The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) (25 page)

Except Charlotte.

He did not know what to say.

“I want you,” he rasped. “Now.”

Her thumb stroked his cheekbone tenderly. “Let us tend to your injury. Then, we shall wash one another clean of this day and lie together in our bed.” She laid the softest kiss upon his lips. “And then, husband, you will show me what Benedict Chatham can do with only one hand.”

*~*~*

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“Complacency, dearest Humphrey. The presumption that all is well and shall remain so—this is the signature weakness of mankind.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her companion, Humphrey, upon discovering the results of inconsistent instruction behind her favorite reading chair.

Plumed in magnificent violet feathers, Lady Wallingham gave Charlotte a haughty inspection from coiled coiffure to sapphire-blue beaded slippers. That the dowager managed such a gaze through the eyeholes of her mask and craning her neck to take in Charlotte’s full length was a wonder.

“Do I meet with your approval, my lady?” Charlotte inquired, raising a brow above her own velvet black domino.

The dowager sniffed. “More so than your companion, I daresay. ”

Charlotte let a small smile curl her lips. “My husband, you mean.” She sipped her surprisingly flavorful lemonade and savored the words. Her husband. Her love.

He was twenty feet away near a potted ivy topiary, half-listening to Lady Wallingham’s tall, quietly distinguished son, the Marquess of Wallingham, discuss horse breeding techniques. She assumed he was half-listening because he hadn’t taken his eyes from her for the past ten minutes.

It was most affecting. His simple black mask—a match for hers, aside from hers having more of a point at the corners—framed heated turquoise so dramatically, she was surprised her heart managed to remain in her chest. As it was, she was nothing but warm jam inside, and if he stoked her any further, she would pour over him like syrup.

“So, you suspect coal may be lurking beneath Chatwick’s soil, do you?”

The tart comment briefly drew Charlotte’s attention back to Lady Wallingham. “Chatham does. We must dig to discover it. How did you know?”

“I am
very
well informed.” The sharp chin elevated as the old woman perused the landscape of her masquerade. The grand ballroom of Grimsgate Castle teemed with masked, festively garbed revelers, laughing and dancing. Some were members of the house party, others were neighboring landowners. All were in good spirits.

Other than Tannenbrook and Viola, of course. Charlotte sighed upon seeing them, the hulking James leaning against one gold-silk wall, glaring daggers at Viola’s retinue of male admirers. Viola was trying desperately to behave as though she did not notice James, of course. But Charlotte could see the tension in her friend’s neck and shoulders. Viola wished to make Tannenbrook jealous. It was working, but perhaps at a cost.

“He shall disappoint you. It is inevitable.”

“Hmm? Who, my lady?”

“Chatham. He is nothing but a scoundrel. Just look at the way he stares at you. It is obscene.”

Charlotte collided with turquoise again and lost her next breath. Licking her lips, she cursed herself again for forgetting her lace fan. “Yes, isn’t it?” she murmured absently. “You should see what he does with his tongue.”

A sharp, strange squawk escaped the birdlike dowager’s lips. Charlotte blinked. Was that a laugh? From Lady Wallingham?

“I am gratified you did not perish in yesterday’s blaze, dear girl. You amuse me.”

Charlotte chuckled. “High praise, indeed. What has brought on this flood of maudlin sentiment, if I may inquire?”

A white-gloved hand waved to indicate the crowd, the queen apparently pleased with her subjects. “To be entertained for an evening is the purpose of all this. You are my entertainment.”

“Well, I am flattered.” Charlotte sipped her lemonade. “You have a bit of coal on your lands, if I am not mistaken.”

“Do not attempt to engage me in talk of trade. Bah! Americans. Dreadfully vulgar.”

“I thought ‘vulgar’ amused you.”

“Talk of tongues amuses me.” The old woman peered at Charlotte for a disconcerting moment. “You would do well to recall where that tongue has been, you know. And where it will undoubtedly be again. Scoundrels do not change.”

“Lady Wallingham,” Charlotte said quietly. “I value your friendship.” She did. Over the course of several weeks, Charlotte had visited the dowager repeatedly, often staying for an hour or more to sip tea and engage in blunt, witty conversations about everything from the American War of Independence—or, as the dowager preferred, the Great Colonial Tantrum—to Lady Gattingford’s doomed bid to become a patroness of Almack’s. She enjoyed Lady Wallingham’s company, but she would not countenance constant denigration of the man she loved. “Please do not spoil things with criticisms of Chatham. You know he is my husband, and that shall never change.”

“He is his mother’s son.”

“And his father’s.”

“Hmmph. So you have said. Same eyes, I suppose.”

Charlotte was surprised by the small concession. “Chatham is an extraordinary man. You should come for a visit. He likes you, you know. He says you are more intelligent than half of Parliament and better connected than the other half.”

The dowager sniffed. “Like most men, he is wrong. I am cleverer and better informed than the entire lot put together. It is a wonder England has not collapsed into the sea with those simpletons at the helm.”

“Mmm.” Charlotte smiled. “We would improve our lives immensely if we would only deem you our captain and follow your unwavering command.”

“I have said as much to Humphrey on numerous occasions.” Lady Wallingham’s plumes bobbed as she turned her head. “Why are you not dancing?”

“My partner has an injury. His hand was badly burned whilst rescuing our library—and me, incidentally—from certain destruction.”

“Rubbish. The shackles of marriage are not literal, my dear. Dance with Lord Tannenbrook. Before he crushes Miss Darling’s suitors beneath his colossal boots and carries her off for a barbaric handfasting. My ballroom is no place for such theatrics.”

Charlotte looked to where Tannenbrook was standing. He was still there, leaning against the wall, but now his hands were fists, his glower deep and thunderous. “I will speak with him.”

“Good. Inform him I will require reimbursement for any damage to plants or furnishings.”

As she wove her way through the crush, pausing briefly to set her empty cup upon a tray, she listened to the music—a tender, repeating waltz—and watched the dancers twirling, their dark coats and bright dresses and festive masks a feast for the eyes. Then, unexpectedly, she smiled. This was actually fun. She, Charlotte, was having fun at a ball. How extraordinary.

The difference between this night and three months earlier was stark—she was no longer Miss Lancaster, the abnormally tall, half-American chit with unfortunately red hair. She was Lady Rutherford. She was wanted. And madly in love with her clever, devilish husband. A glow suffused her at the thought of him, as though she’d swallowed sunlight.

Tannenbrook, on the other hand, appeared to have swallowed the blackest burning coal from the darkest pit of Hades and added a jug of vinegar for good measure. She stood beside him for several minutes, her hands folded patiently, wondering if he would notice her. His eyes behind a brown leather mask were too busy searing Viola’s skin from her bones.

“You can have her if you want her, you know.” She thought it time someone spoke, and long past time to point out the obvious to the stubborn James Kilbrenner. “All you must do is stop, turn ’round, and let her run into your arms.”

“Lady Rutherford,” he said, his words unusually clipped. “It is always a pleasure to see you.”

“Well, you haven’t precisely
seen
me. My, Miss Darling is positively radiant this evening, is she not?”

“As I said, always a pleasure. But I shall thank you to keep your advice. I have had my fill.”

She blinked. “Oh, that wasn’t advice. Advice would be suggesting you cease behaving boorishly. Or that you reconsider the assumption that she cannot be bruised, for you never know when those bruises might begin to matter a great deal.” She patted his arm. The muscles were so tense it was like patting a boulder. “You are a sensible man, James. I trust you will reach the correct conclusions on your own. Eventually. Perhaps even before it is too late.”

Finally, he pivoted to face her, shoving away from the wall with a nudge of his huge shoulder. Her heart sank when she saw his eyes. They were pure, green torment.

“Oh, James,” she breathed.

He said not another word, sidling past her and disappearing through the doors to the garden.

She bit her lip, her heart aching for him. He was in a very bad way. She should not have lectured him so. Viola was hurting, yes, but so was he. Deciding she must find him and apologize, she followed him out into the gardens. A full moon limned the lush, elaborate plantings in silver, but it did not reveal her quarry. Insects sang merrily, and the air was warm and damp. She took a deep breath, looking about the flagstone terrace and the large fountain beyond the steps to the path.

Behind her, she heard footfalls, surprisingly light. Then, she heard a voice she had thought halfway to London by now. “Miss Lancaster, you surprise me. I should think you would have more sense than to chase a man not your husband into a darkened garden. The scandal would be frightful.”

The sheer irony of those words and their source nearly made her laugh. Instead, Charlotte turned to confront the petite beauty garbed in brilliant pink. “Catherine. Chatham will not be pleased to find you here.”

That was understating matters rather substantially. After making love to Charlotte for several hours last evening, Chatham had finally asked about the cause of the fire. When she had explained that it was her fault for trying to rescue the journals, but that Catherine had been the one to toss them into the fire, he had wasted no time in tossing Catherine out of his house. He’d told his mother if he ever saw her again, he would put her bodily on the next ship to Australia, where she could live out her days with those suited to her character. She had first defied him, then pleaded with him, then appealed to Mr. Pryor, who had stood by looking appalled and uncomfortable. Finally, Catherine had waspishly informed Chatham that she wished he’d never been born, ordered Pryor to accompany her, and left Chatwick Hall. The two of them had departed in their respective coaches early that morning.

Now Catherine, wearing an oddly mismatched red mask, sauntered across the flagstones toward Charlotte, her stride slow and smug. “No, Chatham will not be pleased. Not at all. But that is less than what he deserves after he left me penniless.”

Charlotte frowned. “Forgive me, but did you not have a jointure of several thousand—”

“Your dowry dwarfs the paltry sum I received. Chatham could ensure my comfort easily—his duty as Rutherford’s heir. Instead, he abandons his own mother, leaving her with only a moldy carriage and a few meager possessions.”

“I don’t know what scheme you have planned, Catherine, but I assure you, it will gain you nothing. He won’t receive my dowry until the spring. And, after the sort of mother you have been to him, I doubt he will be moved by sentiment.”

“I never wanted to be a mother. Dreadful mess. No, I wanted Rutherford. A child was simply the price I had to pay. As it happened, I paid too much.” She tilted her head in that familiar way Chatham sometimes did. Her look was calculating. Malicious. “But, then, my child was not worth one hundred thousand pounds.”

Charlotte frowned. “You are confused. My dowry is one hundred thousand. He receives it one year from the date of our marriage. There is no stipulation for a child.”

The older woman tsked. “Poor dear. I’m afraid the confusion is yours. One year of marriage gains him the first one hundred. A male child born within the first two years gains him the second one hundred.”

Two hundred? No.
Her father would not have … very well, he would have. But Chatham would not have kept such a crucial piece of information from her. “You are mistaken,” Charlotte said, her voice less assured than she would like. “Or lying. No such agreement exists.”

“Yes. It does.” Catherine smiled, her teeth gleaming as white as her hair in the moonlight. “Would you like proof?”

Heart beginning to throb and pound, Charlotte swallowed. “I—I don’t …”

“Here, now. Let me explain to you how well my son lies. Archibald?” she called.

Pryor emerged like a bald, paunchy shadow from behind a potted shrub near the doors. The solicitor wore a mask, but nothing could disguise his discomfort. He slouched as though shame weighed heavily upon him. “Lady Rutherford.”

“Mr. Pryor,” Charlotte replied. “What are you doing here? I assumed you would return to London immediately.”

“Lady Rutherford asked me to accompany her.” He fidgeted nervously with his too-small mask. “The dowager marchioness, that is. Not you, obviously.” At Catherine’s baleful glare, Pryor swallowed. “Beg your pardon, Cath—er, Lady Rutherford.” He looked to Charlotte. “She is not fond of the dowager appellation.”

“That is quite enough, Archibald. Now, tell her,” Catherine said, her voice ringing with spite and triumph. “Tell her I speak the truth.”

“Mr. Pryor?” Charlotte feared she knew before he even opened his mouth.

“Y-yes, there is a provision in the event you should produce a child within the agreed-upon period—”

Her chin high, Catherine interrupted, “And how much will my son receive upon the birth of his heir?”