrowed brows. After a pause, the deep creases in his forehead eased. “If you’re speaking of that rather nasty cold she fell ill with the month past, then I can assure you she has since fully recovered.”

A cold?
The doctor has done all he can for her. If she recovers it will be by the grace of God.
She could hear Lucas’s words as though he’d spoken them yesterday. Not even the severest of colds rose to that criticality.

Before she had an opportunity to question Reeves further, the scramble of feet and a high-pitched squeal drew her attention to the top of the double mahogany staircase.

Her sister stood in the middle of the first floor landing clutching the balustrade, her form poised for flight.

“Charlotte, is that really you?” Katie cried.

Then in a blur of pale-green muslin, she took the right set of stairs with all the refinement of a horde of marauding boars. Her fingers skimmed and skipped over the polished mahogany banister as her skirt fluttered and quivered under the breeze of her stampeding steps.

Transfixed by the first sight of her twin in nearly five years as she flew down the stairs, Charlotte could neither move nor speak.

Lucas claimed to have received the information of her sister’s illness on good authority, but it was clear he’d been grossly misinformed.

Katie was not ailing.

At least Charlotte had never seen a person whose survival was said to have hinged on God’s mercy with so much bounce and pep, her cheeks flushed with the healthy hue of breathless excitement, not the ravages of fever. No, her sister looked as vital and healthy as any twenty-four-year-old woman could.

After a fortnight of anticipating the worst and ardent prayers that she’d arrive to find her sister at least on the verge of recovery, a tidal wave of emotion washed over her, and soon Charlotte was moving, her feet carrying her forward without conscious effort or thought.

“Oh Lottie, Lottie. You’ve come back,” her sister cried before launching herself into her arms. “Lord, how I’ve missed you.”

Charlotte choked out a sob at the use of her childhood name as they embraced at the foot of the staircase, clinging to one another under a deluge of shared tears. Joy, relief, and the pain of their long separation had Charlotte trembling uncontrollably. The last time they’d held each other this tightly, they had been frightened five-year-old girls just arrived at the boarding school. Save a father who’d ensured for only their financial welfare, they’d been very much alone in the world.

“Oh God, I thought you—” Charlotte broke off abruptly when her sister turned a tear-stained face to her, her joy a living, breathing entity. How could she now admit she’d returned because she’d thought her near death’s door? She simply could not.

“Thought I was what?” Katie asked in a voice choked with tears.

“I thought perhaps I would not find you home,” Charlotte quickly improvised. “Oh Katie, how I missed you too, so very very much.”

Katie’s breaths came in pants and half sobs, her arms tightening around Charlotte’s waist until she could scarce draw a breath. How long they stood holding each other, she didn’t know. But for those finite moments, time seemed to stand still.

After she caught her breath, and her sister was no longer gasping as if she’d been running too hard and too long, Charlotte loosened her hold and drew back to take in a face so dearly familiar and identical to her own.

Sky blue eyes fringed with long, thick lashes gazed back at her. Eyes glassy with tears. In all the jostling and excitement, ringlets of burnished gold curls had come dislodged from what had to be a small army of pins securing her sister’s chignon. How well Charlotte knew what it took to keep the thick mane properly tamed and presentable.

Katie reached out to cradle Charlotte’s cheek in her palm, her touch almost reverent. “Where—when—why didn’t you say anything about coming home in your last letter?”

“I decided at the last possible minute,” Charlotte whispered in a voice equally thick with emotion.

After brushing the crest of Charlotte’s cheek with her thumb, Katie dropped her hand to her side. “I hope you realize that James and Missy will be beside themselves when I send word of your return,” she chided gently. “They’re to stay in London a week. Of course, I’ll have to send word express that you’ve returned. I expect they’ll be home tomorrow or soon after. Christopher is touring the Continent. He’s not expected back in England until the fall.”

Charlotte was convinced that their half brother Christopher had vagabond blood running in his veins. He’d toured the Continent the summer he’d graduated from Eton. But whether she’d be here when he returned was still in question.

“I know and I’m disappointed too, but in a way I’m happy it’s just the two of us—at least for today.”

Katie smiled, her face flushed pink with pleasure. After several moments of contented silence, she took a step back and began a critical appraisal of Charlotte’s figure, commencing at the ruffled collar of her blue-and-yellow wool traveling suit. Her expression sobered the farther her gaze continued downward. “You’re too thin. Why, I must be a good half stone heavier.”

“I have recently lost some weight.” The stress of thinking one’s sister hovered on the brink of death tended to kill one’s appetite. Of course, that was something she couldn’t now admit to her.

“We’ll have to fatten you up a bit. It’s obvious you haven’t been taking proper care of yourself,” Katie stated crisply, eyeing the ill fit of Charlotte’s dress. Several weeks ago it had cinched her waist instead of hanging on her like a rooster’s wattle as it did now.