Chapter 26
When Charlotte reached her suite of rooms, she paused in an attempt to let her head clear. She’d had to walk very carefully from the staircase to the door because the floor kept tilting at an alarming angle. No wonder men drank to forget their sorrows. They had to concentrate too hard on doing everything else to think about them. She leaned against the door, pushed down the latch, and slid into her sitting room.
The blazing fireplace created an inviting cocoon of warmth. Charlotte staggered to the nearest chair and slumped into it. Apparently she had not drunk enough yet. She still remembered her house party had perhaps led to the ruin of a young woman. She glanced at the small table that held a decanter and two glasses. It had remained untouched in her suite because she had placed it there, hoping to offer it eventually to a male companion.
Charlotte sighed and leaned her head against the back of the chair. She’d had no thought her idea to host a weekend party would result in such an unfortunate turn of events. True, she had assumed most of her guests would eventually find their way into bed together. And of course widows should know all the dangers of such liaisons. But the possible consequences hadn’t crossed her mind. Until now. How stupid of her. First, an unfulfilled wife and now a bad hostess.
She stared at the amber liquid in the decanter that seemed to glow in the firelight. Perhaps a small amount more would be enough to push those thoughts out of her head. Trying to summon the energy to move, she lay back, allowing the question she had been avoiding to come to the forefront of her mind.
Who had fathered Maria’s baby?
The guest list from her first weekend party danced tantalizingly clearly in her otherwise foggy brain. Brack, Fernley, Sinclair, Kersey, and Nash. She closed her eyes and concentrated on each man and his actions as she remembered them. Any one of them could be the culprit.
Lord Brack had seemed devoted to Elizabeth. They had spent a good deal of time together over the course of the five days. In her judgement, he had appeared not at all interested in Maria. Hadn’t Georgie also informed her that her brother had gone from Kent to Brighton in August, not to London? Very well, then, one less candidate on the list.
Fernley was a top contender, even though he had seemed ill-suited to the company. Still, as an eligible parti, his enticements might have tempted Maria to succumb to his dubious charms. He possessed a title and enough wealth to be persuasive. If she had invited the little weasel, she could bring him up to scratch in no time. The image of Nash pitching the unfortunate Fernley into the rosebushes popped into her head and she laughed.
From the midst of her befuddled brain, Jane’s earlier words surfaced: “She says you invited him here this weekend.”
Maria had asked who would be attending before she had declined her invitation. Charlotte had written her and enclosed the guest list. So the girl knew Fernley would not be here. He could not be Maria’s seducer. A relief in one way—Charlotte would not have the poor girl saddled with Lord Fernley for life. A distressing circumstance in another way as now there remained only three gentlemen who might have fathered the child. Sinclair, Kersey, and Nash. Unwelcome possibilities all.
Charlotte rolled her head back and forth against the chair until the room began to spin. With an effort she sat up and focused on the decanter. She would need another libation if she decided to continue her line of reasoning. The outcome seemed bleak at best. She tottered up onto her feet, lurched to the table, and managed to pour a glass of brandy, only half full by the time she’d finished sloshing the liquid around and sat back down. Just as well. The spirits needed to slow her thoughts, not render her insensible. Thank goodness carpets could be cleaned.
The fire of the liquid exploded in her stomach, seeming to radiate outward at an alarming rate.
“Is it getting hot in here?” she said to the empty room. Rose had not come to assist her into her nightgown yet and her clothing had begun to suffocate her. She must ring for her maid.
Drink in hand, Charlotte made her way into her bedroom. The fire here did not burn so intensely, rendering the air a touch cooler. She rang for Rose, then flopped onto the blue brocade coverlet, holding the tumbler out from her in an effort to avoid spilling any more. She closed her eyes and her body sank almost out of existence.
“My lady!”
Rose’s indignant and loud voice jolted Charlotte back into herself. She sat up abruptly, spilling brandy onto her gown.
“Drat.” Charlotte handed the drink to Rose and tried to wipe at the stain with her hand.
“My lady, what are you doing?” Rose set the glass on the nightstand, then peered at her mistress. Mouth set in stern lines and a frown deepening her eyebrows, the woman tsk-tsked until she had stripped Charlotte completely.
Charlotte lay back once more, luxuriating in the soft coverlet cool against her naked skin. Nash should see her like this. She doubted he’d be able to resist her then, wedding vows or not.
Rose pulled her into a sitting position, drew a plain white nightgown over her head, and sighed. “I’m sure I don’t know why you’ve gotten yourself in this state, my lady. You’ve never been one to hold with strong drink.” Rose maneuvered Charlotte under the covers.
“Well, I’m holding it now.” Charlotte reached for the glass on the table and slid dangerously close to falling out of bed.
“Not well, you’re not. What has gotten into you?” Rose removed the tumbler to the mantel.
“It’s not what’s gotten into me, Rose, it’s what’s gotten into . . .” From somewhere deep inside, caution about gossip with servants surfaced. “Never mind. My head aches.” She put her hand to her head where a nagging little pain had begun.
“You’ll feel worse tomorrow, if I may say so, my lady.”
Charlotte shook her head and winced. “I believe you may be right, Rose. So let me be until morning. You may come in and pick up the pieces then. But for the love of God, do not disturb me tonight.”
Rose sniffed, picked up Charlotte’s clothing, and carried it to her dressing room. After an inordinate amount of time, she reemerged. “Everything is put to rights, my lady. I’ll see to you in the morning. Sleep if you can.”
The maid returned to the bed and slid a chamber pot under it within easy reach. “In case you come on sick during the night.” With a final puzzled shake of her head, she left Charlotte alone with the quiet of the cozy room.
Blessed silence reigned. So quiet in fact, Charlotte caught herself nodding off.
That would never do. It was much too early to go to sleep. She struggled to sit up in the bed. She needed something to occupy her. Another drink would taste fine about now. But the glass sat all the way over on the mantel. She could make it there, of course, or to the table with the decanter, although both seemed very far away. Drat Rose!
There must be something else to keep her occupied. What had she been thinking about earlier? Nash? No; well, maybe. Alan? Yes. She’d been puzzling over the identity of Maria’s lover. Three possible men left: Sinclair, Alan, and Nash. None of them a name to relish. Charlotte hated to think that Sinclair had been toying with Maria while wooing her cousin. He had invited both of them to his estate after the last party, so he had been much in company with them both.
However, Jane had told her that Sinclair had stayed in Suffolk instead of accompanying her and Maria back to London. And of course, Lord Sinclair had not been invited to this weekend’s party. With a sigh of contentment, Charlotte snuggled down into the covers. Only two contenders left.
Oh, no. She came wide awake. Those two were the last men she’d hoped it would be. Alan’s reputation alone, however, lent itself to persuading her that he could have done such a thing. Yet, had he had the opportunity? He’d left in the middle of the night the first night of the party. When she saw him, he had been fully dressed and ready to leave. She doubted he’d had time or inclination for a tryst that night or he’d have come to her.
Which left only Nash. Charlotte put her hands over her face, trying to rub away the thought of Nash and Maria. The pieces fit together all too well if one had the wits to look at them properly. Nash wanted a wife. He had spent time with Maria that first weekend and, after Charlotte’s refusal, had taken her to bed.
She shook her head. That couldn’t be right. If he wouldn’t take her to his bed without marriage, why take Maria? If he wanted to marry the girl, why would she be so upset? Did she not want to marry Nash? Was she in love with another man and merely waiting to see if she was increasing before giving Nash an answer?
The room spun and her head ached. Her stomach gave a sickening lurch. That last thought came dangerously close to sounding plausible. Suddenly, the tumbler didn’t seem so far away.
She threw back the covers and slid to the ground. Another brandy would help relax her again. Make her forget Nash. Walking carefully, she tottered to the mantelpiece. On the second try, she grasped the glass, then wove her way back to the decanter and added more golden liquid with an unsteady hand.
That should hold her until she fell asleep. She peered at the window. Quite dark out there. It must be time to sleep. She sipped and slid back toward her bed. Well, if Nash had fallen in love with Maria, she would wish them happy. Although really she didn’t. She still wanted Nash. Oh, drat. She did still want Nash. A watery little sob escaped her. Charlotte took another drink, only to find the glass empty. When had she drunk all of that? She put the glass on the bedside table, where it immediately toppled over, the crash almost deafening. The last amber drops spilled onto the table.
Charlotte winced and slithered beneath the covers. She closed her eyes and willed the room to stop spinning. The warmth of the fire, the afterglow of the brandy, and her own fatigue finally calmed her. As the spin decreased, lethargy stole over her. Softness enveloped her and she drifted down . . . down . . .
* * *
Charlotte rose toward consciousness, roused by a tickling on her neck. Someone with a stubble of whiskers was kissing her there. Eyes still closed, she smiled and stretched, enjoying the prickly sensation. It sent pleasant gooseflesh all over her. And made her long for more. If only Nash would not tease her so.
She opened her mouth to ask him to reconsider his verdict, but before a word could emerge, his lips covered hers and he slipped his tongue through them to play once more within her. Charlotte sighed and slid her arms around his shoulders, pulling him down to her. She drew in a deep breath through her nose.
The overpowering scent of bergamot filled her nostrils. Her eyes flew open.
Alan.
She reared back against the pillows, trying to disentangle herself from him.
He opened his eyes, then slowly withdrew from her, his tongue lingering in her mouth until the end. He sat up and grinned at her.
“Did I end a particularly pleasant dream? You were smiling in your sleep, so sweetly I couldn’t resist.” He ran his thumb over her lips. “I wanted that smile to be for me alone.”
Charlotte stared back at him, panting, desperately afraid he would know who she had been dreaming of. When he continued to stroke her face and gaze at her with darkened eyes, she relaxed. Thank goodness he thought she’d been dreaming of him.
He leaned toward her and she reared back on the pillow, trying to get away. He’d apparently come with a purpose in mind. But why had he come? She’d told him . . .
Too much drink.
She hadn’t been able to talk to him before dinner. Maria had come instead and she’d drunk too much spirits. He thought she still wanted him.
Needed to tell him. Go away. But she could barely move. Her arms fell from around his shoulders, like weights, onto the bed. Worse, she had to fight to keep her eyes open.
“You’ve been indulging already, Charlotte?” He righted the overturned tumbler, then sniffed the glass and raised an eyebrow. “Brandy? Did you feel the need to fortify yourself against me and my charms, perhaps?” He chuckled, eyeing the glass thoughtfully. “Well, I believe I can understand that. We’ve flirted and danced around this long enough. It’s time I made good on my wager.” He set the tumbler down with a thump that startled her. “I can certainly use a bit of cash now.”
Wager? What was he talking about? Charlotte tried to ask the question, but her mouth had gone dry as cotton.
“I’ve had a standing wager at White’s about you since June, my dear.” He grinned, and she tried to shrink away from his large red lips. “The chaps have been laying a flutter on when I would make it into your bed. The betting’s gone sky high on this weekend, so I need to do my duty. Don’t be nervous. I’ll make sure you enjoy yourself.”
How dare he do something as despicable as bet on her? The wretch! She tried to push him away, but her arms were heavy, as if her bones had turned to lead. The room started to spin again.
“Shall I undress you, my lovely, and ravish you on the spot?” His breath seared her neck, sending chills down her body. He trailed his tongue over her jaw to a spot where her pulse leaped at his touch. Pressing his lips against her skin, he sucked her flesh lightly.
“No.” Charlotte finally found her voice, although it came out sounding like a sick frog.
The guttural sound seemed to excite him even more. His eyes burned into her, his mouth leering. “You don’t mean that.”
“No, no, no.” Maybe if he heard it enough he’d believe it, the conceited wretch.
To her horror, instead of stopping him, her protests spurred him on. He swept the covers away and climbed on top of her, pressing her into the soft mattress. With one hand he pulled her nightgown off her shoulder, then deftly unbuttoned his fall.
Curse the wretch. She couldn’t even struggle properly. Too tired, too dizzy.
He set his mouth at the base of her neck, then nuzzled and kissed his way down until he skimmed the top of her breasts.
“Nooo.” Her voice wouldn’t cooperate. The thin, reedy sound wouldn’t carry through the door.
Another nudge of his finger and her breast popped free of her nightgown. She flushed from head to toe, wanting to die of shame.
“No.” Her voice was stronger. “Alan, please stop—”
His lips cut off her protest as he thrust his tongue into her mouth.
She tossed her head, trying to dislodge him, but he pressed her harder into the pillow. Damn, she couldn’t breathe. Her head spun once more and darkness descended.
* * *
Nash banged his knee on the polished cherry sideboard in his hurry to pour a much needed after-dinner drink. He had almost cheered when Lady John had finally risen after an interminable dinner and shepherded the ladies to the drawing room. He’d bolted up out of his seat and headed to the sideboard, splashing a tumbler half full of cognac. Damned fine cognac, he concluded after the first swallow. Charlotte had elevated her store after the last party.
His sour mood stemmed mainly from Charlotte’s absence. Jane had made her excuses, but Nash thought something else must be afoot. Her cousin had smiled too broadly and her hands had shaken ever so slightly while telling them of Charlotte’s indisposition, a sudden megrim that she hoped would not impede the good spirits of the company tonight. Nash had watched her during dinner; Lady John had eaten no more than he had.
He’d bet his fortune this somehow had to do with that scoundrel Kersey. The man had managed to insert himself into the company again, according to Charlotte. He had to be up to something.
Brack joined him at the sideboard, asking about the situation with the robber gang. He told him as much as he deemed safe. Not that he suspected Brack, of course, but one couldn’t be too careful. Pouring another libation, he glanced around the dining room. Lord Kersey was gone.
“Did Kersey go to the necessary?” he asked Brack, giving the question an air of nonchalance. “He promised to tell me where I could get a pair of matched grays.”
Brack glanced around and shrugged. “I didn’t notice him leave, but I’m sure he won’t be gone long.”
The hairs on the back of Nash’s neck pricked up. In the past, he’d listened to the little voice in his head that accompanied that sensation. It had always served him well. He set his glass down. “Excuse me, Brack. I’ll be back shortly.” He hurried out of the room and into the hallway.
He could look in the necessary, but something told him Kersey had other business on his mind. Nash started up the main staircase. He had no idea where Charlotte’s chamber was, and no evidence that Kersey had gone there. The rake could have simply gone to his own bedroom to attend to his toilette.
Disregarding any qualms, he pressed onward. On the second floor he eased down the corridor on his left with closed doors on either side, his ear cocked for any unusual sounds. He reached the end and had just turned back toward the staircase when muffled voices behind the second door caught his attention.
Braced in the doorway, his ear plastered against the door, he made out a low, deep voice. Then a woman’s shrill one.
“No. Alan, please stop—”
Blood hurtled through his body like he’d heard a battle cry. A coppery taste flooded his mouth. He grabbed the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. He backed up two steps and kicked the door. It blew inward and rebounded against the wall.
Nash surged in.
Lord Kersey, straddling Charlotte’s limp body, raised his head.
A red haze clouded Nash’s vision as he grabbed the blackguard’s throat and heaved.
“Gawp.” Kersey managed the single sound as he flew backward off the end of the mattress.
Nash rounded the bed and dragged the man up from the floor by the front of his disheveled shirt. “When a lady says no, Kersey, a gentleman retreats.” Nash reared his arm back. “I suppose that means you’re no gentleman.” He let fly and his fist crashed into Kersey’s nose with a satisfying crunch. Blood spurted over his snowy white shirt, soaking him in a warm shower.
“Waid . . . I cad exsplain.” The rake struggled to speak and breathe at the same time.
“Tell someone who gives a damn.” Nash hauled off and pounded him again, giving him two quick punches to his eye and cheek. He grabbed the miserable wretch by his shoulders, swung him around the end of the bed, and launched him into the door. Kersey’s back hit flat with a bang that rattled the mirror on the wall. He bounced off and fell face first on the floor.
Nash glanced at Charlotte, lying with eyes closed on the bed, her legs and breasts exposed. With a growl he flipped the coverlet over her. “Charlotte? Charlotte!” He shook her shoulders, his gaze intent on her face. Had the bastard strangled her?
She moaned and frowned but didn’t open her eyes.
At least she wasn’t dead, thank God.
He turned his attention back to the man groaning on the floor. Nash opened the door, grasped Kersey by the seat of his breeches and the back of his shirt, and threw him out into the corridor, where he slammed into a table across the hall. An ornate vase of flowers crashed to the floor, showering the earl with water, glass, and pink blooms.
Nash grabbed Kersey’s shirt again and dragged the man toward the staircase. Much as he’d love to kill him, he’d probably swing for it, even though the rakehell deserved it more than anyone currently in Newgate. Poised at the top of the staircase, Nash pushed Kersey down the stairs. Before he’d rolled halfway down, a crowd of men had gathered at the end of the stairs. By the time Kersey hit the floor, the ladies had joined them. Nash followed him down.
“What’s going on, Wrotham?” Lord Brack peered at Lord Kersey’s blood-streaked face.
“Oh, dear Lord.” Lady John, Georgie, and the rest of the ladies crowded around. “What has happened to Lord Kersey?”
“Jane, shall I send for Mr. Putnam?” Georgie offered, backing away, her face pale.
“Is he conscious?” Fanny asked.
Brack shook the downed man’s shoulder and Kersey groaned. “He’s alive, at least. Give me a hand, Rob.” Brack and St. Just lifted Kersey, whose head lolled and knees buckled. “Why have you beaten him to a pulp, Wrotham?”
“Lord Kersey . . .” Nash paused, unsure what lie to tell. He certainly couldn’t tell the truth. “Let us say, Lord Kersey insulted me in a manner I will take from no man. As dueling is no longer in fashion, I sought satisfaction another way. Fisk.”
The butler appeared magically. “Yes, my lord?”
“Have Lord Kersey’s carriage brought around. Inform his man that his lordship has decided to return to London and needs his things packed forthwith.” Nash flexed his hand, his knuckles suddenly smarting.
“Yes, my lord.” Fisk motioned to a footman and headed up stairs.
Keeping an eye on Kersey, who seemed to be coming around, Nash sidled over to Jane. “Can you send Rose to Charlotte? She is in need of assistance.”
Jane’s eyebrows shot halfway up her forehead. “Is that what this is about?” She turned toward Kersey, and Nash had to grab her arm to keep her from flying at him.
“We don’t want to bring Charlotte’s name into this,” he whispered to her. “Think of some excuse to go upstairs, other than to look in on her, then send her maid to her.”
“I can go see about Maria. She was distraught earlier—”
“Alan!” The shrill voice of Maria Wickley pierced the hall.
Nash jerked his gaze to the staircase, where the little widow was running down the steps, clad in a blue dressing gown, her dark plait bouncing on her shoulder.
She ran to Kersey and threw her arms around him. “Alan, who did this to you?”
Kersey groaned, his eyes and nose now puffy and turning dark. “Rutam.”
Mrs. Wickley whirled toward him, hands on hips, fire in her eyes. “How dare you lay hands on him? He is an earl, a peer. You had no right to touch him.”
“Mrs. Wickley—”
“Don’t you dare speak to me. Get away from him.” She started toward Nash, hand drawn back.
Nash could only stare at her. It was like being attacked by a hummingbird.
Jane grabbed her just before she swung at Nash, pulling her away from the group of onlookers. “Maria, dear, what are you doing? Here, come with me—”
“No. I must tend to Alan.” She jerked her arm out of Jane’s hand and ran back to Kersey’s side. She looked into his face, tentatively touched beneath his eye.
He flinched and she jumped, then burst into tears.
Jane went forward. “Here, my dear.” She thrust a handkerchief into Maria’s hand. “Let me send for some water. Bring him into the small reception room while we await the carriage.” She led the way, her arm around Maria’s shoulders, Kersey following assisted by Brack and St. Just.
While the others were distracted, Nash took the opportunity to run back up the stairs. He stopped a maid in the process of turning down beds and sent for Rose. He wanted to go to Charlotte himself, to make sure she was well, or as well as possible given the scene he’d interrupted, but he’d probably just make matters worse. He dragged his mind back to the business at hand and returned downstairs.
Kersey and Maria were again in the foyer, the front door open.
“Please send my things after me,” Maria said, supporting Kersey as they made their way out the door.
“There was no dissuading her,” Jane remarked to Nash as they headed toward the drawing room. “She wouldn’t even change into proper attire. What the servants at Kersey’s London town house will think of her, I shudder to think.”
“She is infatuated with Kersey?”
“Something more serious than that, I suspect.” Jane shook her head. “I won’t talk out of turn, but I believe Maria will shortly become the next Countess of Kersey.”
“Then I pity her.” Nash clenched his fist, wishing he could pummel the cad again. “I sent for Charlotte’s maid. If you would look in on her as well, I would be grateful.”
“Of course. I’ll go now.” She stepped away from the doorway. “Will you wait for word of her?”
“I’ll be in the library.” He wanted to avoid questions from the rest of the company and God knew he could use a drink. He’d scarcely poured a good three fingers’ worth of whiskey when Jane appeared.
“She’s asleep. I believe she had a quantity of drink earlier.” Jane looked pointedly at the glass in his hand. “I didn’t try to waken her.”
He clenched his hand around the tumbler and downed the lot. Damn. He longed to know if he’d rescued her before Kersey had . . . He refused to finish the thought. Weariness hit like a wave crashing over him, drowning him with the aftereffects of the fight. Now all he wanted was his own bed and a dreamless night. “Then I’m for home. If you would please send me word in the morning, as soon as she is stirring.” He sighed, unwilling to say more. “To let me know how she fares.”
“I will, Nash. Thank you.” Jane raised herself on tiptoe to place a kiss on his cheek.
“Thank you, Jane.” He bowed, then turned on his heel and hurried to the entry hall to find Fisk and ask for his carriage. Worry over Charlotte would not abate until he had spoken to her himself, and even that interview might not put his heart at ease.