Miss Charity's Case (2 page)

“Charity, I—”

Charity hushed her sister. None of the men must think they were trying to strike up an acquaintance with them. Finding an empty table near the hearth where a fire fought the damp evening air, she sat with her back to the flames which leaped in the air swirling through the poorly chinked walls.

That had been a mistake, Charity realized, when her gaze was captured by the eyes of a black-haired man sitting across the room. They twinkled merrily at her before she looked quickly away. With him was another man, whose hair was a common shade of brown. He seemed unduly interested in her and Joyce also. She lowered her eyes, not wishing to suggest she was interested in their company.

“What is wrong?” asked Joyce as she brushed crumbs from the battered top of the rough table. She grimaced when they fell onto Charity's bag, and she bent to shake them off the battered satchel.

“I find this place uncomfortable. It is chock-f of strangers.” Charity preferred not to lie to her sister, but, if she spoke the truth, Joyce might be so curious about the men that she would turn to look at them.

“Charity,” Joyce said with the musical laugh Charity had not heard in days, “you are ever the hoaxer. What else do you expect in an inn but strangers?”

“Mayhap I have become too accustomed to knowing everyone as we did in Bridgeton.”

“I'm glad we are rid of them!”

“Joyce!”

Her sister wagged her finger in front of Charity's nose. “Don't chide me, when you feel the same. After all the things said about Papa, I don't know how you could be so pleasant to those horrible people.”

“You said nothing ill to them.”

“
I
said virtually nothing, if you will recall.”

Charity did. Usually Joyce's sparkling wit would have brightened any conversation. Instead Joyce had sat as silent as the miniature of Mama that had been set on the mantel.

She was saved from having to answer by the arrival of their meal. A single sip warned Charity that the wine was so bitter it was nearly impossible to swallow. The stew was as unchewable as the soles of her slippers, and she suspected her shoes would have as much flavor. Hunger and a generous serving of salt helped make the food tolerable.

“Do you think Lady Eloise will fire us off straightaway?” Joyce asked as she chased gravy around her trencher with a piece of fatty meat.

“I know no more of the workings of the
ton
than you do.”

“I had thought Mama might have spoken of it to you.”

Hearing Joyce's wistful tone, Charity struggled to extinguish another flare of pain. Joyce had been barely out of her babyhood when their mother died. Charity's own memories were fading with time. Closing her eyes, she told herself that now her parents were reunited in heaven that their love, which had dared the fury of Mama's family, was strong enough to survive their deaths. She must think only of that, not of her anguish at losing both of them.

“Charity?”

Joyce's question drew her out of her morass of grief. “I don't remember if Mama ever spoke of her Season,” she said without looking up from the table. She could not let Joyce see her tears. She must be the strong one, as she had always been.
Watch over your baby sister
, came the echo of Mama's voice followed by Papa's chuckle.
Don't let Joyce wander into trouble
.

“It shall be so glorious.” Joyce's eyes took on a distant look. “Think of it, Charity. Beautiful gowns, glorious music, eager
beaux
. Lady Eloise has promised all that to us. I am so glad we are going to London to enjoy everything waiting there.”

“I …” Charity forgot her answer as her gaze was caught again by blue eyes on the opposite side of the room. The brass-faced rogue tilted his tankard to her in a mocking salute. Fire burned on her face. This dark-haired man was treating her as if she were the lowest cyprian. Swallowing her outrage along with the tough stew, she said, “Joyce, do finish up. I am tired and would like to retire.”

“Our room may not be ready yet.”

“Then we shall go to the private room the innkeeper offered us.” Anything, she thought, to get away from that dashedly handsome man whose gaze was far too familiar.

As soon as Joyce finished, Charity picked up her small valise and led the way back through the public room. She could not ignore the gazes following them, but acknowledged none of them. Surely their room would be ready soon, and they could find sanctuary there.

Linking her arm through her sister's, Charity smiled. She would not let those uncivil men ruin this adventure of traveling to London to meet their great-aunt. From her small bag, she pulled a well-thumbed volume.

“Joyce, I have my book of poetry, so we might read to each other before we go to bed. Just as we did at home.”

Joyce's wide, brown eyes glistened with tears. “I wish we could go home and have it just the way it was.”

“Nothing is ever the way it was, and,” she hurried to add when she saw a single drop glide along her sister's cheek, “we are going to what will be our home. Most importantly, Joyce, we shall be together.”

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes for you to find a husband.” She tweaked her sister's nose. “That shall be an eternity if you appear in Town with your face stained from tears. No gentleman will wish to leg-shackle himself to you when you are piping your eyes.”

Joyce laughed, and Charity could not help but join in. She would take care of her sister and see her well-settled, as she had promised. Surely once they reached London, Joyce would regain her constant cheerfulness although Charity doubted if either of them would ever recover from losing Papa.

There would never be another Clarence Stuart. He had possessed an undeniable charm, which had won Mama's heart and had lured an unsuspecting parish into believing he was as angelic as his eyes suggested. Soon his congregation—and Charity—had learned he was no saint. Not that her papa had been evil. No, he had not been wicked—simply weak—and easily drawn from the path a parson should walk.

Charity's smile faded when she opened the door and peeked into the room the innkeeper had said they could use while they waited for their bedchamber. The odor of smoke clung to the grimy whitewashed walls and stone floor. Overhead, the rafters were stained with dampness. It was a dreary room with a single bench in front of the hearth, but the fire was burning brightly, and it was warmer than the public room.

Joyce lowered herself onto the unpadded bench. “I hope our room upstairs is more pleasant than this.”

“It is for only one night. Tomorrow evening, we shall be with Lady Eloise on Grosvenor Square, which surely will be grander than we can imagine.” Staring out the window, she recoiled when rain struck the panes with renewed fury. She sat next to her sister. A shudder cut across her shoulders, and she whirled to look back to the door.

“What is wrong?” asked Joyce.

“I thought …” She bit her lower lip. How Joyce would tease her if she said that she had thought someone was watching them. No one stood in the doorway.

“Thought what?”

She shook her head. “It is nothing.”

“You shivered. Are you cold?”

Glad for the excuse not to have to explain her thoughts which must be coming from too little sleep, she smiled. “I think I shall get my shawl from our trunk.”

“Nonsense,” urged Joyce. “Let me go. You're as tired as I am, Charity. Probably more so, for you tended to every facet of Papa's funeral with so little help from me. You are too good to me.”

“
You
are tired, if you are babbling nonsense. We are sisters. We must take care of each other.”

“And now I want to take care of you.” She set herself on her feet and patted Charity's shoulder. “While I am upstairs retrieving your shawl, I shall get mine, too.”

Charity smiled. Her sister reminded her of an engaging kitten, eager to please and even more eager for praise. She swiveled on the hard bench to watch Joyce walk out of the small room. Joyce's gentle and endearing spirit were guaranteed to capture many hearts during the
soirées
of the Season.

She clasped her hands in her lap and looked at the blue-hot center of the fire. Dear Joyce. She knew nothing of the hearts of men, although she had long delighted in her admirers. Charity must keep close watch on her sister so Joyce's heart was not broken as Charity's had been.

Pushing that thought from her head, she opened the book of poetry which had been Mama's. The letters blurred before her. She would not cry, not now, not when too many questions about their future were left unanswered. Certainly, she would feel more secure when they reached London and the bosom of Mama's oldest living relative. Surely then everything would be all right again. She prayed it would be so, but feared her hopes were as dead as Papa.

Two

Oliver Blackburn did not like the situation. He did not like it a whit. First the blasted rain had slowed his carriage; then, when he had decided to pause at the King's Heart Inn to wait out the storm, he had had Field's company inflicted on him. The blackguard had enjoyed every minute of it, too, but, if Field had thought to wheedle information from him, he had failed.

A shadow scurried away when Oliver stepped from the public room into the narrow foyer. Field or some other vermin? The heels of Oliver's boots punished the stone floor as, flinging back his black wool cape, he crossed to look past the low door on the other side of the passage. As he enjoyed the lovely view before him, a slow smile eased across his lips.

The woman's back was to him, although he had been treated to the silver fire in her bright eyes during the meal when the food had been slightly less disgusting than his companion. Her thick, chestnut hair refused to remain in its chignon, and wisps drifted along the smooth column of her nape to dance on the unfashionably high collar of her outmoded dress. Although Oliver did not consider himself an expert on the latest styles, he could recognize the gown would be considered amusingly quaint in Town.

His eyes were caught by the woman's slender fingers that held the book. No ring adorned her left hand. That piqued his curiosity. What was an unmarried woman doing alone in this vile inn?

Clearing his throat, he asked, “Forgive me for being so bold, but may I enjoy your sunny bank and soak up its warmth before I venture out into the night?”

Charity stiffened, then turned and looked up to meet blue eyes which crinkled as a smile smoothed the stern lines of the man's face. Easily she identified the other lines in his tanned face. They spoke of a life upon the sea, but the fine cut of his coat and dark breeches beneath his cloak warned he was no mere sea-crab. Her breath caught in her throat when she realized he was the ebony-haired man who had stared at her so openly in the common room.

He seemed shockingly tall. Her gaze rose along his blue striped waistcoat to where his high collar lapped his square chin, but, when she nodded her consent to his question, he sat on the window's deep sill. His hair was brushed forward toward his face with the force of the wind that had stained his coat and boots with rain and mud. He balanced his tall hat on his knee.

As he held his hands out toward the fire, he continued, “It is a night fit only for sitting near a hearth and enjoying its bit of warmth. You were lucky to find this shelter before the coming of night and this storm.”

“Very lucky, sir.”

“I wish I had the time to savor this, but it's my misfortune that I must be departing within the hour.”

She wondered why he was trying to engage her in conversation. With a shiver of horror, she hoped he did not consider her a tumble-a-bed. She pretended to be interested in the book in her lap, but stole a furtive glance toward the door. Where was Joyce? She should have returned, by this time, with their shawls.

“Are you awaiting someone?” asked the man with another smile. “If I am intruding, you need only say so.”

“You needn't leave.” She added nothing else as she tried to read the book. Concentrating on the elaborate rhythms of the sonnets was impossible. Again and again, she looked at the door, but it remained empty.

The man leaned toward her, putting his hand on the arm of the bench. When she regarded him with amazement, he said, “Excuse me, Miss—?”

“Stuart, sir.”

“Excuse me, Miss Stuart, but you seem incredibly concerned about the door. Are you looking for something?”

“Someone.”

“If you wish, I can check for you.” He bowed his head. “Your servant. Oliver Blackburn, Miss Stuart.”

She stood, unable to sit still when that cobalt gaze held her eyes. Her stomach quivered. She was sure it was because she was anxious about Joyce. She dared not think the pleasantly unsettled feeling might have something to do with Mr. Blackburn, who was endeavoring to set her at ease. She owed him the duty of being cordial, but nothing else.

“I am watching for my sister,” she said. “She was to go to our room to collect something and then return straightway.”

He had set himself on his feet when she did, and she looked up to his eyes a head above hers as he said, “Miss Stuart, if you would accept the counsel of a stranger, I urge you to hurry to your sister and your room with all possible speed. I implore you to stay there. The public rooms of an inn of questionable character, such as this one, are no place for a gentlewoman.”

Oliver told himself he should not be surprised this lovely woman did not belong at The King's Heart Inn. A lady, who clutched a book to the bosom of her simple gown, might have no idea of the dangers awaiting her. His lips tightened as he wondered why she had not been warned.

He recognized the title on the book's binding. A bookish woman, mayhap, but the sparkling glow in her gray eyes suggested she was not isolated in a bluestocking world. Her replies hinted at an intelligence he had forgotten amid the bibble-babble of London.