“How did confronting him humiliate you? It’s his sin. His infidelity.”
“How naïve can you be? Every time you open your mouth, you humiliate me because you speak without thought and without considering anyone else but yourself and your opinions. You act as if something completely rare and unusual has happened here. Don’t you understand? All men are unfaithful. I’ve known about your father’s mistress for years. I’m not stupid. But I am a lady. A lady never acknowledges such things. It is her duty to present a serene countenance no matter what is going on in her private life. If every woman in society moaned about their husband’s … peccadilloes … there would be chaos. I cannot believe you’ve gotten to be your age without understanding this. But better you come to terms with it now so you will know what to expect when you get married, though my hopes in that direction are fading quickly. Why can you not hold your tongue? Can’t you see that things would be so much easier for you—for all of us—if you would?”
Charlotte reeled as if she had been slapped. Her mother had long known of, and accepted, her husband’s betrayal? “But it’s wrong. If all men are unfaithful, what is the point of marriage at all? And if no one is allowed to say that adultery is wrong, then it will continue to happen with impunity. How can he stand up in church and pretend to follow Scripture when he knows that he’s a fraud?” That might be the most galling aspect of all. That he should purport to be a God-fearing man when he had so many dark, sinful secrets that affected not just him but his family—both of his families. Charlotte’s nails bit into her palms, and her muscles ached.
“It may be wrong, but that is the way it is. If you continue to be so outspoken, you will bring nothing but misery on yourself. You’re fortunate to have escaped any further punishment for tonight’s display than missing the rest of your dinner and being sent to your room.”
A tap sounded on the door, and the butler entered carrying a large basket. “Your pardon, madam.” He bowed to Mother, and this time he sent an apologetic glance to Charlotte. “His lordship has sent me to gather every book I can find. He has instructed me that if I miss a single one, I will lose my position. So I ask you, Lady Charlotte, to surrender every book, for the sake of my employment.” His wide brown eyes under their bushy gray eyebrows were sorry and appealing now that his employer couldn’t see him. “I am sorry, miss.”
Dismay hitched its cold self up her windpipe, cutting off words. She hadn’t escaped with just missing dinner. Her father knew the surest way to hurt her. Forcing her to choose between surrendering her books for a time and the welfare of someone else.
Without a word, she opened the top drawer of her bureau. Then her armoire. Then her knitting stand. In minutes she had removed each of her precious books from its hiding place, each purchased with her meager allowance, all treasured. Histories, biographies, travel memoirs, novels. Leather bindings, crisp pages, gilt edges. Beautiful for their own sakes and beautiful because they were her friends, her barriers against both ignorance and loneliness.
She placed them in the basket. “Did he say how long he would keep them?” Her throat tightened. She felt as if she were betraying dear friends by turning her books over to her father’s care, even for a little while.
The butler didn’t meet her eyes. “They are not to be returned to you. He’s instructed the footman to build a fire in the mews.” His voice pleaded for her to understand it wasn’t his fault, and perhaps to remind her that his livelihood was on the line.
Inside her head, a scream formed, but all that came out was a low moan. Resisting the desperate urge to snatch the basket from the butler, she slid to the floor, drawing up her legs and wrapping her arms around them. Putting her forehead on her knees, she held the hurt close, knowing she had no choice but to let it happen.
Mother followed the butler out of the room with his burden, closing the door gently.
Charlotte didn’t know how long she huddled there, but eventually, stiff and cold, she unbent.
She drew her nightgown out of the drawer, her hand lingering on the spot where the History of Rome had lain so recently. She had planned to finish it by lamplight that night.
Now it was a pile of ashes in the mews behind the townhouse.
Climbing into bed, she thought to say her prayers … but nothing would come. She felt so alone, and her faith seemed tiny as a speck of dust. Her faith in mankind and her faith that God intended anything good for her in this life.
Her confrontation with her father had done precious little. He had admitted no fault. When he had been accused, he had punished her severely. And Amelia and Pippa Cashel remained in their current state—she hadn’t helped them at all.
Just as she hadn’t been able to save her precious books from the fire. She was helpless here, at the mercy of her cold, hypocritical parent.
This must be how Amelia Cashel felt.
Surely there must be something Charlotte could do for the poor woman. She had a vague notion that this wasn’t what her peers would consider a proper response to her father’s former mistress. Mother insisted upon behaving as if the Cashels didn’t exist. Father was doing likewise. Greater London society would be aghast that Charlotte would even contemplate further dealings with a cast-off paramour.
But Charlotte didn’t care. She and the Cashels had too much in common for her to ignore. And the desperate look in Amelia’s eyes haunted her.
Somehow she would rescue them. Or at least ease their situation.
She would meet her sister, befriend her, and somehow help her.
Though she had no idea how.
She was still facing a lifetime with Aunt Philomena or marriage to someone who would bore her to sawdust, possibly try to control her like her father did, and if her mother was correct, would stray from his marriage vows without hesitation at the first opportunity.
Not a rosy-futured outlook either way.
But burning her books was the last straw. She had to get out of this house. No matter who she met this Season, no matter which suitor proposed first, she was going to take him up on his offer. Marriage to any man had to be better than living in this household a day longer than she must.
It wouldn’t matter whom she chose, since according to her mother they were all alike.
Her mind went immediately to her rescuer of two nights ago. Wouldn’t it serve her parents right if she ran off to Gretna Green with someone like him?
Too bad she would never see him again.
She shook her head. The loss of her books evidently meant she’d lost her mind too, mooning over a mysterious figure with an equally mysterious moniker.
Hawk.
Punching up her pillow, she jammed her head into it, determined to sleep, to forget for a while her father’s cruel actions.
Things would work out, not as she had hoped, but then again, when did they? Any husband would be preferable to spinsterhood under her father’s control.
As long as her new husband left her alone.
And maybe let her buy books.
CHAPTER 3
“THE HUNT BEGINS in earnest tonight,” Charlotte murmured as she handed her wrap to the waiting maid and checked her hair in the receiving room mirror, wishing that just this once, her parents would have consented to letting her curl it or cut it or somehow change it to something less Spartan. Mother inspected her, picking a stray thread off her shoulder, her face pensive.