Charlotte Gray

By Victoria Chatham

Charlotte Gray discovers her home ransacked, her father missing, and a dark and dangerous stranger, Benjamin Abernathy, waiting for her. He had promised to take care of his friend’s daughter if anything befell him and must now follow through with that promise.

With no other options, and despite her misgivings, Charlotte becomes established in the stranger’s home as governess to his nephew and niece. Benjamin doubts her ability to cope with the two young hellions but is quickly reassured as he recognizes the sharp mind behind her blue eyes. But is it Charlotte’s mind he falls in love with, or her delectable body?

With Charlotte hunted for the knowledge she is suspected of possessing and Benjamin, for the threat he presents, danger stalks them. But the smugglers and spies behind the threat have no chance against this duo, who will go to any lengths to protect the secrets they each must keep.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Oct 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9780228619963

Victoria Chatham

Being born in Bristol, England, Victoria Chatham grew up in an area rife with the elegance of Regency architecture. This, along with the novels of Georgette Heyer, engendered in her an abiding interest in the period with its style and manners and is one where she feels most at home.Apart from her writing, Victoria is an avid reader of anything that catches her interest, but especially Regency romance. She also teaches introductory creative writing. Her love of horses gets her away from her computer to volunteer at Spruce Meadows, a world class equestrian centre near Calgary, Alberta, where she currently lives.

Book preview

Charlotte Gray

Those Regency Belles, Book 2

Victoria Chatham

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 9780228619963

Kindle 9780228619970

PDF 9780228619987

Print ISBNs

BWL Print 9780228619994

LSI Print 9780228620013

Amazon Print 9780228620006

Copyright 2021 by Victoria Chatham

Cover art by Michelle Lee

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

Dedication

To Shirley L. Dickson from her friend Charlotte Gray

Chapter One

May 1813

Charlotte Gray gasped and shrank back as a dark-coated figure came through the door. With his collar pulled up and the brim of his hat pulled down, she could not see his face.

We have to go. He held out his hand to her.

She pressed her fingers against her mouth to stem a whimper of panic. Who was he? She stared at the ransacked room in disbelief and then returned her attention to the stranger. Had he done this?

Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you.

His calm voice and soft tone did little to win her belief in his intentions. She attempted to stifle her fears as she gazed at the destruction before her.

Pictures lifted from the walls, the canvases slashed within their broken frames, lay beside books torn from the shelves, their pages ripped from between the covers littering the floor like autumn’s dead leaves. She could only imagine the fury of the person or persons who overturned the heavy drafting board and shredded Isaac’s maps. Still, it was nothing compared to her rage for the perpetrators of this chaos.

Even worse, in the dim light filtering through the bow window facing the street, she saw a darkly ominous stain on the carpet. She reached down and touched the still damp patch, then held her fingertips beneath her nose. The coppery smell of fresh blood assailed her nostrils, as did the ammonia from the spilt ink amongst the sherds of broken pots on the floor.

I can’t leave. Not like this.

Her pulse raced as she struggled to contain the ball of despair forming in her core. The weight of it threatened to drive her to her knees. Tears filled her eyes, but she would not cry in front of this stranger. What if Isaac comes back and I’m not here?

I doubt Isaac will be back any time soon, Miss Gray, but if it gives you consolation, I will have the house put to rights. I promise you. The stranger spoke in low, well-modulated tones pitched to console and encourage.

Desolation at the carnage in her home threatened to shatter Charlotte’s resolve. Grief for Isaac and whatever befell him swelled in her chest. She did not know her birth parents or why they left her at the foundling hospital in Bloomsbury but was grateful that Isaac and his late wife, Sarah, adopted her. A lost and unhappy five-year-old, they had provided for her, educated her, and been her parents and friends for nineteen years. Now four-and-twenty, Charlotte was sure no one could have cared for her better. A sob caught in her throat. Memories of everything Isaac and Sarah did for her surged through her mind. What would she do if Isaac could not be found or did not return to their little house?

Miss Gray. The stranger’s voice hardened. Now, if you please, or it may be too late.

Still in the throes of shock, Charlotte managed to choke out, Too late for what?

The man stepped to her side, gripped her arms and lightly shook her. Look around, Miss Gray. If whoever ransacked Isaac’s papers didn’t find what they were looking for, who do you think they will next target?

Charlotte swallowed, a tremor vibrating through her as she understood the meaning of his question. M-me?

Yes, of course. Who else? You live under his roof, and it is common knowledge that you assist him with his work. Why wouldn’t someone suspect you of knowing what he knew whether you do or not? He set her away from him and gave her a little push. Now, please make haste. Take with you only enough items for your immediate needs.

Charlotte, in utter turmoil, ran up the stairs to her room. She grabbed her valise from under the bed and threw into it a change of clothes, a shawl, toiletries and her two favourite books. She took one last look around her white-washed room with its view over Poole harbour and ran back down the stairs.

Where are you taking me? she asked as the man slung her cloak around her shoulders.

To a safe house for tonight. Pull up your hood. I don’t want anyone recognizing those golden curls of yours.

Her rescuer, if indeed he was, opened the door a crack and checked the street outside.

Come, he said. Hurry, but don’t run.

Charlotte stepped outside. The snick of the latch as her companion closed the door barely registered on the cool, salt-laden evening air. Walking close beside her as they strode along the street, he shielded her from view with the full sweep of the skirts and cape of his greatcoat, easy enough to do in the gathering gloom left by an overcast day.

Charlotte peered up at him as the tension rolling off him made her cold skin prickle even more. She could see no more of his face now than when she first set eyes on him. In addition to his collar and the black tricorn hat pulled low on his brow, a black neckerchief covered his nose and mouth. He looked like a highwayman.

How do I know that I can trust you? she gasped as she lengthened her stride to keep up with him.

You do not. But try not to worry. Isaac is my friend, and I am only carrying out his wishes.

I have never seen you before, Charlotte challenged despite being overwhelmed and sick with shock, so how could you be his friend?

The man turned to look at her, and she almost quailed at the ferocity flaring in his eyes.

Isaac did not conduct all his business at home, did he, Miss Gray? As he spoke, her companion’s expression softened as if he did not want to alarm her further.

Well, no. Charlotte hesitated. That much was true, for Isaac was often away charting the maps for which he was famous.

Then it would follow that you could not possibly know all the people he knows.

Charlotte could only agree with his logic even though there was nothing logical about the events of this day.

At the end of Bay Hog Lane, where it met West Street, a closed carriage drawn by two non-descript horses, waited. The man escorted her to it and opened the door. Then, without so much as a by-your-leave, he gripped her waist in a pair of strong hands. Charlotte stiffened and squeaked a protest as he bundled her unceremoniously onto the seat.

My apologies, Miss Gray, but we cannot delay.

I don’t even know your name. Charlotte gulped in a breath as she righted herself.

He hesitated and then, as if deciding that arguing would waste time, said in a low, gravelly tone, It’s Abernathy. Benjamin Abernathy.

He closed the door and told the coachman to drive on. Charlotte’s parting impression of him was a pair of narrowed green eyes peering at her above the dark cloth of his neckerchief. Whoever Benjamin Abernathy was, he’d deserted her.

The carriage lurched forwards, its wheels rumbling over the cobbles as they left the harbour behind. The clatter of the horses’ hooves drowned out the mournful mew of seagulls wheeling over the rooftops.

Charlotte clung numbly to her valise. Take no more than you need, Benjamin Abernathy had instructed her. He must not know that in addition to her few clothes and stitched safely into the lining in the valise, were the items Isaac entrusted to her.

She remembered his warning.

You must protect these at all costs. If they fall into the wrong hands, it will damage England’s war efforts beyond measure.

She understood the importance of the documents she carried but now did not know to whom she should entrust them. A sob rose in her throat as an image of Isaac at his drafting table came into her mind. A well-known cartographer, the tools of his trade were never far from his fingers. If only she had possessed the foresight to pack his quills and inks, sheets of parchment, his ruler and telescope, compasses, and callipers.

The carriage bumped and swayed, and Charlotte hoped they did not have far to travel. She peeked out of the window. Pale light from a half-moon fell over scrub and heathland, but then clouds drifted across the night sky and obliterated her view. Where was she being taken? As she reached to knock on the roof to attract the coachman’s attention, the horses slowed to a walk and finally came to a halt.

The conveyance listed to one side as the driver jumped down from the box. He came to open the door for her and let down the step.

You’re taking shelter for the night with a friend. His features were as masked as Abernathy’s, and his voice gruff through the thick muffler wound around his neck and pulled up over the lower part of his face. Charlotte knew she had never seen or heard him before, despite his attempt to disguise himself, but took his outstretched hand.

She sighed as she stepped out of the carriage. What choice did she have but to go with the coachman? She supposed that if he was Benjamin Abernathy’s man, then she could trust him.

She shivered as she looked about. The bulk of a substantial brick-built house stood before her, its pillared portico illuminated by flambeaus fitted into sconces on either side of the entrance. The door opened, and a woman carrying a branch of candles stepped out.

This way, my dear, she called.

Clutching her valise in her arms, Charlotte walked towards her along the path of flickering light.

Oh, you poor lamb, the woman commiserated. Come in, come in.

Where am I? Charlotte asked. And who are you?

You’re at Stanley Court, but let’s get you settled first and then take a bite to eat if you can manage it. You need to keep your strength up.

I’m not sure I could eat a thing. Charlotte’s knees turned to water, and she shivered violently. But I would like something to drink, if I may.

Of course, if that is what you wish. We’ll go straight to the kitchen.

Charlotte could see little of her surroundings in the dim light, but the glow from a cooking range looked cozy and welcoming. She placed her valise by the table where she could keep sight of it and moved towards the heat source, holding out her cold hands to warm them.

The woman bustled about filling a kettle and setting it on the hob before encouraging Charlotte to sit down. She took one of Charlotte’s hands in her own.

I am so sorry about Isaac, my dear. It’s a dreadful business and no mistake.

But why would anyone abduct him? Charlotte queried.

As to that, I suspect it is to do with his maps. The woman patted Charlotte’s hand. This wretched war with Napoleon is being fought on many fronts, you know, and not all of them are in Europe.

But Isaac is not a soldier, he is a cartographer, and I still don’t know who you are and how you know Isaac and Mr. Abernathy.

I, my dear, am Lady Constance Albright. I am something of a go-between for Isaac and Benjamin. The woman patted Charlotte’s hand again, but her words rang in Charlotte’s ears.

War. Fronts. Not all of them are in Europe. Go-between.

Dear Lord. Did this mean they were all spies?

Chapter Two

Lady Albright nodded her head in answer to Charlotte’s unspoken query.

Isaac always said you were a smart girl, and I can see he was not mistaken. The kettle came to a whistling boil, and Lady Albright reached for a potholder to safely remove it from the hob.

At this time of day, I think a cup of mint tea and chamomile would settle your stomach better than my best pekoe, don’t you?

Lady Albright gave Charlotte no time to decide as she spooned tea into a pot and then brought it to the table. She looked troubled.

Isaac wanted to keep you as safe as he could, which was why you and I were never formally introduced. Because of his other interests, he maintained that the less his friends knew of each other, the better. But my husband, William, and I were long-time friends of him and Sarah. When Sarah became sick, she specifically asked me to take care of you if anything happened to Isaac.

Charlotte thought back to all the people who came and went from Isaac’s premises. Most of them were sea captains and coastal sailors, but she remembered the occasional soldier. One, in particular, recently visited several times, and Isaac had introduced them. Why him and so few of the others? Charlotte asked herself now.

Isaac and Sarah were the only parents I have ever known. Why would they not want me to meet their friends?

To keep you safe. Isaac and Sarah loved you very much, you know.

I do know. Charlotte’s lower lip quivered, and she pressed her knuckles against it. I know Sarah desperately wanted a child of her own. When she and Isaac came to the foundling home, I was so fortunate that they chose me.

I remember. The lace on Lady Albright’s cap fluttered as she nodded her head. Sarah was so happy. After having a good bath and washing your hair, we all saw how pretty you were.

You met me then? Charlotte stared at Lady Albright as if trying to conjure up a memory of her.

I did. Several times. I’m not surprised that you do not remember, for it was many years ago. But when you started reading and showed such remarkable aptitude for Isaac’s work, he thought it best to keep you safe from curious and maybe dangerous eyes. It seems he was right to do so.

Charlotte thought of the bloodstain on the floor. I don’t even know if he is still alive.

I am sure he is, my dear, Lady Albright affirmed. I suspect, because of his map-making, he is far too valuable to both England and France for him to have met his demise. Do you know what he was working on?

Charlotte dipped her head. Yes, she knew, but she could not tell this lady and perhaps put her in harm’s way, nor did she want to lie.

Ah. I see. Lady Albright put down her cup. Quite right being cautious, my dear. I do not blame you at all. Now, if you have finished, I will take you up to your room.

You do not have a housemaid who could show me the way?

The servants are all abed. Besides, I am not that much of a lady, truth be told, that I cannot do many things for myself.

Charlotte picked up her valise, followed Lady Albright out of the kitchen and up a broad flight of stairs to a room at the back of the house. The sash window was open a little, and a breeze fluttered through it, carrying the soft hoot of an owl, the bark of a dog fox and, from somewhere closer, the gentle burble of roosting pigeons.

Would you like the window closed? Lady Albright asked as she turned down the bed.

No, thank you. Charlotte thought of her small but comfortable room in Isaac’s house close to the waterfront. Unless there was a high wind or driving rain, her window was usually open. She liked listening to the quarrelsome seagulls as they settled down to roost and, beyond them, the soft murmur of the sea that lulled her into sleep.

Despite the war in Europe, she often awoke to the raucous laughter of stevedores or the patter of foreign languages depending on which ships had docked. Fishing vessels sailed out to Newfoundland with salt and other provisions, returning with dried and salted fish for markets in Italy, Spain and Portugal, finally coming home with cargoes of wine, olive oil and dried fruits. Isaac often pointed out the sloops and luggers manned, he said, by smugglers who ran in and out of Poole harbour, right under the noses of the Customs Officers.

Isaac.

Her heart hurt as she slipped between the sheets, and her head still reeled with the events of the day. Two years ago, she and Isaac comforted each other when Sarah died. Now there was no one to turn to for comfort, not even Lady Albright, even though she appeared a kindly soul. Charlotte buried her face in the pillow and let loose her tears for Isaac while she prayed for his safety.

But, as sleep began to claim her, it wasn’t Isaac she pictured. It was Benjamin Abernathy’s green eyes, regarding her with kindly concern above the black fabric of his neckerchief.

* * *

The crowing of a rooster, a rude herald for the new day, filtered into Charlotte’s consciousness, and she slowly dragged herself up through the vestiges of sleep. Sunshine blasted its way between a gap in the curtains and sprawled across her bed cover. She pushed herself up against her pillows and inhaled the crisp morning air drifting through the open window.

A light knock on the door announced Lady Albright’s arrival. A flustered-looking maid came behind her balancing a tray with one hand and carrying a hot water jug in the other.

Good morning. Lady Albright’s smile was as bright as the sunshine, which flooded the room as she opened the curtains. "It’s a beautiful morning today and promises greater warmth than of late. I am so glad that miserable winter of so much rain and cold is behind us. I hope