THOUGH ONLY MARRIED a week, Charlotte felt the dowager duchess had been her mother-in-law for a prisoner’s lifetime. Nothing pleased the woman. In that respect, she was quite akin to Aunt Philomena. Charlotte had held her tongue, smiled, accommodated, and nearly done herself an injury keeping her thoughts inside in an effort not to cause trouble so soon in her married life.
Charlotte closed her eyes, holding on to her temper. “Lord, help me.” She whispered the prayer aloud.
“What did you say? Stop mumbling. One would think you had no lessons in deportment.” The dowager duchess’s lips twitched, petulance distorting her features.
Cilla, her new sister-in-law, made a face behind their mother-in-law’s back, and Charlotte burst out laughing. She couldn’t help it. Cilla, the picture of deportment and the model of rectitude constantly being held up to Charlotte as the epitome of what she should aspire to be, had a roguish streak?
“Really, you are so flighty, Charlotte.” The dowager shook her head, sorting through calling cards. “When will you learn to curb yourself? Now, here are the calls we are going to make today. And for the sake of my sanity and reputation, please do not open your mouth while we’re at Lady Covington’s. I nearly expired when she called here yesterday, and you said she would do well to allow—even to encourage—her daughters to read the newspaper and learn something of the world around them. Ridiculous. I’m surprised Marcus gives you the liberty. Why on earth you would even want access to his library and the dailies is beyond me. Nothing good will come of reading the newspaper. Salacious gossip, or worse, politics and mayhem. That’s all they report. So much of it is well beyond a woman’s ability to comprehend anyway, though you might like to pretend you grasp it.”
“Madam.” Charlotte had taken to using Marcus’s term for addressing his mother. “I will not be making calls with you today. I have other errands to run. As for what they print in the paper, if you do not read them, how would you know what they contain? You’re quite intelligent enough to comprehend the articles if you cared to, and how can it be a bad thing for women to understand what is taking place in their city, their Parliament, and the war in which their country is currently engaged?”
The more Charlotte talked, the more red suffused the dowager’s face. “Not going calling with me? What errands? Why didn’t you ask me what shopping you needed to do? I am here to be your guiding hand, after all. And don’t talk twaddle about current affairs. You’re neither a soldier nor a politician, and what they do should be of no interest to you. Your responsibilities are with this house, your title, and your position in society.”
She took a deep breath, and her face smoothed into the even more infuriating lines of patience and instruction that Charlotte had come to loathe. Her mother-in-law complaining and correcting was difficult enough, but her patient forbearance and her “guiding hand” were unbearable.
“My dear, I am only trying to instruct you. After all, I was the Duchess of Haverly for nearly forty years, and you’ve been a duchess for a mere week. If you will only do everything I say, we’ll get along famously.”
Of course they would. Who wouldn’t love to have free rein to run over everyone they encountered? Someone who never talked back, always acquiesced, and never had a thought of her own?
“Madam, as I said, I will not be making morning calls with you. I have business of my own that I must attend. You may give my regrets to Lady Covington and whomever else you see today.” She rose from the breakfast table. “I may see you when I return, or I may not. Marcus and I are dining at the Whitelocks’ this evening.”
Cilla grinned at her even as the dowager sputtered like a fussy hen. She had one parting shot. “Does Marcus know where you are going? That you are abandoning me and your responsibilities today?”
Marcus.
Charlotte didn’t answer the dowager, continuing out into the hall. As for her husband, she had seen him only rarely the entire week.
That wasn’t exactly true. She saw him every night when he came to her room. Heat pooled along her collarbones and crept into her face. They had not spoken of that aspect of their marriage, not when he’d visited her bedchamber and not on the few occasions when they’d met in the light of day.
It was almost as if they were different people, that the passion and tenderness shared at night happened to another couple. As if the physical side of their marriage was placed in its own separate compartment. And yet she treasured that time, because when he held her, she felt loved and important to him, at least until he left her in the small hours of the night when he thought she’d fallen asleep.
Things were more formal when they encountered each other during the day.
He was always up and out of the house before she breakfasted, and he returned late each evening. When she asked about his day, he would mention listening to speeches in the House of Lords or speaking with someone at his club, but he never went into detail. He didn’t have to ask about her day, because the dowager gave him a moment-by-moment recounting. If it wasn’t too late, they would sit before the fire, reading. Or at least Marcus read. Charlotte turned pages, but she spent much of that time puzzling and perplexed about her husband and marriage.
Was this what he meant about them not interfering in one another’s lives? Coexisting, congenial enough but distant?
For several days she had moped about, making the necessary calls, even accompanying her mother-in-law to several social events in the evenings. But she was bored with that. Bored with feeling sorry for herself. Bored with social duty and playing a role. Today she would do something useful and, she hoped, interesting. She needed to get out of that house and away from her mother-in-law. She felt stifled and claustrophobic and not at all a bride.
But now Charlotte had an entire day to herself, and she intended to make at least some progress on her promise to herself … and Pippa. Her sister and King’s Place remained heavily on her mind. Perhaps if she could gather enough information, she would discover a way to help, even if she had to do it covertly.
So she went to a reliable source, the place she always went to learn and glean facts.
A subscription library.
And this time she didn’t have to worry about where her subscription money would come from. Her reticule, tucked into an inside pocket of her cloak, held more coins than she’d ever possessed at one time. Marcus’s secretary had given her the funds the morning after their wedding.
“His Grace said you would need some pin money. If you need more, don’t hesitate to ask.”
It was quite considerate of her husband to remember, but how much better would it have been to have come directly from him and not his employee? Of course, that would mean he would have to actually spend a bit of time in her presence …
Hatchards had a reading room, but she didn’t want to ask for publications dealing with her topic there. She would go to a subscription library far from Mayfair, one she had never frequented before and where she would be unknown, and see what she could turn up.
She hurried down the staircase to the front door, eager to be on her way before the dowager found some reason to detain her. A footman opened the door, and she nodded her thanks.
She stopped on the stoop, however. A huge man leaned against the rail, his coat straining over his broad shoulders and barrel chest, a cap pulled low. When he spied her, he straightened and tugged on the brim of his hat.
“Ma’am.”
Charlotte waited. The footman stood behind her, hand on the doorknob.
The large man on the sidewalk spread his hands. “Name’s Partridge. Haw—” He cleared his throat. “Haverly … the Duke of Haverly hired me to go places with you when you left the house.”
Her eyes widened, and suspicion tightened her skin. “Accompany me? Why? When did he hire you?”
The man shifted his weight and shrugged, straining his coat seams further. “I’ve worked for him a spell of years, ma’am. Since we were both soldiers in Spain.” He scratched his prolific black whiskers.
“Your Grace.” The footman moved into her view. “I can vouch for Mr. Partridge. He does work for the duke. You’ll be safe with him around. He’ll see to your transportation, and carry things for you, and keep you from being bothered by anyone.”
Slowly she descended, and when she stood next to Mr. Partridge, he seemed to block out the sun.
“Where would you like to go, my lady?” His voice rumbled like distant thunder.
“Mr. Partridge, I’ve been leaving the house daily for a week in the company of the dowager. Why would the duke think I need a minder today?” Surely he couldn’t have known that Charlotte was ready to kick over the traces and grab a day to herself?
“You’ve never yet left the house without me, my lady. I’ve followed along on your social calls and evening events.” He stepped to the curb and raised his hand, hailing transportation.
“What? I would have noticed someone like you,” she protested.
He sent her an “Oh really?” look, held the door of a hack open for her, and asked, “Where to?”
She frowned, but she couldn’t think of a reason he shouldn’t accompany her, nor any way to prevent him, especially if he was merely following her husband’s orders. “Leadenhall Street. The Minerva Press Circulating Library and Reading Room.” The ride would be a long one, traversing many city blocks into the heart of London. But she had always wanted to visit the place.
With a brisk slam, he closed the door, and the coach lurched as he climbed aboard to sit next to the driver. He had truly accompanied them … or followed them on their calls this week? Why did Marcus think she needed a keeper?
Did he consider her a simpleminded miss who would get lost if not accompanied by a man?
But that didn’t resonate with the way he had treated her thus far. He had said he appreciated her intelligence.
She bit her lip. Did he not trust her? Was that why he appointed someone to watch her?
Or was he merely being kind, seeking to protect her and make things easier for her?
When she finally reached her destination, she still hadn’t sorted it out in her mind. It wasn’t as if she could ask Marcus, since she had no idea where he was at that moment.
“I’ll wait here, ma’am.” Mr. Partridge leaned against the corner of the building, pulling his cap down and watching the people coming and going.
“I might be quite a while,” she warned, but he shrugged and waved her inside.
When she had paid her subscription and signed her name—her new name and title—in the ledger, she wandered down the stacks, trailing her fingers along the spines of the books, feeling quite at home. According to the placard behind the circulation desk, there were approximately twenty thousand volumes from which to browse. Surely she could find something on the topic she sought.
What she found both saddened and angered her.
Harris’s List of Covent Garden Ladies most outraged her. Though the publication she discovered tucked away in a corner of London statistics and government reports was fully ten years old, her hands shook when it dawned upon her what filled the small book.
Pages and pages that amounted to a catalog, a shopper’s guide to the Cyprians and paramours of the Covent Garden region of London. More than a hundred names described in lurid detail. A shopping list for lascivious, unprincipled men.
She slammed her eyes closed and shoved the book to the back of the shelves. How humiliating for these women. Was there a more recent volume that had her sister’s name within the pages? Charlotte vowed to be more careful with what she opened in this place, her face flaming and her hands trembling.
Statistics. That was what she needed. To get a grasp on the scope of the problem. Perhaps she should look in medical books?
Eventually she amassed a sobering amount of information. There were more than two thousand schools in London—and five thousand brothels. Thousands of women earned at least part of their living selling their favors in order to make ends meet.
And according to one paper that had been delivered to the Lord Admiralty and the War Department, many of these women were the dependents of fallen soldiers who had either been killed or maimed beyond their ability to provide for their families, their wives and daughters forced to sell the only commodity they had to survive.
The chair across the table from her slid out, and she looked up into the face of a woman more than twice her age. She had sharp eyes and graying hair, but a youthfulness about her all the same. A sense of familiarity swept over Charlotte. Did she know this woman? Had they met or had she seen her at some society function? She was dressed plainly enough, but the fabrics were good, and her bonnet had cost a pretty shilling or two.
“I hope you don’t mind me approaching you like this, Your Grace. I wanted to congratulate you on your marriage.” The woman smiled, and her face changed. “I have wanted to meet you for some time.”
Charlotte closed the book she was reading, careful to disguise the spine so as not to alarm the woman. A military text of dubious topic wasn’t what a woman of the ton should be reading … according to the ton.
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”
“Oh, how silly of me. I am Miss Dorothy Stokes. But you must call me Aunt Dolly. Everyone does.”
Charlotte cast about her mind for the name but came up with nothing.
“I know it is quite forward of me to approach you like this, but I believe we might be in a position to help each other.” Aunt Dolly leaned closer, her brown eyes keen. “I understand that you made an overture of help to your sister down on King’s Place and that you were rebuffed?”
A pang hit Charlotte’s heart. “Do you know her?” And if so, what did that make this woman?
“I do. I would very much like it if I could take you to my home. If you are in earnest about helping your sister and women like her”—she waved toward the stack of books and publications at Charlotte’s elbow—“I might be of some assistance to you.”
“How?” Her heart lifted. Someone who knew her sister and who had ideas of how Charlotte might help her. Was this the Lord answering her prayer, or was it merely a coincidence?
“Will you come? Now?” The woman who called herself Aunt Dolly rose. “There’s no time like the present.”
Making a quick decision, Charlotte nodded. “I’ll come. But to where?”
With a chuckle, Aunt Dolly shrugged. “King’s Place.”
Mr. Partridge was not entirely thrilled with the notion. But Charlotte perceived that he and Aunt Dolly had met before. He neither asked who she was nor where they intended to go. He must know her, for he gave the King’s Place address before the old woman could offer it. Did that mean he frequented the street and its offerings? He helped them each into a hack, climbed aboard, and said no more, but his scowl spoke volumes. No doubt he would report to Marcus her travels, and what her husband would say, she hadn’t an inkling.
But if Marcus was determined to keep their lives separate, what could he say if she chose to do the same?
Aunt Dolly rode quietly, seemingly content with the silence, while Charlotte’s mind hopped from one possibility to another. Would she see Pippa? Would her reception be kinder this time? How could this older woman assist her in helping her sister?
“How did you know I would be at the Minerva Subscription Library today?”
Aunt Dolly smiled. “I didn’t. I came to see you at Haverly House and saw your carriage pull away. I had my driver follow. You were so intent upon your research, I didn’t approach you right away, but when I saw your reading material, I knew I was right about you.”
The vehicle turned into the tree-lined townhouse terraces of King’s Place. Charlotte glanced out the window to where her sister lived, but the cab kept going until they reached the end, coming to a stop before the last house on the row.
Partridge leapt to the ground and opened the door. His face resembled a thundercloud, and he looked up and down the street to see if anyone was watching.
Aunt Dolly walked up the stairs as comfortable as if she strolled in Hyde Park. “Come, come.” She motioned for Charlotte to stop wool-gathering there on the sidewalk and follow her.
What was this place? Was Charlotte about to enter her second brothel?
“Welcome to my home.” Aunt Dolly reached for the knob, but the green-painted door opened before she could, revealing a young woman in a black dress and mobcap.
This old lady owned a house on King’s Place? Entering, Charlotte saw the similarities to the place where Pippa lived. Rich wallpaper and moldings, gleaming hardwood floors, but simple furnishings. Clearly this wasn’t a high-fashion brothel.
“Ah, May, meet Charlotte, Duchess of Haverly. She’s interested in our little enterprise here. Take her cloak, and ask Belinda to bring tea up to my sitting room. This way, Your Grace.” The old woman headed up the long flight of stairs. “We’ll settle in for a nice yarn, and I’ll tell you what I can.”
Charlotte handed her cloak to May and followed her hostess, still mystified. She found herself in a bed-sitting room, cozy and comfortable.
“Sit down, my dear.” Aunt Dolly eased into a rocker and picked up some knitting from a basket beside the chair. The needles clicked in a soothing way. “I suppose I should start at the beginning. I used to be a prostitute myself, and then a madam, procuring and looking after my own ‘stable’ of girls.”
Recognition dawned. Dorothy Stokes had been one of the names she’d glimpsed in Harris’s List of Covent Garden Ladies as someone who ran a house of ill repute. Heat charged into Charlotte’s cheeks, and she blinked. Trying to quell her surprise and shock, she looked at her hands in her lap.
“Don’t be distressed, child. It was a long time ago and well before I knew the error of my ways. I’ve been washed clean of those old sins, and now I run an orderly house that seeks to offer refuge and care for sick and injured women forced to make their way in this world however they can. I thank God every day that He’s more than able to save an old sinner like me, and I try to share that Good News with every woman who walks through my doors.”
Relief flooded Charlotte, and she felt elated and limp at the same time. This woman loved and followed God, and she knew something of how to help street women and paramours. She ran a charity.
“More often than not in this world, women are at the mercy of men to some degree or other. I don’t know why the Good Lord allows it to be so, but He must have His reasons. Or it is a consequence of living in a fallen world. I saw you reading those books of facts and figures. Probably learned a lot, but those books won’t tell you the real stories.”
The door opened, and a large, blowsy woman with a wrinkled apron came in carrying a tea tray.
“Thank you, Belinda. Please sit for a spell. I’d like you to tell a bit of your story to Lady Haverly here. She’s interested in our cause, and I think your experiences would help her see just what we’re trying to do.”
The woman slanted a look at Charlotte as she took a seat on the edge of a straight-backed chair, wrapping her hands in her apron. Graying red hair poked from her mobcap, and her eyes were as old as the Parthenon.
“Not a happy tale, I warn you. And not one unique to me. I was a good girl, married a good man who went to sea. Royal Navy, a gunner on the Royal Sovereign. He died at Trafalgar, just like Admiral Nelson. I was that proud of him, but when he died, I was dropped right into the soup. How was I going to earn a living?” She spread her hands, rough, red, hardworking hands. “I had no schooling, no skills. For a time, like a lot of navy and army widows, I went to work in a cartridge factory. But they don’t pay nothing, not enough to keep a roof over my head or food on the table. And I didn’t even have any kids to see to. I was living, if you could call it that, in a crowded room in the St. Giles rookery, scrounging for food and spending my days measuring out gunpowder and lead and stuffing them into paper cartridges in a factory. Making bullets to kill someone else’s husband or father.”
Charlotte balanced her teacup on her knee, fascinated and horrified at once. “What about a pension? Doesn’t the government pay widows and orphans of war?”
She shrugged and tugged on her earlobe. “The government makes it hard. Filling out forms, fronting the toffs at the Admiralty. I got turned away lots of times as not having the right proof that I was a navy widow.”
A spark of outrage burned in Charlotte’s chest, but Belinda went on.
“I left the factory and …” She shrugged. “I’m not much of a looker, so I couldn’t find a place in a high-quality brothel. I had to fend for myself. I’d probably still be in that life, or dead, if it wasn’t for Hawk.”
Charlotte started. She knew the man? Her heart rate increased, and she fought to keep her color down.
“He found me on the streets, offered me a safe place here with Aunt Dolly, and I jumped at the chance.” She gave a fond smile. “Can’t tell you how many women he’s brought here for patching up, or a good meal, or just a warm place to sleep for the night.”
A knock sounded at the door, and May poked her head in. “I need help. It’s bad.”
Belinda was on her feet, and Aunt Dolly wasn’t far behind. “Come, Your Grace. You might as well see the truth.”
Charlotte followed the women down the stairs, and in the front hall two bedraggled women supported each other.
“Ah, Kitty. He’s done it again?” Aunt Dolly hurried forward, letting the shorter of the two women lean on her. “Can you make it down to the kitchen, or should we go right upstairs?”
The woman only moaned, and when she tilted her head back, a shiver went up Charlotte’s spine, prickling her scalp. The woman’s eyes were swollen shut, black and blue; her lip had been split; and blood crusted her chin and neck. One sleeve dangled from her wrist, torn from her bodice, angry red welts marching up her pale exposed skin.
Her companion wasn’t in much better shape. Someone had hacked at her hair, chopping off great gouts of it, leaving ragged clumps tufting here and there. Her cheekbone bore an angry red bruise and swelling, and she cradled her right arm with her left against her waist.
“Lend a hand, Your Grace. This is the part about the working girl’s life that no one talks about.” Aunt Dolly led her charge toward the back of the house and down the half flight of stairs to the lower level.
By the time the women had been tended to, Charlotte was exhausted, unsettled, and resolved. She had labored for several hours helping Aunt Dolly splint a broken arm, stitch a gash, and bathe cuts and bruises.
“How often do women come here in this condition?” she asked as she rinsed her hands at the basin.
“Daily, I’m sad to say. Injuries are not uncommon, and sickness is rife. I’ve four bedrooms available with room for sixteen patients, and it’s not unusual for us to be making pallets on the floors to hold more, especially in winter weather like now.” Aunt Dolly returned instruments and supplies to a cupboard while Belinda and May helped the women upstairs to find beds. “And I’m running out of funds to keep this place going. I’ve sold most of the furnishings, and now I’m onto the paintings and such, though they don’t bring much. The money I had laid aside for my retirement is nearly gone. If I don’t find a patron or two, I’ll have to close my doors. But”—she shut the cupboard door firmly—“God isn’t in a fluster about my predicament. He’s got a plan, and He’ll reveal it to me in His time and not a moment before. If I didn’t have to believe without seeing, it wouldn’t be called faith.”
Charlotte looked away. Such courage and strong belief. How did her own compare?
Rather badly, she feared.
Her day had been quite illuminating. She had learned and experienced things she hadn’t known before.
And she had a purpose. She could be a patron, and more than that, she could help here at the house. It would put her closer to her sister, and perhaps through her work, she might find a way to aid Pippa, even find a way to help her escape her current life.
She opened her purse and pulled out all the pin money her husband’s secretary had given her and handed it all to Aunt Dolly. “Please take this. It’s a Haverly family tradition.”
Charlotte took her place on a settee in the Whitelocks’ drawing room and smoothed the skirts of her magenta-and-cream gown, remembering fondly Diana’s input on the design and color. Charlotte felt confident and prepared for any society event, thanks to her friend’s excellent taste. “Dinner was wonderful, Diana. I enjoyed the intimate setting. I’ve never been to a dinner party with only two couples before.”
“We wanted some time with the two of you rather than a more formal, large dinner party. Too many guests would mean we wouldn’t be able to visit, just us.” Diana sank onto the settee opposite and slipped her shoes off, tucking her feet up under her sapphire skirts. She laughed. “As you can see, I’m being most informal tonight. Here we invited you over so we could get to know you, and Evan and I wound up dominating the conversation. I apologize.”
“I did ask, and hearing about your love story and refurbishing White Haven was most entertaining.” Their obvious love, both hearing about it and seeing it in action, set up an ache in Charlotte’s chest. Would she and Marcus ever have a bond like that? Would he ever let down the barriers he’d erected to keep her separate from the rest of his life?
“We’ll have to have you down to the estate this summer if you can get away. I think it would do you both a world of good. Inheriting the title has been a heavy responsibility for Marcus. He’s taken on so much this past year. If he’s on his own property, he has to oversee everything, but if he comes with you to White Haven, he can relax and not worry so much.”
Evan and Marcus entered the drawing room, and Evan wasted no time joining his wife, putting his arm around her and propping his feet on the tea table. “We decided we’d much rather be with you two than talking over port and cigars by ourselves. Neither of us likes port and cigars anyway.” He brushed a kiss on Diana’s temple. “Tired, love?”
“Our boys are running me ragged.” Diana smiled. “Cian has absolutely no fear, but he couples that with a fine bit of no common sense. If he has a guardian angel, that poor individual is probably asking for reinforcements.”
“What did he do now?”
“You mean besides attempting to catch the ducks in Hyde Park while they were swimming in the Serpentine?” She closed her eyes and shuddered. “He leapt off the bank and plunged headlong into the water quicker than a wink. If it wasn’t for Beth’s quick action, he might have drowned. As it was, he wasn’t even scared, only furious that he didn’t catch the duck. He howled most of the way home. That’s the last time he is allowed out of the baby carriage until he’s at least ten.”
“Don’t you think you might be overreacting?” her husband asked.
She shrugged. “Maybe. But when we return to White Haven next month, I’m putting you in charge of him for a week, and we’ll see what you think then. You’ll probably grow a fine crop of gray hair overnight.”
Marcus had taken the seat next to Charlotte, leaning back and propping his ankle on the opposite knee, clearly taking his cues from the Whitelocks by adopting such a casual style. He never would have assumed that posture in the company of any others in the ton. When he leaned over and whispered “Relax” into her ear, she realized she was sitting poker straight, feet together, hands clasped lightly in her lap, just as her mother had drilled her to do when in company. “You’re among friends.”
“So how are you finding married life after a week or so?” Evan asked.
Charlotte couldn’t quell the heat rising in her cheeks, and she bit her lip. How should she answer? That parts of it were amazing, and parts confusing, and parts frustrating? That in some ways she was completely different and in others it felt as if nothing had changed?
“It’s fine. We’re adjusting.” Marcus put his arm along the back of the settee. “I’m thinking my mother is having the most difficult time.”
Her blush intensified. Evan had been asking Marcus, not her, and she’d nearly blurted something out.
“The dowager is being difficult? I wish I could say I was surprised.” Evan grinned. “I seem to remember a certain trip to an art exhibition not so long ago that earned me the rough side of her tongue.”
Charlotte’s shoulder muscles tensed. She and the dowager had engaged in a bit of a set-to this morning when Charlotte kicked over the traces and spent the day on her own designs, and when she returned to Haverly House, there was a decidedly frosty wind blowing from that direction. The dowager had refused to respond to Charlotte’s greeting, merely sniffing and jerking her chin into the air.
Even though she had offended her mother-in-law’s sense of responsibility, the day had been the most fulfilling Charlotte had spent in a long time, actually doing something productive, helping people, and being genuine in her concern and care. There were no pretenses when you were bandaging wounds and serving women in need.
The question was, should she share with her husband what she had done and where she had gone? Would he approve? Would he forbid her to do it again? Would he care one way or the other?
“How is your compartmentalization theory working?” Evan had a mischievous grin on his face. “Keeping everything tidy and in its box?”
Diana nudged him in the ribs. “Stop quizzing him. You’re being terrible. In fact, you’re acting as if you excelled at everything when you first got married, and we know that is far from the truth. We both made a bit of a hash of our early days together.”
“I appreciate you coming to my defense, Diana.” Marcus nodded to her. “But I don’t mind. Actually, I feel things are going well in that department, don’t you, Charlotte? We’re settling into our roles well. I have my work. Charlotte has her …” He faltered, and Charlotte waited. Did he even know what she did with her time? “… social obligations. And the running of the house.”
The running of the house? His mother hadn’t given up a single task to her, not the menus, the staff, the linens, nothing. The dowager ruled Haverly House as if she were still the duchess and Charlotte merely a guest.
Evan raised his eyebrow at his friend, and Charlotte held her breath, half praying he would follow the line of questioning and half praying he wouldn’t touch the tender wound.
“What work are you doing?” Evan asked. “I haven’t seen you much in Parliament since your presentation. How you can take that oath and skip out on any sessions is beyond me. It was the most sobering and frightening thing I’ve done to date, listening to the reading of my obligations and swearing that oath. It sounded like they would ship me off to Botany Bay if I wasn’t in my place promptly every time the chamber doors opened.”
Diana laughed. “You’re saying your oath in Lords was more frightening than the vows at your wedding? You nearly fainted at our wedding.”
“Yes, but that wasn’t from nerves, and you know it.” He sent her a pointed glance and then softened it by brushing his fingertips along her arm. “I meant to ask you where you got yourself off to before the wedding, Marcus. You were gone for a fortnight or so, and I wondered if you were going to do a complete bunk—cold feet and such.”
“Oh, you know, there are always duties that press on you when you have a title and an estate. I never intended to miss my wedding. Are the boys asleep?” Marcus asked. “I should make the acquaintance of my godson, shouldn’t I? Charlotte has met him, but I haven’t laid eyes on the little chap yet.”
And just like that, he had artfully evaded another question. Why did he do that? Was he secretive or merely private? Was this part of his efforts to keep the areas of his life tidy and separate, or was it an effort to keep information from her specifically?
Diana beamed. “They’ll be in bed long since, but we can tiptoe up and see them. They’re at their most cherubic when they’re sleeping.” She was on her feet in a twinkling. “Come, Charlotte.”
The Whitelock nursery was not on the top floor of the townhouse as was customary, but on the first floor, across the hall from Evan and Diana’s bedchamber. Their single bedchamber, Charlotte had discovered when Diana had brought her here to have her hair trimmed. The Whitelocks did not sleep apart at night. Most unconventional … and romantic.
“I want the babies where I can hear them if they need me in the night.” Diana pushed the half-open door to the nursery open. “Evan teases me about it, but I don’t want them too far away.”
“Though it wasn’t always the case, I can now sleep through the crack of doom.” Evan spoke in full voice, and Diana shushed him. “You know you won’t mind if they wake up so you can snuggle them,” he chided, but he lowered his voice.
Marcus put his hand on the small of Charlotte’s back, guiding her into the low-light nursery. She felt every one of his fingers through the silk. His touch, as always, did strange things to her heart and her head.
Beth, the nursemaid, sat before the fire, and Charlotte was thrilled that she was reading a book. When the Whitelocks came in, she inserted a ribbon in between the pages to keep her place. Good girl. Charlotte hated to see a book laid facedown, or worse yet, to see a corner of a page turned down to mark it.
“My lady? Is something wrong?” the girl whispered.
“No, we just came to see the boys,” Diana assured her. “I take it they’re sleeping?”
“Yes, ma’am. Cian fought it like usual, but William went down like a lamb.”
Diana motioned for Charlotte and Marcus to follow her into a darkened alcove. Beth followed with a lamp, shielding it with her hand.
Two cribs stood side by side, each with an arched canopy of white cloth and caned sides. Diana went first to Cian’s bed, feathering her fingers through his downy dark hair. “He makes my heart stop nearly once a day, but I love him so much, it hurts.”
The baby’s skin was flushed with sleep, his hand lax beside his chin. Impossibly long lashes fanned his rounded cheeks.
“I can’t believe he’s getting so big. Time goes by too quickly.” Diana bent to kiss his forehead.
A squeak from the other bed had Charlotte turning. Evan had lifted William, blanket and all, from his crib, and the baby wriggled and snuffled.
“Evan Eldridge, you’re worse than I am,” Diana scoffed. “I just meant to peek in.”
“He needs a proper introduction. Marcus, meet your godson, William Evan Eldridge, Viscount Slaugham.” Pride laced Evan’s voice.
Marcus stepped forward and cupped the tiny head in his hand. Charlotte’s heart did a little flip. What was it about seeing a grown man being so gentle around a baby that made her knees go weak?
“Do you want to hold him?” Evan asked as the infant settled back to slumber. “He won’t wake up until he’s hungry.”
“Charlotte, you hold him. I’ll watch.” Marcus stepped back. His voice had sounded unnaturally deep, and something clicked in her mind. That voice reminded her of someone else who had spoken gruffly from the shadows.
Hawk.
Nonsense. She was being fanciful.
“You aren’t afraid, are you?” she teased to lighten the mood, reaching out for the warm sleeping bundle. Resting him against her chest, his cheek against the bare skin of her throat, she breathed in the sweet smell of milk, sleep, and baby.
Perhaps someday, if God would possibly be good enough, she might hold her own baby, Marcus’s baby. A sturdy boy to be the heir perhaps, or a charming little girl? She would love a daughter to teach and enjoy, to lavish affection on and laugh with. Would their child look like Marcus, with his dark hair and blue eyes, or would he favor her, blond with green eyes? Or a mixture?
If God would be good to her, she might someday know what it was to be a mother.
“You are a natural. It won’t be too long before you’re holding your own, no doubt.” Evan put his hands into his trouser pockets and rocked on his heels. “Amazing how it changes your life. First marriage and then becoming a parent. You can have all the theories in the world about how it will go, but once it happens to you, those theories fly out the window. Nothing is as tidy as you think it will be, or as simple.”
Charlotte glanced up and caught a strange look on Marcus’s face. Wonderment? Questioning? Uncertainty?
Then he seemed to come to himself, giving a little shake. “You just have to be disciplined, set your mind to putting your theories into action. If you don’t, you find yourself at the mercy of your emotions and becoming something you never intended to be. I have too many responsibilities to let that happen.”
Charlotte shivered, though the room was warm enough. The cold certainty of his views pushed her once again to the margins of his life—just one of his responsibilities but not someone who really mattered.
Hawk hurried away from Haverly House under the cover of darkness. His cloak swirled around him as his breath gusted in icy puffs. Would spring never come? This had been a brutal winter, and it was nearing mid-March.
As he fell into step with Partridge, who had been waiting in the mews, his mind was clouded, crowded with all the parts and pieces of his day. The morning spent at the House of Lords, listening to a debate on taxation issues. Then a quick dash to Sir Noel’s office in Hatchards to gather the latest intelligence on the recent suspected stock exchange hoax. A trip to White’s to pretend to be an idle duke, then home to cross verbal swords with his mother before dinner at the Whitelocks’ with Charlotte. He’d worn nearly all his personas today, and here he was donning that of Hawk for a little nighttime reconnoitering.
“Give me your report before we get to the tavern.” He hoped to run one of his informants to earth tonight. The man had missed two assignations in succession. Laxity or trouble? Marcus didn’t know, but he disliked inefficiency and unreliability in equal measure. Coyne had proven a valuable resource in the past, and he’d never missed a meeting before.
Partridge ruminated for a few moments, gathering his thoughts. “She spent the morning at a library across town and the afternoon at Dolly’s house.”
Hawk’s scuffed boots skidded on the cobbles as he stopped. “What? She went to King’s Place again?”
“Dolly found her in the subscription library—I suspect she followed us from your house—and took her home. Was there all afternoon. Helping with a pair of women who showed up in bad shape.” Partridge shrugged, as if the comings and goings of women were beyond his comprehension.
Charlotte mingling with the women of King’s Place …
Marcus’s endeavors to keep his public and private lives separate had been hard enough when he was a bachelor, but now he had a wife to manage as well, and efforts to keep her from invading his work—not to mention his thoughts—were proving difficult. Especially if Aunt Dolly involved herself in the matter.
“If you ask me,” Partridge continued, “she’ll go back the first chance she gets. She looked determined when I helped her into the carriage to bring her home tonight, seemed to have a lot on her mind.”
Charlotte had said nothing of her day when they had dined at the Whitelocks’. Then again, he hadn’t asked, assuming she’d spent her time in another round of social calls with his mother. Instead of talking about herself, she’d listened to Evan and Diana tell the story of how they had met and married within a few days and how they had restored White Haven to its former glory. Then they had gone upstairs to see the babies.
Charlotte holding a baby snuggled against her shoulder had done strange things to Marcus’s breathing. Would she hold his son like that one day? Or his daughter? Even now she might be carrying his child. An odd melting feeling surrounded his heart, uncomfortable, to say the least.
“Boss?” Partridge asked as they stood on the sidewalk like statues.
Marcus shook his head, clearing it of domestic matters. He had work to do, and he must focus. Partridge’s mention of Aunt Dolly and King’s Place tickled something in his mind. Something he should check on. “Change of plans. You go to the Hog’s Head and see if you can run Coyne to earth. If he’s avoiding me, find out why. If he’s in trouble, find that out too.”
“Where are you going?”
“Time to visit a disorderly house.”
The windows of the parlors along King’s Place blazed with light. Carriages came and went, and men hurried along the sidewalks.
Marcus didn’t creep along the mews this time, instead walking up the steps to the house he wanted, head covered by his cloak and hood, and slipped inside. A pianoforte tinkled, and laughter erupted from the front room. A tightly corseted woman with bright hair piled high and a painted face leaned against the doorjamb.
“Been a while since you were here. Who you looking for tonight? Can I hope it’s me?” She licked her rouged lips, blinking slowly. How much opium had she ingested?
“Sorry, Belle. I’m looking for Pippa tonight.” He kept his cloak on, hood up, and voice low, adding a touch of East End accent to his words as part of his disguise.
She shrugged. “With a cully at the moment. But you can wait for her in the parlor. She shouldn’t be long.”
He didn’t want to sit in that overheated room where someone might recognize him. “I’ll wait outside. Send the tweeny for me when Pippa’s available.”
Marcus stepped outside, inhaling clean night air. The perfume and liquor smells of the brothel dissipated. The steps leading down to the ground floor formed a small courtyard, and he descended into the shadows to wait.
Before long, he heard a girl’s voice calling his name. “Ya kin come in.”
He mounted the steps up and followed the between-stairs maid to Pippa Cashel’s boudoir.
A red lampshade bathed the room in rosy light, and Pippa sat on a chaise, wrapped in a silk kimono. She kept her face turned away, staring into the fire. The room had been tidied and the bed made up, coverlet smooth.
The maid closed the door, and Marcus lowered his hood.
“Sorry I didn’t make an appointment. Last-minute change of plans.”
“Shouldn’t you be at the opera or the theater or basking in your new domestic bliss?”
He shook his head. “I need information.”
“First things first.” She tapped her palm, still not looking at him. “My time isn’t free, nor is my information.”
Marcus took a cloth bag from an inner pocket and tossed it onto the seat beside her. Coins clinked as it landed, and she drew it slowly toward her, again without looking at him. “That should buy me a half hour.”
She hefted the bag. “And what would you like to do for a half hour?” She sent him a sultry smile.
“Stop it. You know what I want.”
A shrug was his answer. Then she turned to face him fully, and he took in the swollen cheekbone and eyelid as well as the rising, angry red bruise.
“What happened? Who did that?” His ire went on the boil, as it always did when a woman had been abused.
Pippa flicked her wrist. “Does it matter? It’s hardly an isolated event in a working girl’s life. A slap here or there is a common enough occurrence.”
“Give me the name. I’ll see it doesn’t happen again.”
A harsh laugh erupted from her throat. “You want to appoint yourself my protector, is that it? I don’t need your protection, and I don’t want it. This”—she indicated her injured face—“is my problem, not yours. And it came from someone who wields more power in my life than you do.”
“Was it a result of inquiries I asked you to make?” Guilt weighed in his chest.
“Don’t flatter yourself. It was business. Sometimes a man might think he owns me, but no man owns me, no matter what circumstances I am in. As I said, it has nothing to do with you.” She touched the swelling, wincing, but her eyes were hot and bold, and she glared at him, defiant and daring him to step across the line of her privacy.
He decided to let it go for now. “What did you find out about the names I gave you?”
She sat up, putting her feet on the floor and tucking the money behind one of the pillows on the chaise. Moving to the desk, she took pen and ink and made a notation in her ledger, waving the pages until they were dry and tucking them into a book. “I asked, but there’s nothing there. Lord Trelawney isn’t any kind of a mastermind. He’s as average as a cobblestone. He is free with his talk in here, like so many of them. I often think the men who come here are more interested in finding someone to listen to them than in anything else.”
Another dead end. He fisted his hand and tapped it against his thigh.
“Aren’t you going to sit down?” Pippa waved toward a deep armchair. “After all, we’re practically family now. How is my dear sister?” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.
Marcus remained standing. Pippa was one of the few who knew his real identity, thanks to a leak in the Home Office a year ago. A leak that had been plugged for good, but not until the fussy little clerk had tried to impress a prostitute with his own importance by spilling secrets. It had been Pippa herself who had contacted him with the information.
“You could ask her yourself. You had the opportunity, and you turned her away. Rather unkindly, if what I hear is true.” He leaned back against the closed door, putting his hands into his cloak pockets. He fastened his gaze on hers. “Let’s leave Charlotte out of things. What else do you know? And don’t waste time.” If he hurried, he might still be able to make it to the Hog’s Head. Hopefully, Partridge had been able to find Coyne.
“Why are you so unkind? You have access to one of the most coveted bedchambers in London, and you’re always waspish and short. Are you ashamed? Uncomfortable? Embarrassed?” She made a moue with her lips, leaning forward, letting her robe slip off her shoulder.
“Cover yourself. I’m not embarrassed, only sorry for you. I’ve offered before, and I’ll renew that offer, as a Christian, as a gentleman, and now as your brother-in-law. I’ll help you get out of this life, whether you wish to go to Magdalen Hospital to be rehabilitated, or if you want me to find a place of employment for you in a respectable trade. You’ve only to ask. Perhaps you could join Aunt Dolly and help other women like yourself.”
A wry smile twisted Pippa’s beautiful mouth. “You’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Do I look like someone’s laundry maid? Or nurse? I certainly don’t need the so-called ‘charity’ of Magdalen Hospital.”
“You look like a woman who is drowning and doesn’t even know it. Eventually, your looks will fade, and then what will you have? A sordid past, probably some disease or other, or unwanted children to care for. Why won’t you escape while you can? Why allow yourself to be abused in multiple ways?” He motioned toward the bed and then to her bruised cheek.
She laughed. “Then where would you get your information? Though I might have turned up nothing regarding Trelawney, I do have something else for you to consider.”
“What?”
“Two days ago I had a client who was most talkative. He’s a barrister from the same chambers as those preparing to prosecute in the Cochrane stock fraud debacle. You’ve been following events, I assume? The manipulation of the stock market and the rumor that Napoleon had been killed?”
“Of course.” The scandal had filled the papers, not to mention the part Marcus had played in the investigation. “There is no connection between Cochrane and the assassination attempt on the Prince Regent’s life.” He paused. “Or have you found something?”
She shook her head, the lamplight racing along her chocolate curls. “Nothing as solid as a confession. But you’ve been working under the assumption that the motive for the Prince Regent’s assassination attempt was political or an effort to influence the war.”
“Most regicides are politically motivated.” And they’d turned up nothing, hitting one blank wall after another. Political rivals, military coups—they’d even ranged as far afield as America, searching for some possible gain to be found in the conflict there.
“What if your underlying assumption is incorrect? What if the motivation here wasn’t political in nature but old-fashioned greed? Something similar to the Cochrane affair, where the objective was to influence finance? Aren’t most crimes motivated by one of only a few things? Love, power, or money. You’ve surely ruled out love. I can’t think of a single person who is jealous enough to kill the Prince Regent, not even one of his many mistresses. You’ve assumed from the first that the motive was power, to influence the course of the war abroad or policy at home, but you haven’t been able to find anyone who would benefit enough to kill our pompous prince. But what about money? What if the attempt on the prince’s life was also an attempt to manipulate the stock market?”
Marcus stilled, focusing on her words, his mind tumbling over the possibilities. Had they misinterpreted the motive from the start?
“What would happen to Omnium shares—prime government stock—if the prince met his demise at the hands of an assassin?” she asked. “Or even if the attempt failed, the knowledge that he nearly died?”
Fireworks went off in his head with alarm bells and lighting flashes. They had attempted to follow a money trail, but always who had paid whom to do the deed. And they’d come up empty every time. But what if the motive didn’t involve spending money but making money?
“I need to go. Are you sure you won’t let me help you? At least give me the name of the man who roughed you up?”
She lay back on the chaise, resting her head on a pillow, closing her eyes. “If I gave you the name of every man who ‘roughed me up,’ as you put it, you would never finish tracking them down. It’s part of doing what I do.”
“You shouldn’t put such a low premium on your safety. You’re worth more than you think, and whenever you say, I’ll help you get out.”
“Promises, promises. In case you didn’t know, men never keep their promises. Now, go away.” She put her arm up to cover her face. “I can take care of myself. Which is just as well, since I’m the only one I can count on.”
Sadness draped itself over Marcus’s shoulders as he raised his hood and slipped out, but excitement dogged his steps as he made his way to St. Clair’s residence. Hatchards would be closed at this time of night, and the new lead was too important to wait.