Page 38 of Unmasked by the Marquess
Charity squeezed her hand in return. “He’s not that bad,” she said, and then wanted to smack herself for so describing the man she loved. “Most of his airs and graces are put-ons, and the rest are because he outranks practically everybody and doesn’t want anyone to forget it.” Really, she ought to try her hand at love poetry, she was so good at this. She made another attempt. “I’ve come to be very fond of him, and I feel certain that you will as well, in time.”
Louisa let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a weak little sob. “I have to dress for dinner, and so should you.”
As Charity changed her clothes, she tried to puzzle over why Louisa had been on the verge of tears when they were discussing what surely ought to have been a happy topic. Louisa had never been given to fits of emotion. She was practical, industrious, calm. She even seemed unmoved by the whirl of London in the height of the season. Charity, by contrast, had been almost dizzy with delight. Somewhere in the recesses of her memory, Charity recalled being spun around by an adult. Had it been the vicar’s housekeeper? Perhaps someone at a village fete? Somebody had taken her by the hands and spun her so fast that her feet lifted off the ground and she flew in the air, rooted only by the strong hands holding her own tiny ones. It had been wonderful and terrifying, and the entire world had collapsed into streaks of color.
That was what the past month had been like: a blur of laughter and fun. Clever people, amusing conversation, music and food and wine and all the best things in life.
She wanted to soak up every minute of it because she knew that soon it would be gone. She would be gone. Alistair had to know that her time was running out, and he wasn’t even here to share it with her.
At least Louisa was not at home when Maurice Clifton called. Innocently, she would have somehow given them away in an instant, and the man’s likeness to Robbie would only have distressed her. God knew, it certainly distressed Charity. She felt like she was lying to Robbie himself.
“I must say, Cousin, that I was quite surprised when I heard that you had done so well for yourself at Cambridge.” He spoke with an accent that Charity assumed was native to Dorset. It made him, for some reason, sound honest and kind, and she hated this deceit even more. “I had never taken you for the scholarly sort.”
Robbie had been far from scholarly. He hadn’t had the temperament for sitting still and working, and had always been happier mending fences or helping in the stables. “I was a late bloomer,” Charity said, not letting her smile falter. After all, shehadbeen a late bloomer. It felt less filthy to sprinkle some honesty over the top of the deceit.
“In some ways, perhaps.” Clifton was stroking his chin in a thoughtful way.
Charity smiled blankly, not knowing where this was going.
“You aren’t as tall as I might have expected. I recall you being something of a brawny lad.”
“I lost a good deal of weight after my illness.” After Robbie died, after Charity and Louisa buried him secretly beneath the rowan tree at Fenshawe, Keating spread word among the villagers that Mr. Selby’s illness had left him sadly thin. Thus, they were prepared for a change in the young squire’s appearance if they happened to see him from a distance. Charity felt sick repeating the lie to this man who looked so much like Robbie.
“Hmm.” Clifton was regarding her very intently. “You seem hale enough now. Agatha Cavendish is here in London with you, you say?”
“Yes, she’s at the milliner’s with my sister.” Another truth, not that it mattered.
“She must be seventy. How long did you say she lived with you at Fenshawe?”
“She came right before I left for university.” She didn’t like the direction of his questions. He suspected something.
“I haven’t been to Northumberland in years. Perhaps I ought to pay a visit.”
Was that a threat? An opportunity to confess? Or simply idle chatter?
Clifton left and Charity began pacing.
It was now doubly important to get Louisa creditably married. Then Charity could be done with this deceit.
How would she do this? Would she pretend to jump off a bridge? Book passage to India and, once there, bribe somebody to send home a death notice?
And then where would she go? She could never see anyone she had known in this life or her fraud would be revealed—not only hers, but Louisa’s too, and Keating and Aunt Agatha’s complicity. In order to keep Louisa safe, she would never be able to see Louisa again. She felt tears spring to her eyes.
Nor would she ever see Aunt Agatha, Amelia Allenby, or any of the people she had met in London.
She would never again see Alistair. Not that he would want to see her.
Not that he wanted to see her now.
There came the sound of the front door opening and closing, muffled voices traveling up from the vestibule. She made an effort to compose herself, but must not have achieved a very convincing result, because no sooner had Louisa appeared at the threshold than she rushed over to Charity’s side. “What happened?” She knelt on the carpet, rubbing Charity’s hands.
“Cousin Clifton visited.” Charity wiped her eyes with Louisa’s handkerchief. “He looks so much like—” Her next words were muffled by Louisa’s hand over her mouth. When Charity looked up, there was Gilbert, standing in the doorway and looking embarrassed.
Well might he look embarrassed, coming into a room where a grown man was weeping like a child. With some effort, she stopped. Taking a deep breath, she forced a smile. “Sorry, Gilbert. I was being maudlin. A cousin visited, and he looks like our late father.” That was a neat recovery, she thought.
“Maurice?” This was Aunt Agatha, who had only now come into the drawing room. “He doesn’t look a damned thing like Francis.” For a moment Charity was terrified that she was about to go on in this imprudent way, regardless of Gilbert’s presence. “You should see the bonnet Louisa bought. It looks like something that washed up on the banks of the Thames.”
Charity went over to the table where they kept the brandy and poured herself a glass. She forced herself to drink it all before turning around and facing the room. There really were times when strong drink was medicinal, and she was fairly sure this was one of those times. As she felt the brandy work its way through her veins, a warmth spreading slowly across her body, she tried to steady herself. If Louisa married, nothing else mattered. Even if they were exposed, Louisa could explain to her new husband that she had been forced by Charity to cooperate in the fraud. And if she married a man of influence and wealth, her husband might be able to buy Clifton’s silence.
