Chapter 1

To live near the most frequented inn outside of London was to be an observer—whether willing or unwilling—of both pomp and prestige. On a day when many of the country’s most wealthy and powerful were making their way to Town for the opening of Parliament, the spectacle was something indeed to behold.

Charlotte Mandeville walked side by side with her two sisters and Mama toward the village of Stoneleigh, pink magnolia blossoms fluttering around them in the breeze. The flowers lent their sweet scent to the air, marred only by the dirt kicked up by passing carriages and carts, most of them familiar to Charlotte.

She glanced at the chaise drawing near, and her eyes fixed on it curiously. It had no crest, but it boasted a fine, glossy black body, gilt detailing, and a pair of matched bays. The man within stared ahead, dark brow furrowed, the frown on his face just visible in the shadow of his top hat’s brim. He was as handsome as his carriage—and every bit as intimidating.

He turned his head, catching eyes with Charlotte for a moment before the equipage’s progress took him out of view.

“Is that Lord Scarsdale?” Charlotte’s younger sister Tabitha asked as the four of them passed into the village.

“No,” Charlotte answered immediately.

Her mother and both sisters looked at her, all six brows raised in surprise at her firm answer. The three of them were a great deal alike, with hair of varying colors but fair complexions and soft features. If the months since Papa’s death had not added so many wrinkles and a sprinkling of gray hair to Mama’s golden head, she might have been thought a fourth sister.

Charlotte’s fingers tightened on her reticule—a guilty gesture if ever there was one. Thankfully, none of her family seemed to notice. “Did you not see the young man who glanced through the window?” she asked, hoping to cover her overconfident response; the breadth and depth of her knowledge of the haut-ton was not something she wished her family to know of. But everyone knew that Lord Scarsdale was an old man, and the surly gentleman she had seen within the carriage could never be described in such a way. On the contrary—he was in his prime. And unhappily so, it seemed.

“His son, perhaps?” Lillian, the eldest and fairest of the three Mandeville daughters suggested.

Certainly not, Charlotte thought, for the earl had only daughters, not to mention the fact that his chaise had a large, scarlet crest on both doors. Rather than betray such knowledge, though, she said, “Perhaps.”

“Do you think the post has come?” Mama asked, looking toward the inn with a crease in her brow.

Charlotte and Lillian shared glances. Mama was becoming almost obsessive about the post. All of them were nervous for the time when the letter would arrive, but none more than she. Little wonder, for though its contents would affect them all, they would affect Mama most nearly. She alone was responsible for her three daughters now, and once the estate’s heir was located, they would be obliged to leave their beloved Bellevue House. It often felt as though they were living on borrowed time there now.

“I have a letter to post,” Charlotte said. “I shall go find out if anything has been received for us.”

“You shan’t discover anything at all if those people have aught to say on the matter,” Tabitha said, nodding toward the inn.

Apart from the ostlers and carriages in the bustling inn yard, a host of people stood before the windows, blocking the entrance as they vied for their turn to look at whatever was holding everyone’s interest in the glass panes.

“There must be a new caricature,” Tabitha said, going on her tiptoes as though, from such a distance and with such a small frame, that would be sufficient to enable her to see.

Charlotte tried to strike an expression of mild interest, while her hand clutched the strings of her reticule more tightly. She hated deceiving her family, but she hated the alternative even more. She would not see them reduced to penury while she had the ability to ensure otherwise, whatever the risk to her reputation. Papa had always encouraged them to be enterprising, had he not?

“Do you think it is Rowlandson doing the caricatures?” Tabitha asked.

Charlotte hid a smile, unable to be anything but flattered at being compared to one of the country’s finest caricature artists.

“No,” Lillian said definitively. “They say the art is original, not produced en masse, as Rowlandson’s is.”

“Then why send them to Stoneleigh, of all places?” Mama asked. “Would they not be better suited to London?”

Charlotte’s jaw ached from clenching her teeth, and she forced herself to relax. She should be accustomed to these discussions by now. It was different, though, to hear her own family speculate on the identity of the artist while remaining silent.

“If the rumors are true,” Lillian said as they stopped on the corner across from the inn, “it may be someone local.”

Tabitha turned to stare at her. “Surely, we would know if that were the case.”

“Whoever it is,” Lillian said in her reasonable voice, “he is bound to bring himself trouble. It seems spectacularly unwise to cross such an array of powerful people.”

Charlotte’s heart fluttered nervously. Why did it feel as though everyone’s eyes were upon her when they were not? She could not defend the art without the risk of betraying her secret, though, so she chose the alternative. “I, for one, cannot understand what the fuss is. They aren’t particularly skillful drawings, are they?”

“Not particularly, no,” Lillian agreed, making Charlotte’s brows draw together in offense.

“I quite admire them,” Tabitha said. “They are witty and diverting. Did you see the one about Prinny last week?”

Charlotte turned her head to hide the smile of satisfaction that stole across her lips. She was not immune to praise, after all. “I think I shall try my luck with the crowd. You go on ahead without me. I need no ribbons.”

Mama nodded, and Charlotte parted ways with her family, crossing the street after a cart while the others made their way toward the haberdasher. She was obliged to excuse herself multiple times as she gently shouldered her way to the door of the inn, keeping her gaze away from the caricature. It was not as though its contents were a mystery to her. The mystery, rather, was why it was drawing such attention.

This particular piece had been a grasp at straws, for there had been no substantial gossip garnered all week. Charlotte had been obliged to settle for a drawing of Sir Charles Perrington in his conservatory, hands covered in dirt, exotic vegetables popping out of the ground like fireworks while he smiled maniacally.

She had nearly groaned when she had handed the drawing to Mr. Digby, the innkeeper, and the pinching of his lips told her he knew it was unlikely to cause the type of stir he sought.

Apparently, they had both been wrong. Plenty of people were finding it interesting enough to stare at for a great while. What would they do if they knew Charlotte held in her reticule the caricature that would appear in the window in a week’s time?

It was the irony of Charlotte’s secret that it not only attracted more and more of the people she so disliked, but it also made her reliant upon everything she most despised about their world—corruption, greed, and invincibility. Without it, she had no material, and without material, she had no money to save against her family’s uncertain future.

Charlotte pulled open the inn door, and the buzz of conversation within joined that of the people without until she tugged the wooden door closed.

A maid named Mary appeared, holding a tray with three tankards and a plate of bread and butter. A few loose blonde hairs escaped from her cap, complementing the harried look on her face. She glanced at Charlotte, then back again.

Charlotte held up her reticule, and Mary nodded, putting up a finger to signify she would return shortly. Charlotte nodded and took a seat at the nearest empty table in the corner, setting her reticule beside her. She might be the artist behind the caricatures, but without Mary listening for gossip at The Crown and Castle, she would have very little material at all.

Charlotte gazed around the room, identifying a few familiar faces. Familiar, that was, to her. Lord Marchwood and Mr. Jameson wouldn’t know her from Eve.

“Miss Mandeville.”

Charlotte knew to whom the voice belonged without having to look the innkeeper in the eye, but she did so despite that out of politeness. With his ruddy complexion and dark though receding hair, Mr. Digby smiled at her.

“I hoped we would see you today,” he said. “Have you brought ...?”

She nodded, glancing around to ensure no one was listening.

“May I see it?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Charlotte opened her reticule and pulled out a folded paper, trying not to betray her nerves as she handed it to him. If he disliked the last drawing, he would loathe this one: Mrs. Gattenby surrounded by a crowd of both dogs and husbands. The woman seemed to collect and lose both things at an alarming rate.

Mr. Digby took it and unfolded it. He seemed far less concerned than she with the chance someone might be watching them, but at least with the way he angled his body, no one could see the paper over his shoulder.

His brow furrowed, and his gaze flicked to Charlotte for a moment before he refolded the artwork. “Hardly thrilling, is it?”

She lifted her chin at the insult to her work. How dared he agree with her? “I rather think today’s specimen goes to show how hungry people are for ton gossip, however inconsequential it might seem.”

Mr. Digby’s gaze rested on her until the hairs on her arms began to tingle. “They will tire of such mundane things quickly, Miss Mandeville. We need more.”

Her jaw clenched. What, precisely, did he expect of her? To magic scandal out of thin air? “No doubt there will be more material as the Season gets underway.”

His eyes never left hers. “Let us hope so. I am not paying you for news on gardening or pets. I would hate to be obliged to end our arrangement—and equally disappointed if word got out who is behind the drawings.”

Charlotte’s eyes widened. Was he threatening her?

One of the ostlers’ heads appeared around the corner, searching the room until his gaze landed upon Mr. Digby. “Ye’re needed outside, sir. Right away.”

Mr. Digby handed the paper back to Charlotte. “Give this to Mary. But I expect better next week, Miss Mandeville.” He fixed her with one last severe gaze, then he walked away.

Charlotte watched his back until he disappeared around a corner. She drew a long, steady breath through her nose, willing it to calm her heart. Would he truly betray her identity if she didn’t manage to produce something more titillating? To be certain, finding material more exciting than Mrs. Gattenby shouldn’t be too terribly difficult. But if the people who frequented the inn were not confiding gossip to one another within earshot of Mary, there was little Charlotte could do. Perhaps they were beginning to distrust the inn.

When Charlotte had first struck up an arrangement with Mr. Digby, she would never have believed him capable of betraying her identity. He had been genial and enthusiastic about the prospect of working together: Charlotte would utilize the gossip passed within the walls of the inn to create caricatures that would, in turn, bring more business to The Crown and Castle.

But over time, he had become decidedly less amiable and far more demanding.

If he felt she was not bringing him the business he wished for, he might well betray her. Then, not only would the money stop, but Charlotte’s reputation and that of her family would be injured past reparation. They needed those reputations intact if they were to make smart matches and take care of Mama.

Charlotte needed more gossip.

She fumbled to put the caricature back in the reticule, but the bag slipped to the floorboards beneath the table. She leaned down, ducking her head and reaching for it. Her fingers found purchase on the strings, and she came up, hitting the crown of her head soundly on the table’s underside.

Wincing, she rubbed at the spot, her head still beneath the table. It took a few moments for the pain to begin to subside, and she opened her watering eyes slowly, her free hand still cradling the careless injury.

As she moved to withdraw her head—carefully this time—her gaze fixed on the underside of the table, and her brow knit.

Something seemed to be lodged in a gap in the table’s wooden under-planks. What was it? She reached a hand toward the object, squinting in the little light beneath the table to try to make out what it was. It looked like a small book, but what would a book be doing in such a place?

She grasped the object, her fingers brushing the pages briefly. It was a book. She gave a tug, and it slid out more easily than anticipated.

“Miss Mandeville?”

Charlotte’s head came up with a snap, hitting the precise spot on her crown as before. Grasping it, she emerged from beneath the table to face Mary, who sucked in a breath through clenched teeth at the sight of Charlotte holding her now-throbbing head.

“Oh dear,” Mary said. “I’m ever so sorry, miss!”

“It is nothing,” Charlotte lied through clenched teeth. “Is there any post?”

“No, miss,” the maid said. “And I only have a moment. We are terribly busy today, and Mr. Digby says Mr. Anthony Yorke has just arrived and must be attended to without delay.” She shivered.

“Anthony Yorke?” Charlotte had heard the name a number of times but never yet seen the man. The Yorke family had powerful connections—ducal ones, if she remembered correctly—so his presence immediately made her tingle with anticipation. Perhaps his presence would provide her with the sort of material Mr. Digby demanded. She had some small fear that, if she did not manage to produce something significant next week, he would withhold the money he owed her, for she was paid every other week. “Does Mr. Yorke intend to take refreshment?”

Mary nodded, glancing over her shoulder toward the door as though she feared he might be standing there already, waiting for her to serve him.

“Excellent,” Charlotte said. “Let us hope a few tankards of ale will loosen his tongue. And if they do ...”

Mary nodded her understanding. “I shall serve him diligently and keep my ears open. Even though he frightens the daylights out of me.” She shuddered again.

“Why?” Charlotte’s curiosity was successfully roused. Where a person elicited such strong reactions, there was undoubtedly fodder for gossip to be found.

“He is so very forbidding.” The front door opened, and Mary whipped around. “He is here,” she hissed as though the devil himself had arrived. “If you wait for me?—”

“No.” Charlotte shook her head. If she lingered too long, it would elicit questions from her family. “I must go. We will speak later.”

“What of the ...?” Her gaze darted to Charlotte’s reticule as she took backward steps toward the door.

Charlotte hesitated. She couldn’t give the caricature to Mary when the maid was going directly to Mr. Yorke. It was far too dangerous. Her gaze lighted upon the book in her hand, and an idea struck her. “There is a little nook beneath this table. I shall leave it there.”

Mary nodded swiftly and went to attend to Mr. Yorke.

With a quick glance to ensure no one was watching, Charlotte slipped the book inside her reticule and pulled the folded caricature out. As inconspicuously as possible, she slid the caricature under the table, feeling around for the small space where she had found the book. She kept her hand there until she was satisfied the paper would not fall. Heaven only knew how long the book had been there. Or why someone had thought to put it in that particular spot. But Charlotte intended to find out. She was simply that desperate for any tidbit she might use for the next caricature.

Slipping the strings of her now-heavy reticule over her wrist, she slid out from the table and hurried toward the front door, colliding with something solid as she turned the corner.

Two firm hands grasped her above the elbows, and Charlotte stepped back, blinking. “Pardon m?—”

The last of the word hung on her lips as she looked into two dark brown eyes under heavy, furrowed brows and dark hair, brushed away from his face—the same one she had caught a glimpse of in the chaise just a quarter of an hour ago. His gaze fixed upon her, hard as steel, sapping the breath from her lungs with its intensity.

Her eyes darted to Mary just beside the man, then back to the foreboding face looking down at her.

This must be Anthony Yorke.