You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want (24 page)

“They are probably waiting for the coach,” he said, confident St. Lyon was protecting the duchess and Mathias's sisters.

He turned and halted when he noticed Clara King was standing in front of him. He hadn't given her a thought when he returned to the music room. When he wasn't paying attention, she had excused herself from her admirers—even Marcroft.

“My compliments on a fine performance, Miss King.” He bowed, but did not step closer or attempt to kiss her hand. “I will leave you to your admirers.”

Clara King was just as lovely as he remembered. The floral scent teased his nose as she closed the distance between them. “Why? Are you not one of my most devoted admirers, Lord Fairlamb?”

The impact of her liquid blue gaze could muddle a man's good sense. He had learned that lesson firsthand. Still, he was not completely immune when she was standing so close to him.

Then he recalled that Marcroft had bedded her, and annoyance cleared his head. “Admirers can be as fickle as the lady they worship, Miss King.”

She appeared puzzled by his statement. Or perhaps she was a better actress than he had credited. “I have been worried about you. You never returned to the theater, nor have you called on me at the hotel.”

“I have no doubt you have found other amusements, Miss King,” he said dryly. If he had not witnessed what a heartless jade she was, he might have felt obliged to apologize for his rude behavior.

The singer was visibly taken aback by his coolness. He gave her credit for her swift recovery. “The last time we spoke, you called me Clara.”

A lot had occurred since that last meeting. He and Clara would have become lovers if he had not chased after Tempest. The decision had changed everything.

“I regretfully must take my leave,” he said politely. “My family awaits my return.” He turned to walk away.

“No, wait!” Miss King said, taking a step forward and then stopping when he halted. It was the first time he had seen her appear indecisive about her next move. “Will I see you again?”

“While you reside in London, your popularity with the ton makes it inevitable,” he said, not unkindly. “There is no reason to pout, Miss King. After all, you still have Marcroft dancing on a leading string.”

Mathias did not wait for her reply. He pivoted on his heel and walked away. Clara King might lament that a rich fish had slipped her hook, but she was wise enough to cut her loses. She was not in love with him any more than he had been in love with her.

He glanced up and to his chagrin, Tempest was heading in his direction. Their gazes met, but she deliberately slid hers and stared at something over his shoulder. Or someone. Clara King. Mathias silently cursed his rotten luck. Tempest had observed his exchange with Miss King and assumed that he had lied to her.

The pain in her gaze felt like claws digging into his gut.

Mathias ground his back molars together in frustration. He wanted to go to her and explain that the singer had approached him. Unfortunately, he was not in a position to offer explanations. Tempest was not alone. Lady Harriet was at her side, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Marcroft making his way toward his sister. The only thing that would make the situation worse was if Lady Norgrave tapped him on the shoulder.

It was definitely time to leave.

Switching directions, he strode toward the nearest door and exited the music room.

*   *   *

Charlotte stepped away from one of Lady Henwood's potted plants and into the brighter glow flickering from the wall sconces as she watched Blackbern's heir disappear around the corner.

Yes, I know who you are, Lord Fairlamb.

With two daughters ripe for marriage, she had made a point of studying potential husbands for them. Norgrave had selected his favorites for the season without asking her opinion. Not that he would have listened to her. Her husband handpicked gentlemen who fit his aspirations, confident that their girls would blindly accept his dictates. Last season's debacle with Rinehart should have been a hint of things to come.

The walking nightmare this season had taken the form of a Rooke.

It was enough for Charlotte to believe in curses.

In the last few years, she had observed Lord Fairlamb whenever fate was cruel enough for their paths to cross. It was obvious to her that the young nobleman had the look of his father and his mother. She knew precisely who he was before a friend confirmed her suspicions. From the gossips, she had gleaned that the marquess had inherited his father's carnal appetites. It was all Charlotte needed to know to condemn him.

When had Tempest met him?

Although Fairlamb and her daughter behaved in the music room as if they did not know each other, Charlotte had taken one look at them standing close together and she
knew.
Perhaps it was a mother's instinct. Her eldest child was in danger. Gently reared and spoiled by her family, Tempest believed in the good in people. She had no idea of pain, of cruelty … of the ruthlessness of a man's nature.

Something had to be done.

Her mind made up, Charlotte walked down the passageway. A footman stood near one of the open doors. He held a silver tray laden with sparkling wine.
Only the best for Lady Henwood,
she thought as she plucked a glass off the tray without slowing her stride. She continued down the hall until she came to the stairs.

“Up or down?” she murmured. Should she confront young Fairlamb with her accusations? No, he would only deny them. Men were such duplicitous creatures.

She sipped her wine to steady her nerves.

“Upstairs it is.”

A lifetime had passed since she last sought out the company of this woman. Once she had considered her a friend. Later, she realized that she had been nothing more than a nuisance. She had been a na
ï
ve girl who had been merely tolerated by the people around her, who later stared at her with various measures of pity.

Only one lady knew her secrets, and Charlotte despised her for it.

She opened the door to the parlor their hostess was using as a private room for the ladies. The room was not empty. As she entered the room, a maid dipped into a curtsy and would have spoken to her if Charlotte had not dismissed her. Three ladies sat in a group and were chatting about their children. Another woman was partially hidden behind a screen as the harried maid she was berating was loosening her tight stays.

She discovered her quarry sitting in one of the chairs near the hearth. The Duchess of Blackbern had her back to the door, so she had not noticed Charlotte's entrance. However, her friend was more observant. The matron leaned forward and whispered something to the duchess. Although Her Grace was too polite to turn around, Charlotte took some pleasure in observing how the news of her arrival caused the other woman's shoulders to stiffen.

She took another sip of her sparkling wine and stared down at the woman who had played a role in ruining her life. “Good evening, Your Grace.”

The Duchess of Blackbern slowly stood up and turned to greet her. Charlotte could not recall the last time she had spoken to the woman she had once considered a close friend. Time had been kind to the duchess. Her youthful features had matured, leaving her with an almost ageless beauty. It seemed unfair that this woman had been rewarded while Charlotte had been punished.

“Good evening, Char—Lady Norgrave,” the duchess said, correcting herself. Too much time had passed for familiarity.

“Imogene,” the duchess's companion entreated.

Her Grace turned away from Charlotte to address her friend. “Please, Ruth, I do not want to keep you. We will continue our talk later.”

Charlotte finished her wine and walked around the chair so she could place the empty glass on the mantel. “Yes, do run along. Her Grace and I have some catching up to do.”

“Watch your step, Lady Norgrave,” the matron warned, shuffling her larger figure to avoid brushing against her. “The Duke of Blackbern will have something to say if you upset his lady.”

Charlotte feigned a shudder. “I consider myself dutifully warned.” She paused, waiting for the woman to leave the room. “How do you tolerate the meddling old harpy?”

The Duchess of Blackbern sat down and gestured for her companion to join her. “Lady Ludsthorp is Tristan's aunt. She is aware we haven't spoken in years. Needless to say, your decision to approach me concerns her.”

Charlotte settled into her chair and nodded toward the door the countess had exited. “How much does she know?”

The duchess grimaced. No doubt she was thinking about the past. “Just enough to be concerned. Why are you here, Lady Norgrave?”

“After all we have shared, I believe we should set aside our formal titles. Once you called me Charlotte,” she said, infusing enough of a dare in her tone to get a reaction from the other woman.

“And you called me Imogene.”

She ignored the hint of sadness in the duchess's almost flawless face. If Imogene thought her regret would blunt Charlotte's anger, she was wrong. “I have not come to talk about the past, Your Grace. Nor do I wish to renew our old friendship.”

“Then what do you want?”

“We share a common problem.”

“What?”

“More to the point—whom,” Charlotte said, watching the other woman closely. “Your son.”

Surprise and curiosity flashed across the duchess's face. “Which one?”

“How blessed you are to be able to boast that you have more than one.”

“It is not boasting to ask for clarification, Charlotte. Which son is troubling you?”

“You truly are unaware,” she said, mildly amused. “I am referring to your husband's heir, Lord Fairlamb.”

Charlotte thought the duchess was incapable of guile, but her expression blanked at her son's name.

“What has he done?”

Charlotte leaned forward. “Are you aware that I have three daughters? My eldest girl is a year younger than your son.”

“No.”

She smiled sweetly at the vehement denial. “Tempest is incredibly beautiful. Norgrave—” It was cruel of her to mention the marquess's name so soon, but she was curious in regards to the lady's reaction. Fortunately, the duchess did not disappoint her. “—and I have high hopes that she will marry this year. We have had a continuous stream of gentlemen who have visited our drawing room this month.”

Imogene shook her head. “Are you telling me my son is calling on your daughter?”

It was a shame, really, she could not credit Fairlamb with such brazenness. She might have opened her drawing room to him just to see her husband's face when he learned of it. “No.”

“What are you accusing him of doing?”

“I am not certain,” Charlotte quietly admitted. “He is up to something. I saw them together this evening—”

“My son is here!” the duchess exclaimed, beginning to rise from her chair.

“Sit down,” she said sharply, and was surprised when Imogene obeyed. “If you were unaware of your son's whereabouts, then it is apparent you and Blackbern are neglecting your duty.”

“Our son is not a child, Lady Norgrave. He is a grown man and has his own residence,” Imogene staunchly defended him. “St. Lyon—”

“Who is this St. Lyon?”

“A friend of Mathias's,” the other woman said, dismissing the details with a wave of her hand. “I was unaware of his presence until he approached me and my daughters. He refrained from mentioning my son.” She pursed her lips and pondered his deliberate oversight. “He offered to summon the coach and watch over the girls while I stopped to speak with Tristan's aunt.”

“And pray, why would a son send his good friend to watch over his family when he was capable of seeing to the task himself?”

Both of them knew the answer, even if the duchess was reluctant to admit it.

“What proof do you have?”

“I saw them standing together at the back of the music room,” she said, aware that her evidence was flimsy at best. “Something was going on between them.”

“Charlotte, is it not possible that there is another explanation?” she asked gently.

“Tempest received a note from someone. She left the room during Miss King's performance, and the next time I see her, she is standing beside Fairlamb.”

“I can appreciate your concern,” Imogene said, carefully picking her words. “However, it is difficult to believe Mathias would approach your daughter.”

The fight between Blackbern and Norgrave twenty-four years earlier and the reasons for it were a deep, dark unnavigable chasm between them. Neither Charlotte nor Imogene seemed willing to try.

“You do not believe me?” Charlotte dug her fingers into the armrest. “This is not the only occasion I have seen your son at the same function as my daughter.”

“And I have noted Lord Marcroft's attendance at a few functions over the years, and never once did it occur to me that he was there to seduce one of my daughters. Let us speak frankly, Charlotte,” Imogene said. “It was simpler for our families to avoid each other when our children were younger. Now that they are older, such accidental encounters are bound to happen. I think even you would agree that it is unfair for us to blame them for being curious.”

“Does your son know?”

Charlotte stared at the other woman. She did not have to offer any explanation.

Almost immediately, Imogene's gaze dropped to her lap. “No. Tristan and I never speak of it.” She swallowed. “And your children?”

“No. Your secrets are safe, Imogene. Ironic, is it not, that after all these years, my husband still protects you.”

Charlotte regretted her waspish comment the second it was uttered. She watched as Imogene's face paled. It was the only sign she hurt her. The duchess was stronger than most people knew.

“You do not understand. I doubt Norgrave would have told you, but there is a good reason why my husband cut all ties with him.”