Chapter 16

“Another diary?” Anthony repeated, staring at Harris with incredulity.

They stood in the small alley between two buildings on a dark and dingy street. Dark alleys couldn’t help but bring Charlotte to mind, but this one smelled of rotten fish, and, for all her faults, Charlotte did not smell of rotten fish. She smelled of violets, and he would have given an arm and a leg to transport her here this instant, pull her into his arms, and bury his face in her neck.

His brows drew together at the unexpected thought and the way it quickened his heartbeat.

“Aye, sir,” Harris said with great energy. “Apparently, Marlowe kept the same sort of records for years. There are a whole host of diaries. Surely the man wrote down in one of them diaries what he told me.”

Anthony said nothing for a moment. After their last efforts had come to naught, he was skeptical, but he couldn’t quash the bit of hope Harris’s words brought. He was desperate for news of anything that could prove helpful for Silas.

“And where are these diaries?” he asked.

“Still workin’ to find that out, sir, but I’ve a meetin’ with a man in two days. He should be able to tell us what we need to know.”

“And this is the extent of what you have found that might help us?”

Harris’s eyes darted to a man passing by. He watched until the man disappeared. “For now, sir. ‘Tis our best hope, I think. Drayton ain’t an easy man to take down.”

That was certainly true. Of one thing Anthony was certain: the incident with his brother was far from Drayton’s only sin. If he could have asked and been given honest answers, most members of the House of Lords and a good number of those in the Commons could undoubtedly have told tales on the man.

But that was not a path Anthony could pursue. The fear and awe in which Society held Drayton meant they would not only come up empty-handed, but those they questioned would likely alert the cur. That would not only injure their investigation but could well prove dangerous. Fatal, even. It only reaffirmed Anthony in his determination to keep his pursuits to himself. No one else should suffer for something he bore responsibility for.

“Keep me informed,” Anthony said. “The minute you know anything.”

“Of course, sir,” Harris said.

“Is there anything Ican do?” Anthony asked. “To speed things along, I mean.”

Harris’s mouth turned down at the ends, and he took a number of seconds before responding. “Ye’re a member of White’s, are ye not?”

“I am.”

“So was Drayton until a few months ago. Do ye think ye could get your hands on the old betting books? See if his name comes up anywhere?”

“I will look into it. Thank you.”

“I won’t let you down, sir.”

Anthony gave a nod and strode out of the alley and in the direction of his apartments. It was unlikely there would be anything of use in the betting books, but he was eager to do something, and one never knew where information could lead.

When he reached his apartments, he had not even removed his gloves when he spotted a letter on the silver tray in the entry. Noting his aunt’s script on the front of the letter, he tossed his gloves on the table and opened it.

Anthony,

Please come with all due haste.

He frowned, his heartbeat quickening. Was she ill? Perhaps he had been wrong when he had teased her about not being on death’s door. She certainly wouldn’t be the first person to hide an ailment from the public.

He pulled the bell just inside the parlor and instructed his carriage to be brought around immediately.

Within ten minutes, he was on his way, his mind vacillating between Silas’s problems and his aunt’s message. The carriage had not even come to a complete stop when he jumped down and ran to her door, using the brass knocker.

There seemed to be some sort of commotion inside, for the hum of voices met his ears—and then laughter. It faded quickly, though, and he frowned. Had he imagined it?

The door opened. “Good morning, sir,” the white-haired butler said. “Please come in. She is expecting you.”

Anthony stepped into the house, allowed Saunders to divest him of his hat and gloves, then followed him through the corridor. He was not being taken to Aunt Eugenia’s room, which was a sign she was not on her deathbed, at least.

Saunders stopped at the morning room, turned the handle, and moved to the side as he opened the door.

Anthony nodded his thanks and stepped forward, only to stop short at the sight within. Aunt Eugenia was upright, looking very much alive and well as she spoke with all four Mandevilles.

All eyes turned to Anthony, and the talking ceased.

With a smile that stretched from ear to ear, Aunt Eugenia came toward him, arms out. “Surprise, surprise, nevvy.”

He blinked as he received her into his arms, still trying to grasp what exactly was happening.

“Surprise?” Charlotte asked, meeting Anthony’s blank gaze with her own confused one.

Aunt Eugenia pulled back, putting her hands on his shoulders. “I have invited Charlotte and her family to stay with us for the next few weeks. It seemed a terrible shame for the two of you to be apart when there is so much space in this house.”

Anthony tried to laugh, but all that came out was a strange, staccato breath. “Staying with us, you say?”

“Yes, us. Of course you are coming too. Now, close that fly trap of yours”—she used a finger to shut his mouth—“and greet your bride.”

Aware that the gazes of Charlotte’s mother and sisters were all upon him, waiting for him to do as he had been bid, Anthony did his best to hide his dismay and strode over to Charlotte. The expression of chagrin on her face might have been comical if it hadn’t so perfectly matched his own feelings.

He took one of her hands in his and stretched his mouth in a performative smile. “A surprise indeed, my dear.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek. It was soft—and warm with embarrassment.

He inhaled in spite of himself.

Gads, her scent was divine.

“I had no idea,” she hissed into his ear, her grasp on his hand urgent and tight.

“A likely tale,” he whispered back, pulling away before he could lose his head in that intoxicating scent.

The look of affront on her face faded the moment she saw his teasing eyes. Perhaps it was Harris’s news that they had simply got their hands on the wrong diary before, but Anthony was feeling less put out by the Mandevilles’ presence than expected.

He knew his aunt well enough to see her hand in all of this.

“Are you certain we are not too much of a burden?” Charlotte asked Aunt Eugenia. “You will miss your peace and quiet terribly.”

“Aunt Eugenia detests peace and quiet, my love,” Anthony said.

Charlotte’s gaze darted to him at the form of address. Apparently, my dear was acceptable, but my love was simply too much. He was to be madly in love with her without using that word. They would have to clarify what her expectations of him were in all of this. They seemed to be very particular.

“It is true,” Aunt Eugenia said. “I was never able to have children of my own, which is why I have made it my business to host and attend boisterous parties as often as I may—to drown out my loneliness. Shall we get you all settled? Your bedchambers have been prepared, and once you have freshened up, there will be meats and cheeses in the garden.”

Aunt Eugenia linked her arm through Anthony’s, preventing him from staying behind as she escorted the Mandevilles upstairs and to their respective bedchambers, all divested of Holland covers and looking neat as a pin. Exactly how long had she been planning this surprise?

“And finally,” she said as they reached the second-to-last bedchamber in the corridor, “here is where you will sleep, Miss Charlotte.”

“The Mandevilles are overrunning your entire house, ma’am,” Charlotte said ruefully.

“Nonsense,” she replied. “Anthony is not a Mandeville, and he will be in the bedchamber next to yours.”

Anthony, who had been surveying the portrait of his late uncle which adorned the wall, whipped his head around. Aunt Eugenia ignored him, however, reminding Charlotte to take her time but not to forget about refreshments in the garden.

Anthony craned his neck, peering into Charlotte’s bedchamber. His betrothed closed the door with a smile at his aunt and a quick glance at him. But before she had done so, his suspicion had been confirmed.

“What?” Aunt Eugenia asked him, acting innocent as a newborn lamb.

“Adjoining bedchambers? I thought you wished to avoid scandal, not encourage it.”

“Oh, hush. I know what it is to be young and in love. The minutes apart feel like days, and those together like mere seconds.”

Anthony shook his head at her as they walked toward his bedchamber. “And here I came as fast as can be, thinking you were violently ill.”

“I wrote nothing to put such a notion into your head. It was quite silly of you to think it, for you know I am strong as an ox.”

“And stubborn as one too,” he muttered.

“I heard that. Someone must get things done in this family. Now, are you not forgetting something?” She raised her brows expectantly at him.

“Like the fact that I haven’t time to help you play host to the Mandevilles at the moment? I may be engaged, aunt, but I still have obligations and other engagements to?—”

“You mean with that grubby man I found you with in the Park? Let us have no more of that. What could you possibly prefer over spending time with your betrothed and her delightful family?”

Almost anything, Anthony nearly said. “Nothing at all, of course.”

She smiled at him, pleased. “Good. Now, for that final thing ...”

“And what final thing is that?”

She extended her cheek toward him and tapped it.

Anthony chuckled softly and leaned in. “Thank you, aunt, for the delightful surprise.”

She beamed. “See that your belongings are fetched, and make yourself more presentable before coming outside for refreshments.” And with that, she left him in the corridor and went off to—Anthony could only assume—meddle in someone else’s affairs.

Anthony was certain he would be the last outside, for it took more than an hour for his belongings to arrive. But as he entered the small garden behind the townhouse, only Mrs. Mandeville stood present, and even she seemed to have arrived only shortly before him.

She turned at the sound of his approach and smiled with relief. “How glad I am to see you. I worried I had missed it entirely.”

“I had the same fear,” he replied. “But as the refreshments have not been touched, I think it is safe to assume otherwise.” He took a plate from the small stack at the edge of the table and handed it to her.

She thanked him warmly and began choosing from amongst the options Aunt Eugenia had provided: cold cuts, various cheeses, and some sliced bread. Anthony followed her example, using the opportunity to observe Charlotte’s mother from the corner of his eye.

She was a handsome woman, with light brown hair and a genuineness to her expressions that made her easy to like. Anthony estimated her to be near five-and-forty, though the wrinkles she wore made her look older. Little wonder for a woman tasked with settling three daughters in the world without the support of a husband.

“Your aunt is thoughtfulness itself,” Mrs. Mandeville said. “I sincerely hope she shan’t regret her invitation. I love my girls dearly, but they are a ... vivacious trio.”

“Which will suit my aunt very well, I assure you, ma’am.”

She looked up at him, smiling appreciatively. “You are just as good and kind as she.” She set her plate down and faced him, a bit of hesitation in her soft eyes. “We know each other only just, Mr. Yorke?—”

“Just Anthony, if you please.”

“Very well. Anthony, then. Despite how little we know one another, I must tell you how pleased I am that you and Charlotte found one another. She would dislike my saying this, but since my husband’s death, she has taken a great number of our burdens upon her. Whenever the rest of us grow sullen, or whenever I have quaked at the prospects before us, she has been the one to remind me not to lose hope. She is the best of daughters, and I have no doubt she will make the best of wives—and you the best of husbands. She wants nothing more than to ensure the happiness of those she loves.”

Anthony could not bring himself to meet Mrs. Mandeville’s gaze and instead ran his finger along the edge of his plate. His experience of Charlotte was a far cry from the one her mother described, but he had seen her stubbornness and tenacity firsthand, and he was beginning to understand that it was on her family’s behalf that it was all exercised.

“I have embarrassed you,” Mrs. Mandeville said with chagrin. “Forgive me. I merely wished to thank you.”

He frowned. If only she knew the truth: he had threatened her daughter and all but forced her into an engagement that was certain to damage her reputation if anything went awry. And even if it did not, the termination of it would see her name bandied about in a way no parent wished for. “Thank me for what, ma’am?” He forced himself to meet her gaze.

Her eyes shone with the threat of grateful tears, though her mouth was pulled into a trembling smile. “For loving my Charlotte.”

He broke his gaze away again. How was it that he could tell a blatant lie to pursue Silas’s freedom, but he could not even bring himself to meet the gaze of a near-stranger?

“She tries to appear independent and self-sufficient,” Mrs. Mandeville continued, “and she puts everyone else’s needs before her own. But behind the fa?ade?—”

They turned at the sound of a door closing.

The three sisters were walking toward the refreshments, laughing together. Anthony’s gaze fixed on Charlotte in the middle.

The sight of her with such a carefree smile, flocked by the people she was doing everything in her power to make happy, held him momentarily transfixed. What would Mrs. Mandeville have said if she had been able to finish her thought? What was behind the fa?ade? And why did Anthony suddenly wish so fervently to break through it?

The Mandevilles were a vivacious family. As they became more comfortable and more confident that they were not expected to keep quiet or simper, their laughter became more frequent.

Anthony watched with a growing feeling of envy. The Mandevilles’ interactions reminded him vaguely of the sort of relationship he had once enjoyed with his brothers. Silas’s escape to France had changed that, though. The scandal had rocked the family to its core, cracking the foundations. The secrets Anthony kept had only deepened that divide.

Once the refreshments had been eaten and everyone had returned indoors to rest and prepare for dinner, Anthony paced in his room. He had yet to speak in private with Charlotte, and it had become more apparent than ever during the time in the garden that they sorely needed to discuss their plan. They could not spend hours on end with her family and his aunt without such a thing.

He glanced at the door that led to her adjoining bedchamber. He could simply knock on it—it would be easier to be private with one another that way. But somehow, he doubted Charlotte would appreciate the presumption on his part—or the intimacy. He couldn’t forget the way she had looked when he had called her my love.

With a sigh, he turned his gaze from the adjoining door and strode to the one that led to the corridor. He would do things the proper way.

He opened his door and stopped short at the sound of Mrs. Mandeville’s voice nearby. He pulled the door most of the way closed again, stopping before it could make the click that would alert her to his presence.

“You look splendid, my dear,” Mrs. Mandeville said as she stepped out of Charlotte’s bedchamber and into the corridor. “No wonder Anthony whisked you off to that balcony t?—”

“Mama!” Charlotte’s scandalized whisper made Anthony smile.

Mrs. Mandeville begged forgiveness in hushed but unapologetic tones, and the sound of her light and retreating footsteps followed.

Anthony waited a few minutes until he was satisfied there was no danger of her returning, then he left his room to knock on Charlotte’s door softly. The door creaked, opening slightly, not having been properly shut.

Charlotte was seated upon her bed, a handkerchief in hand. Her head came around at the creaking, and she stared in consternation at him through eyes that glistened.

She turned her head aside. “Go away.” Even had he not seen the tears, the quality of her voice would have alerted him that she was crying.

After a moment’s hesitation and a quick glance down the empty corridor, Anthony slipped inside and shut the door, his heart feeling odd and heavy.

“Not until you tell me what is wrong.”

“Nothing. See?” She turned toward him with a forced smile, but her pink nose and cheeks, her glistening eyes, and the way her lashes stuck together betrayed her.

He strode over and took a seat on the bed beside her. “We are engaged, Charlotte. You should be able to tell me what ails you.”

She turned to look at him, her eyes brimful of tears but her brows turned down in frustration. “Our engagement is what ails me, Anthony.” She shook her head and stood. “I cannot do it anymore. I cannot continue lying to Mama or Tabitha or Lillian. I cannot.”

Anthony stayed silent, frowning as he watched her walk to and fro. Her mother had been right. She looked beautiful, even in her sorrow. Or anger. Anthony wasn’t entirely certain what to call it. All he knew was that seeing her in this vulnerable state was quickly evaporating whatever dislike for her remained in his heart.

“Mama asked when we plan to be married,” she said, “and what could I say?”

“What did you say?”

She scoffed, dashing a tear from her eye. “That we cannot agree which parish to be married in—the most ridiculous thing. I am surprised she believed me. And yet I am not, for I am not accustomed to lying to her. Or I didn’t use to be.” She clenched her eyes shut and brought her hands to her forehead, pressing her fingers against it.

She was distressed—that much was certain. And if he had not walked in, Anthony could only imagine she would be crying silently rather than trying to guard her pride with anger toward him. The fa?ade, as her mother had called it.

Anthony rose and walked over to her. “Naturally, we will be married in my parish.”

She dropped her hands and stared at him, the incredulity in her eyes contrasting sharply with the tears there. “This is all your fault”—she jabbed her finger into his chest, and he caught her by the wrist—“and yet, you stand there and tease me, as though it was a laughing matter?”

“I would rather see you laugh than cry,” he replied.

She stared at him, her gaze hard and her nostrils flared so that he thought she might slap him with her free hand. But then she swallowed, her eyes filling with tears as she stared her hatred at him until her chin began to tremble and Anthony’s own throat began to feel thick.

He knew what it was to lie to one’s family and to bear a burden too heavy. It was lonely. So terribly lonely.

He stepped toward her and, heart beating with a painful ferocity, released her wrist, wrapped his arms about her, and pulled her toward him.

She pummeled his chest with her fists, but she did not pull away.

“It is all your fault,” she said, punctuating each word with a hit.

Anthony did not fight the blows; he merely held her.

“I am sorry,” he whispered.

Her thrusts grew weaker until they stopped altogether, her hands coming to rest on his chest. Her head slowly lowered to his shoulder as her chest rose and fell with silent sobs.

“You do not understand how terrible it is,” she said into his coat, “lying to everyone about everything.”

“I know better than you might think,” he said softly.

There was silence for a moment.

“Tell them the truth, Charlotte.”

Her breathing stilled.

“But . . .” she said.

“It is a risk,” he said, his nostrils filling with the scent of her. “But if it will make you happy, and if they can be persuaded to guard our secret ...”

She shook her head, a silent laugh shaking her shoulders. “Tabitha cannot keep a secret to save her life.”

Anthony smiled into her hair. “I cannot say I am shocked to hear it.” There was a pause as he took in a breath, but each time he inhaled, his arms itched to pull her closer. “You have my permission to tell them the truth. If you wish to.”

“No,” she said firmly, still holding fast to him. “You were right when you said we must wait a while longer, then find a way to end the engagement.”

A sense of relief flooded Anthony, for if Charlotte told her family the truth, it would lead to questions about the reasons for the ruse—questions he could not yet answer. Not until he had the diary. Supposing this time it contained what Harris claimed it did. “I promise I will do whatever I can to ensure the least damage possible to your reputation.”

“And to yours,” she said, a smile in her muffled voice.

His lip quirked up at the edge. “Most especially to mine.”

She let out a long, slow breath as they stood there, Anthony’s arms around her.

“I still hate you,” she said into his chest.

“And I you,” he replied against the lump in his throat.