As long as he could make her happy for the rest of their lives, he didn’t care if anyone ever ate a Jeffcoat sweet.
CHARLOTTE TUGGED AT her cotton jacket. She had been pleased it was warm enough not to need a cloak until she realized the benefits of a hood giving her a degree of anonymity. Instead, she had on a vivid cream-and-pink striped skirt and fitted matching striped paletot. She loved the outfit for its whimsy, making her feel like a sweet confection. However, now that she was going to meet Lionel, she feared she had the appearance of a walking barber pole — far too conspicuous.
Leaving Rare Confectionery, she considered going on foot but decided the twenty-minute walk would take too long. Her nerves would be frayed. Thus, after debating with herself for half a block, she hailed a Hackney that was, all of a sudden, right in front of her.How fortuitous!
The trip to St. James’s Park was short, hardly time to arrange her skirts on the worn leather seat before they’d crossed The Mall and had arrived.
“There you go, miss.”
She considered asking the driver to wait, but there were so many cabbies at the park’s entrance, it seemed an unnecessary request. Hurrying past other strollers on the various path, she headed toward the lake. In another minute, she clambered through the half-destroyed fence that had seen better days, barring the footpath to Duck Island, which was actually a peninsula. It certainly no longer kept the city cats out as the fence was first intended to protect the various species of birds, nor did it keep out people determined to go on the island.
Passing a man with a pole, she glanced into his bucket. Having read about the stagnant water, she couldn’t imagine eating anything caught in St. James’s Park lake.
She slipped past the bird-keeper’s house, also in a sorry state of disrepair, and hurried halfway around the small island to a familiar tree. There he was. Lionel Evans.
He didn’t interest her in the least, and now, she had to convince him to get on with his life. If he was infatuated with her in some newfound obsession, she would insist it cease at once. She would even tell him of her engagement if necessary to ward him off. Surely, he wouldn’t want to tangle with a viscount, especially one who was also a barrister.
Lionel turned and smiled. “There’s my girl,” he said, giving her pause. He seemed so sure and smug.
“Actually, I am not,” Charlotte affirmed so he knew where they stood immediately, “and that’s why I came.”
Crossing his arms, he looked her up and down in that insolent way he had. She recalled he’d always done so, but it used to excite her. Now, she felt insulted.
“Are you saying you came to meet me secretly in order to tell me you don’t still have feelings for me?”
She faltered. It hurt to know he’d seen how much she’d previously cared for him, and he had left her anyway. She’d rather hoped he’d been an oblivious fool, not a cold, heartless man, who’d dismissed her feelings so abruptly.
“I came here because you forced me to,” Charlotte reminded him. “Although you were so far in your cups, I wasn’t absolutely certain you would remember.”
“I wouldn’t miss a meeting with you, the future Viscountess Jeffcoat.”
She took a shocked step back. “How did you know?”
“It was in the papers yesterday. I noticed it after my sister and I ran into you,” he said, sounding casual. “Congratulations are in order.”
Pausing, she knew she was on unfamiliar territory.What did he want?
“Thank you,” she said softly, continuing to study him. “But you said you ... wanted to claim the rest of me.”
“So you rushed here to see if it were true.” He shook his head. “I do think you’re a pretty girl, Charlotte, but maybe not quite lovely enough to capture a wealthy viscount. Unless...,” he paused, “you let him unwrap the wedding night present ahead of time and trapped him?”
“What?”Was he saying what she thought he was?Turning on her heel, she began to walk away. She’d come because he’d threatened her, thinking she could talk sense into someone who plainly had none.
“Or does he think you are yet an innocent?” his mocking words came after her.
She stopped, her cheeks heated. Without turning, she said, “I am,” and took another step away from him.
“But you did let me kiss you. More than once.”
“I cared for you, Lionel,” she said, facing him again. Thinking of his words at her window about telling everyone she’d ill-used him, she asked, “What do you want?”
“While I do think you’re a special bit of stuff, you are more useful as a viscountess since I find myself in some debt. The Continent was not good to me.”
“Can’t you sell some of your paintings to raise money?” she asked, trying not to follow his words to their natural conclusion — he was going to ask her for money, just as Viola had done.
His face turned sour. “I am not appreciated as I will be eventually. Sometimes, that doesn’t happen until after an artist dies, but I’m not willing to wait that long. I need to live. And after an incident in Italy, it turns out the best place for me to live is right here in boring old England.”
To her bad luck. “What about your family?”
