Chapter 12

Charlotte couldn’t decide whether to turn aside to dash away the tears on her cheeks or to wear them defiantly. Anthony was looking at her so strangely—almost ... sadly.

Mama smiled and rose to her feet. “How good to see you again, Mr. Yorke. Please do come in. We were just taking tea. Would you care for some?” She strode to the door and opened it wider for him to pass through.

“It is kind of you,” he said, “but no. I merely came to see how you are getting on—and to perhaps take Charlotte for a drive in the Park. If you have no objection, of course, Mrs. Mandeville.”

Charlotte’s eyes widened. A ride in the Park, as though this was a real and true engagement rather than a sham. What in heaven’s name was he about? He must be up to some mischief—revenge for last night, most likely.

Mama smiled at Charlotte. “I think it would do her good to take the air. Go on, then, my dear.”

Charlotte rose, angling her body away from them on the pretense of adjusting her skirts, while she used one hand to brush away the tears on her cheeks. It was very much like Anthony to appear at the moment she least wished for him. And that was saying something, indeed, for there were no moments she did wish for him.

She arranged her mouth in a smile and turned back to them. “I must fetch my gloves and bonnet, but I shan’t be above two minutes.”

“I shall await you in the yard,” he replied.

Charlotte hurried up the stairs, retrieved her things, and returned to the entry way, where Mama awaited, looking as pleased as anything.

Charlotte was tempted to ask if Mama would rather take her place, but she did not.

“It reminds me of when Papa took me out in his new carriage when we were courting,” Mama said as she helped Charlotte with her gloves. “There. Enjoy yourselves now.” She had no notion how impossible such a thing was.

Charlotte walked through the archway and into the galleried yard, where Anthony was seated in a phaeton, holding the reins of two bays. It annoyed her just how dashing he looked, to use Tabitha’s description, with his well-tailored blue coat, dark green waistcoat, and polished topboots. Was Charlotte dressed smartly enough to deserve a seat beside him? She had put a disheartening dent in her savings to let a room at The Pelican, to say nothing of adding a second night. In any case, she had not dressed for the day intending on riding through London’s most frequented park, where everyone strutted like peacocks. It was one thing to attend a party to impress the Yorkes; it was quite another to live up to the expectations people would have of someone engaged to one.

Anthony looked at her with a slight frown to his brow, but his expression was otherwise unreadable as he handed the reins to the ostler. He hopped down with ease and offered Charlotte a hand of assistance.

Why did she never wish to accept it from him? Something about him brought out all her most childish tendencies. Including, she hated to admit, a tendency to stare. But not admire. Never admire.

Taking his hand, she stepped up into the phaeton, aware that something was different between them. She could guess quite easily: he had seen her cry, and there was no coming back from that. Would he think her a poor creature now, easily overset, needing to be handled with kid gloves?

Anthony took his seat and navigated the phaeton out of the yard and onto the streets of London.

“I was not expecting you,” Charlotte said.

“No, how could you have?”

“You might have sent a note informing me of your intentions.”

“I thought you might disappear if you had warning.”

She opened her mouth to retort, but closed it immediately. It was entirely possible she would have chosen to take a walk precisely when he was meant to arrive, if only to irritate him.

Charlotte could not decide how to feel toward Anthony. Part of her hated him for forcing her into this conundrum and wished to thwart him whenever possible. From the beginning, he had seemed to take for granted that she would obey his every wish. And now, she was expected to go along with this engagement. What would happen when he ceased to see her use? Would she be discarded as easily as Papa had been discarded by Lord Wadsworth?

The other part, however, recognized that she owed Anthony—dared she admit it?—gratitude. He might have thrown her to the wolves last night, for it was not his reputation which would have suffered most. He would have faced criticism for the way they had been found, certainly, but it was Charlotte whose reputation would have ultimately suffered.

But instead of allowing such a thing, he had done the unthinkable.

It was intolerable to feel gratitude toward someone she so disliked, and since she sincerely doubted he would appreciate her thanks, she relievedly shut it away.

“Is this the way to the Park?” she asked as they turned a corner.

“It is.”

She grimaced. “Must we go there? Surely, that will only serve to advertise our engagement, making its end all the more scandalous.”

“I assure you, news of our engagement was enough of a surprise that it has likely traveled as far as Botany Bay already.”

Charlotte let out a scoffing laugh. “So, you choose to feed the fire by parading us about?”

“Do you have a better plan that enables us to speak privately? Perhaps I should hand the reins off to you.” He offered them to her, and she pursed her lips.

She hadn’t the faintest idea how to drive a carriage, much less a high-perch phaeton with two energetic horses. “Might we not ride somewhere else?”

“Such as?”

She shrugged. “Some dark alley where there is no one we know?”

“Yes,” he said dryly, “an unmarried gentleman and an unmarried lady driving down a dark alley is precisely what your reputation needs.”

“No doubt you are infamous amongst London’s dark alleys and would be immediately recognized.”

He laughed—the first true laugh she had heard from him—and it caught her off guard. Her pulse quickened at the sight of his genuine smile, which brightened his countenance in a way that made him more handsome than ever.

Perhaps she had better not make him laugh moving forward.

“Your ideas of me are fascinating,” he said.

“As are yours of me.”

“Which is why we are here in this carriage. If we are to be convincing, we had better know more about one another.”

“We could hardly know less. Pray, what do you know of me?”

He glanced at her but said nothing as he guided the horses onto Rotten Row.

“You needn’t fear offending me,” Charlotte said knowingly. “I am not so poor-spirited as that.”

“Poor-spirited is precisely what I thought you.”

She smiled serenely and looked around at the trees. “You shan’t have the pleasure of getting a rise out of me, Tony.”

“Very well. What do I know of you?” He paused. “Your name is Charlotte Mandeville.”

“Bravo. Have you considered taking up with the Bow Street Runners? They could use a man of your perceptivity.”

He cleared his throat significantly. “As I was saying ... your name is Charlotte Mandeville, and you are the second of three daughters. You are a talented artist and well-informed—by methods I have not yet grasped—about the antics of the ton, using which knowledge you create?—”

She grasped his arm in warning, glancing at two young gentlemen walking nearby.

He waited until they had passed to continue. “You hate the wealthy, yet when given the opportunity to demand something from me, you most wished for an invitation to a dinner replete with precisely such people, which gives one to assume that your hatred is more of a resentment than anything, connected, given what you have said, to your father’s death.”

Charlotte stared at him, speechless. Had she been so very transparent?

Anthony stole a glance at her. “You see? I have offended you.”

“You have not.” The fact that he had called her a talented artist had almost made her blush—until his assessment of her feelings toward the ton. It was an aggravatingly accurate assessment.

“Am I correct so far?”

She hesitated before nodding reluctantly.

“Good. Let me see, then. What else do I know?” He thought for a moment. “You are eager to marry off your sisters, while you yourself seem to take no interest in that blessed state, which leads me to believe you either cordially dislike both marriage and your sisters, or you are, for undetermined reasons, attempting to secure their interests before your own.”

“I am very fond of my sisters.”

“Then why the rush to marry them off?”

Charlotte gritted her teeth. She had no desire to tell Anthony of her family’s current situation, but there was no avoiding it. If she left him ignorant, he would undoubtedly say something to humiliate her—or both of them.

“Bellevue is entailed,” she explained.

“I know.”

Her head whipped around. “How?”

He cocked a bold brow.

His aunt’s words came to mind—when you asked me if I knew her. “You made inquiries about me.”

He shrugged. “I needed the diary, and your unwillingness to give it to me obliged me to discover more about you.”

“So that you could use it against me.”

“Yes.”

His willingness to admit his depravity took the wind out of her sails. “What do you need the diary for?” The guarded way he looked at her made her quickly add, “You said we needed to know more about one another, did you not?”

“That, I assure you, is not knowledge that will be necessary for you. Besides, the diary was useless.”

“What do you mean useless?”

“It does not contain what I was looking for.” He said it colorlessly, but by the tight set of his jaw, she was disinclined to believe it was a matter of indifference. Of course it wasn’t. He had gone to great lengths to obtain it.

“Now,” he said, “why do you harbor so much resentment toward the ton?”

“That is not knowledge that will be necessary for you,” she parroted back.

“Given that you accused me of being responsible for your father’s death, I must disagree.”

“Not you. Men like you.” She debated for a moment, torn between a need to keep her secrets and to explain herself to Anthony. “If you must know, my father spent the last decade of his life making careful investments to grow the little he was left by his father. He was a skilled and conscientious investor, and over time, his hard work was fruitful. He had plans to hire apartments in London in the coming Season to introduce us to Society.”

Anthony was quiet, listening with his ever-furrowed brow, nodding now and then to a passing acquaintance.

“He was approached by a wealthy, well-known gentleman, who persuaded him to invest heavily in a scheme of his with promises of a life-changing return. When the man realized the scheme was going awry, he sold his shares and left Papa to feel the full weight of the investment’s failure.” She swallowed and directed her gaze toward something to her left to hide her face from Anthony. “The financial loss was staggering and deeply humiliating. All those years of scrupulous work were suddenly for naught. But even more staggering a loss was Papa’s rapid decline and death shortly thereafter.” The unsteadiness of her voice persuaded her to leave the narrative there.

The only sound was the crunch of the gravel beneath the wheels.

“I am sorry,” Anthony said.

Charlotte stole a glance at him, for the words were unexpected from his lips. Unexpected but genuine.

“But surely,” he continued, “you overgeneralize by directing your anger at the entire ton for the actions of one miserable man.”

“Do I?”

“It is my opinion, certainly, and I believe others would agree.”

“Tell me, then ... have you not seen such disregard for others amongst your acquaintances, such willingness to view those supposedly below you as disposable?”

He did not respond immediately, but the muscle in his jaw flexed. “I have.”

“As have I. At first, they were trivial matters—the way those passing through Stoneleigh treat the villagers, or the way they demand service immediately at The Crown and Castle without regard to anyone else’s needs or claims. But since then, I assure you, I have found plenty more grievous examples.”

“Like my running roughshod over anyone in my way?” His voice was laced with irony.

Charlotte forced herself not to shift in her seat. If anyone knew she was the one behind the caricatures—and that one in particular—it would make their engagement far more difficult to explain. That was one reason she was not looking forward to seeing Mr. Digby—not that she ever looked forward to that. But he would want an explanation, certainly.

Charlotte’s silence must have confirmed to Anthony the truth of his statement. His interactions with her had indeed been a prime example of how the ton interacted with those lower than them.

“Brave of you to come out in a carriage with me,” Anthony said, breaking the silence, “when you know the dangers.”

“But I am not afraid of you,” she pointed out.

He glanced at her. “Evidently not.”

“You think I should be?”

He let his gaze travel over her face for a few seconds, then returned his eyes to the road. “Perhaps.”

“Perhaps it is you who should be afraid of me.”

He chuckled. “Because you intend to humiliate me at every turn?”

“You could use a bit of humility, you know.”

He gave a scoffing sort of laugh. “Thank you for that assessment. Does it not occur to you that, by making me look a fool, you also injure yourself? We are inextricably connected now, Charlotte.”

Her heart gave a little quiver at the sound of her name on his lips and the words inextricably connected. An image stole into her mind: her arms wrapped around Anthony’s broad back and his around her waist as their lips met.

Cheeks and body warm, she looked away, as though the image was before her rather than a figment of her rogue imagination. That was not what he had meant by connected. She was still accustoming herself to this level of intimacy with a man. The novelty would wear off with time. In three or four weeks, her mind would not force such unwelcome images before her.

Or perhaps the images would intensify.

“Oh, Tony,” she said, forcing herself to remain present—beside the man whose imaginations of a ‘connection’ with her likely consisted of boxing her ears. “I only wish that everyone knew just how passionately in love with me you are, and that cannot harm me.”

“Imagine my relief,” he said drily.

“Speaking of which, we should turn back if I am to have sufficient time to dress. I must look the part of the esteemed Anthony Yorke’s affianced wife.”

“We have not yet discussed how to answer people’s questions, which was the purpose in coming out together in the first place.”

“But we have,” she countered.

“You mean you will say whatever makes me look like a lovelorn sap?”

She smiled and patted his arm. “You are not as slow-witted as I had thought.”

“Nor you as harmless as my aunt thinks. What shall we say when people inquire as to how we met?” He guided the equipage toward the archway that led out of the Park.

She lifted her shoulders. “We tell the truth—we met at the inn. It is best, I think, to keep as close to the truth as possible.”

“Is that what you call your story about a planned trip to Gretna?”

“Oh, no. I call that embellishment. And a dash of revenge.”