A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(84)

“This is Brantford, Charlotte. Younger, thinner, handsomer, but it’s him. Don’t put me off with some flimsy lie.”

“It’s not Brantford. It’s one of many blond, blue-eyed lordlings whom the portraitists are paid to flatter outrageously. Fern refused to tell me his name because she knew I’d see him ruined if it was the last thing I did on this earth.”

Sherbourne’s cool fa?ade cracked to reveal a hint of exasperation. “Charlotte, this is Brantford. I know his penmanship, and the initials on the back are his. He makes a particularly vain production out of his Q’s, and the likeness is him.”

A chill passed over Charlotte, leaving a queasy weakness in its wake. “That cannot be Brantford. It’s not…”

Sherbourne pushed the little painting closer, so Charlotte had merely to tip her chin down to study it. A blond, bland countenance smiled up at her, though as she’d said, many a young lord was blond-haired and blue-eyed, and every one of them smiled.

The artist had taken the predictable liberties and flattered the subject, though not unduly. The image was years out of date, too, and age was not improving Brantford’s looks. His hair was thinner, his cheeks fuller, his eyes colder.

But Charlotte knew that smile. She’d last seen it when he’d bowed his farewells, and offered her fine compliments on a lovely meal.

She rose, though her knees were none too steady. “I need to wash my hands.”

She needed to be sick, to toss that devil’s painting into the fire, to cling to her husband and cry until she had no more tears left.

“You’re not making sense, Charlotte. You always make sense.” Concern lurked beneath Sherbourne’s terse observation.

“He killed my friend, Lucas. That vile, rutting, smiling, despicable, mortal sin of a man lied to my friend, struck her, and cast her out when she was with child. It was Brantford, and I’ve entertained him at my own table. I gave him my hand, I curtsied to him, when I should have driven a knife through his heart.”

Charlotte pushed away from the desk, needing to put distance between herself and the image of evil on the blotter. Sherbourne caught her before she stumbled, and then Charlotte was weeping uncontrollably against her husband’s chest.

“Lucas, he killed my friend. I cannot bear it. He killed my friend, and there was nothing I could do.”

Sherbourne swept her up in his arms, settled with her on the sofa, and even produced a much-needed handkerchief, and still Charlotte could not cease weeping.

*



All of Charlotte’s passion, her magnificent dignity and decency, fueled hot, miserable tears that wet Sherbourne’s shirt and broke his heart. She cried for her friend and for her own lost faith in gentlemanly honor. He knew—because this was his wife, the woman he’d been born to partner, the woman who’d frightened him witless when he’d thought she’d played him false—that the last lament was the deepest cut.

There was nothing I could do.

He held her, he rocked her, he stroked her hair, and kissed her brow until she slowly quieted.

“I hate him,” Charlotte said, voice raspy and low. “Lucas, I will hate him until the day I leave this earth, and should the Almighty consign me to the Pit, part of me would rejoice, for there I’d see that human plague-rodent and confront him with the evil he’s done.”

She meant every word, and Old Nick himself would not dare interfere with her vengeance. “Tell me what happened.”

“I have told you. Fern was a vicar’s daughter. The sweetest, most mischievous, dear, young woman ever to help me tie sheets together so we could dance under a full moon and feel as daring as pagans. We were ridiculous, and I will never have a friend like that again.”

You have me. “She decided to dance with Brantford under the stars instead?”

Charlotte squirmed about and took the place beside Sherbourne on the sofa. He tucked an arm around her shoulders, and after a bit of fussing, she scooted down to rest her head against his thigh. He draped a quilt over her—her favorite quilt—and wished he’d met his wife before heartache had made her so indomitable.

“Fern did not decide to tryst with Brantford. She knew he was far above her touch. She was introduced to him only because a cousin of his attended the same finishing school we did. I was at Morelands, spending a holiday with my family while Fern bided at school, and she met Brantford. He charmed her, then struck up a correspondence with her. She initiated none of it and didn’t answer his letters until he threatened to cast himself from the nearest sea cliff if she continued to ignore him.”

Would that he had. “I assume you tried to dissuade her?”

“I knew nothing of it—he enjoined Fern to secrecy and for good reason. If I’d suspected that vile abomination was sniffing about her skirts, I’d have set my cousins to chasing him off that cliff at gunpoint.” A shuddery sigh went through her. “Hate is a taxing emotion, but Brantford deserves my hatred, Lucas. He deserves to be pilloried for the rest of his life.”

Charlotte was not meant for hatred, but neither could she tolerate injustice. Sherbourne treasured that about her. He needed her moral clarity in his life, needed her common sense—and her affection.

“When did you become aware that your friend was conducting a liaison?”

Charlotte bit his thigh. “Fern did not conduct a liaison. She made a poor family’s version of a come out, and if I’m to believe her, she avoided Brantford. I certainly didn’t see her showing favor to any particular man, though she later admitted she’d danced with him occasionally. Brantford’s attentions would have been considered gentlemanly, even generous, given the difference in their stations. All the while, he was stealing kisses and tempting her to clandestine meetings.”