The Seduction of Lady Charity: The Baxendale Sisters Book Four (18 page)

The footman poured coffee from the coffee pot and placed a cup before her on the table, adding a plate of biscuits.

“While an investigation is carried out,” Robin added.

As she lifted the cup of black coffee to her lips, her dark brows drew together. “
Merci monsieur.
”

Wondering how good her understanding of English was, Robin lapsed into French. “Pardon, but I cannot merely take you at your word, Madame Florence. Your claim must be investigated.
Tu comprends
?”

“
Oui
.” She glanced down at her son, who had popped the last of the almond biscuits into his mouth.

“Bring more biscuits, Samuel,” Robin said.

As the footman left the room, Henry slipped in through the door. Charles’ eyes widened. “
Chien
!” He left the sofa and followed the dog over to the fireplace. Henry obligingly licked the lad’s hand, where, no doubt, a few almond crumbs remained.

If this boy was the legitimate heir, Robin would have no option but to return to his life in Tunbridge Wells. Although he’d desperately wanted to remain there a year ago, the idea no longer appealed. His plans for improvements to his lands and his tenants were already becoming a reality, and he kept abreast of any changes brought about by parliament that could affect those in his care. He thought of some recent legislation that he would have opposed. While it hadn’t interested him before, he now planned to use his influence in the House of Lords, and a duke’s voice carried far more authority than a viscount’s.

In the days that followed, one of Robin’s lawyers traveled to Paris to authenticate or dispute the document Madame Florence had brought with her. Madame Florence and young Charles rarely made an appearance. Robin’s solicitors had advised him not to house them, but he considered it wrong to turn them away. They kept to the dower house, where he’d thought it prudent to place them, in an effort to lessen the gossip. It had failed of course. Robin glimpsed them when he rode past the building and saw them strolling in the gardens. The sight disturbed him. Would that small boy bring chaos to his life?

Robin had invited Madame Florence to dine with him, wishing to learn more, but she’d refused, stating in halting English that she would wait for confirmation to come from France. She’d said it with such clear-eyed conviction his heart was like a leaden weight in his chest.

Robin had to straighten his spine to attend a card party at one of the big houses in the district, but he was determined not to shut himself away. As he entered his neighbor’s drawing room, he was greeted by a loud hum of gossip.

Lady Kitty hurried to his side. “Such a horrible affair, Your Grace,” she whispered. “Mama says it’s unwise to have that creature stay at the castle. She says a Frenchwoman will tempt you into an indiscretion and should be sent packing.”

“I am not so easily tempted, Kitty,” Robin replied, amused.

She gazed at him with anxious eyes. “And Mama says that if what she says proves to be true you might have to marry her, for you shall be a mere viscount again.”

Before he could think of a fitting answer, his hostess came to claim him. An hour later, he left, heartened by the sympathy and offers of support. His tenants had also expressed the view that they preferred their present duke and would not welcome any change.

With each frustrating day that brought no news, Robin grew impatient to leave for Tunbridge Wells. When a letter came from Charity telling him she was pleased with the portrait’s progress, he sensed an unspoken reprimand behind her words. He had not sat for the portrait, and she would assume he’d lost interest. Dash it all. Despite everything, he had to see her. He loved her, and if she loved him, she’d take him, whether he was a duke or not. He would not wait for confirmation. He would take this final gamble and make arrangements to go to Tunbridge Wells as soon as he could, whether news from France had come or not.

Chapter Nineteen

Father entered the dining room at luncheon. “I just met Rennie of Beaverbrook Farm at the Walks,” he said, seating himself at the table. “He told me the most confounding news.” He cast a look at her mother. “Sorry for my language, my dear. Rennie has just returned from visiting his sister in Northumberland.” He reached for the bread.

“News of Robin, Father?” Charity asked, her stomach tightening. Had Robin announced his engagement? It might account for the brief letter he’d sent her with no suggestion of sitting for her. Had he lost interest in the portrait or in seeing her again?

“I’m about to tell you,” Father said, eyeing her. “A lady has arrived from France with a young son. She has declared that she married the duke’s son, Charles, before he died of the smallpox.”

“My goodness,” Mama said. “That would mean…”

“That Robin is not the duke,” Father said, completing her sentence. “Apparently they await confirmation from France.”

Charity’s stomach twisted in distress, and she pushed her plate away. “Poor Robin. It can’t be true.”

“I’m afraid these things do happen, thankfully rarely, for the Committee of Privileges are usually thorough in these matters.”

“How would they prove the child was Charles’?” Mama asked.

“They can’t. But if the child was born in wedlock.” He shrugged. “Not so unusual for a peer to raise a child not of his blood.”

“I am heartbroken for Robin,” her mother said. “He was growing into the role when I last saw him. I thought he made a splendid duke.”

Father nodded thoughtfully, his gaze resting on Charity. “Indeed. If it is true, it will change Robin’s life.”

Charity pushed back her chair. “Please excuse me; I don’t feel like eating.”

“Oh my dear,” Mama said. “Can’t you at least manage some bread and cheese?”

She shook her head. “I want to continue my work.”

“Perhaps you should leave that for a while. Begin something new that pleases you. Robin will hardly want the portrait if he is not the duke,” her father pointed out.

Charity hurried from the room.

In her studio, she studied the painting. Robin was seated in his chair, looking every inch a duke. Should she write to him? No, she must wait for him to tell her. She would learn the outcome soon enough. He’d accepted the dukedom with reluctance, but she could see he’d begun to relish the opportunities now offered him. All those plans he’d told her about. He would be distressed if he were forced to give them up. She sighed and dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. She yearned to offer him sympathy, but he was proud and might not appreciate it. She must be patient.

****

Cool, damp fingers of mist touched Charity’s cheek and clung to her clothes as she walked with Mercy beside the river, Wolf racing ahead. Winter was approaching, and before they knew it, it would be Christmas. Her mother was already discussing the menu with Cook and household matters with the housekeeper with a view to the chambers all being occupied with guests.

Faith glowed with good health when she and Vaughn arrived. For a week the merry house resembled old times, full of chatter and bright laughter, along with the added demands of two small babes. Charity fell even more in love with them as she sketched them. No child, apart from Edward and Honor’s impish son, Lucas, could possibly be as adorable.

No word had come from Northumberland. Her thoughts constantly on Robin, Charity had worked on the portrait until she worried that she’d over paint it. If he didn’t want it, it would be hers to keep. She could gaze at it when she was an old lady. The thought made her bite her lip.

She had answered Lord Kirkbride’s letter and suggested he call to discuss a commission. He wrote back inviting her to his London home, and when she was forced to decline, as her mother and some ladies from the church were holding a fete, he wrote again that, as he was in the general area on Tuesday, he would call at two o’clock.

He arrived an hour early. Her mother had not yet returned from a morning call. The butler showed him into the parlor. “Good day, Lady Charity.” Lord Kirkbride bowed. His dress bordered on the foppish with an artistically tied cravat and very tight coat. That did not deter her, however. The more eccentric the subject, the better.

“My lord.” Charity gestured to a seat. “Would you care for refreshment?”

“No thank you.” He threw up his coattails and sat as his gaze slid over her in her high-necked, pale grey morning gown.

Sitting, she clasped her hands in her lap. “Have you considered where the portrait might be set, sir?”

Kirkbride’s roving gaze continued to make her anxious. “I would pose in my London townhouse. Is that a problem?”

“I could visit to make some quick sketches. And after that, I rough the painting out and my subject sits for me. I prefer to work here.”

“Can I see some of your work?”

Charity flushed. Her studio was modest, and Kirkbride, with his many gold chains and fobs and his padded green coat of a rather sickly color, may not be impressed. If she was to paint his picture, of course he must see her work. She stood. “Please come this way.”

Kirkbride strolled into the studio, removing his gloves. He glanced at Robin’s portrait under a cover on the easel. “This is a portrait?”

“Yes. But I prefer it not to be seen until the unveiling.”

He wandered along the walls, picking up a half-finished landscape. “You have adopted a novel style, Lady Charity.”

He didn’t say he approved of it, but then, he was here, so he must.

“Have you seen Lord Gunn’s portrait?”

“Only read about it.” He turned to her, trailing his fingers along the workbench. “I thought it novel, too, that a young woman should take up such a position.” He stepped closer. “I found it quite exciting, in fact. One must endure to have one’s portrait painted, but what better way than to be entertained by a pretty woman at the same time?”

“I am not in the business of entertaining, my lord.” Charity’s heart began to beat faster.

“We may discuss the means this entertainment might take at a later date. I am aware that this is your family home.”

Two more steps in retreat and Charity felt the hard wall at her back. “Lord Kirkbride! I am an artist. I have no intention of offering any other services.”

His light brows rose as he traced a line along her jaw. “But surely…”

Crammed against the wall, Charity could only turn her head away. “There is no
surely
about it,” she snapped. “You are obviously under entirely the wrong impression.”

With relief, she heard her mother in the corridor.

He shrugged. “A young woman, alone with me here? You can hardly blame me.”

“I don’t believe we shall deal well together, Lord Kirkbride. I would like you to leave.”

“You have proved to be a disappointment, Lady Charity.”

Mama appeared at the door.

“Perhaps it is you who are the disappointment, Lord Kirkbride,” Mama said. “I’ll have the footman show you out.”

Charity leaned over her workbench, her hands clenching the wood. She was shaking. Despairing, she realized that Robin had been right about Kirkbride, at least. She straightened and frowned. But she would never admit it.

Mama appeared at the door again. “If this should ever happen again, and no doubt it will with this difficult path in life you’ve chosen for yourself, please make sure the footman or a maid remains in the room at all times.”

“Yes, Mama,” Charity said soberly.

Charity turned to painting miniatures for Christmas gifts. Her days were spent in walks along the river or reading with Mercy, who was far more the bookworm than she. With the fear that the life she’d mapped out for herself would be soulless, for Robin would not be in it, a hollow feeling grew inside her.

Wishing for some kind of connection with him, Charity rode out to see if the golden oriole had returned. Of course it hadn’t. Even the ducks were absent. The gypsies were back camping on Robin’s land by the river, on their way south for the winter.

When Charity rode back along the road, a gypsy woman, her glossy, black hair swinging down below her waist, stepped out of the bushes. She raised her hand.

Charity guided her horse over to her. “Can I help you?”

“Have you seen the man who owns this land?”

“No, not for a while. Why?”

“I wish to give him this.” She held out a bunch of purple heather tied with twine. “It’s lucky heather.”

“That’s good of you,” Charity said. “But why does he deserve such a gift?”

“He saved my boy’s life when Lash fell in the river. Jumped in after him, he did, when the river was high and fast flowing.”

Yes, Robin would do that
, Charity thought with a heavy sigh. “Would you like me to give it to him? I’ve no idea when that might be.”

The woman stepped closer. “Please take it. I don’t want my husband to see.”

Charity reached down and took it. “Have no fear, I will see he gets it. He has need of some luck.”

With a nod, the dark-eyed woman disappeared into the bushes.

Robin had not told Charity about his impromptu swim. That was also like him, she thought as she walked her horse along the road. Perhaps Father would have some news. He’d been to London during the last week and was expected home today.