Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

D uring the next two days, Charlotte saw little of Simon. According to Frampton, Mr. Beckham had suffered another relapse and had sequestered himself to his room. With the return of the two footmen and two maids, Charlotte felt no compulsion to enquire if he had need of her. Surely, the staff would take care of anything he should require.

Yet, each time she passed his door, she would pause, her fist raised to knock and enquire as to his recovery before she thought better of it.

Worried that the worm Felix had spread word about discovering her with Mr. Beckham, she remained in the confines of the house. And as much as she enjoyed the quiet solitude, part of her yearned to do something.

She'd been trying to read more of the book she pulled from the shelves the day of her arrival and had only managed as far as the arrival of the odious Mr. Collins, heir to Longbourn and the Bennet estate—such as it was.

Her thoughts traveled to Simon and the situation with his own family's estate .

"Good book?" The arousing scent of sandalwood enveloped her.

She practically jumped from her seat. "Goodness, must you always be sneaking up on people?"

He laughed, bright and full of life. "Other than your hair color and furrowed brow, I might have mistaken you for Her Grace. She often has her nose buried in a book."

"Reading is an admirable pastime."

"So I'm told." He strode to the sideboard and poured himself a finger of brandy.

"Isn't it a little early for that? It's barely eleven o'clock."

In answer, he hitched a dark brow and poured another finger's worth. After taking a seat opposite her, he perched an ankle on the opposing knee with a casual male elegance, then tipped his glass toward her. "What are you reading?"

" Pride and Prejudice. "

"What's it about?"

"Two people who detest each other."

He sipped, his dark-blue eyes watching her over the rim of his glass. "So. Like us."

"I see you're feeling like yourself again."

"Indeed. In fact, that's why I needed a drink. I plan to go see your brother with the marriage contract."

Frampton knocked. "Lady Charlotte. Mr. Beckham. Lady Miranda Townsend here to see Lady Charlotte."

Charlotte cast a glance toward Simon. "Which room would you like me to use?"

"This is fine, if it suits you." He rose. "I shall leave after greeting her."

Moments later, Frampton escorted Miranda to the library. She stopped short, her head swiveling between Charlotte and Simon. "So, it is true?"

"Yes," Simon answered with alacrity.

"Is what true?" Charlotte asked, considerably more cautious and—in her opinion—more prudent with her response to a question of unknown content. She glared at Simon. "You don't even know what she's asking about."

He flashed that audacious grin at her. "It pleases women when I agree with them. And as I told you the other day, my goal in life is to please women."

Heat seared Charlotte's face at his subtle reference to his prowess in the bedroom. When she returned her attention to Miranda, a similar grin split her friend's face. Charlotte huffed in frustration. "You, too?"

"Don't mind me. Pray continue." Miranda waved a hand.

Charlotte ignored her as well as Simon—who continued to grin like the buffoon he was. "You asked if something was true." Charlotte's gaze drifted to the sheet of parchment Miranda held, and her stomach cinched tighter than a corset. "Does it regard something in that scandal sheet?"

Simon moved toward the door. "I'll just take my leave and allow you ladies to discuss the latest gossip."

Miranda stopped him. "No. Wait. You should hear this, since it involves you."

"Oh?" Simon said, as if his name appeared in the gossip rags on a daily basis.

Once seated, Miranda cleared her throat. "This"—she held up the spurious paper as if Charlotte didn't already know what it was—"is the latest copy of The Muckraker . When I received it this morning, I went straight to Edgerton's home, Charlotte, only to learn you had left. That disagreeable butler of your brother's wouldn't tell me where you were, but for a shilling, a groom was most forthcoming with information. This, of course, only made me worry more, since Honoria had written about her sister-in-law's death, stating they would be away from London for an indeterminate amount of time."

Charlotte's typically sharp mind jolted, trying to make a connection. And why didn't she receive something from Honoria? She would puzzle that out later. First . . . "Why did Honoria's letter cause you more concern?"

Miranda rolled her eyes. "Because the groom said you were staying at Burwood's."

Simon, who had remained blessedly silent up until that point, raised a hand. "If I may suggest. Why don't you read us what has you so concerned?"

Charlotte blinked at his sensible request. "I was going to suggest that."

He chuffed a laugh. "Of course you were."

A tiny smile flitted across Miranda's lips. "Yes. Well." She cleared her throat again and held up the horrible paper. "‘Some falls from grace are sharper than others. Just ask Lady Charlotte Talbot. This reporter has it on good authority that she refused Lord Felix Davies's honorable proposal?—'"

"Honorable, my foot!" Charlotte wanted to tear the paper in half. But first she needed to hear everything it said.

"Shall I continue?" Miranda lifted her dark brows. "‘Refused Lord Felix Davies's honorable proposal to fall into a bed of iniquity with Mr. Simon Beckham. Or should that be inequity, as said Mr. Beckham is not of the peerage and clearly beneath her.'"

Charlotte studied Simon, who appeared unfazed by the insult. No, not exactly unfazed—amused. Not sure she heard him correctly, he appeared to mutter, "Beneath her" before snorting a little laugh.

Gah! That man!

Thankfully, Miranda's attention remained on the atrocious accusations. "‘Furthermore, Mr. Beckham serves as man of business to the upstart new Duke of Burwood, who perpetuated the despicable ruse upon society last summer—a ruse that Mr. Beckham took full part in. Should society expect anything less from such uncivilized and uncouth gentlemen ?' "

Simon straightened in his chair. "Now they've gone too far insulting Drake."

Miranda nodded. "I'm afraid it gets worse. ‘Sources confirm Lord Felix is heartbroken over the incident and, while assuaging his sorrow with a fine whisky, let slip that Lady Charlotte was caught in Mr. Beckham's bedchamber while the man was in a complete state of undress. No doubt the duke has fully sanctioned and encouraged such behavior, allowing them full access to his home.'"

Miranda lowered the paper and waited.

"Is that all?" Simon asked.

"All? Is that all?" Charlotte hated how her voice escalated to a soprano pitch.

"Only that it fails to report several crucial elements."

Miranda leaned forward. "Such as?"

"That Lady Charlotte and I are to be married. I'm taking the marriage contract to her brother today. And Lord Felix Davies is a blackguard who doesn't deserve her. To quote the lady, ‘Honorable, my foot.' And I would add my skepticism to the heartbroken assertion as well. Clearly, that report is skewed with the intent to damage."

"Well, yes," Miranda said. "It's what The Muckraker does."

Charlotte's mind had stuttered on who doesn't deserve her . She gaped at Simon, who remained oblivious and continued to prattle on to Miranda.

"—on my doorstep with a bruise upon her cheek. That cad struck her! And I couldn't . . ." His gaze snagged hers. "What is it?"

"You're defending me?"

"Of course I'm defending you. That's what a future husband should do, isn't it?"

Something odd squeezed her chest, but before she could examine it further, Miranda began her line of questioning.

Simon's conscience insisted he remove himself so the women could speak freely, but before he could rise and take his leave, Lady Miranda fired forth a barrage of questions at Charlotte.

"So you really are going to marry Mr. Beckham? Was the . . . other part true?" Miranda's gaze darted toward him. "And did you truly turn down Lord Felix? Although that shouldn't surprise me, the man is vile. But why did you come here of all places? And?—"

"Miranda!" Charlotte said, her dark eyes fiery. "You sound like Anne."

As much as Simon enjoyed Charlotte's passionate arguments, as a gentleman, he felt compelled to say something in Lady Miranda's defense. "Really, Lady Charlotte, was that necessary? Not that I don't think Miss Weatherby is a delightful distraction."

Charlotte glowered at him. Glowered! "She stopped talking, didn't she?"

"You could have asked her nicely to keep her questions to one at a time."

Lady Miranda cleared her throat. Was the woman coming down with something? "Thank you, Mr. Beckham, for coming to my aid. But I assure you, I'm quite accustomed to Charlotte's bluntness. She's right, of course. I got carried away."

In truth, at least it gave him the opportunity for an escape—err, exit—and he rose. "Then, if you can assure me things won't devolve into a wrestling match, I'll take my leave and let you discuss things privately. Although if a wrestling match does ensue, I would love to watch." He flashed a grin at Charlotte and hoped to see the blush of pink form on her cheeks. He was not disappointed.

Standing before Charlotte, he lifted her hand and placed a kiss on her knuckles. "Darling. "

Lady Miranda's jaw dropped a fraction. Charlotte, on the other hand, continued to glower.

He bowed to Lady Miranda and turned to leave. For effect, he paused and faced Charlotte once again. "Oh. In addition to the marriage contract, I've drawn up the stipulations we discussed. However, I wish to amend it slightly. In light of the spurious accusations against Drake, I want you to promise me you will do whatever is in your power to take down the culprit responsible for that gossip sheet."

As he exited the room, he chuckled softly when Miranda's voice echoed behind him.

"He knows?! What stipulations? And he called you darling!"

True, it wasn't very gentlemanly of him to leave Charlotte to explain those comments herself, but no one would accuse Simon of playing fair, least of all him.

Charlotte wasn't wrong when she remarked on his return to his usual demeanor. And it felt damn good. He whistled, bounding up the stairs two at a time to retrieve the marriage contract from his desk. He refused to dwell on the more than likely unpleasant outcome of the meeting with Edgerton. Instead, the prospect of getting out of the house filled him with restless energy.

Which he needed. In addition to confronting the high-and-mighty marquess, Simon had written to the vicar of St. James's and made an appointment to discuss the wedding. Both undertakings were necessary, but he relished neither.

After informing Frampton of his destination, he exited the back of the house to the mews. He would take his phaeton, which would provide a bit of cheer as he performed his less than enjoyable tasks.

A groom rose to attention from where he was slumped in a chair. "Sir."

Surprised, Simon jerked back. "Didn't Frampton inform you that you could go home to your family for a few weeks? "

The groom pulled off his cap and nodded. "Yes, sir. But I don't really have no family close by. And the horses"—he motioned to the few remaining horses—"need feeding and caring for. I don't mind, sir."

"Have you been getting something to eat for yourself?"

"Oh, yes, sir. Cook's had lots of extra food these past few days." He patted his stomach. "And that's another reason I don't mind staying around."

Simon chuckled. The lad was young, probably no older than nineteen or twenty, and he thought of Drake. "Well, I'll make sure the duke knows of your loyalty and dedication to your position. Now, if you would be a good fellow, I was going to take the phaeton out." Simon motioned with his hat to the sleek racing carriage.

The groom hopped right to work, asking Simon if he had a preference of horses. Simon chose two dappled grays. The boy nodded his approval. "They be fast ‘uns for sure, sir."

Before long, the phaeton was hitched and ready, and Simon made his way across Grosvenor Square the short distance to Edgerton's mansion. He'd only been by the formidable palace-like structure twice, and Honoria had mentioned in passing it's where Charlotte resided with her brother.

Funny how Simon remembered that tiny detail.

He pulled the grays to a halt in front of the imposing rose-colored stone building, and a groom jumped to attention from his station by the wall. The lad didn't look nearly as amiable as the groom he'd just left. "Will you be staying long, sir?"

"I'm not certain." He hoped not. "Best keep them ready." For a quick escape. As Simon strode up the steps, he patted the papers in his coat pocket, assuring himself they were still there.

A dour-looking gentleman opened the door a crack before Simon reached the top step. "May I help you?"

"Simon Beckham to see the marquess."

The man sniffed, peering down his long-pointy nose as if Simon were horse manure to be scraped from his shoe. His eyes were sunken so deep in his skeletal face, Simon swore he could pour a finger of brandy in the sockets. "I'll see if the master is at home. A card?" He held out a white-gloved hand.

Lord, didn't Edgerton feed his staff? Simon pulled out his card and placed it on the man's extended palm. "Tell him it's about his sister."

Rather than usher him inside, the man closed the door in Simon's face with a curt, "Wait here."

Simon's joyful mood was slipping from his grasp faster than sand through his fingers. He turned his face up to the sky, where the sun shone brightly, the warmth and light rejuvenating him.

Glancing back at the groom holding his horses, Simon called, "Perhaps take them around back. It might be longer than anticipated."

The groom nodded, gleeful as he jumped onto the seat of the phaeton and gave the ribbons a snap.

His lips pressed together, Simon muffled a laugh, imagining the lad taking off with his prized carriage for a ride in the park.

Which sounded like a marvelous idea once he'd finished his business with the marquess. Perhaps he could even find some young buck who wished to race. Even better if a wager was involved.

The door creaked open again, this time wider, as the butler motioned him inside.

All the brightness and warmth outside disappeared behind him as Simon stepped through the door into the dreary entrance hall. Shadowy and foreboding, dark colors dominated the wall coverings, draperies, and tapestries. Expensive, Simon had no doubt, they exuded a don't touch undercurrent of negative ambiance, making Simon feel like a small boy told to behave by Nanny.

As the butler led Simon up the staircase, he resisted the urge to bolt for the door and call back the groom. Among the portraits of sour looking patriarchs lining the walls, a flower bloomed. A woman with dark, serious eyes seemed to plead with him. Help me she called out. Charlotte's mother? The similarity was striking, but she lacked the hard shell enveloping her daughter.

The woman in the portrait appeared vulnerable, and she called him to task. He needed to do this for Charlotte.

The Marquess of Edgerton sat behind a tall desk, his fingers steepled in front of him and a sneer on his smug face. "Sit," he commanded, as if Simon were a dog. The vacant chair appeared low to the ground until Simon realized elongated legs elevated the desk itself.

He tried to peer over to the marquess's chair, wondering if it had been perched on a platform. It reminded him of a king's throne.

Edgerton craned his neck around toward the butler. "Clayton, remain here. I don't trust this man." The butler closed the door and stood ramrod straight against the wall.

Simon took the seat, then pulled out the contract and dispensed with formalities. "For your information. We don't need your signature, permission, or even your approval. But I wanted to do you the courtesy of showing you I plan to do what is right for Charlotte."

"Lady Charlotte." Edgerton snapped the words. "Don't forget that. She will remain so even after her unfortunate union with you." Edgerton picked up the paper with a thumb and forefinger as if it contained some vile disease, then he picked up his lorgnette and read.

"Hmph," he muttered once. Then, for the briefest moment, his eyes widened, and he gazed up at Simon. "Not Theodore Beckham's son?"

Ah, he must have reached the part about my own inheritance.

Simon splayed his hands in front of him. "The one and only. So, you see, I have no need for Charlotte's dowry," he said, leaving off her honorific simply to vex the man. "As you can see, she will be well-provided for. Even more so if she bears a son to inherit after me."

Edgerton leaned forward. "You can't provide the connections marriage to a peer can."

Simon tamped down the desire to gloat. "Ah, but you forget my connection to the Duke of Burwood. He includes me in everything. Charlotte will continue to be among society."

Edgerton slammed his hand on the desk. " Lady Charlotte. And that upstart duke has offended a good portion of the ton with his duplicity." The man sneered again. "Which you took part in."

Odd. Those words were extremely close to what Lady Miranda read from The Muckraker. "Will you sign, sir?"

"My Lord . One would think Theodore Beckham would have taught his son some manners and respect for his superiors. As to the signature . . ." Edgerton picked up the contract and ripped it in half.

"Then our business is concluded." Simon rose, eager to remove himself from the depressing house and ill-tempered marquess. No wonder Charlotte had bolted. "One thing, Edgerton. If you would kindly send Lady Charlotte's clothing to Pendrake House, it would be most appreciated. She hasn't needed any for the moment." He let that sink in, and Edgerton's face reddened. "But I suppose I'll have to get her out of bed and take her outside for the wedding."

"Escort him out, Clayton. Make sure he doesn't lift anything."

Head held high, Simon hurried from the room, down the stairs, and out into the sunlight. He flipped the groom a shilling. "Retrieve my carriage as fast as you can, lad."

More than anything, Simon needed to cleanse his mind of the unpleasantness, and he sorely needed to laugh.

A brisk ride in his phaeton would do the trick. He checked his pocket watch. Damn. Somehow, appealing as it was, the appointment with the vicar awaited, and he needed to fetch Charlotte.

His spirits lifted. No one said he couldn't have both a brisk ride and go to the church.

Charlotte would love it!