A Masked Deception (23 page)

“Charlotte, my love,” he said, leaning toward her and looking into her face.

And it was these words and this sight that met the anxious ears and eyes of the Countess of Brampton and Devin Northcott as they burst into the room.

* * *

Margaret had returned from her morning of visiting, watched the dowager climb the stairs to her room to change for luncheon, gone into the rose garden to cut some fresh buds for the dining-room table, and finally retired to her room to wash her hands, tidy her hair, and change her gown. She noticed immediately the white paper propped against the mirror of her dressing table. She slit open the seal and read the letter over which Charlotte had labored for five whole minutes and which she had been convinced explained the situation clearly.

Dearest Meg,

Pray forgive me for any worry I may cause you, but I have gone with Charles to Portsmouth. He is in love, Meg, as you will soon be forced to admit for yourself. Even his lordship cannot be angry when he knows that. I know you may be cross with me, Meg; I should not really do this. But my case is hopeless. This is the only chance I have of any sort of happiness. You know yourself that I do not love Charles, but everyone else thinks that I do, you see, dearest. All will be explained when we arrive home again. Your own dear sister,

Charlotte

Margaret read the letter through a second time, panic rising in her, hoping there was some other interpretation to put on it than the obvious one. She put a shaking hand to her mouth, trying to think clearly enough to know what to do. If only Richard were at home! She finally rushed along to the dowager’s room and knocked hastily on the door.

“Mama, I have found this letter in my room,” she gasped out. “Charlotte has eloped with Charles. They are on their way to the Continent to be married—at least, I assume they plan to marry.”

The dowager crossed the room with uncharacteristic haste, forgetting hartshorn and vinaigrette in this real crisis, and snatched the letter from Margaret’s hand.

“What a pair of clothheads!” was her first comment. “They will never suit, Margaret. They are just a pair of irresponsible children. And she does not even pretend to love him! What can it mean!”

“I fear she is marrying him in the hope of recovering from a disappointment,” Margaret said.

“Devin, I suppose,” the dowager agreed. “And it is he she should marry, too. He would probably take her over his knee and spank her every so often and beat some sense into her.”

“But what are we to
do,
Mama?” Margaret wailed. “This would be a terrible mistake for both of them.” She did not wait for her mother-in-law’s answer.

She had heard a horse approach up the driveway. “Richard!” she cried in relief, and fled out of the room, down the main staircase, and through the front door. She found herself confronting Devin Northcott, who was in the act of dismounting from his horse and handing the reins to a groom.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said. “Hope I haven’t disturbed your luncheon. Came from m’ mother to invite you all to dinner tomorrow evening. Bram should be home by then?”

“Oh, Mr. Northcott,” Margaret sobbed, and startled him by rushing straight into his arms.

“I say, ma’am, what is it?” he asked, alarmed, and proceeded to help her up the steps and into the house.

“I do beg your pardon, sir,” she said, “but I don’t know what to do.”

“Calm yourself, Lady Bram,” he said soothingly, and led her into a small salon, closing the door behind them. “Tell me what’s the matter. I shall do m’ best to help.”

“It’s Charlotte,” she wailed.

“What? Miss Wells? Ill? Hurt?”

“She has eloped with Charles. But she does not love him, Mr. Northcott. She is only unhappy because she has quarreled with you.” Margaret was distraught. She would not normally have talked so indiscreetly to a man who was not even a member of the family.

Devin had turned pale and stood rooted to the spot. “Gretna?” he asked in a strangled voice.

“No, Portsmouth. They must be intending to cross the Channel.”

“When? How long ago did they leave?”

“I don’t know exactly. Maybe two hours. Probably less.”

“I must follow them,” Devin said, and started for the door. “Don’t distress yourself, ma’am. I shall bring her home safe.”

“Oh, but I must come with you,” Margaret cried, grabbing for his arm.

“Wouldn’t hear of it, ma’am,” Devin said firmly. “Not at all the thing. And Bram wouldn’t like it.”

“Mr. Northcott,” she said, “Charlotte is my sister. I must come. She will listen to me, I am sure. Besides, she seems to be without a female companion. She will need me. If we can be seen to return together, we may avert scandal.”

Devin hesitated. “Must have a closed carriage, then. Will be slower, though. But probably best-coming on to rain. I shall go see to it, ma’am.” And he hurried away in the direction of the stables while Margaret rushed up the stairs to tell the dowager what was happening and to fetch a cloak and bonnet and half-boots. Ten minutes later, the coach was on its way—the fast-traveling carriage that had brought the family from London, and the earl’s best horses. By the time Charles and Charlotte arrived at the Crown and Anchor, Devin and Margaret were only half an hour behind them. They were fortunate enough to recognize the familiar carriage in the courtyard of the inn.

Margaret hurried to the public room of the inn, praying that they were in time, that the couple had not yet embarked on a ship for the Continent. Devin was close behind her, a reassuring hand on the small of her back as they met the landlord and inquired about the occupants of the plain carriage standing outside.

“In the private parlor,” he replied absently and continued on his way to a tableful of customers, a tray of ale balanced on one hand.

“Thank God,” Devin remarked as Margaret pushed at the door of the parlor, too overwrought with emotion to consider the courtesy of knocking first. The situation looked bad enough. Charles was sitting on the arm of Charlotte’s chair, leaning toward her, a hand on her shoulder, calling her “my love.” Both jumped guiltily to their feet.

“Lottie! Thank God we are in time!” Margaret exclaimed, and rushed across the room to clasp her sister in her arms.

“Meg?” Charlotte said simultaneously. “What are you doing here?”

The two men meanwhile were eyeing each other suspiciously.

Devin stood stiffly close to the door. “I shall want an explanation for this, Adair,” he said sternly. “A lady’s reputation at stake, y’know. Very bad ton.”

“She would come, the little hothead,” Charles explained warily. “But I fail to see what business this is of yours, Northcott.”

“Shan’t discuss the matter with ladies present,” Devin replied. “Shall ask you to step outside. I shall be calling you out over this, y’know.”

“Mr. Northcott,” Charlotte cried, tearing herself from her sister’s arms and crossing the room to stand in front of him, “indeed I am to blame. Charles did not want to bring me, truly, but I would not let him be until he agreed.”

He looked down at her coldly. “I shall have plenty to say to you too, Miss Wells, when I've finished with your—friend,” he said. “You need a man who will keep a firm hand on your reins, ma’am, and I intend to be that man.”

“Indeed!” Charlotte drew in a deep breath and seemed incapable of expelling it for a moment.

“Lottie, indeed you have behaved badly,” Margaret added in firm support of Devin. “You must know that an elopement will place you beyond the approval of society. And there is no need for it, love. We may not approve the match, but I am sure that neither Richard nor I would actively try to stop the marriage if you truly want to carry it through.”

Charlotte stared back and forth between Devin and Margaret, openmouthed. “What elopement? What marriage?” she asked, puzzled.

Charles suddenly exploded into mirth from across the room. “Charlotte, my love, I'll bet it was the letter,” he managed to get out between bursts of laughter. “You featherbrained little twit, I should have insisted on reading it. Margaret is obviously under the impression that you and I are eloping to the Continent together.”

“How could they?” Charlotte asked. “You didn’t think that, did you, Meg? But I told you in the letter that Charles loved Juana and that everyone would see it when we got back tonight. And I told you that I came only because . . . Well, I told you why I came, Meg.”

“Who is Juana?” Margaret asked weakly.

“Margaret,” Charles said, trying to contain his amusement, “will you come sit by the fire? Northcott, take a seat. I think I had better explain this mess to you myself.”

Within five minutes the misunderstanding had been cleared up, though Margaret took it upon herself to scold both her sister and her brother-in-law for irresponsible behavior. Devin said not a word from his chair close to the door, nor did he return the shy, anxious glances that Charlotte cast in his direction from time to time. She had the feeling that her plan had come crashing around her ears and that he had taken her in disgust. She drew hope, however, from the masterful words he had spoken earlier in the conversation.

“We must see to getting back to Brampton Court tonight,” Charles said finally. “I was about to go hire an extra post chaise when you two arrived.”

“There will be no need,” Margaret said. “We came in a carriage, too. Surely there will be enough room for everyone.”

“I shall go see about the horses,” he replied. “Charlotte, my love”—he missed the glower cast in his direction by Devin—“go upstairs to Juana and let her know by some sort of sign language that she should hurry and that my sister-in-law is here waiting to meet her.”

They left together. Devin crossed the room and placed a hand on Margaret’s shoulder. “All’s well, Lady Bram,” he said. “You can stop worrying. No one need ever know—not even Bram if you choose not to tell him.” He leaned forward to gaze concernedly into her face.

This was the sight and these were the words that greeted the Earl of Brampton as he pushed open the door to the parlor.

T
he Earl of Brampton had spent a busy few days in London. He had to see his man of business about various matters relating to his several estates, and he had more than one meeting with an eminent engineer, arranging for the man to visit Brampton Court and make plans for draining the marsh. The drainage scheme would free many more acres of land for cultivation and would help his tenants to a more prosperous way of life.

Yet Brampton was not happy during those few days. As long as he was busy, he felt tolerably contented. But the house in Grosvenor Square felt empty and cheerless with no other occupants than the skeleton staff that was kept there during the summer months. Sitting in his library on the third evening, after an early return from a sparsely populated club, Brampton mused on the change that had occurred in him in just a few months. He vividly remembered getting embarrassingly drunk in this very room because his happy solitude was about to be shattered by a dull and insipid bride.

Dull and insipid! Meg! Sweet, sensible, and intelligent Meg? He found now that life was dull only without her. He got up restlessly from his chair, refilled his glass, and sipped its contents. He smiled ruefully at himself. Was he about to get drunk because he was forced to be away from her for a few days?

Brampton set the glass down firmly beside the brandy decanter and left the library. He went to his room and let Stevens help him off with his clothes and on with his nightshirt and dressing gown. He dismissed his valet before going to bed. He wandered aimlessly to the chair beside the empty fireplace. How restless he felt! How he needed his wife, even the little she had so far been prepared to give of herself.

Brampton got to his feet again, opened the door into the dressing room that connected his bedchamber with his wife’s, and then the door into her room. He wandered inside. The room was very tidy, very empty. He crossed to the bed and sat on its edge. He rubbed one hand lightly back and forth across the pillow. If only she were there. He made a decision as he sat there not to spend another night away from home—and home now meant wherever Meg was. Although he had a full day of business yet to transact, somehow he would speed through it so that he would have enough daylight hours left in which to ride back to Brampton Court.

His decision made, Brampton rose to leave his wife’s room. He could sleep now. He smiled as he noticed a closet door slightly ajar, and crossed the room to close it. Something was in the way. He stooped to pick up a fan that had dropped to the floor and surveyed the rackful of ball gowns that had been left behind because they would not be needed in the country. He smiled fondly down at the fan—his favorite, the wine-colored one. He could picture her so clearly flirting it in his direction while her eyes sparkled at him through the slits of the silver mask. He raised his arm to place it on a shelf.

Then Brampton froze! My God, that was not his wife’s fan. It belonged to—He felt his heart pumping and was convinced that he had stepped straight into a nightmare. How had it got there? Had she been in the house, in his wife’s room?

Brampton gazed frantically around the closet. He could see that one box on a top shelf had tipped forward, probably dislodged when something had been pulled from beneath it. The lid had shifted off the box; the fan could easily have slipped out of it.