Chapter 2

Somerton House was a graveyard.

A palatial relic in St. James, it could have been papered in old money for all the awe commanded by its presence. No longer a fashionable address, it was far enough from Mayfair to be out of sight of curious passersby.

Not that they would have seen much. Every tall window was swathed in heavy red drapes that looked as though they’d been there since Shakespeare’s demise.

Charlotte followed Somerton through a parlor covered floor to ceiling in ghostly portraits. They passed through a dining hall filled with an incongruous array of furniture; the enormous table and finely carved chairs were surrounded by delicate ornamental tables from the East, Queen Anne stools, a cabinet stuffed with yellowing books, and a faded settee that looked as though it had fallen off a pirate ship. Mounted above the marble hearth behind the head of the table was a portrait of a woman in a deep violet dress. With black hair and skin so pale it was almost blue, her coloring was so vivid it was stark, offset by a galaxy of diamond stars in her hair.

Though Somerton had mentioned supper, he did not pause in this room, but carried on to his study at the far end of the house. The glimpse of books she had caught from the hall could not prepare her from the sight that awaited her inside.

The room was the size of a theater, and every inch of wall was fitted with ornate cherry bookcases. Each shelf was packed with books, some two rows deep in fine leather-bound volumes side to side with pamphlets and novels. Narrow ladders stretched toward the top shelves, yards above them and overstuffed as the rest. Wes’s study had been for status alone, an obligatory den for the consumption of brandy, cigars, and pornography. In the three years she had known him, she had never once seen him open a book.

There was nothing superficial about this one. More than a study, it was a library.

Charlotte could not hazard a guess at how many books were in the cavernous room. If she lived as long as Methuselah, she could never read them all.

The only wall space not consumed by books or stained glass windows was reserved for the hearth. Tall and wide enough to fit a phaeton, its glow called to her as she realized how cold she still was.

A small table had been set for supper within the firelight. Somerton stood beside a deep, high-backed chair of overstuffed velvet with an odd smile. “It’s something, isn’t it?” He nodded toward a shelf. “It used to be the ballroom.”

“It’s bigger than Almack’s,” Charlotte observed, taking the chair he offered.

“You’ve been?”

“Once, years ago. Does that surprise you?”

“Not at all, only I might have gone myself if I’d have known you were there.” The hint of a dimple appeared in his cheek. “You must be freezing. I’ll fetch you a blanket.”

Within a matter of minutes, Somerton had her bundled up in a soft wool blanket with a warm brick under her feet. A servant brought a tray laden with two bowls of thick stew and fresh bread, but when Charlotte thanked her, all she received was a hostile look.

Somerton did not appear to be aware of it as he poured Charlotte a cup of tea. “Sugar?”

She nodded. She would take all the sweetness she could get.

He passed her the cup, his fingers brushing hers as she grasped the saucer.

“Thank you,” she said, her gaze sweeping his face. She had never seen a face quite like his, more than youthful, it was curiously beautiful. Wide eyes that could only be described as lovely were offset by a pair of cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and a well-formed mouth. A handsome young earl would have no need to visit the marriage mart to find a suitable match. No doubt London’s mothers shoved their daughters into his path whenever he ventured out of doors. She couldn’t blame them. If she were ten years younger and marriage-minded, she would have leapt in front of his horses herself. “You are very kind.”

“Not at all,” he dismissed. “I’ve an ulterior motive, I’m afraid.”

Charlotte’s nerves stood on end. Could Somerton be a friend of Wesley’s, sent to pay her off? She had certainly never seen them together. Indeed, the only times Wes had ever mentioned Somerton was to repeat some foul rumor about the gentleman’s reasons for withdrawing from society: from unusual sexual proclivities to disfigurement.

His gaze drifted to her lips, and an altogether more tempting possibility came to mind.

“Are you looking for a mistress?” she asked, bold as brass.

He swallowed hard. “Not at all, Miss Halfpenny, but I think we may yet be of assistance to each other.”

Charlotte held her teacup close, intrigued. “What can I do for you, Lord Somerton?”

He set down his tea and reached for the whiskey. “I was hoping I might persuade you to marry me.”

Charlotte choked on her breath. “I beg your pardon?”

He poured two glasses of whiskey and passed one to her. “Forgive me for putting it indelicately, but I have been informed you are with child. Is that the case?”

She nodded reluctantly, reaching for the whiskey.

“Capital.” He cleared his throat. “May I be blunt?”

Charlotte laughed. “That wasn’t?”

His neck flushed a washed-out red and he loosened his cravat. “I beg your patience, Miss Halfpenny. I have never proposed marriage before, and I fear I’m bungling it quite spectacularly.”

“You’re serious?” she asked, incredulous.

“Quite serious. Is the thought too much to bear?”

Charlotte blinked dumbly, wondering if she had jumped off the bridge and this was the other side. A handsome earl asking for her hand after midnight in a frightening ruin of a house… was this heaven, hell, or something else altogether? She reached for his hand, closing hers over his long fingers. “Not at all, only I confess to a modicum of shock. I am a disgraced actress of no birth carrying another man’s child.”

He turned his hand to grasp hers, and she felt a jolt as their palms touched, surely as if lightning had struck her. She half expected to find singed flesh when she took her hand back.

“Disgrace does not factor into it, Miss Halfpenny. You are the finest actress I’ve had the good fortune to see. You’ve moved me to tears on more than one occasion, I can assure you.”

Charlotte fought the urge to preen at the compliment. “I should hope my performance wasn’t poor enough to make you weep, Lord Somerton.”

“Never.” He stroked the inside of her palm as he withdrew his hand. No more than a whisper of a touch, but it was there, and it sent a shiver up the length of her neck. “I find myself in need of an heir, Miss Halfpenny, and it would seem you are in need of protection.”

“You want my child?” She took the glass of whiskey, feeling the need for it all of the sudden. “Why not marry a lady and have one of your own?”

His face fell. “Alas, I cannot father children. I narrowly escaped a carriage accident not a fortnight past, and thus reminded of my own mortality, I must act decisively to ensure the future of my estate. Should I die without issue, everything would pass to my profligate cousin.”

Embarrassment rose in her gut. “I’m sorry.”

His smile did not stretch to his eyes. “Think nothing of it.”

She sipped her whiskey, craving fortification. “You would leave all of this to an actress’s bastard?”

“It is preferable to the alternative. Miles is a pillock of the first order.” He sipped his own whiskey, the cut glass sparkling in the candlelight. He was richer than Croesus, and she was fool to ask too many questions. “I would raise the child as my own. He will have my name, a home, and the best education money can buy. He will be a viscount at his birth, and an earl upon my death.”

Her fingers tightened around her glass. “And if it’s a girl?”

“We shall quietly find her a brother.” His gaze settled on her lips. “I’d have done as much sooner, but a wife is required to present the appearance of legitimacy.”

Charlotte swallowed hard. She knew nothing about the man, and should not countenance his absurd scheme for a moment. But if he were in earnest… “What about me?”

He held her gaze, deadly serious. “You will want for nothing.”

She let out the breath she had been holding. “You’re asking me to be a countess.”

“I’ve every confidence you can manage.” He attempted levity. “You were an outstanding Lady Macbeth.”

She almost laughed. “What would you ask of me in return?”

He paled. “Only your loyalty and your discretion. Whatever you see inside this house, no matter how peculiar it may seem, you must never speak of it to anyone but myself. Do you understand?”

A chill raised goosebumps in her arms in spite of the warm woolen blanket around her shoulders. What on earth did he mean by that? The shadows of the library seemed to deepen around him, casting sinister shapes along the walls.

His eyes were the brightest thing in the room, the same silver as the river by moonlight. Beautiful as it could be, the river was noxious and filled with unfathomable evil; would Somerton prove likewise poisonous?

One way or another, she’d end up at the bottom. May as well jump.