The Seduction of Lady Charity: The Baxendale Sisters Book Four Read online

He turned, his shoulder touching hers, and took her hand again, holding it against his chest. “As ma wife you would continue your work,” he assured her emphatically.

  At his words, she forgot to withdraw her hand and stared at him. “You would allow your wife to paint portraits? Men’s portraits?”

  He smiled. “Any work you do must be conducted with my chaperone, to ensure no scandal attached itself to you. Otherwise, I should need to brush up on my dueling skills.”

  Withdrawing her hand, she shook her head with a laugh.

  His eyes gleamed. “We would spend each Season in London. You could paint while we are there. When in Scotland, we would find many other things to occupy us.”

  If he were as good as his word, her life might not be so unpleasant, but she couldn’t accept him. To be removed so far from home and rarely see her sisters and their children would be insupportable. It was bad enough that they saw so little of Hope. Charity sought the words for a polite refusal. Gunn offered her what Robin could not, the freedom to paint and be herself. Even so, she found she wasn’t tempted. This man was too bold, too outspoken; she wouldn’t be comfortable with someone like him. Moreover, she wasn’t in love with him. Even so close to Gunn on the sofa, it was Robin she thought of, Robin she loved, heaven help her.

  “I am very flattered by your proposal, Lord Gunn. I could not consider such a dramatic change in my life. My sister has given birth to twins, and she is not yet entirely well.”

  “Och!” He nodded his big head. “I am sorry to have called at such a difficult time.”

  She placed a hand on his arm. “It was good of you to bring me the newspaper article. I shall enjoy reading it.”

  Gunn rose with a sigh. “I am disappointed, naturally, Lady Charity. Vera sorry indeed. Might I hope that, in the future, you might change your mind?”

  Charity stood. “It would be unfair of me to give you that impression.”

  The door opened. Her father entered dressed in his riding clothes. “Lord Gunn, this is a surprise.”

  “Glad to see you looking well, Baxendale,” Gunn said. “Passing through Tunbridge Wells and took the opportunity to give your daughter an Edinburgh newspaper’s pleasing account of ma portrait.”

  “Good of you. Might I offer you a dram to warm you on your way?”

  “Tempting, thank you, but I don’t wish to keep the horses waiting.”

  Gunn turned to Charity. “If you have a change of heart, you have only to write to me.” He made his bow and left the room. Moments later, his carriage rolled down the driveway.

  How very like Gunn, she thought with a smile. To race inside whilst the horses waited and toss a proposal in my lap.

  Father raised his eyebrows. “I doubt that’s why he came.”

  “He proposed, Father. And I have refused him.”

  “He didn’t feel obliged to ask me first? The Scots are a different breed to the English. I’m not surprised you refused him. Harwood has been on your mind, daughter, since we came home. I hope you made it perfectly clear to Gunn that you would never marry him. He’s not a man to give up easily.”

  “I believe I did.”

  Father nodded and left the room.

  With a shake of her head, she returned to her studio. A handsome pair of grey eyes fringed with thick black lashes greeted her from the painting on the easel. Every night when she laid her head on the pillow, she relived how Robin’s demanding lips had sought hers, as if he hoped to change her mind with one kiss. And it seemed her emotions had whirled and skidded ever since.

  When Charity joined the family at luncheon, Mama gazed at her. “Were you even a little tempted to marry Gunn, Charity?”

  “Not even a little, Mama.”

  “He would not be my choice. I’d find him so very large and exhausting. And I’m glad you aren’t being whisked off to Scotland.”

  Mercy joined them at the table. “I saw Gunn as he was leaving. He said I shall be one of the prettiest debutantes next Season. He has promised to dance with me at my first ball.”

  Father banged down his wine glass, spilling wine over the cloth. “The devil he will!”

  “Baxendale!” Mama dabbed at the stain with her napkin. “Your language!” Mama frowned at Mercy. “I dislike the way you always manage to be out of doors when a gentleman is leaving, Mercy. One might think it is not a coincidence.”

  Father buttered a roll. “Ran into Brandreth while I was out. The marquess is a happy man. Not only has his brother, Vaughn, settled down admirably and his wife has produced twins, Lavinia is in a delicate condition.”

  “Chaloner’s wife is having a baby?” Charity asked with a rush of pleasure. “That is wonderful news.” She should alter the marchioness’ portrait to reflect her happiness. She’d made no secret of wanting another child. It seemed the season for family births. Perhaps Hope would be next, and Honor wished for more children.

  “We shall be aunts once more,” Mercy said.

  “Well, not precisely, dearest, for Lavinia is Edward and Vaughn’s sister-in-law,” Charity said. “But if you wish to make yourself an honorary aunt, I’m sure Lavinia will be delighted.”

  “I love being an aunt.” Mercy grinned. “Do you not, Charity?”

  Charity agreed. However, being an aunt seemed like having one’s nose pressed up against the window of another family’s house and wishing that family was theirs.

  ****

  The footman brought Robin a letter from Lord Baxendale. Surprised, Robin leaned back in the wing chair by the fire, Henry at his feet, and slit the paper open with his paperknife. Baxendale didn’t mince words. He stated baldly that Lord Gunn had offered for Charity’s hand, and although she’d refused him, he believed he should alert Robin to the possibly of the Scot returning in an attempt to persuade her.

  Gunn has offered her the world, Baxendale wrote. Her own studio in London and his permission for her to continue with her art. My daughter would never consider his proposal while her sister, Faith, has not yet returned to full health. But Faith improves with each day that passes, and Charity has expressed her desire to have children of her own.

  On reading the letter through again, what lay between the lines became clear to him. Apart from the fact that Baxendale preferred him to Gunn, he was hinting at what Robin must do to match the Scot’s proposal. Was Baxendale so sure that was all it would take? Gunn has a surfeit of charm, Baxendale had added. Robin frowned. Did he think that was what Robin lacked? He stared into the glowing coals in the hearth as he rubbed Henry’s silky ears. If he was honest with himself, he had become intense of late and, perhaps, had lost some of his sense of humor, which would not appeal to Charity.

  Robin tossed down the letter. He supposed the burdens that came from his new position in life could have changed him. Damn it all. He rose to stalk across the carpet. He wanted to once more be the man who had enjoyed quiet pastimes such as working on his manuscript, which now gathered dust on the shelf. Was there any reason why he couldn’t? The unequivocal answer came to him as swift as an arrow. He could, if he had Charity beside him. There was no other lady he’d met who’d want the man who preferred quiet reflection, or indeed expect it of him. Even Kitty saw him only as a powerful duke; she would not understand the man he really was.

  The next day, while Robin made notes in his journal, his butler entered the library. “A lady has called, Your Grace. She insists on seeing you.”

  Robin looked up. “She insists?”

  “Says she’s the Marchioness of Alstone, Your Grace,” Franklin said in a pained voice, gripping his hands together. “And that she’ll remain outside until you agree to see her, no matter how long it takes. A small child is with her. She is very voluble. And French.” Franklin gave him a dark look.

  The Marchioness? Robin rose to his feet. “Bring the lady to the salon.”

  Some minutes later, Franklin, struggling to maintain his composure, showed the lady into the room.

  The petite, pretty woman who entered was younger than Robi
n expected. Perhaps in her early twenties, she held the hand of a small, dark-haired boy.

  For a moment, Robin lost his manners as he struggled to make sense of it. Could this woman be his cousin’s wife? Charles had spent several months in France before he died. “How do you do,” he finally said. “Your name, madame?”

  “Florence.”

  “Please be seated, Madame Florence.” He turned to the butler, who seemed rooted to the spot. “Franklin, order tea.”

  “May I have coffee?” she asked in heavily accented English. “Charles will take milk.” She sat on the sofa with the boy, who clutched his mother’s skirts and stared at Robin with round black eyes.

  “I imagine you’re surprised, Your Grace,” she said, lapsing into French as a flush spread over her cheeks. “I would have come sooner, for my husband urged me to do so, but Charles left me with very little money, and my son has been ill.”

  “Could you not have written to advise me of your marriage?” Robin asked, wondering if she was literate. Why hadn’t his cousin advised his father?

  Her dark eyes flashed. “There was so little time. Charles grew ill so quickly. I wrote to the duke but received no word. So I decided to come in person.” Her eyes grew tender when she looked down at her son. “As you see, Charles is the image of his father.”

  He imagined his uncle would have been too ill to take note of it. Had his secretary dismissed it as a ruse? Robin had to admit the boy did look enough like his cousin to consider it possible. He sank back in the chair. “I’d like to learn more. How did this…marriage…come about?”

  Her dark eyes challenged him as she spoke in rapid French. “I am an actress. I had a very small part in Molière’s comedy, Tartuffe. Charles came to see it.” Her eyes warmed as if with the memory. “He followed me down the street and told me he hadn’t been long in Paris. He was lonely. His wife had just died in childbirth. A very sad man, after leaving his life in England, but he did intend to return and honor his obligations. He pursued me, and we had a liaison. When I was with child, he married me. But by then Charles was very ill with the smallpox. He did not live long enough either to see his son or to make reparation for us.”

  She shrugged her slim shoulders. “Illness claimed my père and mère before I met Charles, and I had no one to turn to. I was forced to continue my work in the theatre to pay for the roof over our heads.” She reached into her reticule. “I have brought this document as proof of our marriage.”

  Robin rose and took it from her. An actress would be good at deceit, he imagined. He had no idea if the marriage certificate was authentic, but if it was, this boy was indisputably his uncle’s heir.

  “How old is your son?”

  “Charles is four years old.”

  The timing was right. Robin took a deep breath. “Where are you staying, Madame Florence?”

  “At an inn on the toll road.”

  She wore a simple black dress, and the boy’s clothes were faded and patched. “You are welcome to stay here,” Robin said as the tea tray was brought in.

  Her dark eyes brightened. “I should be most grateful.”

  The footman poured coffee from the coffee pot and placed a cup before her on the table, adding a plate of biscuits.

  “While an investigation is carried out,” Robin added.

  As she lifted the cup of black coffee to her lips, her dark brows drew together. “Merci monsieur.”

  Wondering how good her understanding of English was, Robin lapsed into French. “Pardon, but I cannot merely take you at your word, Madame Florence. Your claim must be investigated. Tu comprends?”

  “Oui.” She glanced down at her son, who had popped the last of the almond biscuits into his mouth.

  “Bring more biscuits, Samuel,” Robin said.

  As the footman left the room, Henry slipped in through the door. Charles’ eyes widened. “Chien!” He left the sofa and followed the dog over to the fireplace. Henry obligingly licked the lad’s hand, where, no doubt, a few almond crumbs remained.

  If this boy was the legitimate heir, Robin would have no option but to return to his life in Tunbridge Wells. Although he’d desperately wanted to remain there a year ago, the idea no longer appealed. His plans for improvements to his lands and his tenants were already becoming a reality, and he kept abreast of any changes brought about by parliament that could affect those in his care. He thought of some recent legislation that he would have opposed. While it hadn’t interested him before, he now planned to use his influence in the House of Lords, and a duke’s voice carried far more authority than a viscount’s.

  In the days that followed, one of Robin’s lawyers traveled to Paris to authenticate or dispute the document Madame Florence had brought with her. Madame Florence and young Charles rarely made an appearance. Robin’s solicitors had advised him not to house them, but he considered it wrong to turn them away. They kept to the dower house, where he’d thought it prudent to place them, in an effort to lessen the gossip. It had failed of course. Robin glimpsed them when he rode past the building and saw them strolling in the gardens. The sight disturbed him. Would that small boy bring chaos to his life?

  Robin had invited Madame Florence to dine with him, wishing to learn more, but she’d refused, stating in halting English that she would wait for confirmation to come from France. She’d said it with such clear-eyed conviction his heart was like a leaden weight in his chest.

  Robin had to straighten his spine to attend a card party at one of the big houses in the district, but he was determined not to shut himself away. As he entered his neighbor’s drawing room, he was greeted by a loud hum of gossip.

  Lady Kitty hurried to his side. “Such a horrible affair, Your Grace,” she whispered. “Mama says it’s unwise to have that creature stay at the castle. She says a Frenchwoman will tempt you into an indiscretion and should be sent packing.”

  “I am not so easily tempted, Kitty,” Robin replied, amused.

  She gazed at him with anxious eyes. “And Mama says that if what she says proves to be true you might have to marry her, for you shall be a mere viscount again.”

  Before he could think of a fitting answer, his hostess came to claim him. An hour later, he left, heartened by the sympathy and offers of support. His tenants had also expressed the view that they preferred their present duke and would not welcome any change.

  With each frustrating day that brought no news, Robin grew impatient to leave for Tunbridge Wells. When a letter came from Charity telling him she was pleased with the portrait’s progress, he sensed an unspoken reprimand behind her words. He had not sat for the portrait, and she would assume he’d lost interest. Dash it all. Despite everything, he had to see her. He loved her, and if she loved him, she’d take him, whether he was a duke or not. He would not wait for confirmation. He would take this final gamble and make arrangements to go to Tunbridge Wells as soon as he could, whether news from France had come or not.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Father entered the dining room at luncheon. “I just met Rennie of Beaverbrook Farm at the Walks,” he said, seating himself at the table. “He told me the most confounding news.” He cast a look at her mother. “Sorry for my language, my dear. Rennie has just returned from visiting his sister in Northumberland.” He reached for the bread.

  “News of Robin, Father?” Charity asked, her stomach tightening. Had Robin announced his engagement? It might account for the brief letter he’d sent her with no suggestion of sitting for her. Had he lost interest in the portrait or in seeing her again?

  “I’m about to tell you,” Father said, eyeing her. “A lady has arrived from France with a young son. She has declared that she married the duke’s son, Charles, before he died of the smallpox.”

  “My goodness,” Mama said. “That would mean…”

  “That Robin is not the duke,” Father said, completing her sentence. “Apparently they await confirmation from France.”

  Charity’s stomach twisted in distress, and she pushe
d her plate away. “Poor Robin. It can’t be true.”

  “I’m afraid these things do happen, thankfully rarely, for the Committee of Privileges are usually thorough in these matters.”

  “How would they prove the child was Charles’?” Mama asked.

  “They can’t. But if the child was born in wedlock.” He shrugged. “Not so unusual for a peer to raise a child not of his blood.”

  “I am heartbroken for Robin,” her mother said. “He was growing into the role when I last saw him. I thought he made a splendid duke.”

  Father nodded thoughtfully, his gaze resting on Charity. “Indeed. If it is true, it will change Robin’s life.”

  Charity pushed back her chair. “Please excuse me; I don’t feel like eating.”

  “Oh my dear,” Mama said. “Can’t you at least manage some bread and cheese?”

  She shook her head. “I want to continue my work.”

  “Perhaps you should leave that for a while. Begin something new that pleases you. Robin will hardly want the portrait if he is not the duke,” her father pointed out.

  Charity hurried from the room.

  In her studio, she studied the painting. Robin was seated in his chair, looking every inch a duke. Should she write to him? No, she must wait for him to tell her. She would learn the outcome soon enough. He’d accepted the dukedom with reluctance, but she could see he’d begun to relish the opportunities now offered him. All those plans he’d told her about. He would be distressed if he were forced to give them up. She sighed and dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. She yearned to offer him sympathy, but he was proud and might not appreciate it. She must be patient.

  ****

  Cool, damp fingers of mist touched Charity’s cheek and clung to her clothes as she walked with Mercy beside the river, Wolf racing ahead. Winter was approaching, and before they knew it, it would be Christmas. Her mother was already discussing the menu with Cook and household matters with the housekeeper with a view to the chambers all being occupied with guests.