Louise Allen - Regency Pleasures and Sins Part 1

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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