Chapter 27

CHAPTER 27

C harlotte stumbled from the bakery, her limbs numb. The baker's words reverberated in her head, wiping away her questions about Miss Pace. Those would wait.

It'll be better than you deserve for killing my daughter .

What in the world? Simon was not the kind of man to physically harm another.

Felix, definitely. Roland, yes. Even when Nash had been accused of Lady Worthington's murder, Charlotte had a brief flash of doubt regarding his innocence. Both of her brothers had terrible tempers. No doubt a result of years of bottled rage from their sire's mistreatment.

As for her, she carried her own scars. One did not survive unscathed when reared by the Marquess of Edgerton. Memories clawed their way up from where she had buried them along with her innocence, and she pushed them back, holding the door tightly shut.

But Simon's parents cherished him. Reared him with love. From what Charlotte had witnessed in their interactions, that much was clear. There were no tense postures or clipped, overly polite words. Genuine laughter and affectionate teasing evidenced the family's love for one another.

In short, the complete opposite of what Charlotte had experienced.

However, appearances could be deceiving. And in truth, did she really know her husband? She struggled to understand. An accident, perhaps?

"Simon." Her whispered voice sounded tentative to her own ears. "Did you kill that man's daughter?"

His body stiffened, and he jerked his head toward her. "Of course not! But Samuel blames me for her death, nonetheless. I'd hoped six years had given him time to cool his head."

"What happened?"

He stared ahead as they approached a cluster of people. "Not now. I'll tell you when we're alone. I promise."

Before she could open her mouth to either protest or acquiesce, angry voices escalated from the group before them.

A man pulled a young boy by the collar of his worn coat. "How many times do I have to tell you, boy?"

About twelve, the boy struggled against the man's grip. His eyes were as wide as saucers, his gaze darting frantically around him, then landing squarely on Charlotte, as if he were screaming, help me !

A woman tugged at the man's arm, trying to disengage it from his hold on the child. "Stop, Albie! He didn't mean nothin' by it. The boy's just curious, is all."

Planting his free hand on the woman's face, the man shoved her away, and she stumbled, falling to the ground. Then he proceeded to box the child's ears. When the boy crouched by the woman, hands covering his head, the man kicked him in the ribs.

People hurried by, giving the angry man a wide berth.

Charlotte had had enough. "Someone needs to stop him!"

Drained of color, Simon's face was a mask of horror, but he seemed frozen in place .

"Snap out of it!" She gave his arm a firm shake.

Finally focusing, Simon said, "It's Albert Mooney. Probably drunk again. He'll sleep it off after?—"

Charlotte wanted to scream. "After he maims or kills the boy?"

Simon's resigned look broke her heart.

"Coward." She spit the word at her husband, and he flinched as surely as if one of Albert Mooney's blows had struck him squarely in the chest.

"You don't understand."

When Simon grasped her hands in his, she yanked them away. In six determined steps, she stood between Mooney and the boy. "Leave. The. Child. Alone." She punctuated each word with a jab to Mooney's chest.

Mooney leaned forward, inches from her face and bellowed a laugh, his breath sour with whisky and something more foul. "This hellcat belong to you, Beckham?"

"I am no one's property, sir. " Charlotte laced as much derision into the address as she could. The man didn't deserve respect. "I am Lady Charlotte, and if you lay one more finger on that boy, you will answer to me."

Mooney's eyes widened, and he threw up his hands, shaking in mock horror. "Oooh. I'm scared." He laughed again, then pranced about like a clumsy dandy, his hand flapping in the air. "Lady Charlotte. Defender of children." He gave the boy another kick, and the child curled into a ball next to the woman.

Anger boiled in Charlotte's stomach, and her hand clenched in a fist. Once again, she placed herself between Mooney and the child. Then, with all her strength, she drew back her arm and punched Mooney in the nose.

"You bloody well better believe it."

Mooney doubled over, blood dripping from his nose. "You little . . ." He straightened and hate spewed from his dark, beady eyes .

Charlotte's hand hurt like the devil, but she didn't care. She braced herself to fend off an attack when Mooney reached out, but his hands dropped to his sides as his gaze darted around her.

Turning, she found Simon behind her.

"You need to control your woman, Beckham." Mooney spit on the ground at Charlotte's feet.

Simon laughed and stepped between them. "She doesn't need controlling."

"Ha!" Mooney barked another laugh. "Saving then? Come to rescue her powdered and pampered arse?"

"Wrong again. She's doing fine by herself. You, on the other hand." Simon shook his head and tsked. "I expect the constable will arrive any moment and lock you up until you sleep it off."

Nose-to-nose with Mooney, Simon's face scrunched in distaste, no doubt from the stench emanating off the man. "But, a word of caution. I would take my wife's words to heart. She is true to her word. Now, allow me to rescue your sorry arse and escort my wife away." He turned toward her. "Come, Charlotte. I better take you home before you cause any more excitement."

Charlotte hesitated. "We can't leave the boy alone with the brute."

Simon tipped his head, his eyes directed forward, and she followed his motion.

A man wearing an apron rushed up, and several other burly men raced behind.

"That's Mr. Cooper, the constable. The others assist him when Mooney needs to be restrained."

"You mean this is a common occurrence?" She gawked at Simon as he guided her away from Mooney's shouts of anger toward her.

"Unfortunately, yes. However, your interference today may have changed Mooney's course."

Pride swelled in her chest. "I stopped him?"

He held out his hand to assist her into the carriage. "Either that or added your name to his list of vendettas." Simon's usually congenial expression appeared grave and concerned. He flipped the boy watching their carriage a few extra coins, then climbed in beside her.

Questions tangled in her mind from the excursion to Swindon, but she started with the most pressing. "Why didn't you stop that horrible man?"

Simon gave a shrug. "I saw the Andersons rush by and knew they would alert the constable. Confronting Mooney only makes him angrier, and the boy suffers for it."

"Oh." The word slipped out on an exhale. Had she made matters worse? "I didn't realize."

"It's all right, Charlotte. You gave Mooney something to chew on while he's locked up." He handed her the bakery package. "Besides, I had to protect your plum tarts. And I did enjoy watching you plant him a facer. He had it coming. Remind me to never get on your bad side." He snapped the ribbons and urged the horses forward.

She huffed a laugh. "Isn't that our normal state of being?"

His ridiculous grin crept across his lips, and realization dawned that she found it attractive.

"I'd hoped we'd progressed a little." Peering over, he gave her a weak smile.

"Perhaps a little. Much depends on your answers to my questions." She unknotted the cluster of thoughts in her mind and reached for the most pressing ones.

"About?"

"What happened to the baker's daughter?"

As if she'd magically wiped it away, his smile vanished in an instant. "Might we talk about something else?"

"You promised you'd tell me later. I'm asking now. Then I want to know about Miss Pace."

But from the expression on Simon's face, she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

Damn it all! Why did he have to mention the plum tarts and remind her what Samuel had said? Simon pulled in a breath, unsure where to start.

"The two are related," he said, easing into the conversation.

"That doesn't surprise me. Which woman came first?"

"Joy, Samuel's daughter." He focused on the road ahead of him, avoiding her eyes. "You asked how many women I have deflowered. Joy was the only one. Most of the time, she embodied her name, practically bubbling with happiness. But other times..." He paused, remembering the sudden bouts of deep sadness during which she seemed unreachable.

"Other times?" Charlotte prodded.

"She was like a different person. Little things would upset her, and sometimes, from what I could tell, nothing at all. She would become so sullen, as if she were trapped in a dark place with no escape. Or at times, she would become angry, lashing out at me." He studied Charlotte, gauging her reaction. Did she consider both the juxtaposition and similarity with herself?

She remained stone-faced. "Did you love her?"

Was there a hint of jealousy in her words?

Truth. Charlotte deserved the truth. "Yes. I think so."

"You think ? You don't know?" Charlotte's brow furrowed, her tone confused.

"I was barely twenty when she first caught my eye. She had just reached her eighteenth year and had begun helping in her father's bakery. No more than a flirtation at first—children playing at love—our feelings grew into something more. She said she loved me, so I said it back."

"But did you mean it?"

An annoying knot of tension formed in his throat, and he forced it down. "I wanted to. At her sunniest, we had so much in common. Almost as if we were the same person. But when you look in a mirror too long, sometimes all you see are flaws."

He gave himself a mental shake, remembering the uncomfortable arguments he and Joy would have. "Then she would change, and I didn't know what to do. How to act around her. During those times, she wanted me to be more serious, to plan for a future—our future. All I wanted to do was think of the next adventure. I wasn't ready to settle down."

"You were young. From my experience, most men aren't ready to settle down until they're much older."

Blink. "Did you just defend me?

Her lips tipped up, and regardless of the uncomfortable conversation, he still wanted to kiss them. "If the idea makes you happy. Consider it reciprocity for defending me with Mr. Mooney."

"But I didn't really do anything." Did he?

"You didn't fly in to rescue me, flaunting your masculine bravado as if I couldn't take care of myself."

"Oh." He remembered Mooney's expression when Charlotte planted a facer on the man. "You pack a good punch."

She waved off his compliment. So like her. "But back to Joy. How did she die?"

The uncomfortable knot returned. "She wanted to prove her love—her commitment to me. So we . . ." He slid another glance toward Charlotte.

"You deflowered her. Did you promise to marry her?"

Odd how Charlotte placed the blame directly on his shoulders where it belonged. Heat and shame crept up his neck, burning the tips of his ears. "Not in so many words, but she presumed it. Then I—" He shook his head, the memory of the horrible series of events hitting him as if occurring anew.

Charlotte's brow furrowed, and he wanted to smooth it out with a kiss. But once he told her, she wouldn't want him to touch her—possibly forever. "Then what? "

"I did something stupid," he continued. "A harmless flirtation."

Charlotte studied him, her mouth set in a grim line as she digested the information and no doubt grew nauseous. "Allow me to guess. With Miss Pace?"

How astute his wife was. "Yes. And Joy saw us." He wanted to defend himself to Charlotte, to remind her he flirted with every woman and it meant nothing. But the surprising lack of condemnation in her eyes kept him silent.

"Did she . . . kill herself?" Emotion choked Charlotte's voice.

He gulped for air, the horror of the memory like a powerful undertow threatening to pull him down and drown him, then grimaced at the irony of the thought. He breathed deep, trying not to panic, and forced out the answer. "It appears so. I raced after her, trying to explain, but she wouldn't speak to me. She had retreated to the dark place where I couldn't reach her. So I waited for her sunny side to return."

"But it didn't?"

He shook his head. "No. Two days later, her father arrived at our door, note in hand."

"What did it say?" Charlotte laid a calming hand on his arm.

"She bade goodbye to her parents and asked for forgiveness. And she said...she said..." Tightness clogged his throat, the words stuck and unable to break free.

Charlotte squeezed his arm, and when he met her gaze, he found the courage to continue.

"She said out of love she was setting me free. Samuel was frantic; he couldn't find Joy anywhere. We knocked on doors. Asked if she boarded a post-chaise, even though she had little money. No one had seen her, so we searched the woods. I found her floating face down in the river downstream from our favorite rendezvous place. Her body had tangled in some branches. When I turned her over, her lifeless eyes stared up at me in condemnation. "

Charlotte blanched, her face eerily similar to Joy's on that horrific day. "No wonder Samuel blames you."

Not what Simon wanted to hear, but Charlotte was nothing if not truthful.

"But Simon, you didn't push Joy into the river."

"No. But my impetuosity and utter lack of regard for her feelings led her to believelife wasn't worth living without me." The undertow of his negative emotions grew stronger, pulling him under, and invisible bands tightened around his chest, constricting his lungs in sympathy with Joy. "I don't want a woman to love me. She'll either be lost in grief when I die, or I'll disappoint her if I can't love her back. Joy loved me, and that love destroyed her."

"And Miss Pace was only a harmless flirtation?" A tiny muscle in Charlotte's jaw pulsed, but she kept her gaze on the road ahead.

"At first. At least what Joy saw. But after Joy died . . ."

"I see." The very disappointment he'd mentioned colored her response.

Yet, the urge to explain himself, to restore any good opinion she may have developed for him, pressed him to continue. "I turned to Hester to seek comfort, solace in my grief. When Joy died, I thought the ground would open up and swallow me whole, trapping me in misery for the rest of my days. Hester offered an escape. And for those brief moments, I could forget. But it didn't last, and the shame of using Hester compounded my guilt over Joy. I ended it with Hester and enlisted in the military with a request to send me as far away from England as possible."

"To India, where you met Burwood."

He nodded, searching Charlotte's face for the telltale signs of disgust or loathing, but her expression remained serene, even compassionate.

Not what he expected .

"So, you had good reason to dislike me, even if you didn't realize what it was," he said.

She fussed with a fold of her pelisse, straightening it and brushing out a non-existent wrinkle. "That's not why I dislike you. In fact, it makes me dislike you less."

Lord, she was a puzzlement. "Why?"

A smile tipped her lips, not wide enough to show him the dimple that drove him mad, but one that spoke of secrets. "Which? Why do I dislike you, or why your tale makes me dislike you less?"

"Let's start with the positive. Why less now?"

"Because I believed you never experienced hardship or sorrow, and I envied that. Now I know you have, and regardless of the pain you wanted to escape, you returned to England for Burwood. You put someone else ahead of your own needs."

He'd never thought of it that way. "Drake needed me. A friend to help him navigate society."

"And to test Honoria." Her lips puckered in a little pout. "I still haven't quite forgiven him for that. He should have known Honoria loved him no matter who he was."

"I agree. And I told him that repeatedly. I believe it's the one thing you and I have always agreed upon. Remember the house party? Who would have thought we would be on the same side of things?"

She laughed. The rich throaty timbre of her alto almost as alluring as the fact she laughed at all. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to hear her laugh more often.

To give her reason to laugh.

To make her happy.

His mind stuttered at the thought. When did he start caring about Lady Charlotte's happiness?

"As to why I dislike you," she continued without prodding.

He really didn't want to know.

Did he ?

"I dislike you because you are so bloody happy all the time. That you find joy in everything around you. That people love you. It makes me bloody furious."

His head jerked back at her statement, not that she cursed—although truth be told, he hadn't expected such language from the high-and-mighty Lady Charlotte—but it was a ridiculous reason to dislike him.

"You dislike me because I'm . . . likable?" Incredulity rang in his tone. "Why?"

Smiles and laughter vanished. When she turned and met his gaze, the pain in her eyes slashed through him. "Because you are what I am not."