Charlotte rose, smoothing her slender fingers over the feathers at her wrist. “I had thought to enjoy Augustus for a time, then journey back to Italy. I have always adored Venice. Actually, I was dallying with the idea of taking Augustus with me. But now there is this—this confusion. I will speak to Rohan. Then we will see, Susannah. Sleep well, my dear.?
??
At least Charlotte hadn’t cursed at her or shot her. She sat back in the chair, closing her eyes for a moment, just for a moment. Then she would pack.
When she jerked awake, it was the middle of the night and she was shivering with cold. She felt about for candles but couldn’t find any. She couldn’t very well pack in pitch-blackness.
She managed to remove her clothes, smoothing Charlotte’s glorious gown over the back of a chair, and sink beneath the blankets.
Just as she was at the edge of falling asleep again, she realized that Rohan surely had given George much more than a mere twenty-pound allowance per quarter.
George hadn’t even cared that his daughter have enough. She felt the tears, hot and burning, well out of her eyes and drip down her cheeks. She had lived nothing but a lie. Her stupidity had been boundless. No wonder George hadn’t wanted to introduce her to his family. What would he have said? “Here is my mistress and my little bastard?”
She’d never doubted his word that his father, then his eldest brother, would disown him and her and Marianne. He had to have time, he’d told her again and again. Soon, he’d promised her over and over. Soon they would be together, a family, and everyone would know. No wonder George had visited Mulberry House only rarely those past several years. He’d known that sooner or later he would be found out. Then again, perhaps he hadn’t cared. He’d grown bored. He’d not wanted to hear her asking him if he’d yet spoken to his older brother. He no longer wanted them. He no longer wanted his own daughter.
She would have killed him if he weren’t already dead.
She had deceived herself for nearly five years, and now she thought she’d die of it. She cursed herself more than she cursed George. She’d always believed she was so smart, saw people so very clearly. She cried until her throat ached, until there were no more tears, but still the pain was deep and hard inside her. George had lied to her because she had so little value, so little worth, that she had merited only a sham marriage.
15
“AND THAT, MOTHER—EVERY GORY DETAIL OF IT—IS what George did to her.” He felt bowed with fury and anger at George, who was gone from them, who would never have to face up to what he had done.
He’d had no intention of ever telling his mother the truth, but like the excellent, cunning mother she was, she’d awakened him from a deep sleep and gotten the truth out of him at a fine clip before he’d cocked half an eye open. He wanted to kick himself. But it was done and now couldn’t be undone. She’d gotten him, but good.
He was fully awake now, cursing himself for being such a deep sleeper. His mother wasn’t looking at him but rather was standing by the window looking down at the beautiful terraced gardens. He said, “I’m sorry, Mother. I hadn’t wanted you to know, there was no need. But you’re as shrewd as a mother superior. You got me at my lowest ebb.”
She turned slowly to face him. “Yes, dearest, your wits are never fully knitted together when you are first awakened.” Charlotte then fell silent. She began to pace Rohan’s bedchamber. He was still in bed, of course. Unlike her son, Charlotte had always been an early riser. She was always at her most cunning early in the morning. And, pity for her son, it was only six o’clock.
Rohan still regretted none of his actions from the evening before. He hadn’t changed his mind about anything, particularly about marrying Susannah.
He loved her name. It danced on the tongue. He imagined that even in a rage, yelling her name would be a treat.
“You know, dearest, as much as it pleases me that you wished to protect my ears from George’s infamy, I would have known that you would never have married a young girl and kept her hidden away. You would have paraded her out and spoiled her rotten, just as you’re planning to do now with both her and Marianne.”
There was sudden determination in her voice. “Now, no more protecting George. It is Susannah and Marianne who must be protected.”
She began her pacing again. “For nearly five years,” she said finally, more to herself and the fireplace than to him. She turned then to face her son, who looked delightful balanced upon his elbows in his bed, his hair tousled, whiskers on his chin, at least two whiskers in that cleft of his. But her look was only cursory. “What was George?” she said finally, unable to leave it alone. “This young man I don’t recognize?”
“I don’t know. I plan to go to Oxford and find out. There is no doubt that he knew the man who kidnapped Susannah for the map. I’m sorry, Mother.”
“I know. So am I. When will you go to Oxford?”
“I must go once I have Susannah’s agreement to wed me in private. No one else—none of our friends, neighbors, not even Fitz—must ever know the true state of affairs, Mother. As for what I learn, I will try to keep it private.”
“Yes, that would be best. I believe you should marry Susannah before you leave for Oxford. She is very proud. George betrayed her, made a fool of her, and she is doubtless tottering from the weight of it. She very probably feels perfectly useless, unwanted, worth less than nothing. Yes, you need to marry her because I fear she just might try to leave Mountvale, thinking to spare you this noble sacrifice. A very quiet wedding. You will obtain a special license?”
“Yes, as soon as I can.”
“You will adopt Marianne?”
“Of course.” He scratched his chest, realized his mother was looking at him, and quickly pulled the covers to his chin. Then he realized that she’d been looking through him, not at him. Well, she was his mother, after all.
“At least neither of us will have to worry about her once she’s your wife. She understands the way of things. She can remain here at Mountvale House, all snug and cozy, while you are in London, doing what you do so very well.”
“Why would I want to be alone in London? Really, Mother, when I travel to London, she and Marianne and Toby will be with me.”
She didn’t say another word, just stared at him. “But she is not like me nor is she a milksop. She told me that herself last night. But nothing else, as you know. Yes, Susannah would be miserable. It would not be just because of you. Think of your mistresses, dearest, all your parties, the Four Horse Club, White’s, the opera, the—”