The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) (23 page)

“Oh, Esther,” Charlotte groaned into her hands. The maid had not betrayed her. She’d thought she was helping her by involving Mr. Pryor. Instead, she had instigated one of the most mortifying moments of Charlotte’s life. And there had been more than a few.

“It’s glad I am ye came, Mr. Pryor. That one there”—she pointed a third time at Chatham—“should be ashamed of ’isself. That’s the truth of it.”

Mr. Pryor, looking dreadfully uncomfortable, cleared his throat three times before nodding to Esther. “Thank you, Miss Hazelwood. I—I shall take your report under advisement. I assure you, if there is any cause for, er, concern, I shall see it is rectified.”

Esther nodded, turned to leave, and then, as she reached the open doors, she looked back at Charlotte. “I’m sorry, m’lady. Truly, I am.”

Then, she departed. And Charlotte was left holding her own cheeks, unable to speak. What was there to say, really?

Chatham answered her question with droll nonchalance. “So, Mr. Pryor. Shall we consider your inquiry concluded, or would you care to hear a more detailed version of that evening’s events?”

*~*~*

Swiping at her forehead with her wrist, Charlotte pinched off another sprig of mint for Chatham’s tea and placed it in the basket beside her feet. She was alone in the garden, the buttery sunlight streaming down upon her bonnet and back. Not that she needed the warmth—her humiliation earlier had provided heat in abundance.

She almost wanted to laugh. Almost. She could not be angry with Esther, for the woman had thought Charlotte was being mistreated. While Charlotte did not like Mr. Pryor in the slightest, she knew he was simply doing what her father had asked. The only one left upon whom she could focus her frustration was Chatham. He had not made the situation better, certainly, with his taunting sarcasm and devil-may-care wandering hands.

But, then, that was the Chatham of the past two weeks. Perfectly sober, and not another single threat of breaking. He had tended all his customary duties, behaving as the responsible lord. He’d even begun sketching a new drainage system for the northwest section.

Otherwise, his behavior was that of Lord Chatham, the London rake—cynical, calculating, manipulative. She wished it made him less tempting to her mutinous body. It did not. For, beneath that shell was the man she loved. He hid from her, perhaps attempting to maintain a distance between them so she did not grow too attached. She could have told him it was far too late for such measures, but he forestalled any attempt to discuss emotions by seducing her. Thoroughly. And often.

Esther’s descriptions had been both colorful and accurate in that regard. She only hoped Mr. Pryor could wash his mind clean afterward. The thought of the solicitor knowing details about her lovemaking with Chatham was simply untenable. The only good thing about it was that he’d concluded there had been no breach of the marriage contract.

Naturally, Pryor had hinted that he should be invited to stay with them as a guest before returning to London. She had agreed only because she must ensure he departed without incident, should further “reports” surface.

She snipped a sprig of rosemary with a snick of her shears, the motion more vicious than it should have been. For his part, Chatham had remained in the drawing room only long enough to hear Pryor’s assurances that his inquiry was concluded satisfactorily. Then, without so much as a by-your-leave, he’d left her there, red-faced and seething, across from the irksome solicitor.

Now, Pryor was ensconced in one of the guest chambers, his coach and horses housed in her stables, and his portly stomach preparing to attend supper at her table. As far as she was concerned, the situation could hardly be worse.

“M’lady, beg pardon for the disturbance,” said Booth, standing hat in hand at the garden gate.

She sighed and tossed a handful of lemon balm into her basket. “What is it, Mr. Booth?”

“There be another carriage in the drive.”

She shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun, squinting at the ash-haired servant. “Another? Who is it?”

“Not certain, m’lady. The coach were black. Old. No markin’s. Didn’t recognize the coachman, neither.”

What now?
Her shoulders slumping, Charlotte nodded. It appeared it was her day to host unwanted guests. Tossing her gloves and shears into the basket, she deposited the basket upon the kitchen table, removed her bonnet and apron, and once again made her way to the entrance hall.

Once my dowry is in hand, I shall hire a butler,
she decided.
If I am still mistress here, that is.
Chatham had not proven amenable to her campaign in that regard. Ignoring the queer pang in her heart, she opened the heavy door to see who had arrived. It was a woman. Petite. Blond. Being assisted down the steps of the aged black coach by an equally aged coachman. The woman raised her head, allowing Charlotte to glimpse her face beyond the brim of her luxurious, red-silk bonnet.

“Oh, dear me,” she murmured to herself.
Chatham was not going to like this. Not at all.

The woman’s unlined face appeared twenty years younger than her true age. Pale silver eyes ate up the sight of Chatwick Hall as though viewing a former lover. Those eyes spotted her in the doorway seconds later, narrowing as a delicate jaw tilted. The tilt was familiar. It reminded Charlotte of her husband.

“Miss Lancaster,” said Charlotte’s mother-in-law, her voice sly and silken. “I do beg your pardon. Lady Rutherford, now, yes? One forgets when one has not been
properly
introduced.”

“Lady Rutherford,” Charlotte acknowledged with a nod. “What an … unexpected visit.”

“Yes, well. I thought it time to pay a call upon my wayward progeny.” Catherine delicately tugged the fingers of her gloves loose and glided toward Charlotte, her red silk gown brushing the stone steps before Charlotte realized she actually intended to come inside. Odd, that. She had to know she was unwelcome. Silver eyes blinked and a pale-blond brow lifted. “You may be as tall as a portcullis, Miss Lancaster, but I daresay even Rutherford would not demand you function as one.”

The cutting comment, along with the use of Charlotte’s maiden name, was an intentional slight. It made her want to shut the heavy wooden door in the woman’s lovely face. Instead, she gritted her teeth and stood aside, waving to welcome Chatham’s mother into Chatham’s home.

Head held aloft, Catherine stepped grandly past the threshold, her eyes wandering everywhere at once. A tinge of sadness stole over her features so briefly, Charlotte thought she imagined it.

“Catherine! Er—Lady Rutherford,” Mr. Pryor exclaimed from the stairway landing. His bald head was flushed, his chest puffed out and his rounded belly pulled in. “You have arrived at last. I was beginning to fret that perhaps your coach had been waylaid by vagabonds.”

“Archibald, my darling. You worry needlessly, although I do wish we had been able to travel together in the same carriage.” Catherine pouted prettily as the two clasped hands at the base of the stairs. “Ever so much more stimulating.”

Archibald?
Watching Chatham’s mother and her father’s solicitor greet one another so familiarly, Charlotte felt the sudden urge to retch. “I did not realize you were acquainted with the dowager, Mr. Pryor.”

She could not help the spark of satisfaction upon seeing Catherine’s wince. Perhaps the
dowager
would think twice before referring to Charlotte as Miss Lancaster again.

“Yes, yes, yes.” He smiled nauseatingly at the beautiful woman garbed in brilliant red. “I facilitated the sale of her ladyship’s home in Grosvenor Square. A difficult time for my fair flower, but our meeting was most fortuitous.”

Catherine’s false, glowing smile turned the man’s cheeks positively rosy. “When Archibald mentioned he intended to visit Chatwick Hall, I knew I must accompany him, for it has been months since I have seen my beloved son. How I have missed him.” She turned to Charlotte, her eyes sharp and sly. “Where is Rutherford, my dear?”

“Where I always am, Mother,” came Chatham’s voice, soft and cold, from behind Charlotte. “As far from you as I can manage.” He strode in from the passageway to the east wing, looking elegant and surprisingly unfazed.

Her heart, as always, skipped a beat and then made up for the pause by thudding harder at the sight of him.

“I assumed Northumberland would be distance enough,” he said coming to stand beside Charlotte. Her skin tingled where his sleeve brushed her arm.

“Your jests are not amusing, Chatham. Come give your mama a kiss.” Catherine held out her arms and waggled her fingers.

Chatham stared at her as though she’d gone mad. “There is a coaching inn on the outskirts of the village. Go there. Then leave Northumberland. You will find nothing to profit you here.”

Again, the woman—who was far too old to sulk so openly—pouted and tilted her head. “It has been ages since I was last at Chatwick Hall. The changes are … interesting.”

“My wife’s doing,” he drawled. “Her talents are exceptional.”

Charlotte blinked at him, then let the glow of his compliment shine out in the form of a smile. At his mother.

Catherine hummed with condescension. “Yes, well. I might have used mahogany, rather than walnut for the staircase. A far superior grain. Of course, how would an American know anything of superior quality?”

Chatham moved in close to his mother, lowering his head so he could not be misheard. “This is Charlotte’s house, Mother. Not yours. It was never yours. I trust I am clear.”

The glow from earlier expanded and filled like a bubble, iridescent and wondrous. Her house. Hers. She had never heard sweeter words. Perhaps he was coming around after all.

But then Catherine smiled, slow and devious. “Is it hers?” she asked, her voice taunting. “Or will it belong to your
heir?
”

Chatham went still, glaring down at his much-shorter mother with seething, visible hatred.

Charlotte frowned. Why should Catherine mention Chatham’s future heir at all, much less in such a taunting fashion? And why should that make him so angry?

“You may sleep in the yellow room at the front of the house, Mother,” he said, the words making Charlotte wonder if she’d missed something or perhaps gone mad.

Why would he invite Catherine to stay after insulting her so thoroughly? Strange, indeed. And rather vexing, considering Catherine was the last person Charlotte wished to dine with that evening.

“One night,” he gritted. “Then you shall leave. Whether you do so of your own volition is your choice, but you will leave tomorrow.”

Grinning her triumph, Catherine nodded pertly and went to the door to wave at her coachman. “Bring the trunks inside, Bernard. The yellow room at the top of the stairs.”

Charlotte stared at the back of her husband’s sable head, trying to understand, wondering what had come over him.

“Well, this promises to be a rather pleasant visit, I daresay,” opined the oblivious Mr. Pryor. He rubbed a hand over his belly. “What time did you say supper is served?”

*~*~*

CHAPTER TWENTY

“Bah! A loathsome woman. I had hoped she would succumb to some unfortunate disease. Given her predilections, such a fate was a distinct possibility. However, it is often the loathsome ones who prove the most resilient.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Gattingford during a discussion of a certain marquess’s loathsome mother.

“And do you know what she did next, George?” Charlotte asked of the brown horse beneath her. “She demanded
another
bath. ‘Deliver it to my bedchamber,’ she says, as though it were a pillow or a cup of tea, rather than an hour of hauling heavy buckets up my new staircase.”

George the horse flicked his ears, clearly less outraged at Catherine’s rude, demanding, arrogant behavior than Charlotte. George was calm and noble by nature, of course, much like his namesake, Mr. Washington. And he had not been subject to the smugness of Chatham’s mother for twenty-four agonizing hours.

Charlotte had had quite enough, and she intended to tell Chatham so. Which was why she was on her way to the northwest section of the estate, where Booth had said her husband would be. As she topped a rise near the inward curve of the river, she saw him, tall and smartly dressed in the green riding coat she had altered. He stood with another gentleman, who wore dark, shabby clothing and a floppy hat. They appeared to be examining the riverbank with undue interest.

She pulled George to a halt and dismounted, letting the horse graze while she approached the man who would, by God, oust his mother from their home if she had to promise him the moon to see it so.

As she drew closer, snippets of the gentlemen’s conversation drifted to her on the slight breeze. Something about “veins” and “samples” and “digging.” It must be the new drainage system Chatham intended to install.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she called.

Chatham turned to glance at her over his shoulder, but he did not pivot to face her, his long legs braced apart, one boot planted on the bank’s rise, the other near the water. Instead, he continued talking with his companion, a dark-haired man who, she now saw, possessed the roughened features of a workman.

Striding closer, Charlotte’s boots slipped on the slick mud, her arms wheeling to catch her balance. Heart thudding, she paused to steady her footing.

Suddenly, Chatham was there in front of her, his shadow moving across the grass-dotted ground. Her heart pounded even harder.

“What are you doing here, Charlotte?” he snapped, clasping her upper arm. “This clay is too slick for someone of your calamitous tendencies.”

His slight was nothing new—when he’d not been seducing her with dizzying intensity over the past two weeks, he had been by turns absent, remote, sarcastic, and occasionally unkind, almost as though he deliberately caused her pain. But she refused to let him see how his blows damaged her. Instead, as now, she let the jab sting for a moment before answering his question. “Your mother is driving me mad. You must send her away. I cannot bear another moment.”

He frowned and released her. “She is still here?”

“She wanted
another
bath.” She rolled her eyes. “Esther has threatened to put her axe to use upon Catherine’s many trunks. I told her that will only delay Catherine’s departure, so she is now helping Cook prepare dinner.”

He released a sigh, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and glanced behind him where his companion remained stooped, examining the layers of rock along the near side of the river. “Go home,” he said. “I will speak to her after I am finished here.”

“When will that be?”

“When I am finished.”

She propped her hands on her hips and leaned to look past his shoulder. “What are you doing, precisely? And who is that? A new tenant?”

“He is a collier from Newcastle.”

Her eyes flared with surprise. “A collier. Is there coal beneath the Chatwick estate?”

“In this section, perhaps. We must dig if we wish to discover it.”

“Why did you not tell me?”

“What I do and with whom is none of your concern.” He made the cutting statement with such cold precision, she nearly reeled. His casual cruelty of late had been difficult to bear, but she’d been certain that, with time, he would soften again, that his true self would emerge, and perhaps she could make him see the benefits of having her at his side.

“We are partners, Chatham.”

“Precisely why I must extract the coal if it exists. You’ve spent far too much on furnishing Chatwick Hall, and I must have some way to reimburse you as our agreement stipulates.” His lips curled into a sneer, his eyes flashing with a strangely bitter light. “As you’ve indicated, establishing a new life in America will not come cheaply.”

She swallowed hard, feeling as though he had hit her in the stomach with his fist. He wanted her to leave when their year was over. She’d known that. But the malice in his eyes was crushing. Did he so loathe the idea of her remaining in England? He must.

“There was a time when you shared your plans and worries about the estate with me,” she said, trying one last time. “You valued my advice, or at least, I thought so. Yet, you’ve told me nothing in over a fortnight. I—I don’t know what I have done, Chatham, why you have been so … bitter toward me.”

“You are leaving. There is little need for you to be involved.” Again, the sneer. “Mustn’t become attached.”

Black and foaming, the churning in her stomach worsened until she thought she might vomit upon his boots. She stumbled backward, unable to speak another word.

Unable to look upon his face any longer.

Unable to stop the tears that overflowed her eyes so unexpectedly, she could not even stop them with her hands. She didn’t bother to try.

She simply turned her back upon her husband, found her way slowly back to George, and rode south. Away from the man who had finally broken her, the only man she had ever loved.

*~*~*

Chatham could not move. Lead filled his feet and legs and arms and chest. And his heart. It scarcely beat at all.

He stared at where she had disappeared, the top of her straw bonnet lowering past the rise until he could no longer see her.

The pain had been fierce for two bloody weeks. Knowing she would leave him. Wanting her to stay. Watching her go about her duties as though his world were not being consumed by fire and grinding agony.

But standing here, witnessing his wife go utterly white, her lips ashen instead of pink, her eyes welling with helpless tears. That had destroyed him. Right now, he was nothing but a husk, hollow and howling.

I hurt her. I did.
The knowledge was untenable. It clawed and tore his flesh. At first, he had been so shocked by her reaction, he’d not understood. How could he hurt her? She did not feel anything for him, or she would not talk of leaving, surely. But he had wounded her. By the time he had realized how much, she was gone beyond the rise. And he could not move a muscle, only stand inside the icy remains of what he had done.

“Beg your pardon, Lord Rutherford.” It was the collier, Mr. Gladhill. He was a landowner from Newcastle, known for employing the latest advancements in his mines. His efficiency was fourteen percent better than anyone else in Northumberland. “I should be on my way if I do not wish to be traveling by moonlight. If it is agreeable to you, I shall return with a crew in one month’s time, and we may begin the dig. No guarantees, mind you. But the vein appears solid from that outcropping, there. Ground water will be our biggest concern, but with proper …”

For another few minutes, the man rambled on. Chatham stopped listening. Nothing in him functioned. Lungs tight and cramping, he’d ceased to breathe when he lost sight of her. Charlotte. She should be here now. He should have involved her. She was right. They were partners. He did rely on her advice. Everything she’d said was right. And he had
hurt
her.

“That’s that, then. Best be off, my lord.”

“Mr. Gladhill,” Chatham said, his voice as coarse as gravel. “I—I should like to … involve my wife in the process. When you return.”

“Lady Rutherford? Oh, well, mining is a rough sort of—”

“She has an interest in such matters. I think you will find her insights helpful. I always have.” And he would again. He would apologize to her. Then, he would resume treating her as his friend and partner, as he should have done all along.

Perhaps she intended to leave him. Everyone did eventually. Perhaps he was turning into his mother, begging someone to love him when no one ever would. But he could never again bear to cause her pain as he had today. Not ever again. If the price for her happiness was his pride, he would pay it gladly.

“Er, very well, my lord. If it will please her ladyship, I suppose there’s no harm.”

Breathing easier now that he’d made the decision, Chatham nodded. “My thoughts exactly, Mr. Gladhill. My thoughts exactly.”

*~*~*

She rode for two hours aimlessly across the swells and flats of the Chatwick estate, letting the diffuse sunlight and strengthening winds dry her face. She’d hoped the scents of earth and loam, green grass, and the faint salt of the sea would soothe her as they often did. After two hours, her face was dry, but she felt no better. Then, she’d sensed George growing weary, and she had turned him toward home.

Not home, Charlotte. It is not your home. He has made that abundantly clear.

As she dismounted, Booth eyed her with concern. “Here now, let me help ye, m’lady.”

“Thank you, Booth,” she said quietly. “I’m afraid I pushed George rather more than I had intended.”

“Not to worry. He needed a bit of exercise. Too many oats, that one.”

She gave him a faint smile and drifted out of the stables, heading up the path to the garden. Everything felt too slow, like she was under water. The waning sunlight flickered through the leaves of the ash tree that overhung the garden fence, but the riffling was distant and muted. She could scarcely lift her feet to drag herself through the gate. Perhaps she should lie down for a while.

Esther, standing over the herbs pouring water upon the lavender, glanced up when the gate latch clicked shut. Her head jerked as Charlotte approached, and she frowned fiercely. “You feelin’ poorly, m’lady? Ye’re gray as clouds.”

Charlotte stopped several feet from the maid, swaying in place. “Just tired, Esther.”

“Go ’ave a lie-down, then. I shall bring ye some tea.”

Attempting a smile, Charlotte managed only a wobble of her lips. She swallowed, nodded, and drifted inside. On her way through the kitchen, Cook might have asked her a question, but she wasn’t listening.

She needed to be alone.

She needed to decide how to live without him.

Entering her bedchamber—their bedchamber—she removed her bonnet and gloves. Next, she removed her emerald velvet riding habit and donned a soft, long-sleeved gown of white muslin. Simple and light, she’d thought it might help her breathe properly. It didn’t. She washed her face with water from the pitcher in the dressing room. That didn’t help, either.

She froze when she again came face-to-face with her bed, the one where they’d talked for hours about her memories of her mother, how pasties were made, whether winter or spring wheat was superior, and a thousand other things. The one where he’d made love to her as though she were a goddess of pleasure, where she had taken him in her mouth and her body, and where she had kissed his eyelids as he fell asleep, marveling at his dense, dark lashes. There, amidst golden pillows and silken sheets, she had become a woman—his wife. And she had fallen so deeply in love, she could not now imagine her life, or herself, without him.

A sob caught her unawares, bending her double. She cupped a hand over her mouth to stifle it. He did not want her. Oh, perhaps her body, yes. But not her. And she refused to stay where she wasn’t wanted. She’d had enough of that for one life.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she forced her grief deeper inside and closed her eyes. She could not bear to think about this any longer. She must find a task to work on. Something useful to do. This morning, Booth had delivered a new crate of books sent by Uncle Frederick for the library. She would open the crate and begin sorting them. There, now. A task, and a useful one at that.

Blinking away stubborn tears, she swallowed and marched down the corridor to the library door. Oddly, it was closed. She twisted the knob and walked inside. The first thing she noticed was the fire in the hearth. Why would anyone need a fire in the middle of summer on an upper floor? If anything, they had to keep windows on this level open much of the time to let the breeze cool the rooms.

“Miss Lancaster,” came a slurred, feminine voice from the darkened corner of the room, near the crate. In fact, as Charlotte squinted, she realized the woman sat
upon
the crate, a bottle swinging merrily in her hand. “At last. Your maid should be dismissed immediately. She is atrociously rude.”

Resentment rose inside Charlotte’s breast. “Dowager. What are you doing in here?”

Catherine played with the orange silk of her skirt, tracing a finger along the edge of a rosette. “Perusing your collections.” She giggled and waved a hand at the empty shelves. “This was Rutherford’s domain. I rarely bothered to enter. Too much dust.” She wrinkled her nose and tipped the bottle of wine to her lips.