Page 2 of Charity

Nell clutched at her arm. “Are we lost?”

“No, of course not. I just stumbled.”

The maid yanked her fingers from Agatha’s upper arm. Agatha hadn’t meant to snap, but agonizing over past mistakes was a futile endeavor that no amount of tears or self-recriminations could fix. She was angry at her own foolish gullibility, not the maid.

With that thought firmly in mind, Agatha turned right and hurried along the deserted street, pleased to be almost halfway home. She turned right again and peered into the mist, looking for the next cross street on her left. The comfort of Berkeley Square should be very close.

If ever a man was in need of understanding and affection from his own woman, then Oscar Ryall, Viscount Carrington, was clear out of luck tonight. He stood amid the chattering gaiety of his mother’s drawing room, his breathing shallow and fast. For just a moment, he had imagined Bartholomew Barrette had entered the room. His pulse raced. His palms slicked with sweat.

But Barrette was dead.

Oscar had killed him himself.

Determined to again push the terror into the quiet recesses of his mind, he skirted the room, searching for better company. A bigger distraction than the inane chatter of the woman he would soon marry would restore his balance.

However, before he had gone too many steps, a hand caught his arm. “Lady Penelope will do very well for you, I think, Oscar. Once she and I become better acquainted, I would enjoy taking her under my wing to ensure she is accepted everywhere.”

“She’s an earl’s daughter, Mother,” Oscar murmured. “She is already accepted everywhere. She’s very agreeable to everyone else.”

“She might be accepted everywhere, but she must make a bigger impression if she is to rise with the cream as she should. And she should be agreeable to her future husband, too. Does she not please you son?”

The urge to blurt out the truth maddened him. “Of course she does,” he lied. “Forgive me. I am merely fatigued tonight.”

His mother, a shrewd and determined woman, peered hard at his face. “You said that yesterday, and last week, too, at the Belmont soiree. Are you certain you’re in good health, my dear?”

Again, he had the urge to blurt out the truth. Only this time he would scream it out loud. He didn’t trust himself not to cause an embarrassing scene in his present state of mind. He’d have to leave another entertainment early again. “There is nothing wrong with me that a good night’s sleep couldn’t fix. Leave me be, Mother. It will all come to rights in the end.”

Oscar desperately wished that might be so. But the dreams, the remembrances of that fateful night, only grew in strength until he’d begun to fear for his sanity. When he closed his eyes, he imagined the slow slide of blood across Barrette’s forehead.

A light touch landed on his arm, and he startled.

His betrothed, Lady Penelope, fluttered her long lashes at him. “Forgive me for the interruption, my lord, but Lady Prewitt desires to take her leave. She has developed a megrim and requires immediate rest.”

Oscar forced a smile to his face for his betrothed’s benefit. “Of course, Lady Penelope. It was good of you to come. I do hope your sister recovers swiftly. A sore head is a terrible affliction and can linger for days, I’ve heard.”

Lady Penelope’s lips turned up in a sudden smile. “They can, can’t they? I will pass along your good wishes.”

When his mother fluttered off to do her duty as hostess, Oscar scanned the guests. None paid him the slightest attention, so he slipped into the adjoining dining room and listened to the soft conversation in the hall. There seemed to be some debate over leaving. However, he wouldn’t interrupt to smooth their departure. He simply couldn’t face another tedious farewell with the woman he had to marry. Not tonight. Tonight he needed so much more than empty pleasantries.

Once his betrothed and her family had departed, Oscar slipped along the quiet hall, only noticed by the butler. Quite used to Oscar’s habit of stealthy escape, the butler retrieved Oscar’s hat and cane without a word. Just to be sure that his betrothed had truly left, he eased the front door open an inch and peered outside. Lady Penelope’s carriage remained below the stairs. Oscar snapped the door closed an inch and listened until it finally drew away. He let out a relieved breath and stepped out into the thick fog.

As if the cloying cheerfulness inside wasn’t bad enough, now he had to traverse through oppressive fog. Hopefully this experience wouldn’t add to his nightly dreams. As it was, almost every encounter, large or insignificant, blended into his oft-repeated dream of killing another man.

The fact that Bartholomew Barrette’s reason had slipped toward madness remained a cold comfort during Oscar’s lonely nights over the past weeks. He still wondered if there might have been another way to disarm Barrette without killing him. Yet his actions had spared his best friend, Daventry, and the woman he’d planned to marry, Lillian Winter, from suffering any injury that might have resulted in their death.

He’d acted quickly to save them. Although Lord Daventry had been effusive in his thanks over his quick intervention, doubt over his actions still filled Oscar with dread.

He had done something that could never be undone. Placed a shadow on his soul. And the only person he might feel better after talking to, refused to speak with him anymore.

Oscar descended the stairs, shoving his hands beneath his arms to calm the shaking. Such jitters caused people to stare and ask questions. Thank heavens he’d managed to hide his misery while inside his mother’s house well enough for tonight but that wasn’t always the case. With so many influential members of society gracing her drawing room, any appearance of distress would turn into a fast-running rumor.

Soft sounds in the distance lifted his head. He peered forward and saw two slight forms moving away from his location. Women most likely. Two more souls foolishly abroad on a night better suited to staying indoors.

Oscar shook his head to dispel the yearning to join the women and perhaps cheer himself out of his melancholy. But making love to a stranger would change anything. He was a betrothed man, and as such, he’d committed to marrying Lady Penelope. Making love to her was well down on his list of desires, too.

He was committed. The contracts were signed. The blessings of the ton had rained down upon his head. His future was set in hard, unforgiving stone.

He was to marry a woman he didn’t love.