Patrick sighed. He hadn’t been able to get any sense out of his twin since Alex grasped the fact that his brother not only had no part in his wife’s pregnancy, he hardly knew the woman.
“Charlotte is not going anywhere! She’s pregnant. Pregnant women don’t travel.” Patrick vested his voice with a deep layer of authority, dismissing his memory of pregnant women trundling happily up and down the roads of India. “Think of mother. Don’t you remember when she was pregnant? She went to bed for months.”
It was an unhappy thought, one that drained the last bit of color from Alex’s face.
“My God,” Alex whispered. “What if she’s like mother, what if she dies, Patrick?”
“Charlotte is a sensible woman, Alex. She wouldn’t endanger the life of her child. She will be sitting in Downes Manor waiting for you when you get back. I’m not saying that she won’t take your head off. But she won’t risk the child’s life to run away.”
Alex blinked. That was the first argument he’d heard that made sense. Maybe he was wrong in his deep conviction that Charlotte was, even now, riding away from him on some road. That he would never see her again. She wouldn’t endanger the babe, that was true.
Patrick sensed his victory and grabbed Alex’s bridle again, forcing his horse to walk off toward Buffington.
“We’ll be up at dawn. Even if she did decide to travel to Scotland—and mind you, I think the chance is exceedingly slim—she necessarily will go very slowly. We won’t have any trouble catching up with her.”
Alex didn’t respond, just nodded. They plodded their way into the Queen’s Ankle, Buffington’s best inn, ate squirrel stew (the only food available), and fell into the two beds that graced the innkeeper’s sole spare room.
“Lord,” Patrick said crossly. “When do you suppose that fat ass downstairs last had the straw turned in this damned mattress?”
Alex didn’t bother to respond. He was staring up at the uneven planks above him, wondering where his life went wrong. What led him to suspect Charlotte of adultery? His mind kept replaying the scene in the little summer house, as if to torture himself. Charlotte would rise, a tremendous sweetness trembling in her eyes and mouth, and then … he would reject her. When he finally spoke, his voice was harsh and grating.
“If she’s gone, I don’t know what I’ll do, Patrick.”
Patrick rolled his eyes in the darkness, thanking his lucky stars for never having been touched by the tender emotion called love.
“She’s not going anywhere, Alex. For God’s sake.” They fell silent.
Given Alex’s punishing speed, it took only two days to return to Downes Manor. The minute they entered the drive Patrick’s heart sank. Alex was right. The house had an odd, eerie stillness.
Alex dropped Bucephalus’s reins right there, in the drive, and charged through the front door. It wasn’t locked and a startled footman leaped out of the library as the door slammed open.
“My lord!”
“Where’s my wife?” Alex bellowed.
The footman’s eyes were glued to the floor. “I couldn’t say, my lord … that is, I have no idea,” he stammered.
Patrick strolled forward, opening a door and looking into a salon to the left. Behind him Alex reduced the footman to quivering jelly. The footman appeared to be suggesting that the countess had proceeded to Scotland.
Patrick turned around, asking mildly, “Where’s your butler, Alex?”
“The butler! Where’s the butler?” Alex added a string of expletives.
“You don’t have one in this house, my lord,” the footman said with some dignity. “My lady had interviewed several candidates and I believe she was about to appoint a butler, but you returned….” His voice trailed off.
Patrick noticed with interest that although the man was clearly unnerved by Alex’s shouting, he showed no signs of being cowed. In fact, when he raised his eyes to Alex’s face, surely he looked—could he be contemptuous?
Patrick intervened again. “Did the countess take her maid with her?”
The footman shifted his eyes to the floor once again. “Yes.”
“Was anyone else traveling in the party?” When the footman hesitated, Patrick added, “Your loyalty to your mistress is—”
But his sentence was broken off by Alex.
“Of course! Sophie York was here. They must have gone to her mother.”
“I doubt it.”
“Why the hell not?” Alex turned his burning eyes on Patrick.
“Because the Marchioness of Brandenburg would never admit your wife into her house,” Patrick said. “Charlotte has been branded a whore the length and breadth of England. I am very surprised to hear that Sophie York was allowed to visit at all.”
“Was Charlotte that scorned?”
“I would be surprised if anyone would speak to her at all,” Patrick said gently. “I’m sorry, Alex. There was nothing I could do; I stayed as far away as I could. If I had even been seen in her vicinity, it could only further ruin her reputation.”
“But Sophie York was here when I returned.”
“She looked like the loyal type,” Patrick said. He remembered very well the clear, fierce eyes of the girl who had caught Alex’s wife when she fainted at the musicale. Sophie looked at him with such condemnation that her eyes actually haunted him for a few days, until he shook off the memory by chasing and winning Arabella Calhoun, the much-admired singer at the Theatre Royal.
Damnation, Patrick thought with a start. I left Arabella back at Braddon’s house. It was the first time she had crossed his mind since Alex appeared in the doorway of the library. Then he dismissed her with a mental shrug. Bella would always land on her feet.
“Oh, God,” Alex said. His words dropped into the silence filling the hall.
Cecil, the footman in question, nervously cast his eyes at the floor. It sounded as if the earl was sorry for all the problems he caused; it sounded as if the madness was over. Cecil thought nervously of Marie’s whispered analysis. She had said that the earl was the only one who could stop the scandal and allow her mistress to return to society. So should he, Cecil, reveal his mistress’s whereabouts?
Patrick shot a sharp glance at the footman. That man knew where Charlotte had gone, that was certain. But Patrick judged that if he pushed him the servant might become obstinate out of pure loyalty.
“Time for dinner,” he said to the footman. “Is there a chef in the house?”
Cecil nodded. “Oh, yes, my lord, the countess hired a chef immediately. He’s been here for months. His name is Rossi. He’s Italian. The countess—” He looked at his master. “The countess felt that the earl might appreciate Italian food after his sojourn in Italy.”
“Oh, God,” Alex repeated.
“You’re starting to sound like a bronze gong,” Patrick said cheerfully. He pushed open the door to the salon.
“Bring us some drinks, will you? What is your name?”
“Cecil, sir.”
“Well, Cecil, you’re the butler-in-charge. I’d like some whiskey, and so would my brother.”
As the doors swung to behind the gentlemen, Cecil swallowed nervously. Had he done the right thing, keeping it secret that he knew where the countess had gone? No one else in the household knew. They all thought she had set off for Scotland. But of course Marie had told him the truth, that the party was heading for Wales.
Then Cecil trotted off, shelving the problem for the moment. Rossi might be Italian, rather than French, but he was just as temperamental as the French chef in London. He’d need to be warned as soon as possible that he was required to produce a proper seven-course dinner.
In the salon Alex slumped on a couch, staring straight ahead. Patrick wandered around the room, picking up small objects and looking at them absentmindedly.
“This room looks different,” he said.
Alex didn’t look up. “I need to find out when she left,” he said dully. “Do you think she went to Scotland?”
Pat
rick didn’t bother to answer. He had the full intention of screwing the whole truth out of that footman—but not until after dinner. If he knew Alex, his brother would insist on riding off for parts unknown before dinner. Patrick was sick of galloping down dangerous roads at night, vulnerable to highwaymen and God knows what else. Maybe he wouldn’t approach the footman until tomorrow morning.
“Were you responsible for refurbishing the house, or was Charlotte?” he asked, with an air of mild curiosity.
“I haven’t entered the house since before father died.”
“Your wife has an eye for color.”
“She’s a painter.”
“Hmmm,” Patrick responded.
“She’s a real painter,” Alex barked. “She paints portraits, and they’re brilliant. She said she might paint me….” He lapsed into silence again.
Patrick was examining a painting on the wall, with some interest.
“Not that,” Alex said irritably. “That’s a Titian. I feel as if someone threw a black sack over my head and is slowly choking me.”
Patrick came back to the couch and sat down in the opposite corner from his brother, stretching out his long, muscular legs. He threw his head back and looked up at the ceiling. Charlotte had had its peeling, faint decoration restored; the ceiling bristled with lazy-looking noblemen and their ladies, picnicking by an elaborately winding stream.
“Why did you do it, Alex? I met Charlotte only twice, but I would have judged her effortlessly honest and true as steel. More, she loved you,” he said ruthlessly. “I felt sorry for her, suffering through an obscene scandal that broke out over nothing, but I never thought that you would subscribe to it.”
“When I left for Italy she told me she had her monthly flux,” Alex replied. “I found she wasn’t a virgin on our wedding night, but she told me that she had lost her virginity to me. I knew that wasn’t true, so I decided she must have lost her virginity to you. Then when I returned, I heard about her fainting when you appeared, and there she was, pregnant.”
“You’re a fool,” Patrick said, not unkindly. “Have you remembered when you slept with her?”
“You’ve met Charlotte, Patrick. Do you think you could forget taking her virginity?”
“You should give it serious thought. She’s not a liar.”
“Well, what about you?”
“As it happens, virgins have been few and far between in my life. I tend to give ’em a wide berth. I deflowered one woman, and she was an Indian maiden on the banks of the Ganges River. It’s a nice memory, but irrelevant.”
“We’re even. I too slept with one virgin, but she had red hair, and it took place at the Cyprians’ Ball.”
Patrick thought about the implication that his sister-in-law had attended a Cyprians’ Ball. He opened his mouth—but then he closed it again. He was tired and hungry and didn’t feel like wrangling over details with Alex. Once they tracked his wife down they could sort out the particulars.
There was a discreet knock and the door swung open. Cecil stood there, blinking nervously. He held a silver platter in one hand but said nothing.
“How on earth did you get the name Cecil?” Patrick asked with a touch of malice. “Did your mother have delusions of grandeur?”
Cecil shook his head from side to side. “She admired the nobility,” he said briefly. He advanced into the room and bowed before Alex. “A message has arrived for you, my lord.”
Alex snatched the white envelope off the silver salver, almost tearing it in half in his eagerness to open the letter.
“My God,” he said. “It’s from her, Sophie York. They’re in Wales. She says”—and his voice strengthened with indignation—”that if I would like to attend the birth of my child I should make haste.”
“You deserve it.” Patrick eyed the footman, who was looking distinctly relieved. “Off with you,” he said curtly. “You had a lucky escape.”
Cecil bowed his way out of the room, agreeing with younger Foakes with all his heart.
Patrick was feeling distinctly sour. He could see dinner disappearing from before his eyes. Sure enough, Alex had already bounded out of the room and started howling for his horse. Patrick dragged himself out of the comfortable couch, throwing a last look at the happy ladies frolicking about on the ceiling. Taking Alex’s punishing speed into account, it would take them two days to get to Wales. Two more days before he could have a decent meal. In the hall he pulled on his greatcoat and strolled out the door slowly, just to annoy his brother, who was already mounted on a nervous steed. With a sigh Patrick leaped on top of a fresh horse, loosed the rein, and pounded after his brother down the dark, tree-lined drive.
Chapter 22
Charlotte’s voice rose to a shriek. “No! No! No!” She hunched over, protecting her huge belly. “He’s here only to take my baby! Make him leave—” Her voice broke off as she stumbled against the bedpost, swallowed into a great slashing wave of pain. The room was silent except for Charlotte’s harsh pants.
Alex stared at his wife in horror. Had he been blind? She was wearing a light shift, drenched with perspiration. The swollen outline of her belly was clearly visible. She was bigger than the woman he saw give birth in Italy, he thought with a pulse of alarm. The baby must be enormous.
A hand grasped his arm. “My lord, you must leave this room,” said a courteous voice at his ear. Alex swung about wildly. A doctor was standing before him, looking at him gravely but with an unmistakable air of command.
“You’re very young,” Alex said.
“You must leave this room now,” Dr. Seedland said. “Your wife’s birth is proceeding well, for a first baby. But she cannot lose strength arguing with you. The child is large.”
“Please … please make him go away!”
Alex looked back at Charlotte. She had been clinging to the bedpost, but she pulled herself up. Her hair was roughly pulled back from her face; her eyes were enormous and black. Oh, my God, she’s in pain, Alex thought. He felt such a wave of tenderness that he instinctively started toward her. But the doctor’s arm tightened on his like a vise.
“Out,” he said. “You must not remain here.”
“Go away,” Charlotte said pleadingly. Her pupils were so dilated that her eyes looked like black pools. “Please, please, go away.” She broke down and started weeping.
“My lady.” The doctor turned around, frustrated. “You must not waste strength like this!”
Sophie wrapped her arms around Charlotte’s shaking shoulders and met Alex’s eyes with a silent order. Slowly he backed out the door, even as he heard Sophie’s soothing words.
“It’s all right, darling. I won’t let him take your baby. I’m here.”
And, as the door swung to, he heard a wailing scream. Charlotte had been hit by another contraction.
Alex stood outside the door, struck to the core with the enormity of his own idiocy. His wife—his wife!—was delivering his child, and she had looked at him with utter terror. His heart wrenched with grief and self-loathing. It would be better if he just went out and shot himself.
But at that moment Patrick’s strong arms circled around him in a rough, unaccustomed hug. They stood for a moment, two large, powerful men. In the twilight of the corridor they looked uncannily identical. The silence was broken by a shuddering scream, and another, and another, arching above the murmur of voices in Charlotte’s bedroom.
The doctor’s voice rose above the rest. “My lady, you must stop screaming and conserve your strength. Lower your voice!”
Alex struggled in Patrick’s arms. “My God, he’s yelling at her. I’ll kill him!” he said through clenched teeth.
Patrick gripped his hands on Alex’s shoulders. “Have you seen a woman give birth before?”
“It was different,” Alex said fiercely. “She just lay down and there was the baby … blood, but then she had a glass of wine, and the baby started sucking.”
“Probably the fifth or sixth baby,” Patrick said. “You know that wome
n die in childbirth, Alex. Think of mother. It happens all the time, and most frequently with the first baby. Charlotte has to conserve her strength. The doctor is right. I saw a woman die, in India. She simply didn’t have the strength after a while.”
Alex pushed out of his brother’s embrace and leaned against the corridor wall, shuddering all over. There was silence in the bedroom. Then the horrible cries erupted again.
Patrick gave him a little shake. “I’m going to take your daughter into the village and leave her with the vicar’s wife,” he said. “Charlotte can be heard all over the house.” He strode away.
Alex leaned against the wall without replying. By two hours later he was praying, fiercely, promising anything and everything he owned. Charlotte had stopped screaming, but he didn’t know whether that was bad or good. It didn’t sound good. The contractions were still coming, but all he heard were whimpers and harsh, groaning breathing.
He couldn’t even think, caught in the grip of an agonized grief so large that he felt black water closing over his head. Charlotte was his heart and his soul. She was being tortured in the next room and he couldn’t even hold her in his arms because he had made her too afraid of him.
The hours crept by. Patrick brought him a slice of meat and a glass of wine, which lay untouched on a tray. He brought a couple of chairs and sat down next to Alex, a silent, comforting presence. Alex couldn’t bring himself to sit down. He stayed propped against the wall.
Then Sophie’s voice came through the heavy oak door, sounding desperate.
“Charlotte! Charlotte! You must not give up! Wake up, wake up!”
There was an agitated murmur of voices. Alex straightened. The doctor could go to hell. He was going in there. He opened the door. The little cluster of people didn’t even look up. Charlotte was on the bed now. She was naked, her belly swelling from her slender body. A pulse of pure terror struck Alex’s heart. He could just glimpse her face and it had the look of death. She’s going to die, he thought. She’s going to die. My lovely, lovely Charlotte is going to die.