Rightfully His

Prologue

Edinburgh
September 1817

The chill northern air seeped into the parlor and cut through the heat of the fire burning in the grate with the sharpness of an icicle. Despite the cold, sweat prickled Frank Storbridge's forehead and dampened his palms. There was an ache in his chest and throat that could only be called longing. Or desire.
He took a turn about the rose-trellis-papered room and stared at the scarred oak panels of the door. He wanted to fling it open and go tearing through the house looking for her. He wanted to pull her to him and say all the things that had been too long unsaid. But though he was lightheaded with fear and urgency and lack of sleep, some vestiges of sense and propriety and the rules of a lifetime remained.
He straightened his coat, rumpled from eighteen hours' travel, pushed his tangled hair back from his face, ran his fingers over the stubble on his chin. Perhaps he should have taken the time to find an inn room to bathe and shave. But when he'd arrived in Edinburgh, all that mattered was seeing her as quickly as possible. He'd walked—run—straight to this house where she was staying in Old Fishmarket Close.
The door eased open, slowly, almost reluctantly. The rose chintz curtains stirred. The girandole candlesticks tinkled in the draft. There was a rustle of fabric, a firm, light step, and she stood before him. Charlotte de Ribard. His employer's daughter, his best friend, the bright, particular star that had always been out of his reach.
"Good day, Frank."
Her voice was strangely flat. It was only five days since he'd seen her, but she seemed to have aged five years. Her face was pale, the hollows beneath her cheeks deepened, the point of her chin painfully sharp. Her abundant, honey-brown hair, usually a riot of disorder, seemed limp and colorless. Worst of all, the brightness had been wiped from her brown eyes. Curse her father and that bastard who had been her betrothed.
"Charlie." He was at her side in an instant. It took all the willpower he possessed not to pull her into his arms. Instead, he seized both her hands, as he often had in the past.
She snatched her hands away and sprang back as though he had struck her. "What do you want, Frank?" Her voice was as cold as the wind that whipped through Edinburgh.
"I came as soon as I heard." He tried to warm her with his voice, since she wouldn't accept his touch. "I'm so sorry."
"Sorry for what? That my father and Ned are monsters without a scrap of decency or conscience? That Ned is dead? It's no more than he deserved. If justice had been done, Papa would be dead as well."
She moved to a faded tapestry settee and sat, back straight, hands folded tightly in her lap. She was wearing a plain, dark green gown that someone must have lent her. The skirt looked as if it had been hastily tacked up, and the bodice pulled across her chest. He forced his gaze away, but not before he had noticed the fullness beneath the fabric. He drew a steadying breath. "I'm sorry Ned Rutledge is dead, because it means I can't give him the thrashing he deserves. I never thought he was good enough for you."
She laughed, a dry, cracking sound, like the breaking of dead wood. "A blackguard for a blackguard's daughter. What match could be more appropriate?"
Her voice was as tight and pinched as her expression. He searched her face, seeking some way back to the girl he loved. The image of their first meeting was etched in his mind as clearly as the engraving of Paris that hung on the wall across from him. He had been in her father's study, being interviewed for the position of secretary. Fresh from Oxford, he'd had only one thought in his head—to secure the employment that was the key to all his future ambitions.
Then Charlotte had stepped into the dark, formal room, bringing lightness and sunshine. She had worn an apricot-colored dress and a smile that was just as warm. Frank had never considered himself a romantic, but her smile had pierced his heart. There was no other way to describe it. At that moment Daniel de Ribard could have been an humble country squire and Frank would have gone to work for him just to be near her.
Now her mouth was folded into a tight line, the corners turned down as though to suppress any spurt of feeling. He was used to seeing her mouth curved with laughter. Once he had felt it warm and pliant beneath his own. The memory of their single kiss was so vivid he could still feel the texture of her lips and taste the sweet heat of her response.
But that kiss was not to be spoken of, for at the time it happened her hand and heart had been promised to Ned Rutledge. Perhaps that was the problem now. Though they had both scrupulously avoided mentioning the kiss, it had cast a shadow over the ease of their friendship. "Rutledge didn't deserve you," Frank said, keeping his voice even, "but I know how much you loved him."
Charlotte stared down at her hands. "I thought I knew him."
Those five words contained a world of pain. Frank had cause to know the world was not a pretty place, but she was too young, at one-and-twenty, to have the veils ripped from her eyes. "I never liked Rutledge," he said. "But even I never guessed what he was capable of." Nor had the people of Lancaster, where Ned owned a cotton mill and the Rutledge family had been powerful for two generations. Five days ago rumors had swept the city that Ned Rutledge and Daniel de Ribard had been up to their necks in lies and swindles and attempted murder. The news had been like tinder to the Lancaster millworkers already suffering economic privation. The city had been engulfed by rioting.
"I was there," Charlotte said, as though her thoughts were following a similar path. "I'd gone into Lancaster to get Ned to tell me the truth. I was in his house when the mob broke in."
She must have seen him killed. She must have seen her betrothed's fair head bashed in with a club. And while she had gone through that hell, Frank had been miles away. Self-reproach twisted his guts, but he kept his voice gentle. "Charlie—"
"Paul Lescaut saved me," Charlotte went on. "He got me and my cousin Sophie out of Ned's house and out of Lancaster and brought us here to his family in Edinburgh."
"Thank God for it," Frank said. Paul Lescaut was Charlotte's half-brother, her father's bastard son if the gossip of the long-time Ribard family retainers was to be believed. Frank liked and admired Lescaut, but he was aware of a distinct wish that he himself could have played a part in the rescuing. "How is your cousin?" he asked.
"Remarkably well, considering Papa and Ned did their best to have her murdered." Charlotte's fingers clenched, the nails pressing into her palms. "Papa's own niece. His ward. He always treated Sophie like one of his daughters."
Frank kept his hands clamped at his sides to suppress the urge to touch her. "I'm sure he—"
"Sure he what?" Charlotte's voice cut like glass. The words spilled out as though she were lashing herself with the truth. "The facts are plain enough. Papa stole Sophie's inheritance and used it to build his own fortune. Then, when Sophie grew up and started asking questions, he decided it wasn't safe to let her live. He inveigled Ned into helping him. After all, Ned was going to marry me. He had an interest in preserving the Ribard fortune. He and Papa plotted Sophie's murder as cold-bloodedly as any fox hunt. Only a fox is at least given a sporting chance."
Frank moved to a straight-backed chair covered in sturdy black fabric. "How long do you and Sophie plan to stay with the Lescauts?"
For a moment Charlotte's face lightened. "Sophie's going to stay permanently. She's to marry Paul."
Frank sat back in his chair. On the surface it was odd to think of Charlotte's elegant, worldly cousin Sophie married to the radical journalist Paul Lescaut. But Lescaut had saved Sophie from the machinations of Daniel de Ribard and Ned Rutledge. Danger must have drawn them together. "I'm glad," he said. "Sophie deserves all the happiness she can find. Lescaut seems a very decent sort despite the abrasive exterior."
Charlotte gave a half smile that held an echo of the girl she used to be. "I always wanted a brother." Her eyes darkened. "And Papa always wanted a son. But that didn't stop him from trying to kill Paul too. I suppose he would have been as quick to get rid of me if I'd been in his way."
"No." Frank again remembered the first time he'd seen Charlotte. Daniel de Ribard had looked up at his daughter, and for a moment his cool, controlled face had been transformed. "Ribard loves you, Charlie. I'd stake my life on it. I think you're the one person he does love."
"I doubt he's capable of loving anyone."
Frank leaned forward. His fingers ached to smooth the lines from about her eyes and mouth. "He's planning to pay a visit to his plantation in Jamaica. He admits nothing."
"Of course. It would take more than scandal to bring Papa down. He can occupy himself with his foreign investments for years." Charlotte adjusted the folds of her gown, as though she regretted having spoken so freely and was armoring herself to hold back further revelations.
Frank crossed his legs, aware that this next would not be easy. He stared down at the travel-stained toes of his Hessians. "Ribard wants to make some provision for you before he leaves the country," he said at last.
Her head jerked up. Her eyes were as ice cold as her father's could be. "So he did send you after me. I thought as much."
Frank returned her gaze without flinching. "He asked me to see you, yes. If he hadn't, I'd have come anyway. I'm leaving his employ."
"I don't want his money."
"Ribard thought as much. He isn't offering you money. He wants to sign Chelmsford over to you."
He could tell from her face that this took her by surprise. Chelmsford, in Lancashire, was one of her father's smaller estates. Frank had accompanied Ribard and Charlotte on visits there more than once. He had vivid memories of riding out with Charlotte to visit the tenants, most of whom she had known by name since childhood. "I'm sure the tenants would prefer for you to have the property than to be left to the mercies of Ribard's man of business," he said.
Charlotte's fingers twisted in the dark green fabric of her skirt. "You mean I can justify taking largesse from a murderer in the name of protecting others?"
"You can't expiate Ribard's sins by denying yourself, Charlie."
"Nothing can expiate his sins."
The silence in the room was thick and painful, like the coal smoke that hung over one of Daniel de Ribard's factories. "Will you go back to stay with your mother when Ribard leaves the country?" Frank asked.
"No." Charlotte's voice was firm. "Maman must know what Papa's done, but she'll insist on putting a good face on it for the sake of appearances. I can't bear that."
"You'll stay with Sophie and Lescaut then?" It was too early to speak of the future, but his mind had been racing ahead from the moment he knew Charlotte was free.
"They've asked me to, though I'm sure they're longing to be alone together."
He could see it in her eyes now. The numbing pain and the cold, bitter anger cracked like a sheet of ice, revealing stark need. The need that came from being alone, cut off from the father she had adored and the man she had thought she would marry. The need that would have brought Frank to Edinburgh, regardless of Daniel de Ribard's instructions.
He was on his feet in an instant. The words tumbled from his lips without thought or planning. "Marry me, Charlie."
Her eyes went wide. For a moment she sat absolutely still, gripping the folds of her gown so tightly her knuckles turned white.
The blood pounded in Frank's head. His pulse was racing, but it hurt to draw a breath. He stood immobile, held by her gaze, locked in unbearable uncertainty.
"Marry you?" Charlotte pushed herself to her feet, slicing through the stillness in one swift motion. "Have you gone mad, Frank?"
She was only an arm's length away. He could reach out and pull her into his arms, as he had once before. She had responded to him then, for all she'd been betrothed to Ned Rutledge. He looked down into her dark eyes, seeing some spark of what had been between them. "It's too soon, I know. But I'd care for you, Charlie. You wouldn't be alone."
She moved down the length of the small room, her skirt whipping about her legs. "I'm not going to marry, Frank. Not now. Not ever."
"It's natural for you to feel that way, but in time—"
"No." She turned to face him, standing in front of the parlor windows. The cool sunlight brightened her hair but left her face in shadow. "What is it, Frank? Do you think because I kissed you once I'm ready to tumble into your arms?"
She had broken the barrier. She'd referred to the embrace they had both scrupulously avoided mentioning in the month since it happened. The memory pulsated in the air between them, redolent with unspoken words and unexpressed longings. For a moment they weren't in this unfamiliar parlor in Edinburgh; they were on a winding path on the grounds of her father's estate. The sun was warm, the air thick with the scent of roses, a thrush called from the beech coppice. He had relived every moment of it so often in memory. The way Charlotte had stumbled, the way he'd steadied her, the way he'd bent his head and taken her mouth, reason overwhelmed by need. The way her lips had parted with an urgency beyond all expectation.
"After what you've been through no one could expect you to want anything but a safe harbor." His voice was hoarse and strained, which wasn't surprising because he'd quite lost control of his breathing. He pushed his fingers into his hair. "Hell, I've made a thorough mull of this. Look, Charlie, when I asked you to marry me, I didn't mean . . . We could go on being friends, just as we've always been. There wouldn't have to be anything more. Not until you were ready."
She stared at him, the bones of her face sharpened by the shadows. "What makes you think I'll ever be ready? You shouldn't read too much into a kiss, Frank."
Her voice was cold, but the memory of the kiss was too warm and alive to be denied. He could smell the scent of her skin, vanilla and almond oil, pure and sweet and somehow potently erotic. He chose his words with care. "I'm not reading anything into it. It was a beautiful day and you looked beautiful and we both lost our heads. Such things happen. But you can't deny that there was something between us, if only a potential."
She drew a breath. For a moment he thought he'd got through to her. Her pulse quickened above the high braided collar of her gown. Her face flushed with color. Then she turned her head with deliberation, breaking eye contact. "I told you, I'm not going to marry. And even if I did . . . do you imagine I'd marry you?"
She might as well have pummeled him with her fists. He sucked in his breath. He had been prepared to find her hurt, angry, even bitter. But he had never thought to hear scorn in her voice. She had always been free of the family pride that was so marked in both her parents. "Turn me down if you must, Charlie," he said, "but you can find a better excuse than that. I know you've never cared a rush for such distinctions."
She stared straight into his eyes. "You were his secretary, Frank. You kept his accounts, you answered his correspondence. You knew his business better than any of us. How could you not have known what he was doing?"
"Christ." Shock made his voice rough and his language violent. "Do you think I'd have stayed in that house an hour if I'd had any glimmering of the truth? Do you think I'd have kept silent?"
"I don't know." Her voice was cold and even, deadened to feeling. "I don't trust my judgment of anyone anymore."
"You know me, Charlie. Whatever else we've been, we've been friends—"
"Less than three years. I've known Papa all my life. I'd known Ned since we were children."
"On my word of honor, Charlie—"
"Honor?" She gave a laugh that was like the grating of a knife on a rock. "Honor is a sugar syrup that makes lies go down more easily."
He dragged his fingers through his hair. He wanted to shake her, to break through this wall of cynicism. "Damn it, Charlotte—"
"You've always been ambitious, Frank. You've made no secret of it. You told me often enough that you disagreed with Papa's politics, yet you continued to work for him. It sickened you to write to the plantation in Jamaica, but you did it just the same. A penniless clergyman's son needs powerful friends if he's to have a hope of standing for Parliament. Isn't that how you put it?"
He drew a breath. "Near enough. But it's a long way from ambition to criminality."
"Not so very far." The accusation in her gaze held him rooted to the spot. "Can you honestly claim you knew nothing?"
The denial should have been automatic. Instead, the words turned to ash in his mouth. Had he known Daniel de Ribard plotted murder? No. Had he seen anything in writing that even hinted at his employer's schemes? Certainly not. But had there been clues to the truth that he'd ignored, moments when he'd glanced the other way because it suited him to do so? "If I'd had any proof—"
"But you had suspicions. And you overlooked them."
He swallowed. There was a rank taste in his throat. "If I did, I'll regret it for the rest of my life."
"I doubt it. I expect you'll soon find another powerful man to work for. You'll be in Parliament yet." She regarded him for a moment. "I've known it from the first, you see. I used to admire you for it."
"Known what?"
"That you and Papa are cut from the same cloth."
Her words slashed deep, laying bare a part of him he didn't want to look at. Something inside him turned as dry and cold as the look in Charlotte's eyes. "I see." His fingers had gone numb, but his hands were strangely steady as he reached inside his coat and drew out a sheaf of papers. "The Chelmsford documents. I think you'll find they're self-explanatory, but if you have any questions you can contact Ribard's solicitors." He picked up his hat from the sofa table. "I'll see myself out."
Mercifully the narrow entrance hall was empty. He went down the stairs two at a time and strode out into the bustle of Old Fishmarket Close. Hawkers' cries and snatches of argument and the clop of horse hoofs split the air, but it was Charlotte's words that echoed in his ears, bombarding him with his folly. She was right. It was ambition that had driven him to seek employment with Daniel de Ribard. There was no hope of accomplishing any good in the world without power. He had learned that watching his own father struggle to aid his parishioners.
He had known his purpose that first morning in Daniel de Ribard's study. Then Charlotte had stepped into the room, and laughing brown eyes and a lopsided smile had made him yearn for something more.
The northerly wind whipped up, cold and biting, propelling him down the street. He turned up the collar of his coat. He had been mad to come here, mad to follow the impulses of his heart. But he would not make such a mistake again.
Charlotte had pointed him back in the right direction. She had accused him of caring for nothing but his own ambitions. Very well. He would show her exactly how right she was.