Kitabı oku: «Reforming the Rake», sayfa 4

Chapter Six

A t two o’clock sharp on Tuesday afternoon, Beatrice was in the back room at Larrimor’s Bookshop, surrounded by several teetering piles of books. Mr. Larrimor had set aside these piles especially for her, having become familiar with her wide-ranging tastes.

A single, small window let light into the dusty room, and Beatrice had to bend over and look quite closely at the volumes in order to read their titles. He’d provided her with an assortment of novels, memoirs, even gardening treatises…. She picked up one book for a closer look. It was titled The Life of William Kidd: A Sordid Tale, as Told by His Cabin Boy, Reginald Dawson. She smiled. She didn’t normally read books about pirates—that was a recent habit, one she’d begun only in relation to her writing. Pirates made excellent romantic heroes, and it stood to reason that she ought to know a thing or two about life at sea to write about the subject convincingly.

Beatrice had just begun thumbing through the pages of the dusty tome when she heard muffled voices coming from the front of the store. She stepped closer to the hallway in order to hear better.

She quickly wished she hadn’t.

“Ah, hello, Lord Summerson. Can I help you with anything?” she heard Mr. Larrimor ask. Summerson. Could there be another Lord Summerson?

“I’m just looking around, Mr. Larrimor,” a familiar voice responded. “I heard that you received your new shipments on Tuesdays and wondered if you had that book I ordered.”

“I do. I’ll put it on the counter for you, but please, have a look through the back room to see if anything else catches your eye— I haven’t had time to bring everything out front yet.”

In the back room, meanwhile, Beatrice had stopped breathing and gone into panic mode. She clutched her book tightly to her chest and pressed her spine against the shelf-lined wall. Thoughts of escape began racing through her head, but without any immediate solution. She was pretty much cornered in the book-strewn room, and she hadn’t a chance of getting out undetected.

Unless…

Beatrice looked wistfully at the window. It wasn’t so high up, really, and she was thin enough to fit through it. But she shook her head with regret. If it would have solved her problem, she could have just pulled over a chair, shinned up the wall, popped out the window like a cork and been on her way. Unfortunately, she knew it wouldn’t solve a thing. The window would deposit her directly into the middle of Bond Street. And Mr. Larrimor would surely be most concerned when he discovered she’d vanished. In his worry, he’d probably say something about it to Lord Summerson, who would know exactly where she went and why….

She heard a creak of floorboards, followed by the soft sound of footsteps. There was no escape.

“Hello.”

“Hello,” she responded, turning back to the piles of books and trying to look unaffected by his presence.

Charles disregarded her attempts to ignore him. He ambled forward until he stood next to her, then stopped. “You know,” he began, an apologetic note to his voice, “I think I neglected to introduce myself the other night.”

She bit her lip, but turned to face him. “Perhaps.”

He bowed slightly. “Charles Summerson.”

Beatrice nodded again, not knowing what else to do. Charles said nothing. Just continued to look at her.

She shifted uncomfortably, until she realized the reason he was looking at her was because it was her turn to speak. Still she said nothing.

“I see you’ve gotten to the new shipment first,” he added with a smile designed to melt any obdurate female heart. “Find any good books?” Even as he asked this question he leaned in closer, trying to peer at the book she clutched in her hand.

Beatrice only gripped it tighter to her chest. “No. I haven’t been here long.”

“Oh. Well, then what are you holding?”

“A book.” She wanted to slap herself as she uttered these idiotic words.

He smiled patiently. “May I see it?”

She shook her head. “No. I mean, that’s to say, you wouldn’t be very interested in it.”

“I beg to differ. I am extremely interested,” Charles replied. He could have added that the more she declined, the more his interest grew.

Beatrice didn’t know how she could avoid showing him her book. She supposed there was nothing wrong with it….

She tentatively held it out for his perusal.

He raised his eyebrows. “Now I really must beg to differ. That looks very interesting indeed…it actually looks rather improper. Do you like that sort of thing?”

Beatrice blushed and shrugged. “A bit…. I was only looking.” She wouldn’t have told him the truth if her life depended on it.

Charles smiled. He knew she wasn’t being entirely forthcoming. “Fascinating subject, isn’t it?”

Beatrice just nodded weakly.

“Are you sure it’s quite the thing for you to be reading?”

She held the book close to her chest once again. “Oh, no. I think it will be fine. Mr. Larrimor recommended it.”

Charles chuckled. “Never fear. I was only jesting.” He walked around the perimeter of the room, looking at the shelves. “Have you any suggestions, Miss Sinclair?”

She put her book down on a table and bit her lip again. She was a voracious reader and would normally have had dozens of suggestions. For the moment, however, her mind was blank. “Hmm…do you like novels?”

“I do, I must admit. I just finished reading Sense and Sensibility. My sister highly recommended it, and I must say I was rather skeptical, but…” Charles paused. “Have you read it?”

She shook her head, bemused at the thought of this dashing and dangerous man reading romantic novels. “No. I haven’t.”

“Perhaps I will lend it to you. That would be neighborly, wouldn’t it?”

Beatrice gulped. “I suppose. I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble, though.”

“Nonsense. It would be no trouble at all,” he assured her, wondering why he even offered. He didn’t usually bother with such niceties in his seductions. No, when Charles wanted to bed a woman he didn’t typically find himself visiting her at her aunt’s house to loan her a novel first. However, this was different. He didn’t know why, but it was.

“I will drop it by later today, if that is all right.”

She nodded her head slightly. “That would be fine…oh, but wait—I may not be in later. I’m having dinner with my brother this evening and have a few errands to run beforehand—I actually should get going now. I’m late again. But you could leave the book with our butler.” Beatrice hoped there was no way for her to get caught in her lie. She was going out to dinner with Ben, but she certainly wouldn’t be leaving her house for several hours; she simply didn’t think she could handle two encounters with Charles in one day. She started to edge out of the room, hoping to hint at the fact that she had to leave.

He merely followed her. “I’ll walk you to your carriage,” he offered, placing his hand on the small of her back and guiding her down the dark hallway.

Beatrice would have protested if she’d had the words, but all she could do was follow his lead. Every inch of her body was aware of him—his smell, his heat, the light pressure of his hand burning a hole through the thin fabric of her gown.

When they approached the main section of the dimly lit store, Charles stopped, causing her to stop, as well, and look up at him in question.

But looking at him was a mistake. The dimness of the hall did nothing to obscure the heat of his gaze. If anything, the shadows made him seem even more handsome, more wicked. Without taking his eyes from hers, he leaned closer, and for one heart-stopping moment, she thought he was going to kiss her. Lips parted breathlessly, she waited.

He didn’t kiss her, though. He merely reached out his hand and gently brushed something from her cheek.

“A smudge of dust,” he explained gruffly.

“Oh.” Heat rushed to her face, but she didn’t know whether it was from embarrassment or from his proximity. It didn’t matter…the soft pad of his thumb still rested on her cheekbone, and with what seemed like excruciating slowness, he let his hand trail along the line of her jaw, over her shoulder and down her spine, until it settled again at the small of her back.

With his small nudge, they were moving once more. She found herself waving distractedly to Mr. Larrimor as she passed him on the way out. Charles guided her across the street, stopping in front of her carriage to open the door. As he turned to help her inside, she had the sensation that he was about to kiss her once more. He wanted to. She could see it in his eyes, in the nearly imperceptible way his head tilted toward hers.

But he didn’t. As if he’d just remembered where they were, he drew back slightly, his expression suddenly impassive. He merely nodded goodbye, closed her carriage door, and Beatrice was off, head swimming and heart racing.

Charles watched her carriage wind slowly through the afternoon traffic for a moment before he crossed the street to reenter the store. He knew he looked cool and collected, but inwardly the blood pounded through his veins.

God, he wanted her. It was ridiculous, really, for a man of his experience to be feeling this way. All he’d done was rub a bloody spot of dust from her face, and it had taken every ounce of his control not to throw her on the floor and make love to her…. If he did something like that again, he’d scare her off for good.

Charles was not surprised when, several hours later, Louisa Sinclair’s butler informed him that Beatrice was out. He was almost certain that it was a lie, but no matter. He left the novel for Beatrice and turned to leave.

He was surprised, however, to see Louisa walking up the path just as the door closed behind him. She carried her parasol like a lance, and when her eyes lit on Charles he noticed her lip curl ever so slightly, making her resemble an aggressive terrier.

She looked him dead in the eye. “Good day to you, Pelham.”

“Good day, Lady Sinclair. I hope you are well,” he greeted her mildly.

She sniffed. “As well as can be expected. Have you business at my house?”

He silently cursed her lack of tact before saying, “Of sorts…I encountered your niece at Larrimor’s Bookshop and just came over to lend her a book.”

Her eyes narrowed skeptically. “Humph. That sounds remarkably out of character. Did your mother send you over here?”

Charles hadn’t blushed since he was thirteen, but Louisa had a way of making him feel like he was about thirteen. “My mother?”

She nearly cackled. “Ah, you thought it was only your sister who had to be cautious around your matchmaking mama, didn’t you, boy? Well, I have a pretty good idea why you were sent here.”

Charles finally understood her meaning. If she wanted to make him feel like a callow lad, he could at least have fun with her, as well. “Madam, are you implying what I think you are?”

“Of course, my boy. Open your eyes.”

“But Lady Sinclair—you’re nearly twice my age! Think of the scandal! Of course,” he added with a lecherous grin, “scandal has never stopped me before.”

Louisa just sputtered, opening and closing her mouth several times in rapid succession. It was one of the few times in her life that she had been rendered speechless, and if Charles hadn’t feared what would happen when she finally did regain speech, he would have remained to watch. Instead, he just doffed his hat and sauntered down her steps, wisely retreating before she could recover.

When Louisa did recover—it took all of ten seconds—she marched directly inside her house and up the stairs to her niece’s room, swiping the offending book from the hall table along the way.

“Beatrice Sinclair,” she demanded as she entered without knocking, “what has been going on here in my absence?”

Beatrice looked up from her dressing table in surprise. She was readying herself for dinner, although truth be told she’d been pretty much caught up in thoughts of green eyes and black hair and how to avoid them in the future. She hadn’t the faintest idea what her aunt was talking about. “What do you mean, Louisa?”

Her great-aunt waved the novel under her nose. “I didn’t even know that you two were acquainted. I do not condone it.”

Beatrice blushed. “I simply ran into him in the bookstore—”

“He informed me.”

“Yes, well, he offered to lend me a book, being neighbors.”

Louisa said nothing. She slammed the novel down on Beatrice’s table, her nostrils flaring.

“Oh, Lousia, you’re overreac—”

“Beatrice, I have been Summerson’s neighbor since he was born, and not once has he lent me a book. I just can’t believe he would have the audacity…in front of my very eyes…”

“Louisa! It’s just a book.”

“Don’t be a fool, Beatrice. He is a rake.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Louisa, that hardly means he doesn’t read.”

“That’s not what I meant, Beatrice, and you know it. Summerson’s just trying to lull you into trusting him.”

She sighed in frustration. “I know his reputation, Aunt. I didn’t mean to encounter him, and I’m not about to be ‘lulled’ into trusting anyone. Should I have been rude to him?”

“Perhaps,” Louisa muttered. “That’s preferable to running the risk of anyone seeing you with him. Look, Bea, to be perfectly frank with you, I’m quite fond of the lad—always have been. But he’s notorious where women are concerned. Just stay away from him. He’s too charming by half, and I don’t want to see you make any mistakes.”

Beatrice nodded, miserably wishing she were back home in Hampshire where life was simpler.

Evenly, she vowed, “I haven’t made any mistakes, Louisa. I didn’t ask for him to come here, and rest assured, I don’t plan to seek him out.”

Chapter Seven

N early a week had passed without Beatrice seeing Charles. Of course, this wasn’t to say that she hadn’t been thinking about him; no, she’d been doing that to excess. She could even admit to some mutinous feelings of disappointment because he hadn’t sought her out—she’d flattered herself, she supposed, in thinking that he meant to pursue her. If that had ever been his intention, he’d clearly settled his attentions on some other hapless girl. By the time of his mother’s party, he’d have quite forgotten her. She certainly had nothing to worry about.

If it hadn’t been impolite, Beatrice would have whistled. It was a warm and glorious Saturday morning. The ground was still damp from the recent bad weather, but she didn’t care. Louisa wasn’t out of bed yet to tell her to stay indoors, so she put on sturdy boots, clipped a lead onto Louisa’s English setter, Edward, and headed for Hyde Park.

The park was located right across the street and Beatrice set off briskly. These early morning walks were her only opportunity for exercise in the day; they were also one of the only times she had to herself.

As they entered a quiet, canopied path, Edward began pulling on the lead, eager to inspect the bushes.

“What is it, Eddie? Do you see something?” Beatrice gave Edward his head and he buried his nose in the bushes, snorting excitedly till he pulled out a ball. Edward dropped it on the ground watching her expectantly.

“Do you want me to throw it for you?” Beatrice glanced over her shoulder to make sure she was alone, then crouched down to pick up the ball. She unclipped Edward’s lead. “Okay. I’ll throw it, but you must bring it back, all right? Here goes.” She threw the ball with all her might. He promptly retrieved the saliva-coated ball and deposited it at her feet.

Beatrice looked at the object in distaste. Edward looked at it with adoration. She sighed. “All right, then, I suppose I have no choice.”

She stooped down to pick up the ball, pinching it gingerly between her thumb and forefinger, then threw it again, this time with more spectacular results. With a splash, the ball landed in a puddle, where it promptly disappeared.

Beatrice sighed. Edward stood at the edge of the puddle, whining and looking confused.

“You’re supposed to go after it, Edward,” she pleaded. He merely looked back at her with a long face. “Fetch, Eddie!”

He didn’t budge, and she walked toward the puddle, contemplating the best way to save the ball without ruining her gown.

Beatrice was crouched down, gauging the depth of the puddle, when she heard the quiet clearing of a masculine throat behind her. She rose quickly and turned around.

“Might I be of assistance?”

She stared for a moment before answering, “Hello.”

Charles walked forward nonchalantly. “Hello yourself.”

Beatrice didn’t know what further to say. She nodded and turned around once more. Then, a suspicious thought flashing into her mind, she asked, “You didn’t follow me, did you?” She immediately blushed.

Charles looked offended. “I’ve walked my dogs along this path since I was a boy—I only even noticed you because of the ghastly way you threw that ball.”

She ignored his comment, only then noticing that he wasn’t alone. Attached to a lead was perhaps the smallest, fluffiest dog she’d ever seen. It was entirely white, and its long hair obscured its eyes. All Beatrice could see of its face was a shiny black nose and the tip of its pink tongue.

“That’s your dog?” she asked doubtfully. It certainly was an odd pairing.

Charles looked down at the dog, as well, somewhat disconcerted. “Er, no. This is actually my sister’s dog, Egremont.”

“Egremont?”

“Yes. It is a family name. Eggy for short.”

Beatrice nodded, not knowing what else to do. She looked around. “Well, Edward and I ought to get going….”

“You’re not going to get that ball for him? After being the one to put it there?”

She looked doubtfully at the puddle. “Well, it seems to be very deep.”

“It does, although Edward looks disappointed. Perhaps I can help you?” Charles was feeling particularly gallant that morning, and was thankful for it. He’d practiced a great deal of patience that week by not seeking her out, and he didn’t want to send her running in the opposite direction.

Beatrice weighed his offer. She didn’t want to risk spending any more time in his company than necessary, but it was a kind offer. She nodded reluctantly. “I suppose…. How do you propose to do it?”

“It’ll be easy,” Charles said, placing Egremont’s lead into her palm. “That’s why gentlemen carry canes, you know. For helping damsels in distress.” He fished around in the puddle for a moment with his cane, and rolled Edward’s ball out.

The dog barked in appreciation, and Beatrice couldn’t help but applaud briefly. “Bravo,” she said, laughing.

He grinned roguishly and bowed with exaggerated chivalry. “May I demonstrate a proper throw, my lady?”

She smiled back and curtsied. “Indeed, my lord.”

“All right, Miss Sinclair. Observe,” Charles said confidently, before sending the ball flying off in a smooth arc. Beatrice watched as Edward galloped after it, swooping low to the ground to retrieve it. They waited in silence a moment for him to come trotting back.

He did not. With ball in mouth, Edward kept on running and disappeared into the park.

After about ten seconds of silence, Beatrice began to grow concerned. “Oh, dear. He’s always come back before.”

Charles smiled reassuringly, although the thought of having lost Louisa’s beloved Edward chilled his heart to the core. “I’m sure he will…. Perhaps we had best follow him a bit, though. Just in case.”

Beatrice nodded. “I think so.”

She, Charles and Egremont started off, the former two keeping apace and the latter one lagging slightly behind on his little legs.

Beatrice looked back at Egremont with a sigh.

Charles noticed. “In Eggy’s defense, my dear Miss Sinclair, he would have retrieved that ball himself.”

She knew when to be quiet. Instead she turned around to pick him up and carry him.

“Here, let me,” Charles offered gruffly, reaching out to take the dog from her arms.

He immediately wished he hadn’t. It brought him too close to her. He could smell her hair, and the way his arm brushed against hers was enough to awaken his less honorable feelings. Charles suppressed them hard. For the moment, he wanted to enjoy the simple pleasure of her company.

She felt it, too. He could tell by the way her lips parted slightly in shock, her eyes widened and she instantly picked up her pace and began calling the dog’s name.

“Edward!”

Charles followed suit.

As they neared Rotten Row, Beatrice began to worry even more. On a brilliant morning like this one, there were always many people about. Being seen with Charles could be disastrous. She halted.

“Problem?” he asked.

She blushed. “No…I just prefer to avoid this part of the park days. I only hope Edward hasn’t gotten into too much trouble.”

Suddenly, she saw him. She should have been relieved, but she was not. He had paused for breath at the foot of a park bench and had laid his head lovingly in the nearest empty lap. That lap belonged to Lady Barbara Markham. Although a luxurious mink pelisse enveloped her from waist to mouth, and a frothy hat obscured everything north of her eyebrows, Beatrice would have recognized her anywhere. Babs Markham was one of her aunt’s best friends; she was also a notorious gossip and as bad-tempered as an adder.

Lady Markham’s beady eyes peered out from between her hat and her fur, glancing disparagingly down her nose at Edward. Sensing new company, however, she aimed her gaze straight at Beatrice and Charles. Her target fixed in her sights, she lifted her hand to shield her narrowed eyes from the sun so she could peruse them better.

“I say,” Charles said, “isn’t that him over there?”

“Yes,” Beatrice answered weakly.

“You don’t sound pleased.”

She began shaking her head. “Don’t you see who Edward is with?”

He looked again and groaned.

Lady Markham, called across the lawn, “I say, Beatrice, isn’t this your aunt’s mongrel?”

Beatrice gulped. “It is, Lady Markham. He escaped from his lead…I do hope he hasn’t been bothering you.”

Lady Markham sniffed loudly in response. “Come closer, girl. I can hardly hear you. Who is that you’re with?”

“Damn.” Beatrice swore under her breath and took a step forward.

Charles raised an amused eyebrow at her language.

“I don’t know what you think is so amusing. You’re coming with me.”

“Must I?”

She stared at him in disbelief. “You heard what she said. Lady Markham didn’t leave you any choice. All she wants, anyway, is to find out who you are so she can gossip about this. She probably can’t see you from this distance, and she wouldn’t be able to stand not knowing your identity. Besides, you’re the one who threw the ball.”

Charles couldn’t argue with that logic, and began walking, as well.

When they reached Lady Markham, she held up her quizzing glass. “Eh? Is that Summerson?”

“Good day to you, Lady Markham,” he said smoothly, bowing.

She ignored him. “Beatrice, what are you doing with that lot?”

Beatrice felt ill. “Lord Summerson was merely helping me find Edward.”

Lady Markham looked at Charles doubtfully. “Is that the case, Summerson?”

His composure didn’t even crack. “Yes, Lady Markham. But afterward I plan to follow her into the bushes and make violent love to her.”

Beatrice kicked him in the shins. Hard.

“Eh? I didn’t hear you, Summerson. Repeat yourself.”

“He said,” Beatrice answered before Charles could make things worse, “that he would follow me to the street and make his goodbyes. That is all, Lady Markham.”

She looked skeptical. “Humph. Not what I heard.”

Beatrice maintained stony silence, vowing to strangle Charles at the first opportunity.

“Well,” Lady Markham continued, “come take your dog, Beatrice, and tell your aunt I plan to visit her soon.”

“I will, Lady Markham. Good day,” Beatrice replied, hoping she sounded more lighthearted than she felt as she reattached Edward’s lead.

The only reason Lady Markham wanted to come for a visit was to relay the news that she had seen Beatrice in the park with Charles. And Bea would be lucky if she were allowed out of the house alone ever again.

“Everything all right?” Charles asked after a few steps.

Without meeting his gaze directly, she said, “Oh, it’s nothing. But I think it’d be a good idea for me to head home now. Lady Markham is such a gossip, and I really shouldn’t be here with you unchaperoned.”

Charles didn’t want her to leave just yet. “It’s not unheard of for a lady to walk in the park with a man, you know.”

“Not with you, you know.”

“You have me there, I suppose. Can I at least accompany you home?”

Beatrice deliberated. Spending more time with Charles would be dangerous to her reputation and her state of mind. Yet he’d be walking in the same direction, and it’d be awkward for her to refuse his offer. “Well, I suppose, if you’re going that direction anyway. Do you mind if we follow the path back?”

He shook his head. There would be less people that way, and he’d be able to be alone with her a little longer. He returned Egremont to the ground, and they set off.

For several minutes, they walked without speaking. Beatrice gave her undivided attention to the trees, the birds, the grass; she paid attention to anything that wasn’t him. It wasn’t an entirely unpleasant silence, although it was far from being comfortable.

Charles began to whistle.

She glanced at him sideways. His hands were in his pockets, and he looked so handsome that her stomach turned a somersault.

She quickly looked away, but after another moment of silence, she remarked, “You seem in good spirits.”

He gazed at her. “I am, I suppose.”

She didn’t want to know why—she didn’t want to know more about Charles than was absolutely necessary—but her natural inquisitiveness got the better of her. “Is there any particular reason?”

He pondered her question for a moment. It had been a very long time since he’d strolled in the park with a lady who wasn’t his sister or his mother, and he had been wondering why. He was having a bloody good time. “No reason,” he said. “Just enjoying the day.”

They walked along in silence again. Charles remarked, “My mother mentioned that she’s invited you to her dinner party.” He hoped it sounded like mere small talk, but he was very interested in her answer. He’d spent several more sleepless nights thinking of all the tantalizing possibilities presented by having her in his home: the library…the terrace…the garden. Of course, there’d be even more possibilities if it weren’t also his mother’s home, but he was nothing if not creative.

Beatrice blushed. “Yes…she has.” She was wishing once again that she had a way of getting out of the party, but she liked Lady Summerson too much to go back on her word.

Charles sensed her hesitation and knew what caused it; she didn’t want to go because of him. “I probably won’t attend. My mother holds these parties periodically—she invites all of Lucy’s beaus, thinking that the best way to get one of them to propose is to put them all together and see who survives the longest. It’s quite frightening, really.”

Beatrice grinned, relaxing. “I can see why she and my aunt are friends, then. Louisa is desperate that I marry, although if it’s just your sister’s first season, I can’t see that she has much reason to worry. Is Lucy your only sibling?”

Beatrice noticed a slight tightening around his mouth before he answered. “Yes, she is.” He said nothing for a moment. “How about you? I know your brother vaguely…he was a few years behind me at school.”

“Yes. Ben…he’s five years older than me. Every time I get annoyed at Louisa for worrying over me so much, I’m just thankful that I’m not Ben. She considers him a lost cause.”

Charles grinned. “Nothing wrong with lost causes, you know.”

Beatrice refused to make eye contact. He was much too charming when he grinned like that. “Yes, well, I’m the oldest after Ben, and then comes Eleanor—she’s sixteen. And after Eleanor is Helen. She’s thirteen and, according to my aunt, will be the death of us all.”

“I take it Helen is a troublemaker?”

Beatrice nodded, for the moment forgetting that she had ever felt uncomfortable around him. “Definitely. It comes from being the youngest, I think. Our mother died right after she was born and Helen has been allowed to run a bit wild.” Beatrice blushed when she finished, not having meant to say so much. “Sorry. I don’t mean to go on so.”

“No, it’s all right,” Charles said, thinking that she looked lovely with the sun lighting her face. Her happiness was contagious, and he couldn’t help smiling. “You’re very close to your siblings, I think.”

She smiled back. “I am—I’m close to everyone in my family, for that matter, although we’re all quite different.”

As they reached the end of the path, Charles didn’t know what possessed him to utter his next words. “I used to have a brother.”

She looked up at him in surprise. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.”

He shrugged. He never talked to anyone about his brother. The subject brought back too many painful memories. “It’s all right,” he said. “He died a long time ago.”

“May I ask what happened?” Beatrice murmured hesitantly.

His expression was guarded. “He was two years younger than me…his name was Mark. He and my father were driving up to visit me at Eton, and they had an accident on the way. I was fifteen.”

Beatrice unconsciously laid a hand on Charles’s arm. “I’m so sorry…I didn’t know. Don’t continue if it’s too painful.”

He looked away. Now that he’d started, he couldn’t just stop. “It’s all right. Mark was killed instantly. My father was brought to Eton—the accident happened quite close to school—and he survived for another week.”

Beatrice didn’t know what to say. She had no experience with loss on quite that scale, but she understood. Her mother had died giving birth to Helen, and Beatrice had never quite gotten over her death. She didn’t think she ever would.