Shana Galen (16 page)

Freddie listened with what patience he had, which was generally not much where his cousin was concerned, and just when Sebastian was relaying the coup de grâce, he interrupted:

“What can you tell me about our American friend? Has he heard of my wife’s arrival in Society?”

Sebastian sighed. “You could have at least let me finish my crowing, especially as I’ve no word yet.”

“’Fraid I find that hard to believe. None of your contacts know of the man?”

“Nary a one.”

Freddie looked contemplative, and Alex, who although not involved in their efforts on behalf of the Foreign Office was still reasonably informed, added, “We’ll know shortly. If Pettigru doesn’t get his hands on the new codes soon, the information he’s passed to the French will be too old to use in deciphering Wellington’s communiqués.”

“How often does Wellington change the cipher?” Freddie asked.

“As needed,” Alex answered. “And if the British codes have changed, Bonaparte will not be pleased. If Pettigru is as determined to contact Charlotte as you say he is, he’ll make a move to contact her tonight or tomorrow.”

“I say we all keep our ears to the ground tonight, and then make every effort to throw Miss—I mean, Lady Dewhurst—in his path tomorrow night at Winterbourne’s ball,” Middleton said.

Freddie sat up straight. “I don’t know that I like the idea of throwing her in anyone’s path.”

“But that’s the reason she’s here,” Sebastian protested. Freddie didn’t respond. His cousin was right, but Freddie didn’t want to be reminded of that fact. Once they apprehended Pettigru, Charlotte would be free to leave. He’d pay her the
thousand pounds; she’d be out of his life forever. And perhaps that was for the best.

“Well, I for one have had enough pugilism for a day,” Middleton said. “What do you say we set off for the club? I’ve got a taste for a bit of hazard.”

White’s was crowded and loud with the same men who’d been at Brigham’s ball the night before. The greater part of London’s
ton
were at their country houses for the summer, and Freddie felt the lack of variety. He wished he’d gone home, but he feared that without copious amounts of alcohol, he would not make it through the evening. He could not endure another night lying in his bed, knowing that Charlotte was sleeping just a few feet away.

The dressing room door he had barely noted before Charlotte’s arrival took on a new significance with her on the other side. So far it had taken monumental resolve not to turn the knob. Freddie feared he was fresh out of resolve tonight, but he had wine, and perhaps if he drank himself senseless, he could forget the red-haired hellion sleeping in his house, playing the part of his wife, in all ways but one.

Freddie was well on his way to entering a drunken stupor when Alvanley and several of his cronies entered White’s gaming room, where Freddie and Alex were drinking and watching Middleton lose a small fortune at the tables.

“Ah, there he is,” Alvanley sneered when he spotted Freddie. “The traitor lover.”

Freddie raised a lopsided brow. “What’s got you chomping at the bit now, Alvanley?”

Alvanley raised a copy of the
Times.
“Your precious Americans are getting out of hand again, Dewhurst.”

Freddie shrugged. The story of Mad Jack Percival had been in all the papers the day before. Percival was an uneducated American man who’d started his sailing career as a cabin boy. He’d been impressed into British service and even served on HMS
Victory
before escaping.

Then on July 4, he’d made an ass out of the British navy. The rumor was that he rounded up thirty-two men and took the American ship
Yankee
out into the New York harbor. The British were blockading the harbor, and three miles out the
Yankee
was overtaken by the British ship
Beagle
. Mad Jack had visibly stocked the
Yankee
with just the enticements the British would need—fruit, sheep, ducks—and all of it topside. Below were the thirty-two American sailors with their weapons.

It was meant to look like an easy catch, and the thirteen redcoats on the
Beagle
must have been slapping each other on their backs, until the armed Americans jumped out. Outnumbered and outwitted, the British were forced to surrender. Mad Jack towed the
Beagle
to the New York bat
tery to the loud cheers of the American crowds celebrating Independence Day.

The
Times
quoted Percival as saying, “Shucks, we was just having a little fun. We ought to do something to celebrate the Fourth besides listen to a band concert.”

“Looks as though you weren’t the only Englishman bested by an American recently, Alvanley. What’s wrong? Did my wife make you look like a fool last night?”

One of Alvanley’s cronies started forward, but the dandy held up a hand. “You’re the expert on fools, Dewhurst. But I don’t have an American slut spreading her legs for me, making me forget who the real enemy is.”

“Bastard.” Freddie shot out of his chair, tackling Alvanley and sending them both sprawling into a table of gamblers. The men and cards flew in all directions, but before Freddie could regain his feet, one of Alvanley’s thugs caught him and held him as two others took turns pummeling him. Freddie was almost too drunk to feel the full impact of the blows, but he was not so drunk that he didn’t look to Alex for assistance.

Ignoring the remonstrations of White’s civilized gentlemen, Alex pushed his way past chairs, tables, and glasses, scattering men. Freddie used the diversion to land a blow, and Alex pulled one of the other men off him, landing a hard right
square on the man’s jaw. Freddie pummeled his opponent in the gut, then looked at Alex and grinned. “I say, well met, Selbourne!”

Alex scowled. “What the devil are you smiling at?”

Freddie didn’t have time to respond as Alvanley was bearing down on him. Alvanley swung and Freddie ducked. Alvanley stumbled and clipped the Duke of York, the Prince Regent’s brother, in the jaw.

There was a long silence as York shook his head and rose. With an oath, he swung at Alvanley, and then White’s erupted into total chaos. Alex grabbed Freddie and hauled him through the mob and into the night. Alex pulled Freddie across the street, and both men collapsed a few doors away.

“What the devil were you thinking, Dewhurst?” Alex demanded. “That was a damned foolish thing to do.”

Freddie laughed. “It’s not the first, old boy, and it won’t be the last I’m afraid.”

Alex glanced at him sideways. “You look like hell,” he said. Freddie glanced down at his evening clothes, noting his tailcoat was dirty and torn, his cravat had been ripped off, his trousers had a hole in the knee, and his shirt was spattered with blood, probably his own. And for some reason, he couldn’t stop grinning.

“All right, let’s get you home,” Alex said.

Freddie nodded but when he tried to rise, he fell back in a heap against the wall. Alex pulled him up and half carried him around the corner, where he flagged down a hackney and shoved Freddie inside.

“Dashed Americans!” Freddie said when they were underway. “You see what just the mention of one can do? Imagine living with one.” He felt the swelling in one of his eyes already and knew it would be black by morning.

Alex smiled ruefully. “I can’t say that your appearance in this state will improve matters much.”

Freddie drew himself up. “And what state is that, Selbourne?”

“All right, don’t call me out, Dewhurst. But you have to admit that women are generally not pleased when their husbands—even men playing the role of husband—arrive home drunk and with all the evidence of having been in a brawl.”

Freddie seemed to ponder this a moment. “You’re right,” he said. “She’s going to be mad.”

“Mad?” Alex repeated. “I think that might be a slight underestimation.” But Freddie ignored him and began pounding on the hackney’s roof. “What the devil—” Alex began as the coach slowed.

“I must get her a present. Surprised I haven’t done it yet. Take me to Hamlet’s!” Dewhurst instructed the jarvey when he opened the hatch. The
jarvey exchanged a look with Alex, but Freddie said, “None of that. Take me to Hamlet’s.”

“One moment,” Alex said, and the hatch dropped closed again. “Are you speaking of the play or the jeweler, Dewhurst?” Alex asked with a calm that Freddie could tell did not match his mood.

“The jeweler, of course,” Freddie snapped.

“It is past midnight, Dewhurst. They are closed. Now I am going to take you home to your wife, who I am beginning to think has the bad end in all of this, so that I can go home to my own wife. You can get Charlotte a trinket tomorrow.”

Freddie shook his head and stopped Selbourne’s arm as he raised it to tap the roof of the carriage.

The look in Alex’s eye was murderous. “Wait a minute, Selbourne. You are perfectly right. I can’t come home with some measly fallalls for Charlotte. Addy said she always wears that emerald necklace from her mother. I need to bring her something special. Get me a flower girl!”

Alex’s brow creased. “I don’t think Charlotte will—”

“I don’t want the girl, just the flowers. We need honeysuckle, Selbourne.”

Alex looked ready to mutiny.

C
harlotte wandered about the town house that evening as though it were a tomb. All in all, it was a nice tomb. The servants were more willing to make changes she suggested, Charlotte had eaten a wonderful dinner of dishes native to Charleston, and even Mrs. Pots wasn’t acting as sulky as usual.

But to Charlotte the house still felt like a cold, dark vault. Every room she passed, every vase, every knickknack, every damned floorboard reminded her of Freddie. It didn’t seem possible, but she was afraid she actually missed him. Without him, London was lonely and dark and senseless. Her real fear was that Charleston, too, might feel empty if he was not there. Her life would be barren without him. She’d grown accustomed to
his lectures, the way he tugged the sleeve of his tailcoat when he was irritated, and even his exaggerated concern for the state of his cravat made her smile.

She would miss that in Charleston.

She would miss him.

With a resigned sigh, she started up the grand black and white marble staircase, clutching her skirts in frustration.

She was tired of the incessant little voice in her head pounding away with questions. Where was he? Who was he with? Was he thinking of her? Did he care for her?

Her breath hitched in her throat and she walked more quickly, finally reaching the top of the stairs and starting down the corridor toward his room. She stopped outside, not wanting to enter, unable to resist. Even as she turned the doorknob she knew she was making a mistake. His essence would be strongest here among his most personal possessions, and she was trying to wipe him out of her mind. Wasn’t she?

She entered, shutting the door behind her and leaning against it for support as images of Freddie came rushing at her. She shook her head, trying to block them, trying to slow their assault so that she could somehow make sense of them. But it was no use. She was assailed from every vantage point. His voice was in the whisper of her slippers on the rug. His lean, hard body was in the sturdy
strength of the bed’s foot posts. She parted the velvet drapes, and his smell was in the thick counterpane as she sank into the bed’s softness.

She allowed the bed hangings to fall closed again, and in the warm darkness she was enveloped by Freddie’s essence. She could almost feel him here beside her, and the longing she felt was exquisite torture. She wanted him—wanted him so much it frightened her. She didn’t know how it had happened, but somewhere between that first kiss on the Thames and his defense of her country in the ballroom, she had come to care for him.

She shook her head, the feel of plush counterpane cushioning her cheek. She was falling in love with him, and he saw her as one more annoyance in his life—another annoying female he had to appease. He probably couldn’t wait to be rid of her, and it would not be long now before he had his wish.

They were close to finding Cade. Charlotte did not need to be told that. She’d sensed it last night, and she suspected her husband was out searching for information on Cade right that moment. The end was near. For so long she’d yearned to return to Charleston, to the house on Legare Street, and to reclaim her father’s shipping business. But suddenly none of that mattered as much. Suddenly home was wherever Freddie was. Home was…here.

Not for the first time, Charlotte cursed her nature. In her personality there was no room for the tempering of emotions. She loved violently, wholeheartedly, or not at all. She gave of herself completely and absolutely, and she wanted the same from Freddie Dewhurst.

And she would never have it. She’d had glimpses behind his façade. Last night in the Brighams’ library had been the most revealing glimpse yet. But the revelation had not been a welcoming one. Despite his guise as a dandy, he was undeniably a soldier, a warrior. Charlotte knew that type well, knew that even if he felt more for her, he would never surrender to it. Because that’s what it would be to him. A surrender. A defeat. A humiliation that would destroy him as utterly as parting from him would destroy her.

The American colonist and the British nobleman. As ever, they were at cross purposes, and this time not even a revolution could put things to right.

Charlotte made her way back to her own room. Addy had disappeared earlier with a pile of clothing, so Charlotte was left with little choice but to don a flimsy white night rail she’d found in the back of the armoire. She was pulling back the covers of her own bed and preparing to extinguish the candles when she heard something shatter.

She ran across the room and flung the door wide. Addy was rushing into the hallway from
the servants’ wing, and together they peered down the stairs to the ground floor of the house. There was another crash, and Addy clutched Charlotte’s arm protectively, then they heard Wilkins fussing and Freddie telling him to “stubble it.”

Except that Freddie was barely coherent. Confused, Charlotte tiptoed down the first two steps and stuck her head over the banister.

“Miss Charlotte, you get on upstairs!” Addy whispered loudly. Charlotte waved at her distractedly and took another step. “Miss, Charlotte you is not dressed! Get up here!” Addy tried again, but Charlotte ignored her.

In the foyer was her husband, looking as if he had been dragged behind a carriage through the streets of London, supported on one side by Lord Selbourne and on the other by Wilkins.

“Is he all right?” Charlotte called out. Lord Selbourne and Wilkins glanced up, then both hastily averted their eyes after glimpsing her scant nightgown. She pulled the transparent robe close around her body, for all the good that it did.

“He’s fine, Lady Dewhurst,” Selbourne answered looking at the wall. “You should retire. We have this under control.” Just then Freddie lurched to Wilkins’s side, and Wilkins almost lost his hold.

Charlotte frowned. “Is he drunk?”

Selbourne scowled and hauled Freddie up the first few stairs. Charlotte retreated to the landing
and Addy. “He has been drinking,” Selbourne answered vaguely.

“But what…
happened
to him?” She had never even seen Dewhurst’s tailcoat wrinkled and now it appeared to be half torn off. And Freddie himself was barely conscious. Selbourne was all but carrying him up the steep steps.

“There was a slight altercation. Really nothing for you to worry about.”

They reached the top of the stairs, and Addy disappeared into Charlotte’s room, returning with a large shawl. She draped it over Charlotte’s shoulders, hiding her from view.

“I suppose you had better put him in my room, Lord Selbourne,” Charlotte instructed. “It’s the closest, and it appears he will need a nursemaid.”

“My lady, I must object,” Wilkins, who had followed Selbourne, offered. “I can attend to Lord Dewhurst. I have always done so before.”

“Well, Mr. Dewhurst is a married man now!” Addy interjected, hands on her hips. “And Miss Charlotte is going to take care of him. I’ll help her if she needs it.” Considering Addy had shown little or no interest in her husband before, Charlotte was a bit surprised at her sudden concern. Until she remembered that Addy opposed everything Freddie’s valet suggested. And her servant had seemed rather partial to Freddie—right after she’d started wearing her new shawl.

Wilkins glared at Addy, then turned back to Charlotte. “Madam, this
person
fails to understand that tending to Lord Dewhurst is my duty. I would not want you to trouble yourself.”

Before Charlotte could reply, Addy retorted, “It be no trouble. And you is going to be in trouble if you don’t get yourself out of the way!”

“Is that a threat?” Wilkins screeched. “Did this person just threaten me?”

“Yes,
this person
done threaten you, and she going to do a lot more, too.” Addy took a menacing step forward, whereupon Wilkins screamed and darted behind the amused Lord Selbourne.

“All right!” Charlotte finally yelled. “Stop this at once! Lord Dewhurst is hurt, and we must all work together. Lord Selbourne, please put him on my bed. It is through that door. Addy, fetch me water and clean linen. Wilkins, get me a pot of strong coffee.”

A few of the other servants were milling about and Charlotte gave them orders as well. Amazingly enough, everyone obeyed without objection.

A chaotic hour later, Charlotte was able to sit down in the cream-colored armchair beside her bed and rest for a moment. The house was finally quiet, and everyone except her had probably gone to sleep. Even Freddie was sleeping. Or comatose.

Strange to see him lying there without all his defenses. No world-weary look in his eyes, no pithy retort on his lips, no bland smile about the
corners of his mouth. Just her husband, who in the innocence of sleep resembled her first impression of him perfectly. He was the incarnation of the Archangel Gabriel—strong, golden, beautiful.

Glancing at him, Charlotte shook her head. She was never going to understand the British. He had nothing but criticism when he talked to her of the United States, but before Selbourne left she had managed to get most of the night’s story from him. Her fool of a husband had been defending her and started a brawl. Her husband: the defender, the warrior.

Freddie stirred and groaned. Charlotte rose, brushed the light ivory drape aside, and sat on the edge of the bed, mopping his brow with a cool cloth. Wilkins had divested his employer of his clothing and tucked him under Charlotte’s silk bedcovers. The servant had then retired reluctantly, and Charlotte and Addy had cleaned Freddie’s wounds. Thankfully his injuries were not numerous, and now her only concern was his swollen eye and the bruise forming on his rib cage.

She dabbed the moist cloth around his eye and decided it was looking somewhat better. Addy had gone to the kitchen in search of ingredients for one of the salves she’d always made in Charleston, and Charlotte was alone with Freddie. After a peek at the door, Charlotte lifted the covers slightly to peer at his chest. It felt a little awkward to be sitting on the edge of her bed with
a naked man underneath the covers. And here she was lifting those very same covers to examine his body. Not that she had dared look below the bruise high on his rib cage. She
was
tempted, sorely tempted by what she had seen of Freddie’s bronze muscular body, contrasting so strongly with her pale virginal sheets. She just hadn’t gotten up her courage, until now.

Pulling up the covers ever so slightly, she peeked underneath, feeling exactly as she had when she was five and sneaking a piece of candy. The weak light was just beginning to reveal the hard planes of her husband’s stomach when something on the white sheets next to Freddie’s elbow caught her eye. Picking it up, she dropped the covers back down, then brought her hand to her mouth as she realized what it was.

Honeysuckle.

He must have been clutching it in his hand when he came home. Had he bought it for her? Oh, why, when she was at her most vulnerable, did he have to do something like
this
?

Charlotte brought the small sprig of flowers to her nose and inhaled deeply. The blossoms still retained a faint hint of fragrance.

“They will never smell as sweet as you,” Freddie croaked.

Charlotte’s eyes darted to him, and she almost jumped off the bed from the shock of hearing his voice.

“I thought you were asleep,” she stammered.

Freddie nodded. “I was, but I think I’m coming around.” He took in his surroundings, then tried to sit up.

“No, lie still,” Charlotte urged, pushing his shoulder back gently. “You’re hurt.”

He didn’t argue. Instead he put a hand to his forehead and scowled. Finally the pain receded enough that he grumbled, “Where am I?”

“In my room,” she answered, feeling her cheeks heat. She was still wearing the flimsy nightgown, and he was naked under the sheet. “It was the closest.” Charlotte kept her eyes on the coverlet, trying very hard not to stare at his exposed chest.

“And Wilkins?”

“Everyone has gone to sleep. You should as well. It’s late.”

Freddie smiled a little crookedly. “Is my condition that bad? I think the last time someone ordered me to go to sleep, I was eight.”

“Well, maybe you should listen to someone else for a change. You seem to get into trouble on your own.”

Freddie laughed, then held his head again and groaned. “You have no idea, madam.”

The laugh was genuine, and Charlotte found herself smiling in response. She liked him without all his armor. Taking the chance that the openness between them would last a bit longer, Charlotte said, “What were you thinking tonight?
Lord Selbourne told me you were defending me and started a fray. Must you always act the part of the warrior?”

With a surprisingly serious look on his face, Freddie reached out and grasped her hand warmly. “You’re the true warrior, Charlotte. Not I. Had you been there, half of those men would have wasted no time in pledging their loyalty to you.” He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them tenderly.

Charlotte almost snorted in disbelief, but then his eyes met hers for a long moment. For that moment, she felt like the most stunning woman in the world. But then that was the effect Freddie had on her. And countless other women, too, she supposed.

Still, she couldn’t stop her pulse from racing or her heart from filling her eardrums with its familiar pounding. With the heat of his eyes on her, she was on the verge of saying or doing something she knew she would later regard as ridiculous. But he gave her a momentary reprieve as he released her eyes and his gaze traveled to the honeysuckle she still held in her free hand.

“Do you like it?” he asked. “I’m afraid Selbourne may never speak to me again after the effort I put him to in order to acquire it, but I know it’s your favorite.”

“And how do you know that?”

Freddie put a finger to his lips. “State secret.”

“I love it,” Charlotte said finally. “But it was not necessary.”

“It reminded me of you. Your scent.”

She nodded. “Charleston is full of honeysuckle in the spring. It grows all along one wall of my garden.”

“You miss your home a great deal, don’t you?”

Charlotte looked at him shrewdly. From all appearances, he was quite earnest in all he said, and his sincerity ruffled her more than his usual demeanor. She’d become accustomed to their style of interacting—his bland observations and her angry retorts. But tonight he was different, and suddenly she was nervous. Her heart was hammering incessantly in her ears, and the hand that held the honeysuckle began to tremble. When she looked up, Freddie was watching her with that familiar intensity.