Page 4 of To Seduce a Stranger

With fingertips suddenly turned to claws, Charlotte gripped the windowsill for support. She had forgotten all about the Cleaves affair, although it had been on everyone’s tongue just over a year ago. Lord Cleaves had accused his wife of infidelity and announced his intention of suing for a divorce. Lady Cleaves had countered with a petition for an annulment on the grounds of her husband’s impotence, claiming their four-year marriage had never been consummated. Detailed accounts of the proceedings had been published in the papers and laughed over in none-too-hushed tones. Aunt Penhurst, for one, had enjoyed snickering over the stories of Lord Cleaves’s failed attempts to demonstrate his capacity in front of the officers of the court. Meanwhile, Lady Cleaves had been forced to undergo physical examination by two midwives to prove she was . . . What had been the legal term bandied about? Ah, yes: virgo intacta. Then, Charlotte had not been quite sure what it meant.

Now, however, she knew all too well.

Heat swept up from Charlotte’s chest, crossed her cheeks, and settled in the tips of her ears, leaving her fingers cold.

The world could laugh at her if it chose. She was half French, the daughter of a loose woman. She was used to derision, used to suspicion. She had never cared a jot for the world’s good opinion, and she knew she had done nothing to earn its censure.

But she could not bear to think of anyone laughing at a man who had been so very, very kind.

As she stared down into the greenery, her eyes unfocused, a movement on the edge of the garden caught her attention. Someone in dark, nondescript clothes, those of neither a servant nor a gentleman, stood almost hidden by the stone pillar at the corner of the fence. Perfectly positioned to see both the house and the mews. A thief? But it was broad daylight.

“There’s a man,” she began, turning away from the window and gesturing behind her.

Jane nodded eagerly and came forward. “Now, that’s the ticket, ma’am. A man. There must be some chap you took a fancy to, once upon a time. Someone you’d like to . . . That is, you might be a widow, but you’re still just a bride at heart, and a bride has a right to look forward to—well, you know what I mean. No one would have to be any the wiser.”

Charlotte’s jaw had grown slack as understanding dawned, so that it was an effort to muster a sound. “Jane!” She giggled nervously once more—drat it all. Dropping her gaze to the carpet, she said, in what she hoped was a scolding tone, “Surely you aren’t suggesting that I—that I indulge in—?”

“Me? Why, ’twas you who mentioned a man,” said Jane, leaping to her own defense.

“Yes. A man. Standing just outside the garden gate.” Charlotte nodded toward the window, still unable to raise her eyes. “I wonder what business he could have there?”

Jane hurried across the room to take a peek, then shook her head. “Not a soul about, ma’am. He must’ve moved on.”

Charlotte looked again, but Crescent Lane was empty, just as Jane had said. She scoured every cranny she could see from the window before pushing away and turning back into the room. What foolishness. Robert’s threat had made her jittery, that was all. She had nothing to fear from some poor fellow out for an afternoon stroll. Probably just the kitchen maid’s new beau.

“We are going to London, Jane,” she announced, straightening her shoulders. Duchesses did not slouch. To say nothing of giggle.

“Ma’am?” Jane spun away from the window and looked her up and down. “Now?”

“Now.”

Fortunately, her trunk was ready. She had come to her marriage with only a few dresses, and those had been replaced too soon by a new wardrobe—of somber black crape, rather than the lavish spring gowns her husband had urged her to buy. The old dresses had already been packed away.

Into a valise Jane placed a few necessaries and a black gown almost identical to the one Charlotte was wearing. A second valise was soon filled with a similar set of items for Jane, all that would be needed for a night—or perhaps two, given the rapidly lowering sky—on the road.

To the first bag Charlotte added one final item: a battered volume of French poetry that had belonged to her mother. That connection alone would have been enough to make it precious to her, of course, but of greater practical interest were the banknotes now tucked inside. Interleaving the book’s thin pages was everything that remained of the pin money she had been granted on her wedding day. Six weeks ago it had seemed an exorbitant sum. Now, however, if Langerton had his way, it might be all that stood between her and an ignominious return to Aunt Penhurst.

If she would even be willing to take Charlotte back.

When the footman arrived to carry down the trunk, Charlotte placed her bonnet on her head, lowered its lacy black veil over her face, and strode from the house. Jane followed, a valise in each hand.

By the time the driver stopped to change horses at a coaching inn east of Chippenham, the fine morning had indeed turned to rain. The inn yard was a slurry of mud, as travelers either hurried to depart before the weather got worse, or lingered in hopes of improvement. Charlotte and Jane picked their way to the door of the inn and were shown to a private parlor to wait.

From the window, Charlotte watched as people darted among the carriages, their faces hidden beneath umbrellas or the brims of hats, the brighter hues of servants’ livery contrasting sharply with dull-colored, sensible travel garments. Everyone eager to get to the place they belonged.

All except Charlotte, who had never really belonged anywhere.

Under the eaves of the stable, one man stood apart, not hurrying to get out of the weather but looking up at the windows of the inn. A man in a dark, nondescript coat. Despite the distance between them and the blur of raindrops against the window, she felt certain it was the same man she had seen outside the garden that morning.

And he was watching her watch him. Her heart battering against her breastbone, she forced her suddenly frozen fingers to release the curtain. It swung back into place, leaving only a square of muslin where the reflection of her face had been.

An awful suspicion began to form in her mind. Had her stepson ordered her watched?

She shivered now as she had not allowed herself to shiver when his cold eyes had skimmed over her in the library. Robert would stop at nothing to piece together a suit that might keep her from inheriting. Whatever information this stranger could gather might easily be twisted into evidence of her bad character, proof that she was not the sort of woman a duke would choose to wed. At least, not if the duke in question were in his right mind.

No. Impossible. Robert was not the sort to go about hiring spies. Aunt Penhurst had been right. She must stop letting her imagination run away with her.

But what if it wasn’t her imagination?