“And all these old women: they are hoping for a scandal to erupt,” Sophie continued disgustedly. “We should leave, Charlotte. They’re such dowdies, just longing to kick up some dust. If a libertine walked in the door and merely looked at a woman, they would build some sort of a tale out of it.”
“Let’s go then,” Charlotte replied, standing up. But as she stood, her eyes caught sight of a tall man just bowing his welcome to Mrs. Felvitson.
“Alex!” she cried. She took one step, but the combination of shock and the fact she had just jumped to her feet blurred her eyes. Without a word, and for the first time in her life, Charlotte fainted clear away. Luckily Sophie had just risen to her feet, and when Charlotte suddenly swayed, she automatically reached out her arms. A minute later she found herself sitting on the floor, Charlotte’s head and shoulders in her lap, completely bewildered. Then Sophie looked up, and at the same moment Charlotte opened her eyes.
The man smiling down at the two beautiful women saw a puzzled expression on their faces that he had seen a thousand times before. Patrick squatted down on his ankles, patting his new sister-in-law’s hand.
“How do you feel?”
“Are you Alex?” Charlotte whispered.
Sophie didn’t say anything. To her mind, this man—obviously Alex’s twin—looked like the earl only from a distance.
But Charlotte was still half in a swoon, her mind foggy. She reached out and touched Patrick’s cheek wonderingly. “You aren’t a ghost, are you?”
Patrick’s eyebrow shot up. Was his brother’s wife touched in the upper works? Sophie shot him an admonishing look.
“Will you please help the countess off the floor?” she said, with something less than full social politeness. “This is your sister-in-law, as I’m sure you have realized.”
Surprised, Patrick looked at the little termagant who was clutching his brother’s wife. Then he smiled back at Charlotte, dismissing Sophie from his mind.
“I am your brother-in-law, you know,” he said winsomely. “Not Alex at all.”
“I apologize,” Charlotte said more firmly. “I can’t imagine what came over me. But I would like to get up now.” She was uneasily aware that there was a cluster of people hovering around them. She quickly sat up, and then put her hand to her head. Lord, her head was swimming!
In a second Patrick scooped her off the ground and stood up with Charlotte in his arms. She struggled, feeling with real distress the sharp eyes of all the gossips standing around them.
“This isn’t proper,” she whispered. “Put me down, please.”
Patrick strode over to the nearest divan and deposited her with aplomb. Then he stepped back and gave a flourishing bow. “I am Patrick Foakes, my lady, and very pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said. “I just stepped off the ship this morning. When I came by to see Alex I was told of your existence, and of the fact that you were at this lovely musicale.” He smiled at Mrs. Felvitson’s sharp little face, hovering at his elbow.
“Oh, dear,” Charlotte said lamely. “Alex did send you a letter telling you of our wedding, in the diplomatic pouch.”
“Must have been already traveling when it arrived,” Patrick said. “Would you like me to accompany you to the house? There seem to be a plaguey amount of people watching us here.”
“Yes.” Charlotte stood up, composed again. She made a graceful apology to Mrs. Felvitson for interrupting the music (even those Russians had been craning at her lying on the ground!) and left the room on Patrick’s arm, Sophie trailing after them.
They left behind them a far more excited crowd than had originally graced Mrs. Felvitson’s soirée.
“There’s nothing to it,” Sir Benjamin Tribble said in an extremely unconvincing manner.
“No, indeed!” Sylvester Bredbeck agreed, his sharp eyes scanning Sir Benjamin’s melon-colored jacket in an unpleasant fashion. “The countess was surprised to unexpectedly meet a man who looked exactly like her husband, that’s all!”
Everyone had to acknowledge the value of this statement, and the whole subject may have fallen into silence, except for two factors. One was Lady Prestlefield’s excellent memory, and the second was Lady Cucklesham’s acute irritability.
“I dare swear you are right, Sylvester,” Lady Prestlefield said in her customary brisk manner. “Except that those two dear children do know each other. Alex—that is, the earl—told me himself that the countess, such a lovely girl she is, met his brother years ago, before he went off to the East. In fact, he said that when he, Alex, met Charlotte at my ball, she first mistook him for his younger brother.”
“You are too severe, Sarah,” Lady Cucklesham cooed. She preferred to maintain a sweet tone at all times. “Why, if one were to believe that they knew each other already, some inconsiderate soul might think the worst of that tender gesture she gave him, brushing his cheek with her fingers as she did.”
“Nonsense,” Sylvester said stoutly. “That’s a pack of nonsense, Sarah, and you ought not to repeat it. Charlotte had never met Patrick Foakes before in her life.”
“Yes, yes, you are right, Mr. Bredbeck,” Lady Cucklesham said. “Now, Sarah, darling, you must not repeat a word about the fact that Charlotte was so well acquainted with the earl’s younger brother before he went abroad, because I dare swear the truth of the matter is that they merely met once or danced … or something of that sort.”
Sylvester Bredbeck cast Lady Cucklesham a glance of acute dislike. He always thought she was a puffed-up turnip, and now that she had finagled her way into a marriage with a man forty years older than herself, it certainly hadn’t done her temper any good.
Sylvester bowed rigidly and left the musicale. It wouldn’t make any difference if he were to defend Charlotte any further; better to let it blow over, he thought.
But London society was rather thin since the season proper wouldn’t begin for some four months. There wasn’t much to talk about. The matches that would happen this year had already been made, the documents signed, the couples happily or unhappily embarked on forty years of matrimony. Some two weeks ago there had been an elopement, but it was very unsatisfactorily concluded, to everyone’s mind—the young bride banished to the country and the groom sent off to the continent.
So by the next evening every member of the ton who had enough self-respect to keep abreast of current gossip knew that the Countess of Sheffield and Downes, who had been alone for only a few weeks, had greeted her husband’s brother in the most tender and affecting manner, actually fainting from happiness at the sight of him. And although no one could actually remember seeing them dance together during Charlotte’s first season, quite a mythology sprang up overnight about what must have been a brief but passionate romance before Patrick was ordered off to the Orient.
“Only the most unkind,” Lady Skiffing observed, “would think that Lady Charlotte had married the elder in place of the younger. If only on a practical level, no girl would marry a second son when the first was asking for her hand.”
Her little circle considered this a very fair observation. “You have so much good nature, my dear,” Lady Prestlefield said comfortably.
“Yes, indeed,” chimed in Sir Benjamin Tribble. “Why, those who don’t have your forbearance, Lady Skiffing, might be persuaded to wonder about dear Alex’s previous marital problems….”
“That’s just an example of the ill nature some people exhibit,” Lady Skiffing exclaimed. “It is such a consolation to me to think that none of us would repeat anything so indelicate about the earl!”
The little circle thought with satisfaction of the kindly news they had spread far and wide. In fact, Sir Benjamin had gained quite a bit of fame in the past week due to having been actually present when the lovers met again. Tribble had a way with words, and his account of the countess’s white, imploring face and the way she pressed her trembling fingers to Patrick’s face was taken to be a most affecting account.
So, no matter how many times her mama protested th
at there was no truth to the report, and her friend Sophie York (“a bit wild herself,” those same unkind people might say) stoutly insisted that Charlotte had merely mistaken Patrick for her husband, by the end of the week all of London understood that Patrick had broken Charlotte’s heart by going off to the Orient without marrying her, and that she had married Alex only as second choice.
Charlotte didn’t know what to do. She was, quite simply, bewildered by the storm of scandal that had broken over her head without warning.
“I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” her mama said consolingly. She had come to say good-bye. The duke and duchess were taking a long-promised trip to America to visit their eldest daughter, Winifred, who had married a wealthy American.
“I hate to leave you at such a delicate time,” Adelaide said, “but the fact is, darling, that one simply cannot get through one’s life these days without at least one major scandal erupting out of nowhere. If I think of the things that were said about your father, for example, when we were young! Someone told me, quite seriously, that Marcel was on the verge of leaving me and running off to France with a young opera singer. And when I finally got up the courage to mention it to your father, he had no idea who this woman was! All he could say was ‘France? France? Deuced uncomfortable country!’
“The part that really bothers me is leaving you while you are enceinte” Adelaide said. “Pregnancy is such a tiresome business. Still, the baby is a perfect excuse for you to stay in the house, dearest, and rest. For goodness sake, don’t give anyone fodder for gossip. I’m afraid you will just have to wait and become acquainted with Patrick Foakes after your husband returns.”
Charlotte listened silently as this flurry of advice descended on her. “But Mama, he said he would wait on me this afternoon at four o’clock. I can’t send him a note telling him nay. It would be so impolite.”
Adelaide had the perfect solution. “Simply tell Patrick to send away his carriage, darling. His footmen can take the horses around the park and no one will be the wiser. But you mustn’t spend any time with him in public. That would be fatal.”
Charlotte looked at her mama’s serious expression and promised to avoid Patrick at all costs.
“Now we will just pray that some poor foolish soul decides to elope with her footman,” her mama said bracingly. “Because this kind of story—especially when there is nothing to keep the fire burning—always disappears within a matter of weeks. Why, in a year or so you can dance twice with Patrick and no one will even notice.” Then she hesitated. “Darling, was Patrick the man in the garden?”
“Oh, Mama, of course not!” Charlotte was disgusted. No one believed her, not her mother or her husband. “It was Alex, as I told you.”
Adelaide was without measure relieved. She had manfully hidden her worry from Charlotte, believing that anxiety was bad for pregnancy. But it made her feel ill to see just how close this whole scandal came to the truth. That was the worst of it. She was glad to be leaving for America, because she was not the best of liars and she was always afraid that people could guess when she told half-truths.
Finally Charlotte dutifully kissed her mama good-bye. Adelaide departed with a muddled lecture about pregnancy, birth, midwives, doctors, and wet nurses. Charlotte listened numbly. She still couldn’t believe she was having a child. There had been no sign, unless one included her fainting spell. She began to think that fainting must be a sign of pregnancy, because every time she rose too quickly she felt as if the room were spinning. But she didn’t want to see a doctor yet. Charlotte shuddered. She was perfectly healthy; she must simply remember to stay seated or risk making a fool of herself.
So that afternoon Charlotte smiled engagingly at her husband’s brother and waved him to a chair without getting up.
“You see,” she confided, “I, or rather Alex and I, are having a baby, and it seems to make me rather lightheaded.”
Patrick’s eyes cleared. He was relieved to hear that his brother hadn’t married a vaporish woman whose sensibilities were so fragile that she fainted constantly. Although he wouldn’t have blamed him, Patrick thought. Lord, but Alex had found a dark beauty.
“Alex will be pleased.” Patrick grinned. “He always wanted a large family. I used to twit him about it because it didn’t seem to fit with his …” Patrick trailed off. He had forgotten that one didn’t make jokes about one’s brother’s propensity for wild starts in front of his new bride. Let alone acknowledge that Alex once thought family life was pretty flat.
But Charlotte heard only confirmation of the fact that Alex wanted children. “Yes, it is splendid, isn’t it? He doesn’t know yet.”
“I won’t tell him. What the devil is he doing over in Italy?” Patrick asked.
Charlotte swallowed. Alex said not to tell anyone, but surely he didn’t mean his own brother?
But Patrick continued without pause. “I know: winding up the affairs of that virago he married,” he said. He changed the subject politely, and they talked of his travels for a few minutes, but the atmosphere was strained.
Finally Patrick said bluntly, “I suppose you know the stories that are circulating about us.”
“Oh, no!” Charlotte cried, looking up suddenly. “I forgot to ask you to send away your horses!”
“Do you really think that’s necessary?” Patrick said, his brow darting up in a gesture of aristocratic disbelief that was so like Alex that Charlotte couldn’t help smiling.
“My mother thought it would be a good idea.”
“In that case I’ll send them off directly.”
Charlotte rang the doorbell but no butler appeared, only a rather flustered-looking housemaid.
“Don’t you have a butler?” Patrick inquired.
“I dismissed him, and the new one hasn’t arrived from Scotland yet. Molly, will you ask a footman to attend us, please?”
“Yes, my lady.” Molly dropped a curtsy. Then she hesitated.
“Molly?”
“Oh, my lady, there’s such an awful man outside! He says he’s from The Tatler, and we can’t get rid of him.”
“My goodness,” Charlotte said, startled. “Who exactly has tried to evict the man?”
“Well, there’s three footmen have been out to see him, but no one can stop him from lurking about the house and sneaking up to the windows.”
Patrick rose threateningly to his feet. “I’ll—”
“No, you certainly won’t!” Charlotte snapped. “You can’t be seen here at all. I suppose your coach is waiting for you in front?”
“I don’t know,” Patrick replied. “I had a fresh team this afternoon, so Derby may have taken them for a spin.”
“Molly, send a footman out to intercept Mr. Foakes’s carriage and send it off to Hyde Park.”
“No, no,” said Patrick, his deep voice amused. “He can tell Derby to go home and I’ll take a hackney later.”
Molly curtsied and left the room. There was a moment of silence. Then Patrick laughed ruefully.
“Do you know, I have never had an affair with a married woman? I begin to see that it must be remarkably uncomfortable.”
Charlotte chuckled. Now that she saw Patrick more clearly, she couldn’t believe she ever thought he was Alex. They were entirely different. Patrick looked as if he was always about to burst out laughing or say something whimsical. Whereas Alex … Charlotte thought longingly of Alex and the way he would grimace when she teased him for wearing his “brooding look.”
“London is dashed dull after India, anyway,” Patrick said frankly. “I thought I might go into Leicestershire and visit Braddon. I shall be off in the morning, and that ought to kill the gossip.” He looked disgusted. “All this devilish propriety! I never could abide it. Although I must say I never got up to as freakish an exploit as Alex did in Italy, and he always seems the sober one. Annulling his marriage!” Patrick had caught up on all the family gossip the night before, and he was feeling rather refreshed at the thought of his somber twin getting himself
into such a bumble broth.
Charlotte blushed faintly. She felt a bit diffident about the subject of Alex’s first wife.
“Anyway, how the deuce am I to get out of here?” Patrick demanded. “I’m very pleased to have met you, but unless I’m to spend the night I need to find a back door, or some such.”
Charlotte had been thinking this over. “The problem is that you’re so very tall,” she said, dismissing the idea of disguising her brother-in-law in a maid’s dress. She had read a novel in which that worked, but somehow it didn’t seem very likely in reality.
“I’ll just wait until the cove outside lopes off.”
“The cove outside lopes—off?” Charlotte repeated in a bewildered tone.
Patrick gave her an irrepressible grin. “I’ll attend your ladyship until that gentleman who is creeping about your house gives up and goes to find his dinner.”
“Oh. Is that Indian slang?”
“No! It’s flash talk, from the streets behind your house,” Patrick said with asperity. He had forgotten how sheltered English women were. The well-bred ones, at least.
“Oh,” Charlotte repeated. There was a knock and Molly entered again. Charlotte looked up thankfully. Patrick made her feel muddleheaded and tired. It must be the baby, she thought.
“This arrived for you, my lady.” Molly held out a somewhat worn envelope. “I thought, under the circumstances, that you would like to see it directly.”
“Thank you, Molly,” Charlotte said, taking the envelope. She knew instantly it was a letter from Alex. It was quite brief.
Dearest Charlotte, it read. I dislike writing letters, so this will be quite short. I’m afraid we have run into more problems than we anticipated. While Lucien’s business is completed, I have yet to acquire the merchandise I told you of, as it was not available in Paris. It will take a while to arrange the transfer, but then I shall be coming home.
At the bottom, written in a less formal, sprawling hand, Alex had written Beloved. And then, Alex. Charlotte stared at the letter in disbelief. This was it? An obscurely phrased note about merchandise from Paris? He must have been afraid that the letter would be intercepted, she thought. Well—but “beloved”? That must mean her. She felt a warm glow creeping over her. This was even better than Alex saying that he loved being married to her. “Beloved” is close to “I love you,” she thought. Then she realized the room had been silent for several long moments. She looked up and blushed.