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Madame nodded as she silently digested this. “But he’s never shown tendencies of a vicious nature? No? Well, that’s all I need to know. The fact is, he seems to recognise that he is in need of a little tutoring, so we shall hope Rosetta can transform our Mr Adams from selfish lover to winsome bridegroom in just a few weeks.”
She nodded decisively while Charity waited in trepidation for Madame to elaborate on the details of her own situation.
The time had come at last, she thought dully. Why had she not gone ahead and found an alternative situation before it was too late? She’d always been too passive. A bold, fiery girl with gumption would have found a way to survive without having to sell her body.
She stood up suddenly. “I’m not entertaining a strange gentleman. One day Hugo will come back! Whether that’s in two years or five, he will find me still waiting. And I will have been true to him. I shall leave this house today, Madame. I’ll find some other employment. But I will not entertain any gentleman who is not my Hugo.”
Madame nodded. “Very well. No one is a prisoner here. I shall inform Mr Riverdale that you will not meet him for dinner at Claridges Hotel, after all.” She pursed her lips and lifted an eyebrow. “He’ll be disappointed, of course. Emily, it appears Charity will no longer be needing to borrow the new gold and cream striped gown I had made for you, after all.”
* * *
If Hugo had been here, he’d have squeezed her hand, told her she couldn’t fail to entrance him, and then he’d have borne her company to the secluded corner table between two luxuriant potted palms.
But Hugo wasn’t here and Charity had only herself to rely upon.
It was a weighty responsibility. She needed to win over her father. She needed to strike the right note so that he’d not think her grasping. She had to hope he’d be overcome with fond memories of her mother, or even guilt at his abandonment of them.
What she must not do was appear desperate and needy.
At least, that’s what Emily had counselled. “Be proud. Walk in with an air of assurance so that the hotel staff think you’re gentry. But the moment you sit down, you must look like you’re deferring to him. Be appreciative. Grateful, but not cow-towing. Respectful. A little bit in awe yet still bright and winning. Do you think you can do that?”
Charity didn’t think she could at all but the moment she’d been deposited at the table by the respectable woman Madame had employed to chaperone her to such a public place, she found that, strangely, all the lessons she’d unconsciously learned about how to behave, came back to her.
“Good lord, but you’re the spitting image of your mother!” the tall, handsome bewhiskered man opposite her exclaimed as he rose to greet her. And, yes, he was indeed her father. There was no mistaking the roguish look in his eye and the square-cut chin and angular nose that had first struck her when she’d been eight years old.
The fact that he said she looked like her mother sent shards of joy shooting through her. She’d heard it before but never expected to hear it again in such circumstances.
“And what a pleasure it is to finally make your acquaintance as an adult. My only child,” he added, regarding her with his head on one side as a waiter handed him a menu. “Strange, but I never imagined us meeting like this. It was a shock to learn of your existence when I unexpectedly bumped into your mother all those years ago. It was on a staircase. You’d not remember it, of course, being only a little girl at the time, but…” A shadow crossed his face. “I was newly married at the time. Nevertheless, I was terribly affected by our reunion. And the knowledge I had a child.”
It was not the speech she’d been expecting, though in truth Charity didn’t know what she’d expected.
She didn’t know what to say.
He cleared his throat. “I told your mother I’d never forgotten her. That I’d look after her. Look after you both.”
Charity hadn’t remembered that. But then, she’d not heard the conversation that had caused her mother to cry.
“Then…why didn’t you?” she asked, resentment swelling inside.
“Your mother was too proud to become my mistress, I suppose.” Her father shrugged. “Though she wavered. She nearly came with me that day. I was sorry she didn’t. Of course, you’d remember nothing of this.”
Charity remembered everything. Why had her mother made such a fateful decision. It hadn’t brought her any joy. Charity had happily become Hugo’s mistress and they’d enjoyed a deep and abiding love for nearly two years.
She felt the tears sting the back of her eyelids. Even if she had her time again she’d never wish for respectability and virtue over what she’d had with Hugo.
Her father had resumed talking. “Then, a few days ago, your friend, Mr Adams, contacted me out of the blue, told me that my daughter was in a spot of difficulty and, just as a reminder as to your identity, brandished a very competent pen and ink drawing which, he said, captured your image brilliantly. As I must say, it does.”
Charity nodded in acknowledgement as she plucked at her skirts beneath the table, barely able to concentrate when the waitress came to take their order. What could she say to that? She’d expected him to deny paternity. She’d been expecting resistance. It’s why she’d never had the courage to contact him before.
“I think my mother was always in love with you.” Charity looked him in the eye. “Why did you leave her the first time? She said you’d promised to marry her.”
Mr Riverdale — for he’d given her no direction as to what she should call him — stroked his moustache as he gave the matter thought. “I was not the marrying kind — at the time. Quite frankly, I lied to her. I’m not proud of it.” Then he smiled and Charity could see the devastating effect he must have had on her mother all those years ago. For his smile transformed him into a strikingly handsome man who seemed to have eyes only for the one upon whom he bestowed his smile. Yes, he was charming.
Dangerously so, and here was all the reason Charity had not to trust him as her mother had. Despite her high hopes, he’d bring her nothing but disappointment.
“You broke my mother’s heart,” Charity whispered, unable to look him in the eye and very glad that their soup had arrived.
“I’m led to believe I broke the hearts of quite a few hopeful young ladies.” He picked up his soup spoon and began to eat. “However, you are, to my knowledge, my only child. My wife died last year and I’ve not yet been inclined to remarry though that will no doubt happen at some stage. In the meantime, it is rather a novelty to know I have a daughter. Especially such a beautiful one. Indeed, one who has garnered a good deal of novelty over the past couple of months.”
