Read Fortune Favors the Wicked Online
Authors: Theresa Romain
Fortune Favors the Wicked (5 page)
But if he began to touch her, he would not want to stop. How tempting it would be to trail his fingers over the planes of her face, to trace the line of her neck and collarbone. To cover her breast with his hand, to breathe in the scent of her bare skin. She was no maiden, not with her secrets and sly bawdy jokes.
If he asked to touch her, she might say yes.
He must not ask. He sought money, not a tumble. There was no reward in attaching a woman to oneself, whether for a day or a week or a lifetime.
“Would it be too forward . . .” He pressed at the bridge of his nose. “Wouldâwhat do you look like?”
“Does it matter, Mr. Frost?” She sounded wary.
Perhaps he ought to have said no. But: “Surely it matters at least as much as the nicks atop the washstand, and you told me of them readily enough.”
“A solid rebuttal.” She sighed. “You have taken the measure of my height, I am sure. My hair is as dark as yours, and as straight as yours is not.”
So, his hair was still dark. Benedict remembered his father's head threaded with gray well before the age of thirty, and he had wondered if his was changing similarly.
The shade of one's hair seemed an odd thing not to know.
“What color are your eyes?” he asked.
“Green, though not a stunning shade thereof. And before you ask, I do not have freckles. My nose is of a middling size, and I have all my own teeth.”
“What an attractive recital,” he murmured. This jumble of facts left him no idea what she looked like, though it was clear his impression of cloudy mildness was entirely wrong. Charlotte Perry was the Derbyshire breeze in human form: invigorating and stronger than one was prepared for.
“Have you any other questions before I leave you?”
“None that I dare ask at present.” He pasted on a roguish smile. Let her puzzle that one out.
A sharp knock echoed up the stairwell, and Charlotte took a quick step toward the doorway. “Likely that is your trunk from the Pig and Blanketâand the servants are all over the place with laundry and dinner. As it often is here. Shall I descend to speak with the innkeeper, Mr. Frost, or would you like to?”
“I don't wish to interrupt if it's a family caller. Here. I'll follow you to the stairs and can come down if needed.” He counted off the steps from bedchamber to staircase, touching the wall only once to remind himself where the passage wall was split by a doorway.
Charlotte descended the eighteen narrow steps ahead of him; from the corridor below, her voice mingled with that of her father's. The vicar's voice ended: “. . . cannot let the knocking bother your mother,” and the front door was hauled open.
“Vicar, y'er needed!” The voice was indeed that of the Pig and Blanket's owner, a man with the local accent and a slight wheeze. “At once, y'er needed at the inn. At once.”
Charlotte spoke up, sounding puzzled. “Mr. Potter. Have you brought Mr. Frost'sâ”
“I need the vicar.” The man cut her off with a ragged insistence. “Nance, my serving girlâshe's been stabbed. Constable's been told, and the Bow Street Runner, and a doctor, and there's nothing they can do to help her. Vicarâcome say a few prayers over the poor lamb, will you, in case she perishes.”
Chapter Four
From the upstairs corridor, hinges creaked, though not loudly enough to cover a soft cry.
“Maggie heard that,” Charlotte murmured, a cold prickle racing down her spine. “Excuse me, Papa. Mr. Potter, you have my deepest sympathies. I shall pray for Nance's recovery.”
She was fluent in polite language; she could speak it, could curtsy even, as her attention flew to the girl upstairs. Her feet followed as she cursed each one of the eighteen shallow steps, brushed past the tall figure of Mr. Frost, and eased into the small bedchamber she would be sharing with the girl who called her Aunt Charlotte.
Maggie sat beside the bed, a thin figure in a tidy printed gown. Her legs were folded sedately, but her wild tumble of light brown curls still shook, betraying her swift movement to the door and back.
Next to her was curled the familiar old figure of Captain, a rangy brindled hound of some fifteen years. Captain was stiff and slow, her brown-and-browner coat now graying. Maggie petted the dog's head, her own face downcast and hidden behind her fallen hair.
Charlotte seated herself on the bed. It was narrower than Mr. Frost's, but overspread with the same sort of quilt. She and her older sister had pieced them both as teens, months of delicate work throughout which Charlotte had hated every tidy stitch. She was glad for them now, though.
Her feet touched the floor beside Maggie. If she dared reach out, she could lace her fingers through the girl's hair. She could pet her, comfort her, maybe, as Maggie petted Captain.
Or maybe the one she'd be comforting was herself.
“You heard what Mr. Potter said, didn't you, dearest?” she asked.
A mute, miserable nod.
Charlotte sighed and ventured a pat on Maggie's shoulder. A half-grown girl seemed so fragile, her bones slight. But ten years was much too old to allow oneself to be cradled, or to be wrapped in a doting embrace.
So Charlotte only patted her again, feeling far away.
“Will Nance be all right?” A small voice issued from behind the wall of curly hair. “I thought she was nice.”
Charlotte could well imagine what Maggie thought of Nance. She remembered being ten years old, stick-thin and awkward with promise. At that age, a blowsy, vibrant young woman such as Nance seemed the loveliest creature in the world.
“She was nice, wasn't she?
Is
nice,” Charlotte corrected herself. “Mr. Potter said someone hurt her badly. But he has called a doctor, and PapaâGrandpapaâwill help her to be at peace.”
Is
nice,” Charlotte corrected herself. “Mr. Potter said someone hurt her badly. But he has called a doctor, and PapaâGrandpapaâwill help her to be at peace.”
Maggie's only response was to pet the dark velvet of Captain's ears. The aged hound thumped her tail and settled her long head in Maggie's lap.
Though Charlotte had named Captain at the age of thirteen when her father brought home the puppy, the skittish hound had always been Margaret's dog. The elder Perry sister had named the second puppy, an Irish Water spaniel with a curly liver-brown coat and a tail that whipped like that of a donkey. Frippery was calm and loyal, with a menacing bark and no bite whatsoever.
He became Charlotte's chum for loping around Strawfield and slipping onto the Selwyn lands to explore the caves there. Margaret was happier at home, where Captain was often to be found curled at her feet alongside her work basket of quilt pieces.
Frippery had been gone for years. Charlotte had been long away. Margaret had sickened within a year of her marriage, following her young husband to the grave.
All that was left was this girl with her name and the hound that linked them. And the same vicarage, where her parents grew grayer and more absent each year.
The walls were still papered in the tiny flowered print from Charlotte's own youth, but a new shelf hung above the bed. Books were stacked upon it, and a small tin horse. Time marched on. Maggie was changing. It seemed unbearable that Charlotte should not know Maggie's favorite book, or that she had not shared the girl's joy over acquiring the toy horse.
Charlotte blinked her eyes dry, then swallowed hard. She must sound calm and pleasant. “You know I'm to stay with you in your room, don't you?”
Another quick nod. “Why are you here?”
For you. For us.
“I hadâbeen away too long.” This was not quite an answer, but it was close enough for the present. “Do you remember the last time I visited?”
“I hadâbeen away too long.” This was not quite an answer, but it was close enough for the present. “Do you remember the last time I visited?”
“I think so. I was only six then.” Childish fingers combed through the coarse fur of the hound's back. “You plaited my hair with silk ribbons?”
“I did. With green, to match your eyes.” Charlotte closed her lips on further words. How many nights had she climbed into bed in the four years since, praying to dream about that brief visit?
Lord, please, let me see her again, if only in sleep. Let me remember the feel of her hair, the softness of her cheek.
Lord, please, let me see her again, if only in sleep. Let me remember the feel of her hair, the softness of her cheek.
How it felt to seat her in my lap, to hold her like the precious girl she has always been to me.
“I thought you were nice.” Lifting her hand from Captain's back, Maggie pushed back her unbound hair. Tentatively, she glanced over her shoulder.
Young Maggie Catlett was going to be a beauty, some had said. Rot and rubbish. She was already a beauty. Had been a beauty from the day of her birth.
“I thought you were nice, too.” Charlotte smiled.
Maggie turned forward againâbut she scooted a few inches across the floor, closer to Charlotte's skirts, despite Captain's whine of protest.
“I am not sure how long I can stay,” said Charlotte. “But may I write to you once I go? I should like to have a friend with whom to exchange letters.”
The girl nodded, then tipped another curious glance over her shoulder. Her brows were straight and thoughtful over Perry-green eyes. “Why do you not write to Grandmama and Grandpapa?”
Somehow Charlotte managed a laugh. “Oh, they know enough about me already.”
Too much, really. For the past ten years, since Charlotte had first left Strawfield, it was enough for her parents to know that she was alive and sufficiently far away so as not to embarrass them. She did write to them, but rarely did she receive a reply. She wondered whether they read her letters at all.
Plucking at a loose thread in a quilt blockâone of her own resentful stitches, no doubtâshe said, “I shall brush and plait your hair tonight, if you like. You may choose the silk ribbons; I've brought many colors from”â
London
, she almost saidâ“my travels.”
London
, she almost saidâ“my travels.”
“And will you tell me about the places you've been?”
“Oh . . . you might find them dull. But I'll tell you stories. How is that?” The stories would be the bare bits of truth of her life, as much as would be appropriate for a child's ears. She could speak of evenings of wine and wit, of a house papered all in gold and furnished in red, and of a princess with many suitors who could choose none.
She could not bear the idea of lying to Maggie about what she'd made of herself. Nor, however, could she tell the girl the truth.
While she stayed in this room, she must try not to show too much feeling. She must not let the weight of every missed day with Maggie bow her shoulders, or strip from her the joy of the present. If Charlotte could find the stolen coinsâif she could claim the reward of five thousand poundsâthere would be no more regrets.
Her London life had paid well, but only well enough to finance her escape. Her house in Mayfair was now an empty shell, almost everything else converted into money, handed out in bribes. She had returned to Strawfield with a few trunks, not much more than what she had taken to London a decade before. Barely a woman at eighteen, immortalized on Edward Selwyn's canvases, fallen in heart and body.
Charlotte's chest felt heavy, and she breathed deeply to settle the old weight into its familiar position. “I must go now, to see how dinner preparations are getting on.” As good an excuse as any for giving them both a bit of space. “Your grandpapa will be tired and sad when he returns home. We can at least feed him well, hmm?”
She rose from the bed, then crouched next to the girl. Stroking back the hair that fell over Maggie's face, soft as silk thread, she asked, “All right?”
The piquant little face frownedâthen Maggie nodded. “May I bring Captain down to dinner, Aunt Charlotte?”
“She's not usually allowed in the dining room, is she? Best not. But she can wait in the corridor just outside. It's nice to know an old friend is nearby, isn't it?” Charlotte smiled.
When Maggie managed a small return of the expression, Charlotte rose to her feet and exited the small chamber.
Benedict Frost stood outside the door of the spare chamber, wearing an expression of doubt that clashed with the assured lines of his uniform. “Miss Perry?”
“Yes.” She closed the distance between them. “What can I help you with, Mr. Frost?”
He lowered his voice, no more than a faint tickle of sound in her ear. “An answer. Please believe I do not mean to pry; I only seek not to blunder.”
Chill wariness touched between her shoulder blades. “Of course,” she replied equally low.
“Is Miss Maggie aware that you are her mother?”
* * *
Benedict did not regret asking Charlotte the question, though he guessed it would break the easy flirtation into which they had fallen.
Charlotte's hand clutched his sleeve, a spasmodic gesture of alarm, and pushed him into his own chamber. “No,” she whispered, shutting the door behind them. “No, she does not know. How could you be . . . how did you realize?”
He couldn't say, exactly. As he'd made to return to his chamber once Charlotte entered Maggie's, he had overheard her speak to the girl. Her voice was different, like a string plucked that ran straight to her heart. It harmonized with the way she had spoken of her supposed niece earlier.
“I heard in your voice how much you loved her,” he tried to explain.
It was a tone of yearning for something that was already present, a yearning so deep it could not be satisfied. He couldn't think of anything he had wanted that much in his life. Wanting in the negativeâto leave England, to undo his blindnessâwas not the same thing as treasuring another creature so deeply that one's voice shimmered like gold.
The frantic grip on his arm relaxed. “If she hears love in my voice, that cannot be a bad thing. But she is not to know ofâthe other. Known as the child of my sister, who was wed, Maggie is legitimate. Her life's path will be easier.”
He wanted to take up her hand, to hold it in his own. “And yours?”
“The best thing I can do for my daughter is to be her aunt.” The words were heavy with sadnessâbut also determination.
He flicked his fingers out, just a whisper of a touch against the back of her hand. “You are brave, Miss Perry.”
“I am what I have had to be, Mr. Frost.” Her hand turned beneath his, and for a second they were palm against palm. “As are you.”
And then the door opened, and she left.
* * *
“I hope it was no inconvenience to travel to Cheshire. I have summoned you here as an admirer of your work.” The Marquess of Randolph leaned back in the chair behind his study's desk, regarding Edward with hooded eyes.
“Yes, my lord,” Edward Selwyn murmured. “I meanâno, my lord. No inconvenience. I am honored.”
So honored, he hardly knew what he was saying. The Cheshire seat of the Randolph marquessate was everything he had imagined luxury to be. Where the floors in his Strawfield home were wood or slate, these were marble. His own walls were carved wood or hung with paper; the Randolph chimneypieces were marble and the walls were swaddled in painted silks.
And best of all, in a place of honor behind the marquess's desk, hung one of Edward's paintings. It was a small figure in oils inspired by Botticelli, depicting a
Venus pudica
arising from the sea. One of Edward's early works, but still a favorite of his.
Venus pudica
arising from the sea. One of Edward's early works, but still a favorite of his.
“I am honored,” Edward repeated, trying to sound both respectful and confident, “that my art has come to your attention. It would be my pleasure to paint your portrait, my lord.”
Randolph's pockets were deep, and there was no denying the man was powerful. This, at last, could be the patronage he had been waiting for. He'd be the next Gainsborough, the next Lawrence.
“A portrait isn't precisely what I had in mind.” A decanter of brandy and a pair of glasses sat on the marquess's desk. Randolph poured out a generous measure into each glass, then handed one to Edward. “I was thinking of an exhibition of your work. A private one.”
The brandy stung Edward's nose. He'd arrived only an hour ago and was hoping for a cold luncheon of some sort. It was early, surely, for drinking brandy. But marquesses kept to their own schedule.
He took a small sip. “Excellent brandy. And an excellent idea, too, to arrange an exhibition. I know a gallery in London that wouldâ”
“I haven't settled on a place yet, but I rather think it will . . . not be London.”
Edward blinked. “Well . . . the Royal Academy exhibits in London. If the purpose is to. . .” He coughed. “To promote an artist's work, then that would be the most logicalâ”
“Ah. Well.” Randolph folded his hands. Edward noticed the marquess hadn't touched his brandy and quickly set down his own glass. “What I'm looking for, to be honest, is information. About your model.”
Somehow the nobleman's stillness guided Edward's eyes back up to the painting behind the desk. To the Venus, dark-haired, her straight locks like a waterfall over her bare body, revealing as much as they cloaked. About her neck winked a necklace in diamonds and emeralds, her only garment.
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