Regency Pleasures and Sins Part 1. Louise Allen
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viscount from revealing the past, it also prevented Laura’s escaping it. She might come to Beau as they both desired, but she’d have to remain in the shadows, unable to use her real name or assume her rightful place in society. Have to remain permanently hidden, too, from the still-grieving family that believed her dead. And most important from Beau’s point of view, she’d never be able to become what he most wanted her to be—his lawful wife.
One way or another, he had to stop Lord Charleton’s remarriage. One way or another, he had to convince the man to seek a divorce before remarrying.
And he had three days in which to do it.
A burning desire consumed him to order his horse this moment, to ride to Merriville with all speed. Beyond the ever-present compulsion to be with Laura again, it would be wisest to have benefit of all she knew of this tangled affair before Beau confronted her husband. But given the distance, it was impossible for him to ride there and back in only three days.
He paced the room, too restless to sit, impatient to hear whatever news James had garnered. And then, information complete or not, within the next day he must proceed. Without whatever assistance Laura Martin might have been able to offer.
Beau thought again of Laura’s slight form cowering before him, her eyes distended with fear, her fisted arms raised, and the smoldering rage within fired hotter. He already knew enough of Charleton to know the man must be legally and permanently removed from Laura’s life. His fists itched to deal out to the viscount a liberal measure of the sort of domestic bliss he’d offered Laura.
While he stood at the window, envisioning with grim pleasure that satisfying prospect, a knock sounded, followed by the immediate entry of James Maxwell.
The mantel clock chimed three. “Bless you, James,” Beau offering a wry smile as he moved to the sideboard. “Let me pour some wine, then tell me the whole.”
At just before three the following afternoon, Beau stood in the parlor of Viscount Charleton’s imposing Georgian town house. As he paced the gray marble floor, awaiting his host, he surveyed the tasteful arrangement of green brocade Hepplewhite chairs and sofas, the immaculate white plaster detailing of the ceilings and overmantel that proclaimed the room the workmanship of the Adams brothers, and tried to imagine Laura here, greeting her guests in this cold, impersonal mausoleum of a room.
A few moments later Lord Charleton entered. Every nerve stiffening in automatic dislike, Beau made him the bow decorum demanded.
Charleton, a portly gentleman of middle age, barely inclined his head. Without any of the usual civilities, he demanded, “You insisted on seeing me, Lord Beaulieu? I trust the matter is of sufficient gravity. I am expected momentarily to drive my betrothed to tea.”
Already simmering from the deliberate insult of not being offered so much as a chair, Beau remained silent, allowing himself a long moment to inspect the viscount, from his silvered hair to his immaculately polished top-boots. The man’s face was a pasty hue that contrasted unpleasantly with the dark shadows beneath his glaring eyes. One vein pulsed at his temple, and he tapped his fingers against the smooth seam of his breeches.
As Beau allowed the silence to continue, a flush of irritation reddened the unhealthy pallor of the viscount’s cheeks. So you are easily angered, Beau thought. Good. Anger often makes men careless.
“You mock me, sirrah? I shall have my servant throw you out.” He turned as if to go to the bellpull.
“Not quite yet,” Beau interposed, holding out a hand to block the viscount’s path. Charleton stared down at it, his red color deepening.
Slowly, Beau pulled back his hand. “I understand I should congratulate you on your imminent nuptials. A happy event which will soon blot out the tragedy of your late wife’s premature demise.”
“You delayed my departure to tell me that? I thank you for your good wishes, but you might just as easily have sent a note. And now I bid you good day.”
“I was also somewhat curious, I admit, about the circumstances of your late wife’s death. Influenza following hard upon childbed, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Tragic. She was a dear young thing, my poor Emily. Now, if you will excuse me—”
“Emily Marie Laura Trent, she was, yes? Curious though, that although the child’s birth took place at your country estate at Charleton’s Grove, your wife was buried nearly a hundred miles away, in Mernton Manner.”
The viscount waved an impatient hand. “Still distraught over the child’s death, she begged to visit her old governess and I hadn’t the heart to deny her. She took sick there, and by the time I arrived—” he uttered a deep sigh “—it was too late. My poor dear Emily was already two weeks buried.”
The speech sounded so carefully practiced, Beau had trouble hanging on to his own temper. “Two weeks to journey a mere hundred miles to the side of your beloved and desperately ill wife? That seems a trifle … tardy.”
The viscount gave him a frosty glance. “As it was—”
“As it was, you weren’t in Charleton’s Grove when your wife left your house—but in London. And once your staff notified you of her disappearance, it took you another ten days to track your ‘poor dear Emily’ to Mernton Manner, which is why you arrived after her tragic demise.”
The vein at Charleton’s temple pulsed faster. “I hardly see how my personal affairs are any concern of yours, Lord Beaulieu. So if you would leave my house—”
“Just one more thing, my lord, and I’ll go.” Beau braced himself to pose the crucial query. “Lord Charleton, are you sure the woman buried at Mernton Manner is in fact your wife Emily?”
Surprise that could not be feigned swept over the viscount’s features. “What are you suggesting?”
Beau held up the miniature James had obtained. “Is this a portrait of your late wife?”
Charleton glanced at it quickly. “And if it is?”
“Then I must inform you, Lord Charleton, that your wife is very much alive.”
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