That afternoon, Patrick mused over Lottie’s reaction to Hawthorne Hall, for he had anticipated her displeasure at the state of their new home. Instead, she saw Hawthorne as a challenge, an exciting one, continuing to surprise him in the most pleasing ways.
His heart, desiccated from his unrelenting anger at his injury, had begun to fill with…was it joy? Delight? Hope?
Over the following days, Patrick was gratified with the way he and Charlotte rubbed along. True, they still guarded their words. Nor had they made love due to the cursed Scarlet Lady. He had begun counting the days, with perhaps three remaining.
If Lottie was not dissembling, his twisted legs revolting her…Had she lied about her courses?
He refused to believe so. And yet…he failed to abandon the worry.
The sun blazed in a cerulean sky, not a hint of breeze, as Charlotte entered barn one the following day to practice on her barrel, having given Beauty her morning treats. It surprised and pleased her how the exercise improved her balance. Then again, given Patrick had suggested it, she should not be amazed.
Her husband was so worldly, had done so much, had so many adventures. He was also well-versed in the classics, in languages, and in a myriad of subjects disregarded by a lady’s governess.
Charlotte knew little more than the womanly arts and painting, the latter a worthless accomplishment in the eyes of the world. She sighed. She wished to be more for Patrick, know more, have greater understanding, for she feared she would ultimately bore him.
As she took in the barn’s sounds and scents, calm suffused her. Once, barns had ruffled her nerves, all due to a fall from her pony where she’d broken her arm. It had taken Beauty and Patrick’s quiet care to assuage those fears.
Thomasina exited a stall, and Charlotte hastened to her, noting not a single twinge from her ankle. “How are you this fine day, Lady Thomasina?”
“Excellent!” Thomasina replied.
Though Sina’s physical contrast to her siblings was pronounced, her personality was her greatest deviation, for she bubbled with an emotional effervescence, a joyful one. Those who mistook her for “simple” were fools. Sina was canny in her own way, her memory prodigious, and her emotional awareness of humans and animals, exceptional.
Thomasina took her hand and led her to the barrel stall. “I have watched you.”
“Have you?” Charlotte replied with a smile.
“You are much improved in the saddle,” Sina said.
“Coming from you, that is a high compliment.”
“You were afraid for a long time. Now…you are not.”
Charlotte leaned down and hugged her sister. Sina reminded Charlotte of a girl not yet come out, though she was older by two years than Susannah, her enthusiasm disdained by the ton. How inane, for it lent great joy to life.
Thomasina slipped a hand into the pocket of her barn coat. “This is for you.”
Charlotte’s name was written in imprecise letter blocks across the wax-sealed missive Sina handed her. Odd.
“From you?” Charlotte said.
She shook her head.
“Who delivered it?”
Thomasina shrugged. “It feels wrong.” She pointed to the letter.
“How?”
Thomasina shrugged, blonde curls bobbing. “Just…bad.”
Only a fool would fail to heed Thomasina’s instincts. “I will remember your words, Sina.”
Charlotte would read the letter after she practiced, yet not two minutes atop the barrel, she slipped her feet to the floor and opened it.
I KNOW WHAT YOU DO!
Charlotte stilled atop the barrel. No. Could this mean…?
In a daze, she dismounted and slipped the letter into her pocket, thankful she had added one to her habit.
Who would write such a thing? What should she do?
Mind awhirl, Charlotte returned to the manor. Once inside her studio, she locked the door. All was as it should be—her paints, her brushes, the empty canvases, and her work mounted on their easels.
She straightened her brushes, made sure the turpentine was properly sealed, checked that her chrome yellow was where she had left it.
Her heart galloped.
What to do about the missive? I KNOW WHAT YOU DO! A threat if ever she’d seen one.
Hours later, Charlotte worked on a corner of the stormy seascape nearing completion, all troubles and fears, hopes and wishes dissolved to mist.
A knock, and she unlocked the door to find Patrick waiting, a roguish grin on his face.
“Might I watch you paint?”
She smiled in return. “Please do, though I should be answering my ever-increasing stack of correspondence piled on our secretary, guilt my constant companion.”
Charlotte moved her easel a tad to catch better light and again lifted her brush. The cloudy day suited both the piece she painted and her mood.
“When you are preparing to execute a fresh work,” Patrick said. “Do you have an image in your mind? A subject? A color?”
Charlotte laughed as she dabbed burnt umber onto the ship’s hull. “Sometimes all of those things. Sometimes one. Sometimes none. When I have an overwhelming urge to paint, I simply must. So I begin. Of course, life often intrudes.”
They talked of seascapes, art, and artists.
“I admire Thomas Lawrence,” Patrick said.
“I do somewhat, yet he tends to flatter his subjects, rather than paint truth.”
“Does truth matter in art?” Patrick said.
Charlotte’s brow arched at the question’s irony, though she knew he was referring to a greater truth. “I believe so, though it is often hard to achieve. Do you care for etchings? Caricature? I enjoy Thomas Rowlandson’s political satire and social observation.”
“As do I, though my favorite artists, excepting your father and yourself, m’lady, are John Constable and J.M.W. Turner.”
“I studied with Mr. Turner,” she said. “Did you know?”
“I did not.”
She nodded. “His guidance showed me things I was blind to earlier. He taught me how less could be more, how abstraction can create emotion. It was he who taught me how to burrow deep, to reach the heart of my subjects. He has greatly influenced my work.”
“And thus, your style differs from your father’s.”
“It does.” Something was wrong with her seascape, and Charlotte held up a finger trying to identify it, pausing their discussion. She backed away from the canvas, and a sharp breath later, she rushed to the easel, picked up her brush, and performed a mad flurry of brushstrokes.
When the madness passed, she stepped away once again, sighed, and smiled.
“You have such confidence when you paint,” Patrick said.
“Not really.” Charlotte shook her head. “Or at least not often. I will have bouts of inspiration such as this one, and that is heavenly. But most often it is my craft that sees me through, particularly when I work on my father’s paintings.”
She pulled over a chair to sit beside him, finally gaining the courage to show him the letter. “Something disturbing happened today.”
His face grew serious. “What troubles you, love?”
She withdrew the note with its screaming I KNOW WHAT YOU DO, and handed it to him, explaining where it was left.
Patrick brought it to his nose. “If I am not mistaken, this is vellum.”
“Yes. A terribly expensive medium for a mere note, not to mention an odd one.”
Patrick held it up to the light. “No watermark.”
“I looked as well,” she said.
“The letters appear written by an uneducated person,” Patrick said. “Which tells us little, as I suspect whoever wrote this intended such.”
Charlotte’s hands clenched. “It is nasty.”
“Yet no request for money,” Patrick said. “No threats. This was meant to frighten you.”
Charlotte went to clean her brushes, fussing with them. “I fear it has succeeded.”
Patrick wheeled closer. “Put those down, Lottie.”
She did so, and he lifted her onto his lap and wound his arms around her. She rested her head in the crook of his shoulder.
“While the note is worrisome,” he continued, “I suggest you put it in its proper place.”
“Proper place? I find it alarming, for I cannot help but picture how our lives would unravel were my forgeries to become known.”
“Do recall the accuser’s aim is to provoke fear,” Patrick said. “If he indeed knows the truth, who would believe him? You’ve noted the Royal Academy displays works by your father, one of which you painted. Even they cannot tell the difference. Who would accept someone bringing allegations? What proof could they possibly have? We can deflect any charge and you are surrounded by loved ones, Lottie, people who would protect you. Fear not. Complete the three paintings, and you are done with it. Let this scurvy note go where it belongs—into the fire.”
“You make good sense, Patrick. I shall try.”
“Do not try. Accept it.”
Patrick was in a grump the next morning when Charlotte breezed into his dressing room. Understandable, for Devonshire’s musicale was that evening.
“Shall I wear this tonight?”
Lottie held up a sapphire-blue confection sparkling with beads, silver stars, and diaphanous chiffon, but to his pleasure, no ruffles. He had little concept of women’s clothing, a situation that had gotten him into trouble with his sisters more than once. “It is exquisite.”
Charlotte laughed. “You are saying that to get rid of me!”
“Now why would I want to get rid of you, wife?”
She bussed his cheek. “So you can brood in silence about tonight. Shall I try it on for you?”
He gave her a roguish grin. “Please do, that way I shall have the opportunity to take it off you.”
Lottie rolled her eyes. “Patrick, this is serious. Tonight is a big event designed for us.”
Once, he had been a fine dancer, women eager to partner with him. Now? He would resemble one of Devonshire’s statues, a fixture on the sidelines.
Lottie perched on the bench. “I have hurt your feelings. I did not mean to do so.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You have not, my dear.” Dammit, his voice was chillier than the Arctic. He hadn’t intended thus.
The dress spilled across her lap, highlighting how it matched her eyes. Eyes now darkened to indigo with concern. Such lovely eyes. “The dress is perfect, for it makes your eyes shine like stars.”
Her face slackened. “Really?”
He took one of her hands and kissed each finger. “I speak the truth, fair lady.”
Lottie laughed. “You may have the sullens, my lord, but your tongue is quite clever this morning.”
“I confess, I dread this musicale.”
“Your first time in society after your accident…” she said. “It will be a challenge.”
“Indeed.”
“I am proud of you and will be by your side.”
She’d taken him aback. No small thing having Lottie by his side. But proud? “Why in God’s name would you be proud of me?”
“Your bravery, of course.”
“What? Wheeling myself around like a trained pet?” He could not contain the bitterness in his voice.
“Doing it up a bit brown, are you not, husband? You were brave to save Henry, brave to take on Henry, brave for that first ride on Diablo, brave to pursue the slavers. Brave to accept this evening’s musicale when I imagine you would rather do anything but attend.” She winked. “Unfortunately, it is in our honor.”
“Lottie!” Rose shouted from somewhere distant. “I need you!”
She kissed Patrick’s cheek and flew out the door.
A surprising woman, his wife, and a now-familiar warmth bloomed in his chest. Most surprising.
The musicale was in full swing. A thousand torches and candles lit the night at Devonshire’s estate, an immense manor house, though not the duke’s primary seat. She suspected Chatsworth House in the Derbyshire Dales was even larger. The food was lavish, the orchestra fine, the beeswax candles luxurious. Opulent flowers adorned the many areas set aside for the guests’ amusement—for billiards and cards and other pastimes. A mime troupe performed, and on the front lawn, a fire eater held sway.
Devonshire’s “small” affair resembled nothing Charlotte had ever experienced, except perhaps a night at Covent Garden. The duke had even provided one of his smaller rooms for dancing, “smaller” being relative given the size of rooms in this pile. Woodbine would neatly fit into one of the wings.
Charlotte sat beside Patrick where he had stationed himself beside a large tree dotted with perched doves, having insisted they peek in at the dancing. She failed to care, for none of the men who might ask her to dance were near as interesting as her Patrick.
Charlotte leaned toward him. “Can we leave…damn.” Devonshire approached, another man in tow. Both men bowed, and the duke presented Sir Alex Morrison, an intensely handsome man with a pleasant smile. Devonshire took a seat and began chatting with Patrick. Morrison glanced at Patrick and shuddered.
That did it. Sir Alex was one of many discomfited by Patrick’s infirmity and chair, seeing her husband as defective. She suspected they pictured themselves as Patrick was and could not bear the thought. Fools all, with their delicate sensibilities and small minds.
Morrison turned his gaze on her, finally asking, “Would you do me the honor of a dance, Lady Hawthorne?”
Charlotte opened her mouth to decline, but Patrick leaned close. “Do dance, Lottie. I would enjoy watching you twirl around the room.”
They took to the floor, thankfully a quadrille. Morrison appeared a pleasant man, but as the dance progressed, he had little conversation to recommend him as he prosed on about her father’s artistry, then babbled on about goats, of all things. Patrick's eyes followed their movements, even as others approached to converse with him. His lips held a faint smile, his eyes sharp, and if she were to confess, she enjoyed his scrutiny.
When Morrison returned her to Patrick, she leaned in. “An abysmal partner.” She told him about the goats, making his lips twitch.
“When we repair to Hawthorne Hall,” he said in a faux sonorous tone, “we shall acquire goats. What think you?”
“I like goats a great deal.” She grinned. “Perhaps some hedgehogs, as well?”
“Those, too.”
“What of squirrels?”
“You go too far!” His mock serious tone made her laugh.
“Shall we adjourn, my lord?”
“Not yet, Lottie.” Patrick scanned the room yet again.
“Who are you seeking, Patrick?”
Lord Cardingcom and Lady Eloise approached.
Dear Heavens. They had met the pair out riding, the day of their picnic, when Patrick again asked her to marry him. A sweet memory soured by their arrival.
The next thing she knew, she was performing a reel with Cardingcom, his lordship struggling with the steps. When they came together, his conversation showered compliments on her father’s work before moving on to Patrick’s infirmity. The daft man actually made allusions to the bedchamber. Beyond offensive.
Glimpses of her husband showed him again watching her, much as one would salivate over a bonbon to be devoured, pleasure coursing through her. All the while, Lady Eloise chattered away to Patrick.
They rejoined the group when the dance ended, and Cardingcom and Lady Eloise swanned off.
“Was her ladyship awful?”
“I do not recall,” Patrick said. “All I need do was nod as she droned on.”
“Shall we see the jugglers?” Charlotte said.
Captain Lord Uffington approached. Heavens, not another dance. When she again sat next to Patrick after the scotch reel, sweat trickled down her spine from the energetic dance. Her husband flourished a handkerchief, and she dabbed her forehead.
“All Uffington talked about was war,” Charlotte said.
“Have some punch.” Patrick handed her a glass, for which she thanked him.
“Can we not please leave?” she said. “The musicale will begin soon. Shall we not…Oh, no.”
Baron St. Michaels bore down on them, a swagger in every step. A tall, blond, good-looking man in his late thirties known as a bruising rider to the hounds and for his interest in the arts. After bowing, he stared straight at Patrick rather than avoiding his gaze.
Uncaring of the crowd or St. Michaels, Charlotte whispered in Patrick’s ear. “One final dance, for I wish to be with you.” She kissed his cheek and gathered her remaining energy as the baron led her onto the floor.
A waltz and St. Michaels swept her with grace amidst the revolving dancers.
Charlotte stole a glance at Patrick. He, Rhys, and Rose were conversing. Would that she were with them.
“I met Pheland several times,” St. Michaels said, forcing Charlotte’s attention back to her partner.
“Did you?”
“The first was when you were a child of perhaps ten at Halafair Hall, the second at the academy. His demeanor was most agreeable, his work, exceptional. An outstanding man and artist. My father’s enthusiasm for his work birthed my own passion for Pheland’s art.”
“How lovely.” Charlotte sifted around in her brain for something to say. Anything to say.
Would this dance never end?
As Lottie danced, Patrick delighted in her graceful movements, imagining himself as her partner. He had been a fine dancer. Once. He had once been many things, most of which were lost to him. All of which infuriated him.
And yet, he found pleasure in observing his wife, who presented an elegant figure, blue eyes snapping, black hair agleam, her gown floating about like a cloud. Watching her gave him joy, a reminder that though his accident had stolen much, he had gained much in its aftermath, as well.
He must accept he was forever changed. Yet he yearned to walk, to run, and, yes, to dance. God’s blood, acceptance was hard.
His glance around the room halted as the sight of the dashing Admiral Saumarez, a middle-aged lothario fawning over a blonde girl less than half his age. A child, really, whose blushes were obvious even from this distance.
Saumarez spotted him, and to Patrick’s surprise, dismissed the girl and headed his way.
Interesting. The man disliked him, a mutual feeling, but he feigned a smile as Saumarez neared.
Patrick’s letters to the Admiralty regarding the Despoina had produced little but for one cogent fact—during the war, decommissioned frigates, their repairs too costly, were sold to private individuals. His friend’s research was ongoing as to the purchasers, particularly of Apollo-class frigates. Though not on any Royal Navy roster, the Despoina had flown the RN flag. A ruse, it appeared. Bad luck the Royal Charles had stumbled upon the slave exchange.
Apollo-class ships were built but for two years, greatly narrowing the field. Three of the Apollos had been sold, one of which Saumarez had purchased, his personal wealth from shipping.
Shipping what, Patrick wondered.
Saumarez’s current notice was odd, for Patrick had been beneath the man’s regard—honors at Trafalgar or no. Only after the Royal Charles encountered the slave ship had the man begun a whisper campaign disparaging Patrick. The curious timing might mean nothing. Yet he could not discount it.
The admiral reached him and bowed. “What ho, Lansdowne! I see you are still legless. No more sailing for you, my good man.”
“True,” he said. “Yet soon I take on a position at the Admiralty.”
“How intriguing,” Saumarez said. “A desk job.”
“The Admiralty shall suit me well.”
“Is that so?” Saumarez stared down at him.
An empty chair sat beside Patrick, yet the admiral continued to stand, a tactic. Saumarez had a purpose, his fatuous. But the enmity in his eyes revealed intention. A purpose.
Patrick was eager to discover exactly what.
Saumarez shook his head, running a hand over his full head of hair, a source of pride. “I question your return as a possibility, for you have ruffled feathers at the Admiralty.”
“Have I?” One time ashore, Patrick had discovered an insect in his bed in Trinidad, a thick-tailed scorpion. Fatal if mishandled. Much like Saumarez.
The air thickened, Saumarez’s powerful personality containing a simmering fury. But the admiral smiled, waving his monocle. “What has you worked up about those frigates, Lansdowne?”
Ah. His casual question said Patrick’s path to the slaver was on track. Patrick smiled, all teeth, and in an analytical voice detailed the events regarding the slavers, which would alert Saumarez to his mission. But it would put him on edge, too, were he the villain Patrick suspected.
As he recounted his tale, Saumarez’s eyes flickered with interest and momentary shock, though his bearing remained merely curious.
“A terrible tale,” Saumarez said on Patrick’s conclusion. “I doubt you will find the miscreants.”
Patrick grinned. “A long shot, indeed, but worth the effort. Do you not agree?”
Saumarez slid onto the seat beside Patrick and leaned in, his smile missing an upper canine, transforming him from handsome to demonic. “I hold sway with the Admiralty.”
“Do you?”
“Of course. Great sway.” Saumarez nodded, leaning close, noise from the dancers and orchestra receding. “The purpose of my conversation is to help you, Lansdowne.”
Any “help” Saumarez gave would be poisonous. “How is that, sir?”
“Why, many see your useless legs as a hindrance, even on land, while others find your malady repulsive. I can smooth the way to your reassignment on land, if…”
He could picture Saumarez’s manipulations, offered only if he dropped his investigation into the slave ship and the frigate. Patrick had thought the man subtle, yet he now used an anvil to persuade. He hoped he hid his disgust well.
“Think on it, Captain,” Saumarez continued, rising to his full height to again peer down at Patrick. “Though you are a captain no more, are you?”
“Rest assured, Admiral. I shall certainly contemplate your thoughtful offer.”