Chapter 18

Anthony flipped through the pages of one of the betting books at White’s, keeping a thumb on the page of the most recent wagers. He searched the names, looking for one in particular.

His eyes caught on Lord Drayton’s signature, and his heart tripped as he hungrily read the names of the other parties, the stakes, and the subject of the wager.

His shoulders dropped. It was nothing but a bet over how long a pigeon would stay on a branch of a nearby tree.

With a sigh, he kept looking, flipping through page after page, slowly but surely losing hope he would find anything he might use against Drayton. Not that he had harbored any great hope when he had started.

Drayton came up a few more times, but none of the bets were anything out of the ordinary. The man was too smart to put his name to anything unsavory on paper. It was precisely why the diary had been so integral to Silas’s case. Without that, they were unlikely to find anything incriminating. Certainly, such records must exist—financial records, for instance—but those who held them would naturally be in Drayton’s pocket. They either stood to gain too much from his continuing success or to lose too much if they betrayed him. Both, perhaps.

Anthony cursed under his breath, shut the book, then strode out of the club. He pulled a paper from the inside of his coat pocket, unfolded it, and read over the short contents.

The street Harris had mentioned in the note was only a few minutes’ walk, and Anthony traversed the distance more quickly than usual, for he was restless, eager for news.

Harris, on the other hand, was nearly a quarter of an hour late, and Anthony’s temper was fraying at the edges when he finally appeared, wide-brim hat pulled low so it took a moment for Anthony to be certain it was him.

“Might you not simply tell me a quarter-past-three rather than saying three o’clock and obliging me to wait?”

The way Harris’s mouth stretched into a grin sent a shock of hope through Anthony—one he refused to pay heed to until there was good reason. They had followed too many trails that had led nowhere.

“A quarter of an hour will prove well worth your sacrifice today, sir,” Harris said.

Anthony raised his brows, waiting for Harris to elaborate.

Harris grinned, tipping his hat up slightly. “I’ve located the other diary.”

Anthony’s heart skidded to a halt. His gaze went to Harris’s hands, but they were empty. “Where? Where is it?”

Harris’s self-satisfaction flagged slightly, and he hesitated.

“You say you have it,” Anthony said. “Then, where is it?”

“I said I located it,” Harris clarified with a grubby finger.

Anthony stared, his impatience returning with force. “Meaning?”

“I don’t have it, but I know who does.”

“Who?”

Harris’s hesitation returned.

“Who, Harris?”

He watched Anthony carefully as he responded. “Drayton, sir.”

There was utter and complete silence.

Drayton had the diary they needed to prove that it was him and not Silas who had killed Langdon.

“But now that we know he has it,” Harris said, “we can get our hands on it.”

Anthony’s teeth gritted together, his hope dashed to bits. “You’re a fool, Harris.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps not.”

“There is no perhaps about it. If Drayton has the diary, it is because he knows its value—he realizes it could ruin him. There isn’t a chance he will let anyone get their hands on it. He has likely destroyed it already.” Anthony turned aside, running a rough hand over his chin, despair beginning to rear its ugly head inside. Would Silas be forced to live the rest of his life an exile?

“Now, that is where you are wrong,” Harris said. “Well, not about him not wanting anyone to get their hands on it, but about destroying it.”

“And how would you know that?”

Harris grinned again. “I make it my business to know these things.”

Anthony waited, jaw clenched.

“Servant talk, sir. The diary’s been seen in a particular drawer of Drayton’s at Barrington Hall. Apparently, he recognizes the value of the other information within it.”

“And who is to say he has not ripped out the pages we need and burned them?”

“I thought of that, sir, and my informant assures me the diary is intact.”

“And why did the servant not bring the diary to you himself instead of simply providing you with this information?”

Harris shot Anthony a significant look. “Because he knows what’s good for him, sir. Drayton is a hard master, and he’s been known to dismiss every maid and footman in the house when something’s gone missin’.”

Anthony shook his head and turned away again. “It is irrelevant. If Drayton has the diary, he may as well have burned it for the good it will do us.”

“Unless you manage to make a visit to Barrington Hall,” Harris said enigmatically.

Anthony whirled around. “Are you mad? The man would never invite me to his estate. Is this all you have to offer?”

Harris swallowed, then gave a reluctant nod.

Anthony’s impulse urged him to scream out every profane word in his vocabulary. Instead, he clamped his teeth together and strode off.

Head in his hands, Anthony stared at the place where the grass and the stone intersected beneath the bench on which he sat in his aunt’s garden.

He hadn’t felt this defeated, this hopeless and alone since the night Silas left for France. Today was the first time since then that Anthony truly considered whether there was any way to bring his brother home, any way for him to atone for what had happened that night.

He simply couldn’t live the rest of his life with this guilt in his heart or this burden on his shoulders. He would go mad.

The squeak of a door sounded, bringing his head up.

Charlotte stopped short in the doorway to the garden, her eyes on him.

She had been distant with him since the opera last night, and he couldn’t blame her. She had tried to be kind to him, and he had been a cur in response. He had wanted to confide in her, had been on the verge of doing so, desperate to unburden himself to someone.

But then the memory of that night had returned. The last time he had trusted a woman, she had disappeared—to Drayton, apparently—and his life had turned into a shambles. His decision had hurt those he loved most. It was still hurting them, though Aunt Eugenia and William would never admit it.

“Forgive me,” Charlotte said. “I hadn’t realized anyone was in the garden.” She turned and opened the door again to return inside.

“Wait.” Anthony’s voice came out rough as gravel—and almost pleading.

Charlotte paused on the threshold, then turned her head toward him.

He didn’t want to be alone, and though his mind told him not to trust Charlotte, his heart told him she was worthy of that trust.

“Will you sit with me a while?” he asked. More difficult words he had perhaps never uttered—a cry for help. The help he had refused just last night.

Charlotte’s gaze searched his long enough that he thought she might refuse, just as he had refused her last night. But she finally nodded, closed the door, and came to sit beside him.

They sat in silence for a time, Anthony leaning forward with his elbows on his knees as he gathered the courage to speak the words he had been keeping within him for months and months, unable to confide in anyone but Harris—and the man was hardly the sort of confidant one wished for.

Charlotte remained silent, reluctant, he could only imagine, to say anything after the way he had gone about things last night.

“Silas is innocent.” A rush of nerves surged in his chest as Charlotte’s head turned slowly toward him, her gaze alert and steady.

He kept his own fixed ahead as he continued. “Silas and I and another man—the one who was killed—had invested in Drayton’s shipping business a few months after he created it. Things went well for a time, and we began to see profits. Promising profits. Then, profits began to decrease, and our largest competitor began to thrive—beating us to ports with similar shipments, pricing in ways that made it difficult for us to recoup our costs. At first, Silas suspected Langdon, for he was the one handling the books. But a confrontation between them made it clear that it was Drayton. The three of us decided to meet with Drayton and give him a chance to explain himself. Drayton agreed to meet after a party that same night.”

Anthony shut his eyes and clasped his hands together rigidly as the memories flooded back. “In the weeks leading up to that night, I and many other men had been eager for the attention of Miss Baxter. But no one had yet been successful in capturing her attentions. On the evening in question, I attended the same party as Drayton. Miss Baxter was there, and for the first time, she chose to bestow her precious attention upon me.” His nostrils flared. “When the hour for the meeting came, she begged me not to leave, and, like a fool, I submitted to her pleas, thinking Silas and Langdon could manage on their own. What need had they of me for a simple conversation?”

His clasped hands tightened, his knuckles going white. How was it simultaneously so difficult and such a relief to speak these things? “When I returned home that night, it was to find Silas gathering his things in the dark, insisting he needed to reach Dover without delay. It was not until we were on our way there that he told me what had happened. Langdon was dead—shot by Drayton. Rather than kill Silas too and bring suspicion upon himself, Drayton claimed he and Langdon had confronted Silas for cheating the company, and that Silas had killed Langdon and fled. He told Silas to leave England and never return unless he wished to meet his end at the gallows. Silas took the next packet across the Channel, and that was the last time I saw him.”

Charlotte’s hand covered Anthony’s. He stared at her delicate skin for a moment, then turned his hand in hers to hold it. It was soft and warm, everything the past year of his life had not been.

“But he cannot do that,” Charlotte said. “Ruin another man’s life for a murder he himself committed?”

“You of all people should understand the power a man like Drayton holds, Charlotte. He has title, money, influence. Not long after Langdon’s death, he sold the company to our competitor, gaining majority share in their enterprise. There is precious little he cannot do.”

“Perhaps that is true, but he shan’t get away with it in secret.” She squeezed his hand. “I have decided the subject of my next caricature, Anthony.” Her eyes were bright and determined.

He turned toward her, grasping her hands in his. “You cannot, Charlotte. It is not enough and too much, all at once. If you expose him without evidence, he will come after you, and Silas will be no nearer to exoneration.”

“Is that why you needed the diary?”

He nodded.

Charlotte clenched her eyes shut. “And I made it all but impossible for you to get it.”

“It did me little good. The records inside were not recent enough to provide what we needed.”

“What do you need?”

He lifted his shoulders. “Record of a conversation Marlowe overheard and recorded—Drayton admitting what had happened that night to one of his closest friends. But it is not in the diary you gave me. Evidently, Marlowe kept dozens.”

“But then there is still hope! We need only obtain the right one.”

Even in Anthony’s despair, the way she said we brought a hint of a smile to his lips. There had been no we in all of this. Not really. William and Frederick couldn’t be convinced of their brother’s innocence. Silas could do nothing from where he was and seemed to have accepted the futility of trying. As for Harris ... he was not helping Anthony for any motivation other than money.

It was Charlotte’s sense of justice that put that look of indignant determination on her face. He understood better now what her mother had said about the burdens she had carried since Mr. Mandeville’s death. Charlotte was not the sort of woman to sit back and let things happen.

But she didn’t understand the gravity of the situation or the utter futility of her suggestion.

Anthony let out a sigh, and, realizing he had been stroking his thumb along Charlotte’s, he stilled his hand. “Perhaps we could retrieve the diary, were it not Drayton himself who possessed it.”

Charlotte’s eyes widened, and she held Anthony’s gaze. “He knows.”

Anthony nodded, glad she realized the significance of the information. “He keeps the diary in a drawer at his estate outside Town. I have no doubt he is making good use of its contents to bend other people to his will.”

“We must get it, Anthony.”

He shook his head. “Impossible.”

“Difficult and impossible are not the same.”

“Charlotte ... you do not understand Drayton’s influence. Everyone stands in awe of him. His servants are terrified of him.”

“I am not.”

Anthony faced her so that their knees touched. Suddenly, a new fear filtered in around the heavy despair he felt. A fear for Charlotte’s safety. “You should be. He killed a man. I have begun to suspect he was behind the death of Marlowe too.”

“But he cannot get away with it, Anthony.”

“I agree. Believe me, Charlotte. It is all I have thought about for months. You cannot understand how desperately I wish for Silas to return home, for everyone to know that it is honor rather than dishonor he deserves.”

She nodded quickly.

“But Silas’s freedom will have to be achieved some other way—how, I wish I knew.”

Silence fell again between them, and the birds chirped merrily, utterly oblivious to the mood in the garden.

Despite the bitter taste of the reality he had to face, Anthony felt less despair than he had when he had first taken a seat on this bench. He let his gaze travel to Charlotte. She was staring straight ahead, her eyes bright and alert.

“All we need is a plan,” she said.

He smiled slightly, touched by the depth of her devotion to the cause of Silas—a man she had never met. “I have realized that plans are harder to come by than I had previously thought.”

She turned toward him, her body teeming with energy. “I will do it.”

Anthony’s brows pulled together. “Do what?”

“Obtain the diary.”

“Charlotte . . .”

She took his hands again, as though trying to gather up every bit of his attention. “I need time with Lord Drayton. Can you help me with that?”

Anthony watched her warily, ignoring the way his body recoiled at the thought of her coming near the murderer. “He leaves in less than a fortnight.”

“Leaves? Where?”

“Like many members of Parliament,” Anthony said bitterly, “Drayton requires frequent respite from his burdensome duties. He has invited a dozen or so people to join him at his estate outside of London.”

Charlotte smiled. “Perfect.”

Anthony directed her with an expression meant to bring her back down to earth, for he could see precisely what she was thinking. “It is not a public assembly, Charlotte. It is a private party.”

She raised her brows and smiled enigmatically. “You think me unable to gain an invitation to such a gathering? I can be quite charming, you know.”

Anthony was coming to know that more and more each day he spent with her. “It is not your charms I doubt but Drayton’s willingness to extend an invitation to an utter stranger.”

“Not a stranger,” she said, a finger up to correct him. “We are now acquainted—and I plan to pursue that acquaintance with vigor.” She wrinkled her nose, as though realizing she had chosen the word poorly. “With ... persistence, rather.”

Anthony’s mouth twitched.

“Are you laughing at me?” she asked with narrowed eyes.

He shook his head, but he could not contain his growing smile.

She kept her suspicious gaze on him for a few seconds, then continued. “What I need is an opportunity for me to pursue my acquaintance with Lord Drayton.”

“With vigor?”

She shot him a look and ignored his comment. “If I have at least the opportunity, that will be sufficient. Can you manage it?”

Anthony’s smile dissipated. “Charlotte, you cannot be serious.”

She met his gaze, her own clear and unflinching.

“What, then? You gain an invitation for yourself to Drayton’s estate, where you will promptly bamboozle him?”

“An invitation for us,” she corrected. “We are engaged, remember?”

“Drayton falsely accused my brother of murder. If you think I will ever be amongst those he chooses to entertain in his home, you belong in Bedlam, not at Barrington Hall.”

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t be invited.”

Anthony gave a nod. “Bedlam it is.”

She stood and began pacing in front of him, the hem of her dress grazing the grass and making the blades tremble as they emerged from beneath her skirts. “It seems to me that the general consensus is that your brother is, indeed, guilty. Even your aunt and brothers seem to think so, do they not?”

Anthony grimaced. “They do. Silas and Langdon had a strained relationship, and people were aware of it. And then, when Silas fled ...”

“It made him look guilty,” Charlotte finished with a grimace. “Well, it shouldn’t be difficult to persuade Lord Drayton that you are of the same opinion. Perhaps you can even apologize to him for?—”

“I would rather die.”

Charlotte stopped her pacing, and their gazes held. “I understand your reluctance, Anthony, but if we are to obtain that diary and vindicate your brother, is it not worth a bit of sacrifice?”

Anthony’s jaw worked and worked. She was right. He knew she was. But his pride balked at the thought of trying to ingratiate himself with Drayton.

What other option did he have, though? He had no promising avenues to explore. And, even supposing Harris found anything new to pursue, who was to say it wouldn’t end in failure, just as their other hopes had?

“It is dangerous, Charlotte,” he said, frowning deeply. “I cannot let you take that sort of risk.”

She came to sit beside him again, smiling slightly. “I thought that might be an incentive to you. If things were to go poorly, the ensuing scandal would be an easy way to rid yourself of me.”

His brows snapped together. Did he wish to be rid of Charlotte?

“But if you would rather,” she said, “you can go in search of the journal. I can be the pretty face required to gain entrance.” Her eyes twinkled at him, daring him to contradict her.

He couldn’t help a soft chuckle.

“If he leaves as soon as you say, though,” she said, “time is of the essence. I need enough opportunity to persuade him to extend us an invitation.”

Anthony’s heart began to beat more quickly. Charlotte was determined, already planning and plotting. He couldn’t help but be carried along on the wave of her boldness and resolve. Something told him she could achieve whatever she set her mind to, no matter how mad.

Could they truly manage this plan of hers? Just as importantly, could they do it and keep their own reputations intact?

He had to believe they could.

Charlotte rose, returning to her quick pacing. Anthony’s heel tapped anxiously on the ground, and he stood too, trying to think through the strategy such a plan would require. Much rested on Charlotte’s shoulders, for Anthony had no confidence at all that, left to his own devices, he could manage to elicit an invitation from Drayton.

It would be difficult enough to play his own part. But for Silas, he could swallow his pride. Silas deserved that from him.

“If the house party is in less than a fortnight,” Charlotte muttered to herself, “and we are there”—she looked to Anthony.

“A week,” he said.

“A week. That leaves but one more week until our return to Stoneleigh. News of Drayton’s crimes will be all over London by then, of course, which”—her eyes brightened—“will provide the perfect distraction from—” Her footsteps halted, and their eyes met. “The end of our engagement,” she finished.

They stood a few feet apart, gazes fixed on one another.

“Yes,” Anthony said, speaking past the odd blockage in his throat. “The perfect distraction, as you say.” Why, then, did he feel a sliver of regret at the prospect?

Charlotte swallowed, nodding. “Then, we are agreed.”

“We are,” he said, ignoring the way he felt.

These emotions, they were only there because he had finally unburdened himself to someone. It was only natural his heart would revolt at the prospect of losing that confidant so quickly. It had nothing at all to do with wanting to be engaged.

As long as the end of their betrothal coincided with the end of Silas’s exile, all would be well. Better than well. It would be everything Anthony had been wishing for.

It had to be all he wished for.