Page 102 of The Good Fortune of Miss Robbins

If God wanted me to marry Gabriel Johnson and dedicate my life to housing the orphans of London, then that was what I must do. But would I be able to forget Lord Brookhaven?

William was on his way from his tailors’ when a lady stepped out of a shop just in front of him.

“Oh. Lord Brookhaven.” Letitia—Lady Wexford—stood grinning at him. She was so close he couldn’t avoid her.

“Good morning,” he said, tipping his hat to her. He made as if to walk around her, but she placed her hand on his arm. He pulled his arm away and took a step back.

“Cannot we speak for a moment?” She sounded innocent, but he knew not to trust her.

“What do you want?”

People were walking all around them, one or two of them turning to look. He would need to get this over with as quickly as possible.

“Don’t be uncivil,” she said, poking out her bottom lip as if she were a child. “I merely wanted to put you on your guard. I have heard the gossips saying that you have made Miss Charlotte Robbins your paramour—that the fifty-thousand-pound fortune she inherited was not inherited at all, but that you gave her that exorbitant sum. Of course I told them they were mistaken, for if you had made her your paramour, then one of your own closest friends would not have asked the woman to marry them. There. You are welcome for my kind assistance.”

He glared at her. Words bubbled to the surface. It took all his willpower to hold them in check. But his brief silence seemed to give her permission to continue.

“I do hope we can be friends. Surely you have forgiven me by now. In fact, you are most welcome to come to see me in Mayfair. Lord Wexford is away in the country for a few days, and I’ve been a bit ... lonely.” She leaned toward him.

He shouldn’t have been surprised by her words. Perhaps he should even have expected her to say something of the kind. Nevertheless, speech failed him, and he only mumbled, “Good day.”

He walked briskly away, feeling as though he had just escaped being trampled by a runaway horse and carriage.

As he walked, it was as if a thick London fog had lifted and what had been obscured for years was suddenly clear. He’d been so bitter about how Letitia had treated him, her betrayal and deception when she’d professed undying love for him, her utter disregard for his feelings, that he’d let it cloud his judgment and keep him from happiness.

How could he have even compared Letitia to Charlotte? There was no comparison. One was cold and cruel and the other was everything good and kind and empathetic.

He nearly laughed as he quickened his pace. He had to plan what he would say, how to beg Charlotte to forgive him for exposing her to gossip. And how to beg her to forgive him for not making her his wife months ago, when he first fell in love with her.

Thirty-One

“William.” Lady Derringer accosted him as soon as he returned home. “Mr. Johnson was just here, and he said he wanted to know if you and Miss Robbins had some kind of understanding, as he’d heard a rumor that you’d given her a fortune and that was how she was able to live in London.”

“He had no right to ask you that.” Heat rose into his forehead.

“Apparently he has asked Charlotte to marry him, and he felt it was too indelicate a question to ask a lady.”

He hated the way his aunt toggled her eyebrows at him. But even more, he hated that Johnson had asked Charlotte to marry him. How did he dare ask such a woman to be his wife? She was too gentle and kind-hearted and empathetic. The weight of the responsibility for caring for so many children, of pushing herself the way Johnson did and being in charge of an entire orphanage, would be too much for her gentle, sweet spirit.

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him no, that you two do not have an understanding or an arrangement or anything of the kind, and that he should not believe every rumor he hears.”

His heart was beating in his ears.

“When was he here?”

“Less than a half hour ago.”

He turned and strode out the door. As he did, he saw Johnson leaving Charlotte’s townhouse, putting on his hat, and walking the other way.

He saw Charlotte’s face, how she’d looked the first few days after she came to Lowndesbury House, a schoolgirl-turned-teacher, a poor orphan who didn’t seem to realize she was poor. Her very presence in the world made life more bearable.

He couldn’t lose her.

It was like a lightning bolt to his soul—he’d been a fool not to ask her to marry him. Now it might be too late.

Mr. Johnson left, and I sank back against the sofa. I was alone, having allowed Gabriel Johnson a private meeting with me, knowing it would be relatively short.