The Tutor (House of Lords) (17 page)

“To who?”

“Ah, Charles,” his mother’s voice rang down from the landing. “I am glad you could finally grace us with your presence.”

“Oh, Lord,” Charles said under his breath.

Things had just become far more complicated.

EIGHTEEN

True to her word, Cynthia was feeling completely recovered by the evening. She dressed for dinner at Danforth House and waited in the parlor for Mallory to announce the carriage’s arrival. But when it came, she was surprised to find that it wasn’t empty.

Inside, Imogen was waiting for her.

“Charles would have come, but he was trapped in the drawing room,” she said. “I barely escaped myself. I’m supposed to be upstairs in my room still.”

“Escaped?”

Imogen frowned. “The Duchess of Danforth has arrived.”

Cynthia blanched. “Your mother?”

Imogen nodded. “She came this afternoon without any warning. Gillian wrote to her, apparently, even though Charles and I both told her not to.”

“Wrote to her about what?” Cynthia asked, though she had already worked it out on her own.

“According to Mother, her letter said that Charles meant to propose to a young woman at any moment, and she thought she had better come and look you over.”

“Gillian didn’t tell her anything else?”

Imogen shook her head. “Don’t worry, Cynthia. I’m sure everything will be all right. Mother likes to intimidate people, but she has her children’s best interests at heart.”

Cynthia was sure she grimaced. Imogen laughed.

“It will be well, Cynthia, I promise. And even if it isn’t, Charles delights in causing our mother as much consternation as possible. If she refuses to approve he’ll probably drop to one knee and beg you for your hand right in front of her just to be vexing.”

“Oh,” Cynthia said. It was certainly going to be an interesting evening.

When they arrived at Danforth House Imogen winked at the butler and darted upstairs, no doubt trying to carry the charade as far as she could. Partridge led Cynthia into the drawing room. Charles rose the instant the doors opened and came to her, taking her hand. “I’m sorry,” he mouthed. She shook her head slightly and smiled.

“Your Grace,” she said, as the woman who had been sitting on the sofa rose. “It is an honor.”

The duchess looked her over. Cynthia did the same, trying to be surreptitious. Charles’s mother was a small woman with the same hazel eyes as he. She wore a gown of black bombazine and a cap and gloves of black lace. There was a jet mourning ring on her finger. Other than that, she wore no jewelry. “You are Miss Cynthia Endersby,” she said.

It was not a question, but Cynthia still said, “I am, Your Grace.”

The woman favored her with a tight smile. “Come and sit beside me.” Cynthia obeyed. Only when they were both seated did the duchess say, “Charles, go away now.”

He frowned, but he nodded and did as he was told. It was only as the door closed behind him that Cynthia realized Gillian was not in the room either.

The duchess gazed at her for a long moment before asking, “Has my son made you an offer yet?”

Cynthia was sure she blushed, but she met the duchess’s eyes, certain that to do otherwise would doom her. “He has, Your Grace.”

“Then why have I not heard of your betrothal?”

“I refused him, Your Grace.” When the duchess raised an eyebrow at this, Cynthia added, “I wished for a little more time to get to know him.” It was a lie, and she suspected the duchess knew it.

“And do you know him?”

Cynthia shook her head. “I think that might take a lifetime, Your Grace.”

“Well, I hope you will not wait that long,” the duchess said. “I should like some grandchildren before I die.”

Cynthia blinked at her.

“I will not dissemble, Miss Endersby. I have been parading every eligible young lady of the
ton
in front of my son for the last five years. He has not taken an interest in any of them. I am afraid that I am rather desperate to see him settled. He is a good son, at least most of the time, but he needs a woman to ground him. Gillian has been telling me about you all afternoon, and it seems to me that you are just the sort of person that he needs. So I hope that when he asks you again, which I am certain he will do, you will give him a different answer.”

She must have been gaping, because the duchess added, “Close your mouth, dear. You look like a codfish.”

Just then the door burst open and Imogen came in. “I am sorry, Mama,” she said. “Did I miss anything?”

Charles had hoped that he might be able to get a few moments alone with Cynthia that evening to tell her what he had learned. Now that he knew the Rat had been following her and not him, he was beginning to wonder if she had noticed as well.

But with his mother watching their every move with acute interest it was nearly impossible for him to even speak to her about anything but useless pleasantries, and there was certainly no question of their being alone. He was just grateful that Cynthia had survived the ten minutes she had spent alone in the drawing room with his mother before Imogen had decided to burst in on them. “After all,” his sister had said as she went down the stairs, “I don’t know they’re in there alone, do I?”

God bless Imogen, Charles thought. Without her quick thinking, Cynthia would have arrived at Danforth House without any knowledge of what awaited her. At least she had not been surprised with his mother’s presence. She was holding up admirably, he thought. She seemed to have managed to strike a balance between the society belle and the charming, witty girl he knew and loved, and his mother appeared to be quite pleased with her. The duchess even allowed him to escort her out to the carriage unsupervised.

“May I come tonight?” he asked quietly as he led her down the stairs.

She glanced back at the house. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps not. But I’ll do it all the same.”

She smiled. “Then yes, please.”

He held her arm for a moment. “I’m glad you’re all right. I was so worried when Imogen told me what happened. It was all I could do not to rush over and check you for broken bones.”

“You can examine me later,” she said with an impish grin. Then she climbed into the carriage and was gone. Charles went back inside to endure another hour before his mother retired and he could sneak out of the house like a boy of twelve.

This time, when he stepped out of his carriage on the corner the Rat was nowhere to be seen. He reached the back door of the house without that sense of being watched, that creeping sensation that traveled up the back of his neck.

Clarissa was there in the dark hall, and as he came through the door he scooped her up in his arms, kissing her breathless. She giggled against his lips, girlish and soft and yielding. It was such an enticing sound that he pressed her back against the wall and deepened the kiss, lifting her leg to wrap around his waist. He settled his hips against her and pushed the hem of her nightdress up, his tongue probing into her mouth. Her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, and she kissed him back with reckless abandon.

When he reached down to undo his trousers, she whispered, “Here?”

“Here,” he said, and then he freed himself, lifted her nightdress a little further, and thrust up into her. She gasped and buried her face against his neck to muffle her moans as he found a rhythm, rocking her back against the wall. He whispered her name as he came, feeling her convulse around him.

She leaned her head on his shoulder. “I didn’t even know you could...”

He laughed. “Perhaps I’m not as uneducated as you thought,” he said.

She slid down the wall. “Have I passed your examination?” she asked. “Are you satisfied that I’m still in one piece?”

He kissed her again. “Not quite yet,” he replied, taking her hand to lead her upstairs.

NINETEEN

January 17, 1834

It was nearly dawn when Charles slipped away. Cynthia felt him kiss her goodbye. Still half-asleep, she smiled up at him. “I will see you this afternoon,” he said. Then he was gone, and she drifted back into a deep sleep.

Hours later she woke again. She got up and put on her nightdress before Ellen came in with her morning coffee, which she drank in bed, luxuriating in the laziness that was allowed when her father was away from home.

There was one other thing she still wished to do before her father returned tomorrow. When she was dressed and the house was quiet after the early morning bustle, Cynthia slipped back into her father’s study. Before he returned, before she accepted Charles, before she left the house forever, she wanted one last look at her childhood, at her story. She crouched down once more and pulled the drawer from the body of the desk. But as she was setting it down on the floor, a noise in the hall startled her. She dropped the drawer on the floor with a loud thud.

Cynthia froze. Any second, Mallory or one of the maids would come in and catch her. But the door stayed closed. Cynthia counted to a hundred before reaching down and picking up the drawer. When she lifted it, she saw that the bottom of the drawer had come off and lay on the carpet, a thick envelope of gray paper atop it.

Another secret hiding place. Cynthia would not have been surprised if the desk hid a dozen of them, but this was only the second she had ever found. With another cautious glance at the door, Cynthia set the top of the drawer aside and picked up the gray packet. It had a thick red wax seal that had been neatly broken by her father’s opener. Below the seal was written the direction of a solicitor, and beneath that, “On Behalf of the Earl of Sheridan”. She flipped the packet over.

It was addressed to her.

Cynthia turned the letter over in her hands, staring at it. Why would the Earl of Sheridan’s solicitor be sending her a sealed packet? It could not be good news, whatever it was. And her father had opened it and hidden it from her.

Unable to suppress her curiosity, she settled herself on the carpet and opened the flap of the packet. Inside were several sheaves of paper. The first had been written by the solicitor himself.

My Dear Miss Endersby,
it read.

I hope this letter finds you well. Pray do not be alarmed by this communication—it must be a surprise to receive it. It is my understanding that you have been informed of the true nature of your parentage, and so I have no qualms about informing you that your mother, Miss Grace Selton, went to her heavenly reward on July 20, 1829. At the time of her death, she was the owner of an establishment called The Red Ribbon in York. But many years before, she had been a favorite of one of my clients, Bernard Harringford, Earl of Sheridan. On June 7, 1809, she bore him a daughter, whom she called Penelope. Their liaison ended a few months later, and she told him that she had given the baby to an orphanage. For many years he believed the child had been lost to him. But on her deathbed, Miss Selton wrote a letter declaring that she had not, in fact, given the child to an orphanage, but to a man named Roger Endersby. His Lordship instructed me to contact Mr. Endersby to establish the veracity of Miss Selton’s statement, which he did. Once that had been accomplished, Lord Sheridan proposed to settle upon you twenty thousand pounds immediately, with another eighty thousand to follow upon your marriage or the achievement of your majority. As you had not yet reached that age, Mr. Endersby agreed on your behalf, and the initial funds were transferred into an account he named on February 10, 1830.

Shortly thereafter, Mr. Endersby wrote to inform me that you had declared you would take no further support from Lord Sheridan unless he acknowledged you openly as his natural daughter. His Lordship had no objections to this proposal, but wished to meet you in person before claiming you. He felt that it would be wrong to make such an acknowledgement without your express verbal agreement. At that point, all contact from your father ceased. Through several intermediaries I learned that he had vacated his position at Oxford and removed to London. It was many months before we located him again. By this time, my employer had become suspicious of Mr. Endersby’s motives and desired me to arrange a meeting with you in person. All efforts thus far to make such arrangements have been rebuffed. I am writing to you to inform you that, on June 7, 1834, when you reach the age of twenty-five, the Earl of Sheridan will settle upon you eighty thousand pounds. Copies of the documents proving your birth and acknowledging you as his natural daughter are enclosed. Please contact me at your earliest convenience.

                                                                                
Your Faithful Servant,

                                                                                
Reginald Potter, Esq.

Cynthia read the letter three times, and each time she understood it less. The individual parts made sense, of course. She was the natural daughter of someone—she had always known that, though there had never seemed to be much point in wondering whom her parents had been. An earl might choose to settle an inheritance upon his child, legitimate or not. These things were logical. But the idea that
she
was that heiress, that her father had arranged for the money to come to her without telling her about it—those things were difficult to comprehend.

She knew what must have happened. It was not difficult to make the logical leaps to the inevitable conclusion. Her father had taken that money for himself. There had never been an inheritance. And that day over three years earlier, when he had announced that they were now a family of means and were moving to London, had been mere weeks after the twenty thousand pounds had been transferred into the account he had clearly set up in her name. All this time, they had been living on her largesse.

She wondered now how her father had planned to secure the other eighty thousand pounds. She wondered what he had said to the earl’s solicitor to explain why Cynthia didn’t wish to meet him. The rest of the papers offered no explanation. One was a copy of the letter written by her mother before her death. Another was a signed statement by the Earl of Sheridan acknowledging her as his child. The third was a receipt for the money Roger Endersby had paid to remove her from the brothel. The very last piece of paper was a letter written in a crabbed hand, dated June 7, 1833.

My Dear Child,

Today is my seventieth birthday. It is also your twenty-fourth. Twenty-seven years ago on this day I met your mother, Grace, whom I came to care for and esteem greatly. I say this more for my own comfort than for yours, but I would like you to be secure in the knowledge that I always planned to provide for you. The discovery of your existence was a surprise, and occurred after you had already been given away.

I have always been a man who believed that things ought to be done correctly the first time or not at all. Now, in my old age, I have revised my view. I made a mistake in not searching harder for you. But now I have a chance to make amends.

I understand if this proposal does not find favor with you. I understand if you never wish to speak to me or think of me again. But I hope you will choose otherwise. I will wait as long as you need to come to peace with the truth. Until then, I remain

                                                                                
Your Devoted Father,

                                                                                            
Sheridan

Cynthia wiped tears from her cheeks as she read. Here was a man who cared for her no matter her faults, without even truly knowing her. He had made mistakes, it was true, but that didn’t seem to matter. Here at last was a chance for a parent who
wanted
her. And Roger Endersby had denied her that.

She replaced the panel in bottom of the drawer, slid the drawer itself back in place, and took the packet with her to her room. She wiped her face and rang for Ellen. When her maid arrived, she changed into a walking dress. Then she asked Partridge to call a hackney. She gave the driver the address listed in the letter.

She didn’t allow herself to think too much about what she was doing. She did not make the logical choice. She did as Charles had suggested—she followed her heart.

The hackney deposited her outside a tidy little mansion in the heart of Belgravia. She walked up to the door and knocked firmly, not allowing herself to feel afraid. The butler who answered took her card and raised one unruly gray eyebrow when he examined it. Then he asked her to wait in the spacious parlor.

It was not long before she heard voices in the corridor. “...most important day of my life, confound it!” a man was shouting. “What do I care if my cravat isn’t straight?”

Then the door flew open. A tall, thin man with a shock of hair that had once been copper-red but was now fading to white and a large, bushy moustache burst in, his cravat hanging at what was, indeed, a rather odd angle. Otherwise he was impeccably dressed in a dark gray suit. He held Cynthia’s card in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. “Oh, bless my soul!” he cried when he saw her. Cynthia found that her lower lip was trembling. The Earl of Sheridan threw the coffee cup aside and rushed across the room, arms flung wide. Cynthia allowed him to embrace her. When at last he released her he held her at arm’s length. “You are a beauty, just as they said,” he declared, breaking into a huge smile. “You are called Cynthia?”

She nodded, still not sure what to say. Two hours before she had not known this man existed, and now here he was embracing her in his parlor. “Well, come my dear, sit down and tell me everything that has happened to you for the last twenty-four years.”

At last Cynthia managed to say, “I think that would take a very long time, My Lord,” she said. But she allowed him to take her hands and pull her onto the sofa.

“Yes, yes, I suppose you are right,” he said. “I am only glad that you are here at last, after all these months of waiting.”

“Yes, My Lord,” she said.

“Oh, don’t call me that,” he demanded. “Call me...well, I don’t know. What would you like to call me? How about Sherry?”

“Of course,” Cynthia said. “But you see, I only found out about our connection this very morning.”

“What?” he demanded, his brows knitting together in a frown. “You mean that scoundrel who raised you told you nothing?”

“That is exactly what I mean,” Cynthia said. “I discovered the truth by accident,” she explained, holding out the packet. “He hid everything from me—well, not everything. I’ve known for years that he wasn’t my father, but everything else he kept secret.”

“Including the money, I suppose,” he blustered. She nodded. “Well, no matter, there’s more where that came from.”

“Have you...forgive me, this is an impertinent question. Have you been having me followed?”

His moustache twitched. “I suppose you could call it that,” he said. “My solicitor hired a man to look in on you. I wanted to make sure you were safe. I had become quite suspicious of Endersby, you see, and with good reason, apparently. The man hasn’t been bothering you, has he?”

Cynthia smiled. “No, indeed. In fact, he saved my life yesterday.” She told him what had happened outside Wright’s.

Lord Sheridan grinned. “I shall have to tell my solicitor to double his pay. Although you know, my dear, I have been receiving some very distressing reports from him about the goings-on at Cavendish Square.”

She flushed. “You are referring to the Duke of Danforth, I suppose.”

He gave her a knowing look. “I cannot lay claim to the rights of other fathers,” he said, “but I would still very much like an interview alone with that young rascal.”

She laughed. “He’s not a rascal, nor is he a rake. He is a decent, honest man, and I have the greatest respect for him. I love him, in fact, and I have every intention of accepting him if he should propose again.”

“Again?”

“He offered for me after the incident at the Farrington’s ball last week, but I refused. I have changed my mind, however. I think—I hope—he is still planning to ask me again.”

“I see. Well, the doctors tell me a little stimulation is good for my heart,” he said. “Perhaps we shall have a little fun at this duke’s expense.”

Cynthia grinned at him. “What did you have in mind?”

Charles was pacing the floor of the drawing room, waiting for his mother to appear. She had breakfasted in bed and was taking her time coming downstairs. When at last she arrived with a rustle of black crepe, she kissed him on the cheek. “Good morning, dear,” she said. “You look quite agitated this morning.”

“I must confess I feel rather agitated, Mother,” he replied.

She sat down on the sofa and patted the cushion beside her. He stayed on his feet. “Is this about Miss Endersby?” she asked.

“I love her, Mother. I am going to ask her to be my wife.”

“You mean you are going to ask her again,” she said evenly.

He stared at her. “She told you I’d already proposed?”

She nodded. “But I think you have a better chance this time, Charles. And I like her exceedingly well. You have made a good choice.”

He sat down and took her hand. “Are you feeling all right, Mother? Are you quite well?”

She laughed. “I assure you, dear, I am quite well. Although I am sure I will begin to feel quite ill if you do not do exactly as I say.”

“I am yours to command,” he declared, smiling.

“You must go to her father immediately.”

“Ah,” he said. “We have a problem there. He will not return to town until tomorrow.”

“I see. Well, then, you must go directly when he returns.”

“Of course, Mother. Then I plan to get a special license and marry her right away.”