A Scandalous Publication (22 page)

With a heavy heart, she sat before her dressing table, brushing her long red hair. Her head ached, her eyes were sore and tired, and she felt spiritless. She wished she had never read
Glenarvon,
never paid foolish heed to her mother’s chance remark, never spent all those hours writing by candlelight. But it hadn’t meant anything; it had been an idle exercise, an amusing way of passing the time. There was nothing amusing about it now.

Pinning her hair up into a knot, which made her head ache all the more, she put on a neat pink-and-white-striped lawn gown and draped a plain white shawl around her shoulders. Looking in the mirror, she saw how dark the shadows were beneath her salt-stained eyes, and how empty and desolate the expression on her tense face. She was defeated before she began; she saw no hope of surviving this day and retaining Max Talgarth’s love, or even his lingering respect.

Slowly she went down to breakfast. Her mother and Richard were sitting silently at the table, their food untouched, and only cups of strong coffee before them. The morning newspaper was folded by Richard’s plate, and as Charlotte sat down, he pushed it toward her. “I think you’d better read this.”

Her heart sank still further as she saw that he’d marked a piece in the fashionable but rather scandalous column of
on-dits,
a page rarely missed by anyone who was anyone in the
beau monde.
She read aloud.
“Kylmerth,
a fellow betrayed for a publisher’s fee, is perhaps known more by a name commencing with T. Scandal once again resumes her place in the public mind, for a tale is very prevalent in first circles that the identity of the villain, Kylmerth, in the wicked anonymous tidbit of the same name is none other than Sir M
—m T—h. To go into more
detail might spoil the fun, but the appetite should be whetted to think of the delicious smell of bacon carrying on the breeze.” Bacon on the breeze. Wind ham. Wyndham. She closed her eyes. “Is there anything more?” she whispered.

“Not in that newspaper,” replied her mother, reaching over to pat her hand for a moment.

“But in all the others?”

“Maybe. We don’t know.”

“And we don’t want to know,” said Richard.

“Have
—have you seen Sylvia this morning?”

“Yes,” Richard said.

“How is she? I
—I heard her crying as she and the admiral left last night.”

“She’s not feeling exactly sparkling; in fact, she wanted to cancel the ball tonight, but her father wouldn’t hear of it. He said that to do that would be to give in to gossip, and he wasn’t prepared to do that. He says we must all cock a grand snook at society by carrying on as if the book didn’t exist.”

Mrs. Wyndham nodded approvingly. “And quite right too.”

Charlotte gave a humorless, ironic laugh. “Would that it was that easy.”

“But, Charlotte,” said her mother earnestly, “by far the most sensible thing would be to carry on as if nothing had happened.”

“I agree, except that for me that is quite impossible.”

“I want you to be brave and come to the ball tonight. Please, Charlotte, for your own sake.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Please. You must try to find the strength, for to stay away will serve only to give credence to the book’s claims. Society knows you too well, Charlotte; it knows your character and spirit and it will
expect
you to attend the ball and fly in the face of adversity. Under any other circumstances, you wouldn’t hesitate. At least give the matter proper consideration, try to see beyond the immediate.”

Charlotte looked away. “I’ve already seen beyond the immediate and it’s a very lonely view.”

Mrs. Wyndham lowered her eyes and said nothing more.

* * *

Richard’s carriage had been ordered promptly for ten, and before it was due to arrive, he sent for the parish constables to move the crowd on from outside the house. They did their best, but even so there were still a number of staring faces as he and Charlotte emerged from the house. She wore a veil over her face, but they still seemed to know instinctively who she was. Pressing forward, they jostled her as Richard did his best to fend them off. At last they were in the carriage, which pulled swiftly away. She was trembling and more than a little shaken, and she was glad of Richard’s comforting presence at her side. He held her hand and tactfully said nothing at all.

The premises of Mr. Horace Wagstaff, bookseller, print seller, and publisher, stood adjacent to one of the more notorious coffee houses in Covent Garden, a place where at night madams openly paraded their charges and where usually the only carriages were those of gentlemen seeking such pleasures. Today, however, there were many other carriages thronging the street; indeed, there was a considerable crush as society converged upon the bookshop, eager to acquire a copy of the volume that was so very much the rage.

The shop was dingy, with bottle-glass bow windows and a door sadly in need of a fresh coat of paint. A creaking, faded sign swayed in the light breeze, the sound barely audible above the babble of conversation and the clatter of horses and carriages. The windows displayed open books and a number of prints, including, Charlotte saw to her dismay, a clever, cutting caricature of Max, executed by none other than the great Mr. George Cruickshank himself. Above the doorway was pinned a notice announcing that copies of
Kylmerth
could be purchased within, price fifteen shillings.

A number of ladies and gentlemen were waiting for the crowded shop to clear so that they too could purchase the book, while those who didn’t wish to be seen in such a disreputable area on such an errand sent their footmen instead
—in plain clothes, of course, not identifiable livery.

It was some time before Richard was able to usher Charlotte into the low-ceilinged shop, where the cluttered, small-paned windows let in only a little light. There was only one counter, with upon it a steadily diminishing stack of
Kylmerth.
Charlotte stared at the volumes as she waited her turn. How handsomely bound it was, its leather cover embossed in gold. It was the usual practice for books to be sold without covers, the pages merely stitched together so that the purchaser could bind it as his personal taste directed, but shrewd Mr. Wagstaff had been so sure of this book’s success that he had lavished a great deal upon its presentation.

Just as she and Richard reached the counter, she heard somewhere behind her a voice she knew and loathed, a Devonshire House drawl that carried so clearly that everyone in the shop must have heard it. “My
dear,
if the book’s claim that George Wyndham’s daughter was seduced is true, it doesn’t surprise me in the slightest, for she never was the lady she pretended to be.”

Charlotte glanced around, angry color flushing hotly to her cheeks. Judith was with some friends and hadn’t seen her. Richard put a warning hand on his niece’s arm, and with a great effort she turned back to the counter again. The man behind it, a rather untidy, dusty fellow in an old-fashioned coat, a quill behind his ear, looked inquiringly at Richard. “Yes, sir?”

“We wish to speak with Mr. Wagstaff.”

“He’s very busy, sir, a great many people have wished to see him since yesterday.”

“I don’t care how many he’s seen. Will you simply inform him that Miss Charlotte Wyndham wishes to see him immediately.”

The man’s mouth dropped open. “M-Miss Charlotte Wyndham?”

His voice carried, and the room fell suddenly silent. Even Judith had nothing to say for a moment. Everyone stared at Charlotte’s veiled figure by the counter.

Without another word, the man hurried through a door at the rear of the shop, and a minute later Mr. Horace Wagstaff himself appeared. He was a very fat man, with heavy jowls falling over his high, tight collar and cravat. His light-brown wool coat wasn’t particularly well-cut, and his green waistcoat was strained across his immense paunch. The hands that he placed very daintily and precisely on the counter were soft and pink, the nails scrupulously cleaned and manicured. His chestnut hair was too neatly curled and simply had to be a wig, and his mouth was small and almost prim, as if he had but a moment before sucked upon a very sour lemon. His eyes were very shrewd and clever, however, their blueness almost pretty, but so very cold and calculating as well. Charlotte disliked him on sight.

He was all agreeability, giving them both a beaming smile. The shop was still quiet as he spoke. “Why, Miss Wyndham, what a pleasure it is to see you again. Have you come to see how well your masterpiece is going?” He waved a languid hand toward the copies of
Kylmerth.

Charlotte was stunned, her heart almost stopping within her. She heard the shocked gasps rippling through the onlookers, and she felt Richard’s start of astonishment.

The publisher was still smiling. “As you can see, I shall soon have to bring out a second edition. You write very well, Miss Wyndham, and I do trust you will not retire from the literary scene too soon.”

She found her tongue at last. “Why do you say you’ve seen me before, sir? You know perfectly well that you and I have never met!”

He gave a slight laugh, as if vaguely surprised. “Well, if that’s how you wish it to appear, madam, that’s your own affair. All I know is that in recent weeks you’ve been here on any number of occasions, reading through proofs and making slight alterations here and there.”

Richard looked angrily at him. “I don’t know what clever game you’re playing, sir, but you and I know perfectly well that my niece has never met you and certainly has never visited these premises before.”

“That simply isn’t so, Mr.
—?”

“Pagett.”

“Mr. Pagett. She has come here frequently, as I said but a moment before. Maybe she kept her activities a secret, even from you.”

Richard took a step forward at this, but Charlotte held him back. “Don’t, Richard. Please!” She looked imploringly at the publisher then. “Sir, you know that you’re not telling the truth. Why are you doing this to me?”

He smiled sleekly. “Are you saying that you didn’t write the book, Miss Wyndham?”

The shop was so quiet that a pin could have been heard dropping. Whispers had spread out into the street as well, and everyone waited in hushed astonishment for the seduced heroine of
Kylmerth
to deny her hand in its publication.

Charlotte stared at him, guilty color staining her cheeks.

He grinned then, producing a sheet of her original manuscript from beneath the counter. “Do you deny that this is your writing, madam?”

She could only look helplessly at the paper.

“There,” he cried triumphantly. “You can’t deny it! Come, now, Miss Wyndham, don’t try at this late stage to play the innocent. If you’d really wished to remain anonymous, as you said originally, then you wouldn’t have come here so openly today.”

“I came here to find out who stole my manuscript and rewrote part of it before giving it to you.” She watched him closely, but his eyes didn’t flicker once toward Judith, whose figure was so prominent among those watching.

“Madam,” said the publisher wearily, “this is getting us nowhere. You wrote
Kylmerth
and you brought it to me.”

“I may have written it,” she replied icily, “but Lady Judith Taynton stole it and gave it to you.” There were more shocked gasps as she whirled about to point an accusing finger at Judith.

Judith seemed absolutely nonplussed for a moment, a myriad expressions flitting across her lovely face, but then she swiftly regained her composure, a smooth if somewhat bemused smile curving her sweet lips. “My dear,” she drawled, “would that I could indeed claim responsibility, for I’d adore the kudos of having given your horrid little exposé to the world, but since I’ve never exactly been
persona grata
at
—where is it now? Henrietta Street?” She paused, a cool eyebrow raised disdainfully, as if the utterance of such an address was definitely beneath her. Then she went on. “Since I’ve never been welcome at your house and since I’m not your bosom
friend, I fail to see how I was supposed to know your tawdry scribble ever existed.”

“I don’t know how you found out, but you did.”

“Many qualities and accomplishments I’ve claimed in the past, my dear, but not clairvoyance.”

A ripple of laughter greeted this, and Mr. Wagstaff looked on with delight, for such an entertaining confrontation would spread interest in the book still further. He could almost have rubbed his hands with glee.

Unhappy tears pricked Charlotte’s eyes as Richard steered her toward the door. The crowd parted for them to pass. Outside everyone seemed somehow to know what had passed in the shop. The tears were wet on Charlotte’s cheeks as she climbed into the anonymity of the waiting carriage, which pulled quickly away into the busy streets beyond Covent Garden.

For a long while neither Charlotte nor Richard spoke, but then she looked at him. “What am I going to do?” she whispered. “Now Max will
never
believe what I say. The last thing I expected was for that man to point a finger at me like that. I should have guessed. I should have realized that Judith wouldn’t leave any trace of her involvement, she’s too clever for that.”

“There’s nothing for it now but to go to Max and tell him the complete truth.”

“I can’t!”

“You have to, Charlotte.” He leaned from the window and directed the coachman to drive to the Albany.

The front of the great house was impossible to approach, for the crowds gathered there hoping for a glimpse of Max were far greater than those outside her house. The coachman had no option but to drive on, approaching the Albany from the rear, drawing the carriage to a standstill on the corner of Vigo Street. Richard left Charlotte there, walking along the pavement to the entrance of the covered walk, where yet another crowd was being moved on by irate constables and wardens. No one gave Richard a second glance as he went inside.

Charlotte closed her eyes as she waited. Her heart seemed to be rushing so much that she could no longer count its beats. She felt cold and sick, an awful apprehension holding her in a relentless grip from which she felt she would never again be free. Please let Max believe her, let him forgive her.