Page 63 of To Woo a Wicked Widow

“Thank God.” Charlotte closed her eyes as relief swept through her. She hadn’t known until that moment how worried she’d been about the man. He was one of her people, and he’d put himself in danger to save her. “If there’s anything he needs, or anything I can do, Nash, please let me know.”

He nodded. “Of course I will.” He sipped his tea and his eyes widened. “Delightful, Charlotte. A new blend from London? It’s very bold. I like it.”

She nodded and smiled. “Yes, I quite like it too. I’m thinking of using it exclusively. Well, except for Georgie. She prefers a milder taste. Oh,” she turned to Georgina, “did you find the letter you were looking for?”

“Yes. I’m sorry it took me so long. I had not placed it where I always put my correspondence.” She laughed and glanced at Nash. “Without fail I put all my brother’s letters in a particular box. But the letter I told Charlotte about wasn’t there. So I had to search the box, and when I still couldn’t find it, I rummaged around until I remembered I’d kept it out to show Charlotte.” Georgie held up the letter, cream paper with rows of scratchy writing. She hesitated, glancing from Charlotte to Nash.

Charlotte nodded, then said to Nash, “Earlier I’d been wondering why I hadn’t received word from my stepson. We parted on . . . difficult terms and I’d expected to hear from him by now.”

“Your stepson?”

“Sir Edgar Cavendish.”

“Ah.” Nash settled back. “I believe I’ve had news of the young man from my friend, George Abernathy.”

Charlotte sat up, instantly alert. “What have you heard, if I may ask?”

Nash shrugged. “Only that he has gambled excessively since returning from the Continent. And he does not always pay his debts promptly.”

Frowning, Charlotte said, “That makes even less sense, then. If he’s in need of money, why hasn’t he contacted me?”

Nash cocked his head. “You have some obligation to him still?”

“No,” she shook her head, “though he must think I do.” She sighed. “It’s a rather long story, the gist of which is that I took what I owned from his father’s house in London, though I doubt he knew the extent of what legally belonged to me.” Charlotte grinned at Nash. “Suffice it to say, there is little left for him to use to raise money for his debts. I just don’t understand why I haven’t heard from him. He took possession of the house in early August.”

“I think I have the answer to that, Charlotte.” Georgina waved her letter in the air. “Jemmy writes that after leaving us in August, he traveled to Brighton with friends. There he met Sir Edgar, who apparently had come to the seashore to celebrate his majority. He’s been in residence there ever since, gambling, drinking, and carousing.” Ge-ogie gave Charlotte a speaking look. “My brother says Sir Edgar has managed somehow to scrape an acquaintance with the Prince Regent and so is fixed at Brighton indefinitely.”

“He must not have gone back to the London house, then.” Charlotte tried to suppress a giggle. “Oh my, but he is in for such a surprise.” What she wouldn’t give to see his face when . . . She lost the battle and laughed aloud.

Georgie joined in, leaving Nash looking bewildered.

“I can just imagine his look when he finally goes home.” Charlotte went off into more peals of laughter. “Pardon me, Nash,” she said finally. “I don’t know what came over me.” She dabbed at her streaming eyes.

Nash smiled and shook his head, then looked at her thoughtfully.

The change in his demeanor sobered Charlotte immediately and set her on alert. Why did his eyes have that particular gleam in them? What was he up to?

“I hope you won’t think this impertinent, Charlotte,” he began, feeling around in his coat pocket. A moment later, he drew out a small, framed oval of ivory and handed it to her.

Eyes wide, Charlotte took the delicate disc gently in her hand, the smooth bone still warm from his pocket. On the pale surface lay an exquisite pen and ink drawing of a church. The intricate details—tiles on the roof, a clock in the clock tower, stained glass in the windows—brought the image to life, making her think . . . “It’s St. George’s, isn’t it?” She glanced up at Nash, whose face lit up with a soft smile.

“Yes. I know you’ve taken a great liking to our little village and thought you might enjoy this. I had it commissioned last year after I moved here.”

“It is beautiful.” Charlotte gazed at the lovely work, recalling the outing to the church with Nash. A happy memory. She shook her head to stop from going deeper into those recollections. Too dangerous.

With a sigh, she handed the miniature back to Nash. “Thank you for showing it to me. Perhaps you will share the artist with me? Then I could have one commissioned.”

His hand closed over hers, arresting it. “This is a gift for you, Charlotte. I’d like for you to have it.”

Her mouth dropped open, shock and protest rendering her speechless. Such a present, while completely appropriate, seemed suddenly too intimate coming from him. Her gaze flew to his face to find his eyes flickering over her, as if searching for something.

“It . . . it . . . I . . . can’t . . .” She had never been this incoherent in her life, but the look in his eyes, the warmth of his hand on hers, took her wits away.

“I insist, Charlotte.” His hand squeezed hers. “I want you to have it.”

“May I see it, Charlotte?” Georgie’s voice broke the spell and brought her somewhat back to herself.

“Of course.”