Chapter 14

Charlotte should have known there would be no post at The Crown and Castle. At least not the post she wished for. She should have known by the reluctance Anthony had exhibited that he would not give her information for a caricature.

These were the people he interacted with at parties and balls and the opera. He was far too much like them to wish to make their indiscretions or foibles public.

She took the two pieces of post from Mary and slipped out of the inn before Mr. Digby could catch sight of her.

Charlotte envied Anthony—not his association with the ton but the fact that he was not obliged to find some bit of provocative information to satisfy Mr. Digby and the gossips. She had almost forgotten what it felt like to live without worrying about such things.

She kicked at a patch of weeds growing on the side of the road that led to Bellevue, wishing she could give Anthony a piece of her mind. Did he not care whether she was exposed?

Perhaps not. As a gentleman from a well-to-do family, his reputation could withstand great blows. Charlotte’s, on the other hand, could suffer from a soft breeze. Not to mention he was not even aware of Digby’s threats.

What would she do now? She had nothing but inconsequential trifles about the eccentricities of the wealthy, and Mr. Digby wouldn’t be satisfied with those.

Charlotte wished she could simply run away from it all—from the caricatures, from her engagement to Anthony, from the lies it all required. It had all started out so innocently, with noble aims, even. How had it come to such a pass as this, where she was lying to those dearest to her and desperate for the veriest morsel of gossip?

She removed her bonnet as she stepped inside her home, setting the post on the table in the entry before making her way up the stairs to her bedchamber. There was no more time to waste. She needed a caricature if she wished for Mr. Digby to pay her. Perhaps if she thought hard enough, she could remember something someone had said at Mrs. Ashby’s house the other night. She hadn’t been focused on amassing gossip at the time, for her efforts had been targeted upon pursuing her family’s interests, but she was beginning to regret that.

Not that she wished to cast aspersions on the characters of anyone she had met. They had all been shockingly pleasant.

Half an hour later, she was seated at her escritoire, not even a hint of ink on the paper in front of her, when she spotted someone walking briskly toward Bellevue. She narrowed her eyes and watched as the boy drew nearer.

“Focus, Charlotte,” she said, forcing her eyes back to the paper. Lord Preston boarding up half of his windows was simply not interesting enough. “Think!”

But the knock on the door, the muffled voice of Tabitha as she spoke to the boy, and the subsequent thud of footsteps on the stairs were too distracting.

“Letter for you, Charlotte,” Tabitha said from outside of her door. “From him.”

Charlotte shot up from her seat and rushed to the door.

Tabitha smiled at her knowingly, letter in hand.

Charlotte reached for it, but Tabitha pulled it away, turning to inspect the front. “I have always wished to read a letter between two real lovers. What sort of things do you say to one another?”

“Give it to me, Tab, or I shall tell Mama you escaped to the balcony with Mr. Robbs the other night.” Under no circumstances could Tabitha be permitted to read what was inside that letter. But not because it would be full of poetic declarations of love.

Tabitha sighed and handed it to her. “You did not used to be so secretive, you know. I think I prefer the old version of you.” She strode off toward her own bedchamber.

Charlotte swallowed, her gaze remaining on her sister’s door even after it had closed. She preferred the old version of herself too. She missed the openness she used to enjoy with Tabitha and Lillian.

But that time was past, and there was little she could do about it. Anthony was the only one she could confide in now, and that was a very lowering thought indeed.

She opened the letter and hurried through its contents, breathing out relief at the information there. He had given her what she needed: reports of Sir Geoffrey Hamilton paying for the smuggling of Catholic relics and artifacts, among other things.

“Bless you, Anthony,” she whispered, bringing the letter to her chest in an embrace.

She set the letter on the escritoire and picked up the quill again, letting the feather brush against her temple as she stared out of the window and decided exactly what to draw.

Charlotte followed Mary into Mr. Digby’s office, where he sat behind a desk, a host of papers scattered before him. He glanced up and gathered them up hastily.

“A knock would be appreciated, Mary,” he said testily.

Charlotte focused on the papers, her curiosity immediately piqued at his suspicious behavior. What was he afraid they might see? It did not surprise her that the man harbored more secrets than hers, but she wondered what sort they were.

“Miss Mandeville,” Mr. Digby said as he straightened the papers, then set them in the drawer of his desk, “I understand we are to offer you felicitations.”

Charlotte had prepared herself for this, and she smiled. “Thank you. It is very kind of you.”

“Felicitations?” Mary asked, looking between them.

“Miss Mandeville is betrothed to Mr. Anthony Yorke.”

Mary’s jaw slipped open.

Mr. Digby smiled at Mary. “I had a very similar reaction, for I could have sworn it was less than a fortnight ago that Mr. Yorke was here, asking your name. My, how quickly Cupid shoots his arrows.”

Charlotte disliked the glint in his eye. She let out a trilling laugh. “Anthony is so diverting, is he not?”

Mr. Digby and Mary shared mystified glances.

“I charged him with the utmost secrecy about our courtship,” Charlotte continued, “and it seems he was vigorous in his respect of my wishes, going so far as to pretend we did not know one another. In any case, I am grateful for your congratulations, but that is not why I am here.” She pulled the caricature from inside her pelisse and handed it to him.

Mr. Digby unfolded it, letting his eyes run over the art. His mouth lifted at one corner. “This is ... very good.”

“Thank you.” Charlotte was feeling more confident in herself today. Perhaps it was because she was pleased with the caricature, or perhaps she felt less afraid of Mr. Digby now that he knew she was engaged to a man with a reputation for being ruthless.

Either way, she found herself full of an unusual courage. “Perhaps we can settle the matter of payment.”

Mr. Digby glanced up from the caricature, his gratification suffering slightly.

“It has been three weeks rather than two, after all,” Charlotte added, keeping a pleasant smile but a firm gaze.

“Of course,” Mr. Digby said, passing the caricature to Mary. He opened a drawer and pulled out a wooden box, which he opened with the small key retrieved from a chain around his neck.

Charlotte’s eyes fixed on the abundance of notes as he counted out a few of them and some coins besides. How much of the money in this secret trove was ill-gotten gains from taking advantage of desperate people like Charlotte?

Whatever the source, Mr. Digby was clearly quite plump in the pocket. Charlotte, on the other hand, couldn’t help but lay awake at night, wondering what would come of her family once her engagement to Anthony ended. They might wait until the most propitious time, but they couldn’t possibly avoid all scandal, and it would attach more vigorously to Charlotte.

Mr. Digby straightened the notes remaining in the box, then shut the lid and handed her the money.

As she took it, Charlotte’s boldness took flight in her chest. If there was any time for bravery, it was now, when Mr. Digby was pleased with her work and newly aware of her connection to the powerful Yorke family. “There is one other matter I wished to discuss with you,” she said before she could lose her nerve. “No doubt you have noticed the growing reluctance of your customers to convey gossip within the walls of The Crown and Castle. While business has grown for you as a result of the caricatures, my part in our arrangement now requires a great deal more ingenuity. Enough that I believe an adjustment may be merited.”

Half of her hoped he would agree to it, while the other half hoped he would tell her their arrangement was at an end.

Mr. Digby stared at her, his jaw working, his face slowly but surely taking on a redder hue. “An adjustment?”

“Yes. It is my name at risk, after all, and I am certain you agree that my compensation should reflect that. Perhaps a guinea per piece?”

The vein in his forehead throbbed behind his mottled skin at the near doubling of her price.

Charlotte waited with as pleasant and unhurried an air as she could manage, even though her heart felt ready to burst with the force of each beat.

Mr. Digby opened the box again, and her heart soared as he pulled out eight shillings. He shut the lid again, then locked the box, and set it back in its place.

Rising from his desk, he walked over to Charlotte and met her gaze.

She could hardly believe he had agreed so readily to her demand, but she itched to take the money from his hands, eager to add to the reserve which had dwindled from their time in London. But Mr. Digby had not yet extended it to her.

“I wonder,” he said, “if Mr. Yorke is aware of your ... endeavors here.” The words were harmless enough, but the way he watched her intently as he fiddled with the coins was anything but that.

He was becoming increasingly threatening, and Charlotte was tiring of it. “He is fully aware, of course.”

Mr. Digby cocked a brow, as if he was skeptical.

Charlotte suddenly wished Anthony was there with her. Would he stand by her, she wondered.

He would. For all their disagreements, she knew that with almost perfect certainty.

“And what was his opinion of the caricature you drew of him?” Mr. Digby asked. “It was hardly the sort of thing a man would appreciate from his betrothed.”

Charlotte laughed softly, though it was the question she had dreaded the most. How was she to explain the motivation behind the drawing? “You will have to ask him when next you see him, for it was his idea. He worried people might suspect the truth about us, you see, and feared rumors would spread before he could explain his intentions to his aunt. Mrs. Ashby is so particular, you know.”

Heavens. She was becoming far too adept at untruths.

Mary was staring at her, brow furrowed and something very much like hurt in her eyes. It made Charlotte’s stomach twist and churn.

“I see,” Mr. Digby said slowly, but she was not at all certain he did. He began shaking the coin in his palm gently. “It is only that, well, it has been my understanding of the Yorkes that they place high value on propriety and reputation. I cannot imagine they would be pleased if the truth of your undertakings here became public knowledge.”

There it was again—the heavily implied threat. She could not let Digby see even a sliver of fear. She held his gaze firmly as she spoke. “Fortunate, then, is it not, that it is only Anthony and the three of us who know that truth?”

Mr. Digby nodded. “Fortunate indeed. Though, a tongue can slip ...” A coin between his fingers fell, but he caught it deftly in his other pudgy fist.

Charlotte’s teeth pressed together with such force that her head began to ache. But she smiled despite it. “It can. But I trust it will not. As you said, the Yorkes are particular about their reputations, and Anthony is even more so about guarding mine. He would not allow it to be sullied without grave consequences to the responsible party.”

Heart thudding against her chest, she put out her hand for the money.

Mr. Digby looked at her for a moment, then reluctantly gave her the coins, which she slipped into her reticule. She could hardly believe her own gumption—making threats on Anthony’s behalf. Threats she wasn’t entirely confident would be carried out if her reputation did become sullied. Perhaps Anthony would grasp at the excuse to end the engagement, pleading ignorance of her vulgar occupation. Then, she would be well and truly ruined.

She could only hope Mr. Digby found her story credible enough not to put it to the test.

“Mary, would you walk me to the door?” Charlotte asked.

The maid, who hadn’t said a word since Mr. Digby had offered his congratulations to Charlotte, quickly nodded and followed her out.

Neither of them spoke until they were in the bustling inn yard, where the call of ostlers and drivers and the clomping of hooves were enough to cover their conversation.

Charlotte’s eyes fixed on a small boy, holding the reins of a horse that towered above him while the ostler tended to the bridle. “Who is that?”

Mary followed her gaze. “Patrick?” Her lips flattened as she watched him draw back nervously as the horse pawed the cobbles impatiently. “‘Tis Digby’s nephew come to work here. His mother needs the money.”

“But he cannot be above six years old.”

“Five, miss,” Mary replied darkly, shaking her head. “He’s become Digby’s boy-of-all-work, but the task he’s charged with most often is wandering amongst the guests to elicit sympathetic coin.”

“Of which Mr. Digby swiftly relieves him?”

Mary nodded as the ostler took the reins and shooed the boy impatiently. Patrick scurried off toward the door and disappeared inside.

Pulling her eyes away, Charlotte reached into her reticule and took out a few of the coins. She took Mary’s hand and set them in her palm, closing the maid’s fingers over the cold metal. “There is your portion of the earnings.”

“But, miss,” Mary said with round eyes as Charlotte released her hand. “‘Tis far too much.”

“Nonsense.” Charlotte cinched her reticule strings. “You deserve every last penny.”

“But I did not even help with this week’s drawing.”

“And yet, without you, I could not have done any of the others. You have been a true friend to me in all of this, Mary, and I thank you for that.”

Mary clenched her hand into a fist around the money, eyes shining with gratitude. “No, miss. Thank you.” Her gaze became more somber, and she glanced around to ensure no one was listening. “What was all that about, though, miss? Are you truly engaged to Mr. Yorke?”

Charlotte did not respond immediately. It was one thing to lie to Mr. Digby, but Mary ... Mary had been there when Anthony and Charlotte had met. They had spoken about him enough that she would not easily believe the untruths Charlotte had told.

“If I tell you this, Mary,” Charlotte said, “you mustn’t tell a soul.”

“Of course not, miss,” she said with wide, earnest eyes.

Pulling her farther from the few people in the yard, Charlotte recounted what had happened in the past week—the diary and the visit from Anthony, then the ball and the sudden, unwanted engagement.

“But that’s awful,” Mary cried.

“It is,” Charlotte replied. “But there is nothing to be done. At least, not yet.”

“But are you not afraid of him? What do you think he wants with that diary?”

Charlotte chewed her lip, shaking her head. “I do not know. But whatever it was, he did not find what he wanted.”

“How terrified you must be, having to spend time with him like that.”

Charlotte smiled slightly as she thought on Anthony. “I am not afraid of him, Mary. I can manage. But Mr. Digby mustn’t know.”

“He won’t, miss. Not from me.”

They bid one another goodbye and parted ways, Mary toward the inn, and Charlotte toward the street.

When Charlotte caught sight of Patrick standing just inside the open inn door, however, she reached inside her reticule and took out a few of the last remaining coins. Looking for any sign of Mr. Digby, she crouched down in front of the boy.

“Patrick, is it not?”

He nodded, his round eyes watching her warily.

“If I give you something, can you make sure your mama gets it?”

He nodded again.

“You mustn’t give it to anyone else, not even your uncle. Do you understand? I wish very particularly for it to go to your mama.”

“Aye, miss.”

She revealed the coins she was holding, and his mouth opened wordlessly in surprise. “Do you have somewhere to put them?”

He fumbled with the pocket of his patched coat, opening it to show her.

She slipped the coins inside. “Remember. Those are only for your mama.”

“For mama,” he repeated.

“There’s a good boy, Patrick.” She rose to her feet, offered him a last smile, and strode off toward Bellevue.