Page 74 of To Seduce a Stranger

“Of course.” Once a maid had come to take Clarissa and her preternaturally patient cat upstairs, Fairfax invited Edward into what must be his father’s study. “I know it’s early, but”—his eyes scanned Edward’s travel-weary shabbiness—“you look as if you could use a drink.” He waved one hand in the direction of a sideboard topped with an array of decanters.

“Thank you, yes.” Edward eased himself into a deep leather chair. The room was warm and darkly furnished, a thoroughly masculine domain; its appointments oozed privilege and wealth. No doubt, a visitor would find a similar room in every house on this square. Rooms from which men of power orchestrated their lives. Including the one in which his father had debauched himself to an early death.

He took a sip from the glass Fairfax offered. Real French brandy. Nothing like that served in roadside inns near Chippenham.

What had inspired Fairfax to leave all this behind, even for a time? But that was, given his own choices, rather a ridiculous question to be asking. And despite the time spent in a far different world, Fairfax looked right at home in this one, every inch the English aristocrat.

Could he be the ally Edward needed?

“Fairfax,” he said, setting aside the tumbler and leaning forward, elbows propped on his knees, “I have something to confess.”

“What’s that?”

After weighing his words for a moment, he told him. All of it. About his father. Why he had left England. What was left of the home to which he had returned. The woman who had made him believe it could be made whole again.

The woman who had made him believe he could be made whole again.

And then had left him, and shown him the folly of such a belief.

As he listened to Edward’s story, Fairfax twirled the bottle stopper between his fingers, watching its facets catch the light. When Edward finished speaking, he expected his friend to ask about the Beckley title, or his plans for claiming it. Instead, he asked, “Does the lady have a name?”

The answer required another sip of fortitude from his glass. “Charlotte Blakemore.”

“The Disappearing Duchess?” The heavy glass knob slipped from his fingers and landed on the plush-carpeted floor with a thud.

“Yes.”

For a long moment, Fairfax said nothing more, though Edward suspected him of fighting the impulse to say a great deal. His words, when they came, were restrained to a simple observation. “I believe her aunt resides nearby. On Brook Street.”

“I cannot think she would go there,” Edward said, recalling the stories Charlotte had told.

“No,” Fairfax agreed. “Certainly not if she had any inkling of the sorts of things Lady Penhurst has been saying since her niece’s disappearance.”

Edward started. “Lady Penhurst?”

“Mm, yes. Very poor ton. But then, she’s been trying for years to distance herself from her brother’s gadabout ways. You know, of course, that your duchess is the Earl of Belmont’s daughter—his natural daughter,” he added in a softer tone, as if he feared to impart unpleasant information.

This time, Edward tried to mask his surprise. He failed, but Fairfax was too much of a gentleman to remark upon it. Why would Charlotte have left out that crucial detail of her parentage? In terms of her social standing, it ought to have made an important distinction, despite her illegitimacy. Apparently, however, it had not. People had, no doubt, taken their cues from the behavior of her aunt.

“And of course Blakemore House—the Duke of Langerton’s residence—is just a few doors away. She was meant to have the use of it, according to her husband’s will. Would she go there, do you think?”

“And challenge her stepson?” He shook his head. “I can’t imagine she would.” Or perhaps he simply didn’t want to believe she would do anything so foolhardy. “The truth is, I haven’t the faintest idea where to begin looking for her. I suspect she does not want to be found—at least, not by me.”

Fairfax’s brows quirked as he looked Edward up and down.

“I suppose I don’t look much like the heir to an earldom,” Edward acknowledged, wondering if his friend doubted the truth of his story.

“No. You look like a man who feared any delay would cost him something far more important. Come,” he said, rising. “While you freshen up, I’ll see what I can learn. Our housekeeper always seems to know the latest gossip.”

As they climbed the stairs, Fairfax laid a hand on his shoulder and said, “Just remember, you ran away once. As did I. Maybe everyone does, at some point.”

“I ran because I felt helpless,” Edward protested. “Because I believed someone I loved would be better off if I left.”

“Exactly.” Fairfax’s toe paused on the next step, giving that single word a moment to sink in. “But in the end,” he added, not looking back as he resumed his ascent, “the most important thing was finding your way home.”

* * *

Charlotte woke early the next morning—not refreshed, exactly, but resolved. Rising, she went to the washbasin to splash her face, then pressed cool fingertips to her eyelids. Her eyes felt as if she had stepped in the path of someone sweeping and caught a broomfull of dust in the face. Nevertheless, she smoothed her hair and pulled one of her own gowns from the cupboard.