Thornton looked a little self-conscious. “I was thinking that fellow you know in the Horse Guards—Radcliffe, isn’t it?—might be able to help.”
James considered it. Radcliffe didn’t usually involve himself in private matters like this, but he supposed there was no harm in asking his advice. He knew people, did Radcliffe.
“There’s no guarantee he’ll be able to help.”
Thornton nodded. “I know, but I’d feel better knowing we have explored every possible avenue. Alice is a good person. She doesn’t deserve to be under someone’s thumb like this. Not now, when she’s finally free.”
Finally free.An interesting turn of phrase to use about a relatively recent widow, James thought.
“What can you tell me about her marriage?” Thornton hesitated, and James added, “It would seem to have a bearing on the blackmail.”
Thornton acknowledged the truth of that with a long sigh. “Uncle Thaddeus was... I think he was a bit of bully.”
“Think?” James remembered him from school. He was a nasty piece of work back then.
Gerald wrinkled his nose thoughtfully. “The thing is, he could be quite charming in public. The ladies seemed to love him. But the way he treated my father—Papa was a younger son, you know, and Uncle Thaddeus used to, Idon’t know, rub Papa’s nose in it. Papa was dependent on him for everything—he’d been left nothing in Grandpapa’s will—but Grandpapa expected Uncle Thaddeus to make over one of the lesser estates to Papa’s management and use. That’s the way it’s always been done in our family. Only Uncle Thaddeus didn’t.”
James could see that the issue rankled. From what he gathered, Thornton’s father had done exactly the same to Thornton as his uncle had done to him. But that wasn’t the issue that concerned him at the moment. “And how did your uncle treat his wife?”
“He wasn’t... kind. When there was only family present, he treated her, oh, like a servant. Dismissively. As if she didn’t matter. Quite cruelly at times.”
James stiffened. “Physically?”
Thornton shook his head. “I don’t think so.” His lack of certainty set James’s teeth on edge. “It was a different kind of cruelty, like a cat toying with a mouse. Embarrassing her, making cutting comments, humiliating her in front of others.”
James’s hands closed into fists. To treat such a gentle lady so...
“For instance, he never lost an opportunity to belittle her, especially in front of my mother. Alice is barren, you know, and I don’t recall a single occasion when Uncle Thaddeus didn’t mention the fact, directly or indirectly. He had a very cutting tongue.”
“Why particularly in front of your mother?”
Thornton gave a shamefaced grimace. “Mama used to encourage him. She’s never liked Aunt Alice, I don’t know why. It’s not fair. Alice doesn’t deserve any of it; she’s the kindest person.”
There was a short silence. James thought that Thornton was probably wondering the same thing he was: If Charlton had been openly cruel to his wife in company, what must he have been like in private?
“But if she did have a lover,” Thornton burst out, as if he’d been having a silent argument with himself, “I, for one, don’t blame her. She deserved some happiness in her life. Didn’t she? Well, didn’t she?”
His words hung in the air. James didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure what he thought about it at the moment. He was appalled by what Thornton had told him about her marriage. But infidelity? His emotions were all over the place.
“Any idea who this lover might have been?”
Thornton shook his head. “I don’t think I ever even saw her with a man, except at balls and parties. But that doesn’t prove anything, I suppose.”
“I don’t really care about the lover,” James said, surprising himself, “but if we knew who he was, we could follow him up. He must surely know something about Bamber, if he gave—or sold—him the letters.” And if he did hand over private love letters from Lady Charlton, the man deserved a damned good thrashing.
“So will you speak to Radcliffe?”
“Yes, I’ll call on him tomorrow. Do you want to come?”
“Of course.” They made arrangements to meet the next morning, then Thornton thanked him and left. James poured himself another brandy and pondered the question of Lady Charlton and her secret lover.
He couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed. But that was foolish. At his age, he should know better than to put people on pedestals.
So she was human. But he’d stake everything he owned that she wasn’t a wanton. In fact he’d thought her quite shy of men. He’d flirted with her in the mildest way, and she’d practically run a mile.
And as far as he could see, she made no effort to encourage the attentions of other men. Quite the contrary.
So if she’d had a secret lover—and he wasn’t sure of that, though what else could those letters be about?—it must have been for love, rather than the boredom or neglect that drovemany wives to infidelity. And given the shameful way her husband had treated her, who could blame her for that?
