Chapter 14
CHAPTER 14
C harlotte should have been angry with her husband. And truth be told, at first, she was furious at his cowardly behavior. But her heart softened at the fear and panic in his eyes each time Honoria cried out in the pains of childbirth.
Only a little, mind you. The iron wall she'd built around her heart was practically impenetrable. Or perhaps it wasn't shielded so much as buried. Deep under layers of childhood rejection and disappointment, she'd safeguarded it from attack. Unsure when it happened—it had been quite sudden—but one day she realized her father's constant complaint that she wasn't born a son no longer stung. His grousing over the fact he would have to pay for a dowry and having nothing to show for it when she married no longer mattered.
"The one thing you could do for me is marry well. The king and queen have several unmarried sons, but a duke would do. Even a foreign prince would be acceptable. But if you ever—and I mean ever—wish to marry an untitled man, you will be dead to me. Do you understand? I don't care how rich he is or how much land he owns. "
So she did what any self-respecting woman would do; she refused to marry anyone at all. Spiteful? Yes. She prided herself on how clever she had been. Knowing full well if her father made a match for her with an acceptable suitor she would have little choice, she made herself as disagreeable as possible. A sharp tongue and acerbic wit had sent many a hopeful man scampering away in search of a more biddable wife. Scowls and disdainful glances replaced the smiles and batting eyelashes of more hopeful debutantes.
When her father died, Roland not only assumed the marquessate, but their father's requirements for a spouse. Oh, how Roland hated when Nash had married Adalyn, whom Roland called "the American woman." One who dared venture into the man's world of medicine, no less!
As much as she silently celebrated and rejoiced in Nash's freedom, she knew it would only exacerbate Roland's efforts to secure an advantageous match for her. Or should she say—for him? The deal he had struck with Lord Felix and his father, Lord Scarborough, had been diabolical, and he cared little how it would harm her.
All she wanted was to live her life in peace, unencumbered by another man who would control her. She had no illusions of love like her friends did. And with her rejection of The Worm, she fully expected to face a future alone and disgraced. And she had accepted it, embraced it even. It was preferable to the alternative.
And yet, here she was. Married. To an untitled man who vexed her. With a large and boisterous family.
Her father was probably tossing in his grave.
The idea made her smile.
"What is it, my dear?" Mrs. Beckham pulled her from her musings. "You seem wistful. Are you perhaps thinking of the time when you and Simon will be having your own children?"
Goodness, no! Charlotte's stomach knotted with each of Honoria's cries, exacerbating her fear of childbirth. And unlike Drake, who braved the birthing room to remain by his wife's side, if Simon turned tail and ran when he wasn't even the father, what would he do when his own child was being born? Desert her entirely?
"I was simply wondering if the baby might have Honoria's red hair." A lie, certainly, but if nothing else, Charlotte was adept at prevarication.
Mrs. Beckham pursed her lips and gave her an odd look.
Mr. Beckham chuckled, setting down his coffee on the saucer. "Leave the lady alone, Judith. They've been married less than a day, and already you're expecting grandchildren. Allow them the enjoyment of each other for a while. I dare say things might have been interrupted." The man's gaze traveled to Charlotte's hastily unpinned hair.
Why had she listened to her fool husband simply to give the appearance they'd been . . . ?
Gah!
"Now, you've embarrassed her, Teddy." Mrs. Beckham playfully slapped her husband on the arm. She turned toward Charlotte. "Forgive my husband. Your hair looks lovely down, just as Her Grace said. And you are among family here."
Family?
The word had never struck a harmonious chord in Charlotte before, only one of dissonance.
Frannie tugged on Charlotte's arm. "Don't mind my parents. Come sit by me. We can commiserate as Georgie massacres poor Amadeus."
Charlotte couldn't help but smile at Frannie's matter-of-fact assessment of her youngest sister's talents. An unexpected spark of generosity ignited in Charlotte's chest. "Ah, but she plays with such verve."
Settled next to her, Frannie leaned in. "How is it you know my brother so well already? You met him less than a year ago. Is that not correct? "
"It is. In what respect are you referring?"
"That you understood Simon would go mad if he had to remain here and listen to Her Grace's cries." She nodded toward Georgie as she finished the piece with a flourish and bang. "Georgie is the most like him. A constant whirlwind of action, and no matter what they do, they do it with unbridled enthusiasm. Except stand still and wait. Simon told me once when he was stationed in the Indian desert, they had to wait in silence, simply watching a group of suspected marauders. He said it felt as if he was sinking into the sand and it would swallow him whole, choking the life out of him."
Did that explain the terror and panic in his eyes? Charlotte had her doubts. "You give me more credit than I am due, I'm afraid. I simply believed him to be like most men. Unwilling or unable to deal with a woman's pain."
Frannie shook her head. "I don't think it's that. I think it's because he fears for those in pain, especially those he cares for deeply."
Charlotte rather thought Frannie also gave her brother too much credit. However, she admitted the girl knew her brother better than she did. "One must confront one's fears in order to conquer them."
Tense silence settled in the room, punctuated with scrambling footsteps and a few more feminine cries as time dragged on.
Shadows stretched across the room as the sun lowered in the sky. The clock chimed quarter past seven, and Charlotte frowned. The last cries had been almost thirty minutes ago. The knot tightened in her stomach.
Was something wrong?
She exchanged a questioning glance with Mrs. Beckham.
No doubt her mother-in-law's smile was meant to be reassuring, but something in the woman's eyes bothered Charlotte. "We should hear something soon. "
Whether she meant another cry or news, Charlotte wasn't entirely sure.
Long minutes later, with shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, Ashton appeared at the music room's entrance. "All is well. His and Her Grace have a beautiful and healthy baby girl."
A collective sigh of relief rose from the group.
"And Honoria?" Charlotte asked.
Ashton motioned her forward. "Come see for yourself. She's asking for you."
Me? Frannie's comment about sinking and drowning in sand took on new meaning. Charlotte rose, but unlike Simon, who feared standing still, the thought of moving paralyzed Charlotte. Her legs were numb, her feet uncooperative.
Ashton motioned for her again. "Lady Charlotte?"
From behind, Frannie's voice, soft and non-accusatory, released her. "One must face one's fear."
One step. Then two, and Ashton was escorting her from the room.
Once out of earshot of the others, Charlotte asked, "Is something wrong?"
"Not at all. I believe she has something to ask you." Upstairs, he paused at the door. "Do be prepared, my lady. Honoria has had a trying day." Smiling, he opened the door and ushered Charlotte inside.
A wrinkled, pink, and squalling bundle lay in Honoria's arms. Drake—Charlotte couldn't think of him as Burwood any longer—towered over them, his little finger prodding at the bundle's fist, his expression pure adoration.
Ashton's warning was hardly necessary. Charlotte had never seen Honoria look more beautiful, even on her wedding day. Beatific would be a suitable descriptor as she gazed up from her daughter, her eyes brightening upon seeing Charlotte. "Come, meet Katherine Abigail Constance Pendrake. "
Without removing his attention from the baby, Drake said, "We're going to call her Kitty. Like Aunt Kitty."
The child screamed.
"It does seem to fit," Charlotte said.
Drake nodded, finally looking away from the baby's face. "The moment she displayed her temperament, the matter was settled."
Charlotte stepped closer. "And the Abigail Constance?" The baby stopped screaming, but her tiny bottom lip quivered.
"Abigail after Drake's mother, and Constance after mine," Honoria said, then cooed to little Kitty.
"Ashton said you had something to ask me." She took another tentative step closer, fear still gripping her feet to the floor.
Honoria exchanged a glance with Drake. The love the two shared tugged at Charlotte's cold heart. "As Drake's best friend, we already decided to ask Simon to be Kitty's godfather, and it seemed fitting to ask you to be her godmother. Especially now."
The trepidation rooting Charlotte to the floor twined up her legs like vines, wrapping around her and squeezing her chest. "Why now?"
"Well, of course, with your marriage to Simon. But more because we decided Kitty might need a strong woman in her life." The love for her infant daughter lit Honoria's entire face.
Drake nodded. "Especially since I expect Simon will spoil her by catering to her every whim. She'll need a clear head to counter his flattery. If her few moments in this world are any indication, she will be strong willed like my aunt, and who better to guide her than you?"
Oh. Something wet pricked the corners of Charlotte's eyes. "I'm honored."
"Besides," Drake said, lifting Kitty in his arms, "she'll get the perfect balance of frivolity and seriousness, making for a perfect whole. Just like you and Simon. "
As Drake cradled his infant daughter, Charlotte didn't have the heart to tell him there was nothing perfect about her union with Simon Beckham.
Simon banged on the carriage roof, bringing it to a halt in front of the new gaming hell, The Knave of Hearts . Since it had opened a year ago, he'd wanted to see for himself what all the chatter was about. Unable to attend White's, which in all honesty was fine with him, Simon longed for a place a little more genteel than the dingy backrooms of public houses where a man could lose more than just his money. Even he had his standards. He was the man of business for a duke, after all.
"Don't wait for me. I'll hire a hackney when I return," he called to the driver. Even the location was strategically placed—far enough from the East End, but also not close enough to St. James Street to not create a stir of competition with the more elite clubs. Whoever owned the club was clearly a man with vision.
A burly man stood at the entrance, his hands crossed and clasped in front of him. He eyed Simon from head to toe and back up again. "Ain't seen you here before, gov'nur."
"First time, my good man. I've heard many good things." Simon flashed his signature smile, hoping his teeth caught the glint of the moon. It might have been a slight prevarication.
"Such as?"
Uh-oh. Perhaps the man had more between his ears than Simon had given him credit for. "Well, that the owner is a gentleman, and he tolerates no riff-raff in his club."
The giant barked a laugh. "Wait till the Cap'n gets wind of that one!" He eyed Simon again. "Very well. You look like you have some blunt to lose." With an arm the size of a tree trunk, the man pushed the door open, then gave a bow, his lips curling in irony as he motioned Simon forward with his other massive limb. "Your lordship."
Simon stepped through, vowing to be on his very best behavior lest the man break him in half like a twig.
Although White's wouldn't welcome Simon on his own, he had been there once as Drake's guest. He'd never been so anxious to leave an establishment—except perhaps Pendrake House a short half hour before. Fear of reprisal for laughing a bit too loudly or failing to follow the rules had made him jittery and longing for the door.
But as he took in the scene before him at The Knave , the dreaded pressure around his chest failed to manifest. Voices weren't hushed into submission. Raucous laughter and shouts of disappointment as men won and lost at the tables drowned out the same clinks of glasses that broke through the oppressive silence at White's.
The unrestrained vocalizations contrasted with the elegant decor in a strange juxtaposition that somehow seemed right . Appointed well, with fine furnishings and wall coverings, the gaming hell was unlike any other he'd been in. Simon scanned the room, taking in the patrons.
Well-dressed, all of them, Simon was unable to discern who was a lord and who was a Cit.
Ah! Lord Montgomery occupied one of the tables. When Simon had met the man at Drake's house party the previous summer, he'd immediately liked him. Quiet and serious, he reminded Simon of Drake. Especially considering how besotted he was with his red-headed wife. Next to him sat Andrew Weatherby, also a guest at Drake's party and brother of the impossible flirt, Miss Anne Weatherby. Simon shuddered at how close poor Drake had come to being leg-shackled to the wrong redhead.
Simon strode toward them. "Gentlemen. "
They glanced up, and Weatherby's eyes widened. "Beckham. Fancy meeting you here. Didn't you get married this morning?"
Simon hadn't thought about that. "Um. Yes?"
Montgomery laughed. "You're not sure?"
"Don't laugh, Montgomery," Weatherby said. "I found you at White's the day after your wedding."
Red colored the tips of Montgomery's ears.
Interesting.
Montgomery straightened. "That was different."
"And how would you know? Beckham could be having the same trouble with women you did."
Very interesting . Although . . . he had to defend himself. "I don't have any trouble with women."
Both men stared at him, apparently forgetting Simon was the reason they'd begun arguing in the first place.
A hand clapped Simon on the shoulder—hard. "Well, well. Trouble in paradise already, Beckham?"
Turning, Simon was confronted with none other than The Worm himself, Lord Felix Davies. Had the entire ton decided to descend upon the new gaming hell? The torture of the music room at Pendrake House suddenly seemed preferable.
"His and Her Grace are expecting their first child," Simon said, hoping the explanation would appease them and stop their probing questions.
Montgomery and Weatherby exchanged a look, and Davies simply chortled.
"So?" The snide question had come from Davies.
"It's coming. Now," Simon clarified.
Davies gave an insouciant shrug. "I suppose it doesn't matter that tonight is your wedding night, considering you've already had Lady Charlotte. But I didn't quite expect you to be bored with her so soon." He studied his well-manicured nails. "Or maybe I did. I've had a taste myself and found it quite lacking. "
Simon lunged at him. If he could just get his hands around the man's neck, he'd . . .
Hands gripped Simon's arms, restraining him. Expecting to see either Montgomery or Weatherby, Simon prepared to tell them to go to the devil and let him tear The Worm limb from limb.
A tower of a man with serious amber eyes met his gaze. Not as large as the giant at the front door, the man still had Simon by a good four inches. "Easy, friend. He's not worth it." He peered over Simon's head. "Hartley Two!" he yelled over the din of the room.
The giant appeared from the side of the room.
"Weren't you just at the door?" Simon pointed toward the entrance.
"That was my brother," the man answered.
"They're twins. Identical," the man with the amber eyes said. He was well-dressed like everyone else, but he had an air of command about him. "Hartley, show Lord Felix the door. I warned you, Davies. If you continue to make trouble in here, I will ban you for good."
Grumbling and throwing the giant's hands off him, Davies strode to the door, leaving a trail of obscenities in his wake.
"Shame," the amber-eyed man said. "His money is good." A dimple broke through his cheek when he grinned. "And he tends to leave a lot of it when he comes here." He cocked his head. "Don't think I've seen you in here before. Am I going to have trouble with you, too?"
Simon stuck out his hand. "Simon Beckham. And no, I try to avoid trouble as much as possible. However, he disparaged my wife."
The man's large hand engulfed Simon's in a hearty shake. "Everyone calls me Captain. And unfortunately, that doesn't surprise me about Davies. The man is trouble on two legs."
"Are you the owner of this fine establishment? "
"I am. And if your money is good and you don't cause trouble, I'm happy to make your acquaintance."
"He's the Duke of Burwood's man of business," Weatherby said.
A sandy eyebrow hitched. "Is that so?"
Something about the way the man's interest seemed to pique tickled Simon's own intuition. And something in his features seemed familiar. Around Simon's age, he looked to be in his early or mid-thirties. Women would call him handsome, no doubt, but with a hint of danger flashing in those eyes. A pale scar stretching from his cheek to his jaw added to the intimidating picture.
"So, were you a military man?" Simon asked. Perhaps they had something in common.
"Navy. Like my father." A look of discomfort crossed his face. "Well, I need to get back to my office." Without another word, he turned and strode away.
"Imposing fellow," Simon said to no one in particular.
"He terrifies me." Weatherby gave a little shudder.
Montgomery laughed.
But Simon had a strange sense that he'd met the man before. Shaking it off, he took the unoccupied seat at the table with Montgomery and Weatherby. "What's the game?" He rubbed his hands together, eager for a distraction from arriving babies, loathsome aristocrats, and one all-too-tempting bride.
Montgomery shuffled the cards. "Speculation."
At least it wasn't vingt-et-un.
Yet with each hand he won, even as he pulled the markers toward him, kisses seemed far more valuable and satisfying. He thought about where he might be kissing Charlotte. The sensitive spot on her throat? The inner part of her elbow? Her lips?
"Beckham, are you quite all right?"
Blink . Unsure who had asked, Simon cleared his throat. "Pardon? "
"You . . . ahem . . . sighed. Exhausted from the day's events, perhaps?" Montgomery asked, color rising to the tips of his ears.
Sighed? Surely, not. Although Charlotte's lips stirred his blood and incited wicked ideas.
Montgomery laid down the winning card. "Word of friendly advice from someone who's been where you are."
The balding gentleman next to Simon groaned. "What's that? To quit now?"
Montgomery ignored the man, and a slow smile stretched his lips. "Go home. Be with your wife. I've read the scandal sheets—well, Bea has read them to me. She detests that rag and says she only reads it to seek clues as to the author's identity. And although I've not had many dealings with Lady Charlotte, neither Bea nor I have any admiration for Edgerton or Davies. I don't know the true circumstances leading to your marriage, nor am I asking. But whatever they were, you did what any gentleman should. Now you should make the best of it. It might surprise you how good that best can be."
Guilt slithered in his stomach. He'd deserted his own wife on their wedding day. "How long does it take for a child to be born?" It had always seemed an eternity with his mother, and he pushed back the memory of Alexander.
All three other men at the table laughed, but it was Weatherby who answered. "As long as it takes. There is no set time. My twin girls came quickly."
Montgomery nodded. "True. My eldest took her time, almost as if she needed to have everything just so. Then the second came out so quickly we feared she would arrive before the doctor."
What a horrible friend he was, leaving Drake alone when he should be by his side, supporting him. And Charlotte. Did she deserve a husband who would run away at the slightest sign of difficulty? Simon swallowed and rose. "It was a pleasure, gentlemen. "
He gazed around the establishment and gave an approving nod. "But I shall return, so save your blunt."
As he stepped out into the night air, he tapped his hat, securing it on his head.
"Hartley. Would you be a good fellow and hail me a carriage? I'm going home."
The question remained: Would his bride be happy to see him?