Page 44 of To Seduce a Stranger

Something about those words slid uncomfortably along Edward’s spine and caused his shoulders to tighten.

What would Charlotte do when she discovered this place was no longer a safe haven from the outside world? He had not forgotten her obvious worry that she might encounter someone here who could recognize her. And Jack’s demeanor gave the distinct impression she might have more to fear from him than discovery. Almost as if he truly were Edward’s father’s son.

But then, Edward’s appalling behavior had already shown her the dangers Ravenswood posed.

“Have you brought no servants of your own?”

“I did not expect to find the estate in need of them—in need of everything, Mr. Cary.” His eyes darted to the corner of the room where a dark stain marred the ceiling and the plaster moldings had crumbled, a sign of needed repairs far beyond the scope of Charlotte’s broom.

Edward could not argue. He knew too well what was lacking at Ravenswood. “I have already begun to make a few improvements.”

“Hmm.” He turned away then and said, in a tone that was clearly intended to convey his dismissal, “I shall wish to discuss your plans later.”

Edward bristled. It had been many years since he had been required to defend his management decisions—and then only to those who had true authority over him. He mustered a curt, “Yes, sir,” before spinning on his heel and leaving the room.

It was not that he felt powerless in the face of a challenge to what was rightfully his. He knew what powerlessness felt like. But with another man claiming to be the heir, Edward would have to proceed carefully. Nothing good could come from an abrupt announcement that he was the true Earl of Beckley.

Especially as there was now no one left alive who could help him prove it.

Chapter 12

When tangling her fingers together in her lap did not stop them from shaking, Charlotte sat on them instead. The illusion of security she had felt in this place had burst.

Beckley. Beckley. Had she ever heard the name before meeting Edward? Might the earl be an acquaintance of Aunt Penhurst’s? Worse, a friend of the Duke of Langerton—either father or son? Would he recognize her, reveal her secret?

“Excuse me, missus.” The earl’s coachman stood in her doorway, shouldering a large trunk. “I don’ suppose you could direct me—?”

“To the earl’s chambers?” Beneath her, she curled her fingers more tightly into the tattered upholstery of the chair, then forced herself to rise. She could not hide in this room forever. “Yes, of course.”

It had not been easily said, and was not easily done. Because the horrifying wreckage of the upstairs sitting room had blunted her enthusiasm for exploring the rest of the house, she was not entirely sure which rooms were which.

As she preceded him down the passageway and up the stairs, the man grunted his way behind her. His struggle gave her a moment to decide where to lead him next. Skirting the only familiar room, she peered through the next few doorways, heart thumping and eyes half-closed, more than a little wary of what she would find. Curiously, the rest of the rooms into which she looked were in far better shape than those downstairs. Dusty, yes. And damp. But it did not appear as if someone had turned loose a pack of wild dogs in any of them.

With a quick perusal, she was able to determine that fully half of the first floor of the house was taken up by a suite of rooms nested together like a rabbit’s warren. The ruined sitting room was connected to a lady’s bedchamber, and beside it was a second, larger bedchamber that must belong to the earl. Within that room, another door led to a dressing room, with quarters for his lordship’s valet. It was there that she directed the driver to deposit the trunk.

“Much obliged, missus,” he said, tugging a ragged handkerchief from the inside of his waistcoat and mopping his brow with it. “There’s another like it to fetch, yet.”

After he had gone, she stood at the window, trying to collect her thoughts.

The once bronze-colored draperies were thick with dust, but still sound, not having been exposed to the wind and rain like those in the sitting room, or to the sunlight that poured through the windows at the front of the house. Even now, at midday, this room was cool and dim, sheltered by the woodland behind. From this vantage point, she could almost see beyond the trees’ uppermost branches: the hint of the roofline of the summer house, the sparkle of water in the pond. She flicked the hasp and pushed open one of the casements to let fresh air into the stale room.

The same wind that swept through the window stirred the bright new leaves on the trees and set them aflutter. Eventually their multiple shades of green—emerald and chartreuse and lime—would blend and mix to become the deeper, more uniform verdure of summer.

Every room, even the view from every room, brought with it a sense of sadness at the estate’s neglect. But for the first time, that vague melancholy was heightened by the awareness that she might never know what would become of Ravenswood. As the earl’s arrival had so forcibly reminded her, she could not stay here forever, and once she left, what excuse would she ever have to return? She would never see it restored and full of life. Would never gaze from its windows on the warm ochres and reds of an autumn landscape, or the bright promise of a snow-covered wood at Christmas.

Would not witness Edward’s triumph at bringing this place back to life.

As she turned away from the window, her eyes trailed over the room’s stately furnishings. Heavy, old-fashioned, but evocative of an ancient heritage that connected generations of one family to the land, this land, this house. Some man who had served bravely at the side of Henry V at Agincourt might once have slept in this massive bed. Someone strong and noble. Would the man who would be sleeping there tonight be lost in its proportions, indifferent to its history?

Ridiculous, she supposed, to think it would ever be otherwise. The earl had never known a different life; it was to be expected that he would take his surroundings for granted. Did she imagine her stepson, Robert, retired each night impressed with the weight of his forefathers’ achievements, welcoming their ghostly presence into his bed? Of course not. If he cared one bit for the true legacy he had inherited, he would not be attempting to have his father declared mad.

There was a certain irony in the fact that only Edward seemed to revere this place and what it represented. His shoulders were broad enough to carry the weight of such illustrious ancestors. His frame would not be dwarfed to insignificance by such furnishings.

Treacherous to imagine him there, bare-chested as she had seen him once, his arm flung possessively across the bed’s width, strong even in sleep.

Treasonous too, perhaps. This was not his birthright to claim. He was a mere steward. A nobody, like herself—

“You must be Mrs. Cary.”