Page 72 of To Seduce a Stranger

Licking suddenly dry lips, she tried to find an answer to Jane’s question. “I—I—”

That stammering syllable seemed to be all the confirmation Jane required. “Well, I hope he was handsome, ma’am,” she said, with a sly smile. “For your sake.”

Charlotte recalled Jane hinting, none too gently, that Charlotte was now free to use a widow’s license and take a lover. Could indulge in a carefree affaire. Of course Jane would not have been the only one to leap to that conclusion.

By leaving to avoid one scandal, Charlotte had created another: She had become the Disappearing Duchess, who had escaped to taste the forbidden fruits wedded life had denied her. Or at least hoped to deceive the courts into believing her marriage had been consummated.

By giving in to her desire for Edward, she had turned terrible gossip into truth.

With trembling fingers, Charlotte laid aside the newspaper clipping. “He was.”

“Are you all right, ma’am?” Jane asked.

“Yes,” she lied. “Just tired.”

“I’ll leave you to rest up a bit before dinner, ma’am. Shall I?”

“Please, Jane. You’re not my servant now. You—well, you’ve been a better friend to me than even you know. And I hope you’ll consider me your friend, too.”

With a bright smile, Jane turned to leave. “Ooh, la. Fancy me, friends with a duchess.” But she sounded pleased by the suggestion, nonetheless.

Hardly had the door latched before Charlotte reached into the bag to withdraw the battered old book, brushing with one trembling fingertip the cracked spine that had once been touched with gilt, broken when her uncle had thrown it at her with words he had intended to sting. Tu es exactement comme ta mère. You are just like your mother.

When Edward learned what she was believed to have done, would he, too, see things in just that light? Would he think she had gone to his bed merely in hopes of preserving her fortune?

Slowly, she opened the volume to find the rest of her dearly bought legacy untouched. Between the book’s worn pages lay banknotes. Scores of them. Several hundred pounds in all, almost as if George had anticipated that she might have need of ready money.

If she had never been separated from this book and its contents, she would be living alone, somewhere far from the watchful eyes of Society. Even here, in Clerkenwell, the eyes were rather too intent for her tastes.

But if she had never been separated from this book and its contents, she would never have met Edward. Would have gone on believing that men like him—men who were not afraid to get their hands dirty, who faced adversity and were willing to do anything to save others from a similar fate—only existed in stories meant for children and fools.

A fat teardrop splatted onto the book, temporarily restoring one small circle of its faded vermillion leather cover to a deeper luster. Two more tears followed in rapid succession. With the hem of her sleeve, she tried to wipe away the evidence of her foolishness.

By now, Edward must know all about the Disappearing Duchess. And she felt certain the Earl of Beckley wasn’t sitting somewhere mooning and crying over his loss. More likely, he was breathing a sigh of relief that she was gone.

One night together. For a woman who claimed to crave her independence, it ought to have been enough.

How could she have let herself hope there might be more?

Gathering the book to her chest, she curled atop the coverlet on the narrow bed and wept until sleep claimed her.

Chapter 19

Although Edward had known it would involve a deal of discomfort and a little bit of luck, he had hoped to be in London late the next day. Instead—with none of the luck, but all of the discomfort, including a broken carriage wheel, a lame horse, and a drunk for a driver—he did not arrive until the morning after that.

Further proof that the supposedly romantic quest on which his mother, brother, and Mari had urged him would likely turn out to have been nothing more than a fool’s errand.

The livery where Jack had hired Sykes and his coach could provide no leads as to his whereabouts. One man claimed Sykes had not yet returned, while another insisted he had already gone out again. Charlotte might be anywhere in London. If she had exited Sykes’s coach somewhere along the journey, as Edward half suspected, she might be anywhere.

Though it was the last place he expected to find her, he found himself wandering through the quiet streets of Mayfair to clear his head. Near Grosvenor Square, he paused before the town house belonging to the Earl of Beckley.

In it, according to Jack, their father had lived a quiet, respectable life. His parlor maids and kitchen girls had probably not been so lucky. Edward knew better than to be deceived by an elegant façade. Father had always preferred to indulge his darkest impulses behind closed doors.

Edward had no desire to see inside.

A pair of smartly dressed ladies eyed him uncertainly as they passed. In desperate need of a wash and shave, he did not look as if he belonged here. Not now, certainly. Perhaps not ever. At Ravenswood, at least, he felt he had some purpose, could do some good. But live the life of a Town dandy? Never.

Except, of course, he would have responsibilities here, too. A house and its staff. Service in the House of Lords. In London, he could build the connections that ought already to have been forged at Eton or Oxford, cemented in the coffee room at White’s.