Caroline Linden (31 page)
Authors: What A Woman Needs
“Yes,” she said, her voice soft—with regret? “I must.”
“But neither can I give you up.” He looked up, meeting her wary gaze. “I cannot promise you much, but in every way I can, I swear to make you happy.” He drew a deep breath, and gripped her hand even though she was gripping his even harder. “You took my heart some time ago, and I would like you to take my name, as well as myself, if you will have me.”
“You—you want to marry me?” Charlotte stammered.
Stuart grinned a bit hesitantly. “I realize my past isn’t very respectable, but I shall take your example to heart, and reform—” He stopped at her stricken expression.
“But Stuart, you don’t know. Last night, that horrible man, he threatened to say things about me. I fear my own reputation ...”
“Your own reputation is safe from him.” Stuart clasped both her hands between his. “The last I saw Mr. Hyde-Jones, he was contemplating an extended tour of the Continent.”
“What did you do?” she demanded, searching his face.
“Not half as much as I wanted to do. Suffice it to say, he shan’t trouble you again.” She was stiff a moment longer, then relaxed with a sigh of relief. “Have you any other objections?” he prodded with a smile, trying to hide how anxious he was about her reply.
“What about Oakwood Park?” Charlotte asked, her voice wobbling. “Oh, Stuart, I don’t want you to lose it, not after all the work you’ve put into it—I know how much it means to you.”
“Charlotte.” He touched her lips. “I have to sell it; I can’t afford it. I wanted it because I had nothing of my own, nothing to be proud of, anyway. And I do—did—love having my own property, and I did have such high hopes for it. But I won’t lie awake at night regretting losing it as long as you are lying beside me.”
“But Stuart—I have only a modest income. We could live at Honeyfield until Susan marries, but what then? Where would we go? What—?”
“Charlotte!” He smiled ruefully. “I intend to see if Ware might have a position I could take, perhaps managing one of his smaller estates. And if you prefer to live at Honeyfield, we’ll do that. I’m not afraid of economy; Lord knows I’m used to it by now.” He pulled her closer, resting his chin on top of her head. “And if all else fails ...” He lifted one shoulder, his eyes falling on the paintings and statues stacked on the far side of the room. Someone had brought them up from the hall. “We could always open an antiques shop.”
“What? They’re all forgeries!” Charlotte protested.
“An antiques shop for those who can’t afford authentic pieces, then. ‘Tasteful Frauds for the Customer of Limited Means,’” he suggested with a crooked grin. Charlotte laughed, wiping her eyes as she cast aside her doubts and fears. Somehow, together, they would think of something. They had both survived too long alone not to be able to make their way together now.
A knock at the door interrupted a few minutes later. Stuart growled in frustration, but Charlotte giggled. “Yes?”
A maid appeared. “Your pardon, ma’am, but Madame da Ponte has come to call. And your father is asking to see you, Mr. Drake, sir.”
“Show Madame da Ponte into the drawing room. I’ll come down at once.” The maid nodded and left, and Charlotte looked up at Stuart. “How is your father?”
He shrugged. “Fine, I’m sure. Mother’s taking care of him.”
“You didn’t see him yet?” she gasped.
Stuart looked down at her. “I had to see you first,” he said simply. Another luminous smile lit her face. Of all the times he had seen her, in all her various moods, she had never been more beautiful than now, even though her dress was dirty and disheveled and tiny bits of straw still clung to her hair. She was happy, he realized, completely happy for the first time in their acquaintance.
“Give him my thanks,” she said. “I was never so astonished to see him charge into that room.”
“As was I.” Stuart frowned. “We had agreed he would wait in the hall while I lured Dante out of the room, then disarm him with his sword.”
“Lure him out? How?”
“By knocking down the old clock. Dante would never have seen Terrance standing behind the door, and it would have been quite simple for Terrance to put the sword to his back.”
“But Dante would have seen you,” said Charlotte slowly. “And he would have shot you.”
Stuart shrugged. “Likely he would have missed. I didn’t plan to stand still and invite him to take aim.”
Charlotte looked up at him. “He might not have missed. Your father didn’t want to see you die, Stuart.”
Stuart thought about that. Could Terrance have gone into that room to keep Stuart from risking his life? Stuart hadn’t considered it possible at the time; still didn’t, to be honest. Stuart would have endangered himself without hesitation to save Charlotte and Susan, but could Terrance have endangered himself to save Stuart? It defied twenty years of experience.
“Well, either way, it’s a good thing the bloody blighter’s in Newgate.” He squeezed her hand. “You’d best see to Lucia before she begins breaking all the other statues looking for more hidden treasure.” He paused. “Those drawings are most likely authentic, Charlotte; a real Italian treasure.”
Her eyes widened. “Goodness.”
“What shall we do with them?”
Charlotte lifted her hands helplessly. “I don’t know. Lucia is probably right, they should be returned to Italy in some way.”
“I agree.” He released her hand. “We can decide that later. A few more days won’t hurt, after all these years.”
Charlotte shook her head and smiled, turning to leave. At the door she looked back. “What did Susan give you, just now?”
Stuart dug the ring out of his pocket and handed it to her. “It was my mother’s. She gave it to me to give to my bride when I left London.”
Charlotte’s smile faded. Stuart took her hand, folding her fingers around the ring and holding them closed. “I gave it to Susan because my nerve was about to break,” he said quietly. “Even before I met you, I knew it was a mistake to marry a girl I didn’t love. But I thought that if I just got it over and done with, everything would be fine.” He kissed her. “If not for this ring, though, we never would have ended up here.” Her brow wrinkled in confusion. Stuart began chuckling as he thought it through. “Because this is what I broke into your house to retrieve, which brought you to my lodging, where we realized how perfect we are for each other—”
“Oh, really?” Now her eyebrows shot up in amusement. Grinning widely, Stuart went on.
“And then you assumed I was to blame for Susan’s disappearance because you couldn’t see how
anyone
could resist me—”
anyone
could resist me—”
“Stop!” she protested, laughing.
“And then I helped you look for her because
I
cannot resist
you
,” he finished. “And here we are, just as we were meant to be.”
I
cannot resist
you
,” he finished. “And here we are, just as we were meant to be.”
Her face softened then, and he just had to kiss her again.
Smiling once more, she left, and Stuart went down the hall to his father’s suite and tapped on the door, girding himself for anything but too happy to worry about it much. Quite likely he was about to be disowned once and for all, after having gotten Terrance shot. His father’s valet opened the door. “How is my father?” he asked.
“Resting. You may come in.”
Stuart hesitated. “If it won’t tire him overmuch.”
The valet shook his head, and Stuart stepped into the room. Terrance was reclining in a chair near the fireplace, his leg propped on another chair. It was draped with a quilt, hiding the bandages. He was staring out the window, his eyes half closed, his complexion pasty gray.
“I came to see how you are,” Stuart began. The moment of cooperation at the vacant house seemed long ago. There was too much between them, after all, to expect one instance of accord to sweep it all away. “And to express my thanks for your help. Madame Griffolino and Miss Tratter send their profound thanks as well.”
“She is Henry Tratter’s daughter,” said Terrance. “Is she not?”
“Yes,” said Stuart, surprised. “And Susan is her brother’s daughter.”
Terrance nodded, his brow still lowered moodily. “I recognized her pistol; I gave that set to her father myself. Tratter and I were best mates at one time. A good man, Tratter was, uncompromising in his beliefs and proudly so. But he died with one regret. He sent his daughter away in a moment of anger, and repented of it the rest of his life.”
Stuart shifted his weight. This was not what he had expected. “He never wrote to her. She believes he never forgave her.”
“He was too proud to admit he was wrong. For years he hoped she would write to him, asking to return, but she never did. Then, when it was too late, he did try to find her, but she had vanished. The relations he sent her to had no idea where she had gone, and by then he was too ill to search.”
“Her brother knew,” said Stuart sharply. “If he had once humbled his pride and asked his son—”
“Yes, yes.” Terrance sliced one hand in dismissal. “He did not. It was her place to come to him, to beg his forgiveness.”
“Unfortunately she had as much pride and will as he did.”
Terrance sighed. “It would seem so.” He glanced down at his leg. “She shot that villain.”
“Ah yes. Right in the hand, as he was raising his knife to my throat.”
“Hmmph,” Terrance grunted. “Good eye.”
“Steady hand,” added Stuart.
Terrance snorted—laughter?—and finally glanced at Stuart. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?” Caught completely off guard, Stuart nodded. What did it matter to Terrance whom Stuart loved, or if he even fell in love at all? “Does she love you?” Again, Stuart nodded, slowly, warily. “Then you had better marry her, before someone else does,” said Terrance. “She’s got a spine, that one does.”
“Yes. She does.” Stuart cleared his throat. “I have already asked her to marry me, and happily she has agreed.”
“Good.” Terrance pursed his lips. “You may have your income back. A good wife will keep a man out of trouble. Tell her she has my gratitude. She saved both of us, most likely, not to mention the girl.” Terrance turned back to the window, and Stuart, thinking the interview at an end—and a better end than he had ever expected—made to leave. “And she has also reminded me that anger can be misplaced,” Terrance went on. “Tratter sent her away, punishing her in place of the man who deserved it. He knew that, you know; tell her he knew. When his temper had cooled, he knew she had been taken advantage of, and that he had failed to protect her. By then it was too late; he had committed himself ... but he knew the fault was not hers alone.” His fingers twitched restlessly, then he waved at a chair. “Sit down.”
Slowly Stuart sank onto it. He had a great apprehension about what Terrance would say next, and wasn’t at all sure he wanted to hear it, not now.
“You are not my son.” Stuart tried to keep his face impassive; he already knew it, after all. “You are not,” added Terrance with a sharp look, “my father’s son, either. I know you have held this belief for some time, and that many other people do as well.”
Stuart sat, tense with surprise and dread. What, then, would the truth be?
“You,” said Terrance, “are my brother’s son.”
Stuart blinked, searching his memory. “Your brother? He died before I was born.”
Terrance nodded, leaning into the pillows behind him. “Eight months, to be precise. He seduced your mother, who was a young, trusting girl. She had always been in awe of him, and he used her for his own pleasure. No doubt she wasn’t the first he had so used, but she was the first with a doting father.
“When she found herself with child, her father went to our father and demanded that Nigel marry her. Belmaine, to everyone’s surprise, agreed, and ordered Nigel to make amends. But Nigel was proud, and he laughed at the suggestion. She was a farmer’s daughter; he was the heir to Belmaine. Our father was angry, and gave him a day to come to his senses or be cut off.
“Nigel, you may think, was despicable. But our father had raised him that way, to think he was above the governance of others. Belmaine thought he could still control his son, but Nigel was a man in his own image, who would not listen to anyone. When Nigel heard he must marry the girl or lose his allowance, he stormed from the house. He declared he would go to London and find himself a wealthy bride, and as Belmaine couldn’t completely disinherit him, Nigel would simply wait it out. He rode off, Belmaine thundering at his back about duty and honor.”
Terrance paused. “The next morning, Nigel was found at the bottom of the ravine. His horse must have taken fright, for they had both gone over and broken their necks. Belmaine was devastated; his heir was dead. The farmer, seeing his chance of saving his daughter’s honor fading, came to Belmaine again. He would accept two thousand pounds for his daughter to start a new life somewhere else with her child. Now, though, my father wanted that child. It was Nigel’s child, the next true viscount. If the girl left, the child would vanish with her.”
“So you married her,” said Stuart almost inaudibly. Terrance smiled, one of the first real smiles Stuart could recall seeing on his face.
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