A Scandalous Publication (8 page)

He grinned, drawing her hand to his lips. “My dear Sophia, you haven’t changed a bit; you’re still horridly cruel to me. I’ve a good mind not to pay my respects.”

“You wouldn’t be so ungentlemanly.”

He looked fondly at her. “Well, well, after all these years…. I had no idea at all that you married George Wyndham. To tell the truth, I thought you’d married some high-up in the East India Company and had gone to live in Madras.”

“Good heavens,” she replied, “what a terrible thought! Still, our paths wouldn’t have crossed, would they, not when you had the poor taste to be related to the Earl of Barstow. How is the old wretch? His gout is making him suffer, I trust?”

“As much as ever.”

“Good.”

“You always were a heartless creature, Sophia.”

She smiled. “Oh, Henry, do say you can stay awhile, for we have so much to talk about.”

“Stay? I’d be honored.”

Charlotte left them to reminisce. Going up to her room, she took some sheets of paper and a pencil and settled down at the dressing table. She gazed at the blank paper for a moment before beginning to write the first sentence of her secret exposé of Max Talgarth.

It was a matter of conjecture what Max Talgarth would have said had he known about the odious
alter ego
Charlotte created for him over the next few weeks, but she doubted very much if he would have appreciated his other self. Rex Kylmerth was too obviously meant for him, from the deliberately similar name to the scarred cheek and flash of gray in his hair, and he was very wicked indeed, carving his way through the pages, seducing, dueling, cheating, and murdering with ruthless abandon. The whole thing was an extremely libelous parody of Max’s supposed career, and Charlotte knew that what she was doing was very reprehensible indeed, especially as anyone happening to read it would know straightaway that Rex and Max were one and the same. But she was very careful to keep the book a secret, hiding it away at the back of her wardrobe where no one would find it.

Max himself was very much in the public eye, the Westington duel having divided society into two very distinct camps, those who sided with the injured husband and those who believed Max. The affair excited interest among the general public as well, and the gentlemen residents at the exclusive Albany were much irritated by the noisy crowd that gathered outside on the eve of the duel.

The duel itself took place one fine June morning on Putney Heath, and from all accounts the whole of the
beau monde
traveled there at dawn to watch. The great attendance meant that the confrontation was very reliably reported, so that Charlotte was left in no doubt that of the two protagonists, only Max came out of it with any credit. He had again declared himself innocent and had requested his opponent to call a halt to the proceedings, but Lord Wellington had not only refused, he had also been far too precipitate, turning to fire before the command was given. Fortunately his shot had missed its mark, but he had then had to summon every last vestige of courage to stand there while Max slowly and at his leisure took aim for his heart. The watching crowd had held its breath, giving a loud gasp when at the last moment Max had fired his pistol into the air before tossing it scornfully to the ground and turning away. Lady Westington, who had been unable to resist the temptation to be present, had received a very reproachful and accusing glance from Max as he walked to his carriage, and those who saw her exceedingly guilty reaction had no doubt at all that her whole story had been a fabrication, invented out of pique. That night Lord Westington, much reviled for having fired early, had taken his erring wife away to their country seat in Northamptonshire, intending to stay there until the whole sorry incident was forgotten. For the moment, however, it was talked of in all the drawing rooms, including that at the Parkstone residence, where a very reluctant Sylvia had in the end to admit to her father that she had been wrong about Max and Lady Westington and that Max had conducted himself very well indeed throughout the whole affair.

Charlotte’s friendship with Sylvia became very firm over those weeks, and they were frequently to be found in each other’s company. The renewed friendship between Mrs. Wyndham and Admiral Parkstone flourished too, the admiral often taking tea at Henrietta Street, at which occasions he and Mrs. Wyndham sat chattering for hours, driving their respective daughters to the point of ennui with their recollections of events long since past and people long since gone.

Of Richard Pagett there was unfortunately still no sign. The house sparkled like a new pin in readiness for him, and poor Polly was dispatched each morning to clean his waiting bedroom anew.

Richard’s arrival was not the only event toward which Charlotte was looking forward; there was also the Parkstones’ summer ball. Her enthusiasm for it took her completely by surprise, for in the past such functions had never appealed to her, but now it was somewhat different. However, it was one thing to eagerly anticipate it; it was quite another to feel entirely happy about what she would wear. Her wardrobe was very sorry now, lacking all the beautiful gowns created for her by Madame Forestier, that most-sought-after of couturieres, and even if she had still possessed them, they would have been two summers out-of-date. Only one of the gowns she had retained offered any possibilities, and that was a plain white muslin with a fairly high neckline and long, puckered sleeves. It needed a great deal of alteration to be suitable for a ball, and so in the evenings she divided her time between writing
Rex Kylmerth
and attending to the gown, which soon sported a desirably low décolletage and a shortened skirt with a stiffened hem. She adorned it with hundreds of tiny silver sequins, some taken from a rather ornate reticule which had somehow been overlooked when she had sold her things at Kimber Park, and some purchased from Messrs. Clark & Debenham at considerable cost to her small allowance.

Planning the ball and making all the arrangements naturally occupied a great deal of Sylvia’s time, and when she was with Charlotte, it was a frequent topic of conversation. It was to discuss some minor catering difficulty that she called one afternoon at Henrietta Street, and was shown through to the sunny garden, where she found not only Charlotte and Mrs. Wyndham seated on the white-painted, wrought-iron furniture beneath the cherry tree, but also her father, who was paying yet another of his lengthy visits.

While they were talking and sipping their tea, a carriage drew up at the front of the house. It was a post chaise, dusty from the long journey from Falmouth in Cornwall, and as the postboy dismounted and began to unload the many trunks, a young gentleman alighted, pausing for a moment to glance up at the house. He was elegantly attired in a pale-green coat and white trousers, and there was a handsome gold pin in his voluminous neckcloth. His hair was the same dark red as Charlotte’s, and his eyes the same gray, and at just twenty-nine Richard Pagett could have been taken for her brother, not her uncle. He had a very agreeable face, with laugh lines at the side of his mouth and eyes, and there was something about him that made others always feel at ease in his company. As he looked up at the little house, remembering the grandeur and style of Kimber Park, he decided that he would attend to the matter of more suitable residences as quickly as possible.

When he knocked at the door, Mrs. White came immediately, her face lighting up with a smile. “Mr. Pagett?”

He was a little taken aback. “Yes, but how
—”

“How do I know you, sir? Oh, I’d know you anywhere, you’re so very like Miss Charlotte. Please come in, and I’ll take you through to the garden.”

He stepped inside and followed her. “Don’t announce me, Mrs
.—?”

“Mrs. White, sir, I’m the cook and housekeeper.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. White. I’d like to sunrise them, so please don’t let them know I’ve arrived.” His voice bore traces of an acquired American accent, and it was very pleasant, soft and unhurried.

“Oh, of course, sir, if that is what you wish. If you just go through that door there, you’ll see them in the garden.”

“Thank you.”

“Would you like some refreshment, sir?”

“That would be most agreeable.”

The cook beamed and hurried away, determined to give such a winning gentleman the very finest repast she could muster.

Richard pushed open the door and looked down the garden at the little group beneath the cherry tree. They were completely unaware of his presence, so he could observe them at leisure. His sister, Sophia, did not seem to have changed a great deal, except perhaps that she was more plump. It suited her, he thought, for she now had that round rosiness that can be so very becoming. He surveyed Charlotte next. Ah, Charlotte, as pretty as a picture still, and with that splendid smile he remembered so well. How rueful she had always been that her mouth was too wide; she had never seemed to realize that it gave her a smile so glorious that she could seem the most beautiful of creatures. Had she been less independent, less determined to indulge in her virtual worship of the printed word, she would undoubtedly have long since have made an excellent match, but it was her misfortune that her would-be suitors had been a timid bunch, too lily-livered to dare take on a wife who might have the temerity to think for herself and speak her mind.

He glanced at the admiral, wondering who he was. A military gentleman, that much was for sure, for he had the bearing that spoke of either the army or the navy. Whoever he was, Sophia was most certainly well disposed toward him, for she positively dimpled at every word he uttered.

At last his glance rested on Sylvia, lingering appreciatively on the dainty figure in its peach lawn dress. How beautiful she was, with her pale, flawless complexion and delicate profile, and how lustrous her dark hair was in the afternoon sunlight. His gaze was so intense that at last she sensed it, looking around directly at him, her face framed by the mock-Tudor ruff adorning the neckline of her dress.

Charlotte saw her glance and turned as well, her face breaking into that wonderful smile he had missed so much as she got quickly to her feet and ran across the grass, flinging herself gladly into his open arms, “Richard! Oh, Richard, you’re here at last! I’ve missed you so! You’re never to go away like that again. Never.”

He laughed, hugging her tightly. “I’ve no intention of going away again, sweetheart,” He kissed her warmly on the cheek. “How are you?”

“Well.”

“I can see that you are.” He took her left hand and inspected her fourth finger. “So you’re still unattached. I’ll have to see what I can do about that. I can’t have spinster nieces cluttering up my grand new house.”

She laughed. “Come on, Mother’s been in a positive lather ever since your letter arrived.”

He went to his sister then, taking both her hands and drawing her to her feet and into his arms. “Hello, Sophia,” he said softly. “It’s so very good to see you again.”

Her voice was a little shaky, for she was almost weeping with joy. “Richard Pagett, five years is an unforgivable eternity, quite unforgivable.”

He squeezed her. “Forgive me all the same.”

“I shall endeavor to, but I cannot promise,” she replied, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief and smiling foolishly at him. “If ever a sister was more fiendishly tormented by an unthinking brother….” She allowed the sentence to die away unfinished. “I’m forgetting my duties. Allow me to present Admiral Henry Parkstone, an old friend whose acquaintance it has recently been my good fortune to renew. Henry, this is my brother, Mr. Richard Pagett.”

The admiral had struggled to his feet the moment Richard appeared, and now he bowed. “Sir.”

Richard returned the bow. “I’m delighted to meet you, Admiral Parkstone.” His inquiring glance then moved to Sylvia, who seemed even lovelier now that he was close.

Mrs. Wyndham hastened to effect the introduction. “This is Henry’s daughter, Miss Sylvia Parkstone. Sylvia, my brother, Richard.”

Richard took Sylvia’s hand, raising it slowly to his lips. “I’m very pleased to know you, Miss Parkstone.”

“Mr. Pagett.” She smiled up at him.

He looked deep into her dark eyes and was lost.

There was so much talking to be done and so much lost time to be made up that it was well past midnight before the residents of the house in Henrietta Street at last retired to their beds. As Charlotte undressed and sat by her dressing table brushing her long hair, she could hear her mother in the adjoining bedroom, chattering brightly to Muriel, just as she had done in times gone by at Kimber Park.

Charlotte extinguished the candle and then went to the window to look out for a while. She could see the watch in Cavendish Square with their staves and lanterns, and she could just hear their call on the hour. There was very little traffic; in fact, it was so quiet that she heard the carriage approach long before she saw it. It drove slowly along the street toward the square and at first she didn’t recognize it, but then with a jolt she realized that it was Max Talgarth’s. She couldn’t move away from the window; it was as if she was transfixed, even though she knew that she was clearly visible from the street below.

He was seated on the side nearest her, looking as superbly elegant as ever in black velvet evening clothes, his arm resting along the window ledge so that the moonlight flashed on his diamond ring. She wasn’t expecting him to glance up, so that when he did, he saw her immediately and knew that she had been watching him. She was embarrassed at the amused directness of his shrewd gaze, but still she couldn’t draw back. The carriage drove on, turning the corner into the square and vanishing from sight, and only then could she manage to step back into the shadows of the room.

It was a long time before she fell asleep, and when she did, she was transported in her dreams to Kimber Park. The sun was warm on her face and she was walking past the lake toward the little white rotunda, its domed roof topped by a statue of Mercury. It was a favorite walk, one she had taken countless times in the past, and she was lighthearted. As she neared the rotunda, a man appeared from inside it, a tall, handsome man with a scar on his cheek and a flash of gray in his coal-black hair. She halted, her breath catching. He smiled, holding out his hand, and suddenly she was running to him. He swept her into his arms, pressing her close as his lips sought hers in a kiss; that seared through her like a flame. Her senses responded to him, and she wanted to surrender, to give in completely to the wild, rushing desire he aroused in her…. But as he bore her to the ground, his body hard against hers, her eyes suddenly flew open and she was awake.