The Tutor (House of Lords) (13 page)

“Go slowly,” Cynthia cautioned as the child sucked in a mouthful of air around the hot potato. “It’s hot.” The girl continued to eat. “Do you have a name?” Cynthia asked, and when the girl looked up at Charles again she said, “Would you wait over there?”

Trying not to laugh, Charles went and stood next to the driver who was still waiting with the carriage. They watched as Cynthia spoke to the girl in a hushed voice and took a card from her reticule, pressing it into the girl’s hand. There seemed to be some small argument, and finally the girl got up and disappeared down the alley.

Cynthia rose rather stiffly. Charles went over to her. “I was crouching a long while,” she said, smiling wryly as she looked down the alley. “Her name is Annabeth. She’s twelve. Thank you, Charles.”

“It was nothing,” he said, staring at her. He had never quite imagined her as a charitable, caring sort of person. She struck him as so academically aloof, so removed from the concerns of the real world, that seeing her crouched over that child had been rather shocking. But it had also been endearing and humbling. He had not even noticed the child, but Cynthia had found her. “I suppose there are thousands of boys and girls like her.”

Cynthia nodded, still staring down the alley. “Tens of thousands,” she said. “I grew up so removed from poverty and want, Charles. I’m sure you did, too. Sometimes it seems as though people like that are invisible.”

“I will make sure they aren’t,” he insisted, and he meant it.

“You do know,” she said as he was handing her back into the carriage, “that it is not your wealth that attracts me.”

The carriage door closed behind them and they began to move. With all that had happened, he had forgotten the preoccupation he had felt in the Gallery, but he remembered his worry now. “Are you saying that you’re attracted to me?” he asked, trying to conceal the relief he felt as he slid onto the seat beside her.

She flushed rather becomingly. “Perhaps,” she said softly.

He put his hands on her waist to pull her closer. “Would you like me to show you how attractive I find you?”

“I believe,” she said, her hands gliding over the collar of his coat, “you have already given me ample demonstration.”

“Oh, I haven’t even started yet.” He reached up and undid the ties of her mantle and then pressed his lips to the skin above her collar. She gasped in surprise.

“Charles, we will be in Cavendish Square soon,” she whispered as his lips traveled up her neck.

“We have ten minutes at least,” he replied. “Would you like to see what I can do with ten minutes?”

She sighed as his lips met hers. He took it as a yes. With one hand still on her waist, he guided her back onto the bench and slid one hand from her ankle up underneath her petticoats to her knee, still kissing her with reckless abandon. When his hand traveled a little higher she made a small sound against his lips. He stilled, thinking that she was about to push him away. “Please,” she whispered. “Please, don’t stop.”

He had no intention of it. His fingers found her most secret place and stroked gently. She shuddered against him and bit her lip, and he delved a little deeper, one finger sliding inside her. She moved against him. “That’s it,” he said.

“More.”

He gave it to her. Her fingers grasped the shoulders of his coat as he kissed her again, his tongue darting in and out of her mouth, matching the rhythm of his fingers probing in and out. It was not long before she made a little mewling sound and stiffened in his arms. He pulled back to see the look of pure rapture on her face. She sighed as he withdrew his fingers. He pulled her petticoats back down.

“If that’s what you can do with ten minutes,” she said, “I’d love to see what you can do with thirty.”

He pulled her so close that she was almost sitting on his lap. “Let me show you,” he said impulsively. “Let me come to you tonight.” Then, dreading her answer, he kissed her hard, one hand sliding along her neck.

She broke away. “Charles, I couldn’t possibly—”

“No, no, you’re right. It was a foolish suggestion.” The carriage was slowing. When they stopped outside the townhouse he handed her out and walked her to the door. “We will call for you at seven,” he said. Then the door opened and she disappeared inside.

Feeling chastened, Charles went down the steps to his carriage. Just as he was about to climb in, however, he glanced across the street. There was a man standing against a post on the opposite side. He appeared to be waiting for a hackney. Now as Charles glimpsed him the man pulled out a pocket-watch, glanced at it in irritation, and started off down the street. Charles had always had a good memory for faces. When he had told Cynthia he knew most of the members of the Lords by sight, even those he had not met, it had been the truth. Often he remembered the faces of people he passed on the street. So he was almost certain the man he had just seen had been waiting for a hackney when he had arrived to collect Cynthia early that afternoon, too.

“Wait for me at the corner,” he said as the man disappeared down the street. The driver nodded and did not ask questions. Charles let the man get a few more paces ahead before setting off at a casual pace, trailing after him.

It was no good. The man had to be a professional, for he seemed to become aware of Charles within a matter of seconds. When they reached the corner, he turned, and by the time Charles caught up with him he had vanished into the crowd.

Giving up, Charles started back towards his carriage, trying to recall the man’s face. He had seen it somewhere before. He searched his memory. It had not been at the Gallery, or at Spitzer’s or the theatre last night. It was not until the carriage was halfway back to Danforth House that it dawned on him.

It was the Rat. Charles had only seen the man once at Lady Jack’s, and then for a very brief moment, but he had never forgotten the encounter, for it had been the same night that he had confronted Jacqueline with his knowledge of her parentage. It had been the Rat who had produced the papers and letters proving her birth. The man had had a rather nondescript face for someone with his moniker, which had surprised Charles enough that he remembered his features. The only thing that distinguished him was that he was missing the lower part of his left ear, just as the man Charles had followed had been.

But why should Jacqueline’s servant be following him?

He thought about it for the rest of the afternoon, but by the time Imogen came in to remind him that they were dining at Stowe House that evening he still had no answer.

THIRTEEN

Stowe House was, if possible, even grander than Danforth House, situated in the center of its own private park in the heart of Belgravia, and that evening it was being showcased to perfection, lit up so that the white stones glowed.
 
The house was abuzz with life and joy, and at the very center of it, Clarissa and her husband the Earl of Stowe stood waiting in the grand foyer, ready to welcome their guests.

Cynthia stood close to Imogen as they waited to be received, wondering if this had been a good idea. It was one thing to accompany Charles and his sister to the theatre, where they could be selective about the people they encountered. Then, it had been easy to maintain the facade of the graceful, composed society belle, unaffected by whispers and stares. But here, at Stowe House, there were bound to be people she didn’t know, even if Charles did. And there would be hours when they were apart, before and after dinner, when all manner of awkward questions might be asked.

But when Clarissa took her hands, she felt a little calmer. “After all the guests have arrived you must come upstairs and meet the twins,” she said. “I insist upon it, and they will have gone to sleep by the time we are finished with dinner, if they have not already.”

“Of course,” Cynthia said, recognizing the invitation for what it was—a chance to talk alone about what was happening.

She followed Charles and Imogen into the drawing room. Most of the people there were known to her: Lord Sidney and his sisters and mother, Lord and Lady Farrington, and Lord Anthony Beresford and Mr. Barnabas Goring. A distinguished-looking gentleman stood with a woman she assumed was his wife near the fire, talking with a bald man and a beautifully dressed older woman.

Cynthia cast a nervous glance at Lord Sidney, who appeared to be ignoring their arrival, but Charles guided her over towards the group near the fire. “Lord and Lady Brougham,” he said, “may I present Miss Cynthia Endersby to you?”

Cynthia stared in wonder. Lord Brougham, the Lord Chancellor? She had long idolized this man—in secret, of course, for her father despised his liberal leanings—and the thought that he was standing here in the flesh before her made her tremble with excitement. “It is a great honor to meet you both,” Cynthia said.

Lady Brougham smiled, “Though far more thrilling to meet my husband, I think,” she said. “Your reputation precedes you, Miss Endersby. The countess has spoken of nothing but you every time I have seen her in the last week. I know that you and she are cut of the same cloth.”

Cynthia blushed. “I suppose we are, My Lady.”

“And this is Mrs. Coledridge, formerly Lady Landridge, and her husband.”

The Earl of Stowe’s mother and stepfather, Cynthia assumed. She curtseyed to the dignified woman, who greeted her in a voice touched with a slight accent.

Then Clarissa was at her side, and she was practically being dragged up the stairs to the nursery, a large room on the third floor. A plump, pink-faced woman who looked long past the age when one ought to be sitting comfortably by the fire greeted her. “Miss Cynthia! Oh, it is good to see you.”

“Nanny Bab?” Cynthia asked. She remembered the woman who had cared for Clarissa all her infancy and childhood, though she hadn’t seen her in years. It had been Nanny Bab who had helped Clarissa sneak little treats out to Cynthia; a biscuit or a piece of cake or a doll made of fabric scraps. Those treasures had been bright bits of light in Cynthia’s dark childhood. “Oh, Nanny Bab, how pleased I am to see you!” Leave it to Clarissa, Cynthia thought, to find the woman again when she had children of her own.

And now the twins were being presented to her. Henry, Viscount Landridge, and Lady Eloise were barely three months old, but already they were the spitting image of their Papa, with shocks of dark hair and deep gray eyes. But they had Clarissa’s pixyish nose. Cynthia took Henry, who was already asleep, in her arms. “Oh, Clarissa,” she said softly, “they’re perfect.”

“I like to think so, too,” Clarissa said, smiling down at little Eloise.

“And so big! Are all babies this big at three months?”

“Perhaps not, but they are hungry little things,” Clarissa said, and Nanny Bab chuckled.

“My poor mistress is in here night and day with these two.”

“You’re nursing them yourself?” Cynthia asked.

Clarissa nodded. “Not all mothers wish to have as little to do with their children as ours did, Cynthia.” Wondering at this casual remark, Cynthia looked quickly at Nanny Bab. “It’s all right,” Clarissa said. “She knows.”

“That I do, Miss Cynthia, and I must say if it were me I would have bashed your scoundrel of a father over the head with something heavy long before this.”

“Thank you, Nanny Bab. I appreciate the sentiment, but he is still, for all intents and purposes, my father.”

“Still, it would serve him right,” Nanny Bab grumbled. “Spoiling a perfectly lovely girl’s opinion of men like that.”

“I assure you, Nanny Bab, he didn’t damage my opinion of men in any way.”

“Are you sure about that?” Nanny Bab asked, looking hard at Cynthia.

Cynthia could think of nothing else to say. As they made their way back down to the drawing room, she grabbed Clarissa’s wrist. They stopped in the corridor. “Do you think the same as Nanny Bab? Do you think I am incapable of trusting a man?”

Clarissa stared at her for a moment before answering, “I think something truly terrible happened to both of us, Cynthia, something that should never happen to any person. We were used very ill, and that changes you forever. I at least had a father who loved me and years of good memories to draw on when I finally learned the truth. But you don’t. Your childhood was hell. You were never good enough for Roger Endersby, no matter what you did, because he had an impossible standard of perfection. But not every man has the same standards. I learned that with Anders. Perhaps the duke can teach you the same lesson. All I can say for certain is this: Roger Endersby did not teach you all there is to know about men. They can be good and kind and honest. And,” she added, blushing a little, “a man like him can teach you other things as well.”

Cynthia almost couldn’t meet her eyes. She found herself thinking of the way Charles had touched her in the carriage that afternoon. He had said there was more, much more. Cynthia had not been shielded from the reality of what happened between men and women as other girls had. She understood the mechanics. But now, seeing the way Clarissa flushed when she spoke of her relationship with her husband, Cynthia wondered if the pleasure she had felt that afternoon might only have been a small taste of what was possible. “I have promised to try, Clarissa. That is the best I can do for now. It may be that those experiences are not meant for me.”

“I understand,” Clarissa said, but then she hooked her index finger and put it to her lips.
It’s not true
, the signal said. They had used that one often when their fathers had been speaking above their heads. “But there’s only one way to find out.”

And deep in her heart, Cynthia knew she was right.

Charles was seated with Miss Chesney and Mrs. Coleridge at dinner. Cynthia was far away down the table with Leo and Lord Brougham, of whom she seemed to be in awe. Every time he glanced at her she was listening raptly as Lord Brougham spoke. Leo seemed to be attending to the conversation, but quietly. In all the tumult of the last few days, Charles had almost forgotten that Leo had been at the Endersby townhouse before him on Sunday. The sight of him tonight had brought the memory back. What had he been doing there?

After dinner the gentlemen sat around the table drinking port. Lord Brougham and Stowe discussed the upcoming session with relish. Leo put in an occasional comment, but studiously avoided looking at Charles. Mr. Coleridge, Stowe’s stepfather, had a few things to say about the Poor Laws Commission. He was a good friend of one of the members, apparently, and understood better than many of the men at the table what the Commission was thinking.

“It’s not about which services ought to be provided, or how to provide them efficiently, unfortunately,” Mr. Coleridge said. “The trouble seems to be agreeing on whether or not the poor deserve the help in the first place.”

“But where else are they to get it from?” Charles asked. “The churches haven’t proved to be efficient outlets for delivery, and the hospitals are overcrowded. The workhouses and prisons can’t possibly be the best option for the poor. It’s inhuman,” he insisted.

The other men at the table had all lifted their heads to stare at them. Even Leo looked surprised. “I think that’s the first political comment I’ve ever heard you make, old man,” Barney said, chuckling. “Perhaps Miss Endersby is having a positive influence.”

There was silence. No one dared ask Charles where things stood with Cynthia—the situation was too precarious. Charles took a sip of his port and decided to say nothing more than, “Perhaps.” He could feel Leo’s interested stare, but he kept his gaze fixed on his glass.

When the gentlemen were rising to join the ladies, however, Stowe held back. “Leo,” he said, “stay a moment if you would. You too, Charles.”

Charles sat glumly in his chair. Leo rose and began pacing up and down the room.

“This is foolish,” Stowe said. “The two of you used to be friends, and now you’re spending whole evenings looking daggers at each other. I wouldn’t be bothered by it except that you’re doing it in my house, and quite frankly, I can’t stand it much longer. What the devil is going on?”

Leo heaved a deep sigh and braced himself against the back of a chair, fingers drumming agitatedly against the polished wood. “Shall you tell him, Bain, or shall I?”

Charles said, “I will, if you like.” Leo held out his hand as if to say, “go ahead”. Charles gathered his thoughts for a moment and then told the same story he had told Cynthia, about the house party at the Middlebury’s and Lord Tamarline and Maris’s planned assignation, only with a few more salient details added. There were moments when he could not meet Leo’s eyes, he was so embarrassed by his part in the whole thing. But as the words flowed, he began to see that Leo had been just as upset by the whole episode as he had. When he thought of the row they had had, back in October, he realized that much of his friend’s anger had arisen from his frustration and fear and his worry about his little sister. When he had reached the end of the story he said, “I should have done more to prevent it, and I’m sorry, Leo. I made a mistake in allowing your sister to think I was partial to her.”

Stowe glanced expectantly at Leo, who said, “You’re right, Charles. It was a mistake. But just because you didn’t plan to break my sister’s heart doesn’t mean you won’t break Miss Endersby’s. I went to see her because I thought that you were not an especially stable choice for a husband, and I wanted to help.”

Charles looked at Stowe, who crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. “He has a point, Charles. Do you really think you can make her happy?”

“It’s not her happiness I worry about,” Leo said. “We all know your history, Charles, your reputation. Will you really be able to give up that life when you are married?”

Stowe scoffed. “You really think he’s a rake, don’t you, Leo?”

Both men turned to gape at their host. Charles was too stunned to speak. What did Stowe know about his character?

“Don’t you?” Leo asked.

“Not for a minute,” Stowe said. “And if you knew what I knew, you wouldn’t either.”

“You mean Jacqueline,” Charles said. Stowe nodded.

“Lady Jack? What about her?” Leo asked. “I always thought she was...well, not your mistress, but certainly more than the patroness of your club.”

“She is more than that,” Stowe said. “I’m sorry, Charles. I should have told you I knew, and I shouldn’t have brought it up without your permission. I learned the truth right after your father died. He and I have the same solicitor, and the secondary will was sent to me by mistake.”

“It’s all right,” Charles said, and he looked across the table at Leo. “Jacqueline Mirabeau is my father’s natural daughter, Leo.”

For a moment his friend blinked at him, as if trying to understand what he had said. Then he nodded. “I suppose that makes as much sense as anything else. It explains why you are such a frequent visitor there. But what will the
ton
say when they find out?”

“I hope they never do. There’s no reason why anyone should. There is very little evidence of her parentage, and almost all of it is in her possession, or my family’s.”

Leo nodded. “Well, then. I
am
sorry, Charles. I don’t know why I carried on so long, only Maris is...not like other girls. She is very vulnerable, I think, and she tries to hide it under a mask of flirtatiousness and frivolity.” He studied his half-empty glass of port for a moment. “I think that’s enough introspection for one night,” he said after a few moments, and then he rose and went out into the hall. Charles stared after him.

“He’s been wanting to make peace for weeks, without really knowing how,” Stowe said.

“Thank you.”

“It was nothing. But I will tell you something, Charles,” Stowe went on, his voice suddenly very grave. “Cynthia Endersby is the nearest thing my wife has to a sister, and she has not had an easy life. She deserves happiness more than almost any other woman I know. If you break her heart, I will be the next in line after Leo to thrash you, Spitzer’s protégé or not.”

For a moment Charles considered asking what Stowe knew of Cynthia’s troubles, but then he thought the better of it. He would have to trust her to tell him in her own time. He drained the last of his port and said, “Shall we join the ladies?”

It was nearly midnight when the carriage pulled up in front of the Endersby townhouse. Charles got out to see Cynthia to the door, looking around for the Rat but knowing that just because he didn’t see him didn’t mean he wasn’t there.

As he took her arm to escort her up the stairs, she said so softly that he almost didn’t hear it, “I’ve changed my mind about tonight. Come to the back door at two.” He nodded silently and wished her good night. He didn’t hear a word Imogen said the whole way home.