Chapter 19

Hair coiffed as close to perfection as possible and wearing—unfortunately—the same dress she had worn at Mrs. Ashby’s dinner party, Charlotte’s pencil flew in all directions across the paper on the escritoire.

She sat back and surveyed her work, her nose wrinkling. It was always difficult to decide precisely how to go about a caricature—what parts of the person to accentuate and exaggerate, what the scene should be, and how to best convey the secret. The feat felt more difficult than ever today as she attempted to draw a person she had never seen.

With a sigh, she stood, setting down her pencil and making her way toward the door. She had turned the small lock beneath the knob to ensure no one could enter from without, but she unlocked it, entered the corridor, and went to the door of the last bedchamber in the corridor: Anthony’s.

After a moment’s hesitation and a quick glance down the corridor, she knocked softly. Within a few seconds, muffled footsteps sounded inside the room, coming in her direction.

The door opened a few inches, and Anthony peered back at her, his hands at his throat, doing up the button there. His shirt was tucked into his breeches, but he wore no waistcoat and no cravat. His hair was damp and uncoiffed, with locks falling haphazardly over his forehead.

“Charlotte,” said in surprise, brushing his hair back with his fingers in a way that held her momentarily mesmerized.

She forced her eyes to his, refusing to let them explore. “Forgive the disturbance, but I require a bit more information from you.”

His brows drew together as he fiddled with the button again. “Information?”

“I am trying to sketch the scene, and I realized I know far less than I had first thought. Did you say Mr. Higgins was at Vauxhall when it happened?”

“Yes,” he said, extending his head through the gap in the door and looking down the corridor. “Outside.”

“Very good, thank you.” She gave a little curtsy, then walked back to her bedchamber before her eyes could take in more of her betrothed. Pretended betrothed.

But within minutes, she found herself at his door again. This time, his cravat was draped over his shoulders and his waistcoat on but not yet buttoned.

“Yes?”

“The girl he was with,” Charlotte said. “Was she a performer, or did you say she was serving the food?”

“A violinist,” he said decidedly.

“Perfect. Thank you.” She curtsied again and walked to her door.

“Charlotte.”

She paused, hand on the handle, as she met his gaze questioningly.

“If you have another question, you may simply use the door that connects the rooms.”

Her heart skittered. Silly, really. It was just a door—not so different from the one he looked at her through right now, in fact. But she had caught herself staring at it a number of times since yesterday.

“I shan’t need to,” she assured him, “but thank you.” Using that ridiculous door felt like an intimacy with Anthony she could not afford. They could pretend to such familiarity in public, but it was another matter in private.

He cocked an incredulous brow. “If you say so.” He smiled slightly, then disappeared behind his door again, leaving her with a hint of regret that she would never again enjoy the sight of Anthony Yorke in a state of half-dress.

Contrary to her assertion, however, within minutes, Charlotte needed him again. She refused, however, to surrender to the need, until she had been sitting, staring at the paper, for nearly ten minutes.

Her gaze flitted to the door that, if opened, would lead to Anthony’s bedchamber. “It is just a stupid door,” she said. Rising from her chair, she strode over to it determinedly, then rapped upon it three times.

Within seconds, it opened, and Anthony smiled pleasantly back at her, a glint of amusement in his eyes. His cravat was still untied, draping over his shoulders, but his hair had been brushed into order and his waistcoat buttoned.

Regrettably, Charlotte’s unruly mind said.

“I can only assume this is you not having a question,” he said. Had his smile always been so roguishly handsome? She could have sworn it had used to be arrogant and annoying.

“It is only that I have never seen Mr. Higgins,” she defended. “And now I fear no one shall recognize him in the caricature because I have not captured his essence.”

“If you simply draw a large pile of horse manure, that should suffice.”

Charlotte couldn’t stop a smile. “That would certainly be much simpler.”

Returning his own smile, his gaze shifted behind her. “Is that it?” He nodded to indicate the escritoire.

“It is.”

“May I see?”

Charlotte hesitated. No one had ever seen her work before it was complete, and she felt sudden anxiety at the thought of Anthony, of all people, witnessing the messy process.

But she needed him.

Heavens, that was an admission to make to herself.

She went to retrieve the paper, only to discover Anthony following her. Into her private bedchamber.

Which did not matter in the least, for they hated each other, naturally.

It was pure, unmitigated hatred that made the blood thrum in her veins as he came up beside her.

He looked over the messy drawing for a moment, his arm pressed against hers in a way she found utterly distracting. So she sat down.

There. That was much better.

“You have his hair all wrong,” Anthony said, pointing to the pencil strokes above Higgins’s forehead. “He parts his hair on the side. Quite far, in fact.”

Charlotte took a new piece of paper and hurriedly sketched the shape of a new head while Anthony watched. This time, she placed the parting of his hair to the side—down near his ear. “Is that better?” She glanced up at Anthony, whose lips drew into a smile. A regrettably handsome smile that, since meeting Miss Baxter, Charlotte had come to realize was likely the downfall of plenty of women.

“Much better,” he replied. “Even without facial features, he is already recognizable.”

Charlotte’s chest filled with satisfaction. “What of his eyes, though? Have I done them justice?”

Anthony’s brows drew together as he looked at the last sketch. “The eyes are well enough. But his brows are more distinctive. Far thicker than what you have.”

Charlotte’s pencil went back to work, making the crude outline of wide brows on the new face.

Her pencil slowed when Anthony rested his hand on the escritoire, leaning over to observe the strokes more closely. Charlotte kept her hand moving, trying to ignore his sudden proximity and the warmth he brought with him.

He pointed a finger to the brows. “They curl up near the center. Just there.”

“Like this?” She scooped her pencil upward, and Anthony’s breathy chuckle tickled her ear.

“Precisely. As though they were about to take flight.”

They worked on the nose and mouth, laughing in turns as Charlotte took Anthony’s descriptions and embellished them.

Once she had finished the full top lip, she surveyed the result of their work, then glanced up at him, smiling. Her breath hitched, for he was nearer than she had realized, his own lips mere inches from hers.

Their gazes caught and held. The heat of the room suddenly felt oppressive. What in the world was happening?

Was this how hatred felt?

No. Charlotte knew what it felt to hate, for she had hated the man responsible for Papa’s death for some time now. This feeling was nothing at all like that.

She turned her head to the drawing. “That should do well enough, don’t you think?”

“It will do better than well enough. Anyone who has ever seen Higgins will recognize him immediately. You have conveyed him to perfection.”

“Only with your help,” she replied, allowing herself the briefest of glances at him.

He was looking at her, his expression impassive. What she wouldn’t give to know what was in that mind of his just now.

He stood straight. “Well? Shall we move to the body?”

Something told Charlotte it would be unwise to allow Anthony to remain in her bedchamber any longer—and particularly not if they would be discussing bodies.

“I think I can do well enough with what you have told me,” she said.

Anthony nodded and glanced at the small clock on the mantel. “We only have half an hour before we must leave.”

“Half an hour will suffice, for I am already dressed—but for my gloves, of course.”

As if to verify her words, his gaze ran over her, stopping at her back. His mouth opened, then shut again immediately.

“What?” Charlotte twisted to look over her shoulder.

“Your buttons,” he said. “Two are undone.”

Charlotte’s cheeks heated, and she stood up, stretching her hands behind her to try to reach them. “Those confounded things!” When she’d had the dress embellished before the dinner party, she had also changed out the buttons. But the ones she had chosen were slightly smaller than the original ones, making situations like this one a constant risk.

Anthony watched her struggles with ill-concealed and growing amusement as she reached her arms over her shoulders, then up behind her back with no success at all.

“Would you care for some assistance?” he finally asked, his hand covering his mouth in a way that failed to cloak the lines of laughter beside his eyes.

“You are abominable,” she said somewhat breathlessly, but she turned her back toward him. Time was of the essence if she wished to finish the caricature.

Her skin prickled the moment Anthony came up behind her. When his fingers took hold of the top button, grazing her skin, a shiver ran down her spine—one significant enough that it was impossible he had not noticed.

“Your fingers are cold,” she lied.

“Forgive me.” He cleared his throat, and there was silence as he fastened the other button.

She shut her eyes and pressed her lips together in an attempt to take hold of her wandering thoughts and emotions. But the second her eyes closed, the image of Anthony’s hands stealing around her waist pressed itself upon her.

She whirled around the moment the second button was fastened. “Thank you. I shall be down shortly.”

With the veriest narrowing of his eyes, Anthony nodded and saw himself out of her bedchamber and into his.

“That wretched door,” Charlotte muttered, giving her hands a shake to rid herself of the crackling energy coursing through her.

Charlotte had found her mind wandering to Miss Baxter a number of times—and to Anthony, wondering what they had shared and what remained of it. The bitterness with which he spoke of her made it clear that Anthony, at least, had not moved past it.

Knowing his heart was soft enough to be so hurt, realizing the motivation behind all he had been doing and that it was not selfish, as she had thought, but rather entirely selfless ... it cast him a new light, making the shadows fall away. And without shadows, Anthony Yorke was an entirely different man. A man Charlotte wasn’t sure how to pretend to be engaged to without being just a bit curious what it would be like to truly be his.

And that would not do.

She might be engaged to Anthony Yorke, but she could not fall in love with him on any account.

“Are you ready?” Charlotte asked Anthony as they strode toward the ballroom three-quarters of an hour later. Her arm was tucked into his, and she looked up when he didn’t answer immediately.

His jaw was set, the shadow it cast on his cravat sharp from the candles lining the corridor.

Her heart twisted, for what she was asking of him was far from easy or simple. The difficulty of it was evidence of his love for his brother, and she almost wished she could return to the time when she had thought him arrogant, selfish, and hard instead of a man crumbling under the weight of his guilt.

If she were in his shoes, would she be able to face the man responsible for Papa’s death and pretend she harbored no ill-feelings toward him?

Just shy of the ballroom door, she stopped, her hand on Anthony’s arm keeping him from moving forward. She allowed her family to pass, then tugged Anthony toward the wall where the open door offered them a bit of privacy.

“We do not have to do this, Anthony,” she said.

“We do,” he replied, his brows knit together and his jaw set.

“Even so, it does not have to be tonight. We can wait if you would rather.” For the last two days, she had pestered Anthony with questions about Lord Drayton, trying to gain a clear picture of what it would require for her to seek his favor. From what Anthony had conveyed, the man was a stickler when it came to genteel behavior, having no patience for any degree of vulgarity. It was a trait which would require every bit of Charlotte’s deficient training and experience to live up to.

Her one hope had been Anthony’s contention that Lord Drayton was susceptible to flattery. He put great value on those whose admiration and adulation were within the limits he deemed appropriate. That was something Charlotte could use to her advantage if she was careful enough.

Anthony’s dark and determined eyes met hers, and they softened, as did his voice. “Silas has waited long enough. I am ready.”

Searching his face, she nodded, and they proceeded to the ballroom.

Charlotte’s eyes swept over the room, searching for Lord Drayton. Tonight, her objective was simply to deepen her acquaintance with him, but for Anthony, it would require a difficult conversation.

“He is over there,” Anthony murmured. “Speaking with Lord Tysdale in the far corner.”

Attired in a neat dark brown tailcoat, Lord Drayton sipped from the drink in his hand as he laughed at something Lord Tysdale said. Charlotte watched him carefully, her chest filling with indignant determination. He looked so at ease, so carefree in his guilt, while innocent Silas Yorke did his best to make his way in France. It was despicable.

“I find myself utterly parched,” she said, focus still on Lord Drayton.

“Let us find you some refreshment,” Anthony said, his voice determined.

They made their way around the ballroom floor, but their progress was halted as they waited for four gossiping women to take note of them and move.

“Well, if it isn’t the man himself,” Anthony said under his breath. “In the flesh.”

“Who?” Charlotte asked, trying to follow the direction of his gaze. The word no sooner left her lips than her eyes caught on a man taking his place in the forming set. His sparse hair was parted deeply, while his full brows turned upward in a distinctive curl. Her hand flew to her mouth, but her laugh escaped, drawing the attention of the nearest woman.

“Do try to compose yourself,” Anthony said, but he was smiling just as much as she at the sight of Mr. Higgins.

The crowd of women shuffled aside, allowing them to pass, and their humor gave way at the sight of Lord Drayton, who finished his conversation with Lord Tysdale just as they approached.

The muscles in Anthony’s arm tightened under Charlotte’s hand.

“For Silas,” she whispered just before Lord Drayton’s gaze turned to them. “Lord Drayton! How happy I am to see you again.” She dipped into a curtsy as he inclined his head. “We were disappointed not to have more time to converse at the opera the other night.”

“Were you?” Lord Drayton’s gaze shifted to Anthony.

The silence lasted long enough for Charlotte to wonder if she should have put her foot down and insisted they wait until Anthony was truly prepared for this interaction. It was entirely possible that his response to Lord Drayton’s question would be to throw a glass of ratafia in the man’s face.

Her clutch tightened on Anthony’s arm.

“Indeed we were,” Anthony said, drawing a suppressed sigh of relief from Charlotte as he covered her hand with his.

Lord Drayton took a moment to respond. “Forgive me, Yorke, but I was under the impression you had no liking for me.”

The fingers of the hand Anthony had used to cover Charlotte’s curled around hers, gripping it. She glanced up at him and noted the tightness of his jaw, the slight flare to his nostrils.

She wanted to wrap her arms around him and assure him his sacrifice would all be worth it in the end, but instead, she merely returned the pressure of his fingers.

“You are mistaken, my lord,” Anthony said. “If I have seemed cold toward you, it must be a mixture of my unfortunate tendency to look severe combined with an assumption that you harbored ill feelings toward my family. In truth, I have been trying to gather the courage to speak with you these months and more. To apologize.”

Lord Drayton’s brows rose. “Oh?”

“Yes.” There was a pause, and Anthony’s hand tightened around Charlotte’s until she clenched her teeth from the pain. “For the words and actions of my brother.”

Lord Drayton’s gaze intensified, but he said nothing, waiting for Anthony to continue.

“I understand he meant to bring accusations of a serious and highly offensive nature against you. Accusations meant to cover his own underhanded dealings. I gather the unfortunate result of all of this was the failure of your business as well as the death of Mr. Langdon. Please accept my belated apology on behalf of my entire family.”

Lord Drayton’s gaze rested on Anthony for another moment, and Charlotte held her breath.

His mouth stretched into a sympathetic smile. “There is nothing at all to forgive you of. You believed in me enough to invest in the business, and I heartily regret that you, too, suffered a financial loss as a result of that disastrous affair.” He extended a hand. “Let us shake hands and put it all behind us, shall we?”

Charlotte’s heart soared as she smiled at Lord Drayton, watching Anthony out of the corner of her eye. This was better than they could have hoped. Never had she thought the man would so readily accept an apology.

Despite Charlotte’s anxieties, Anthony released her hand and took Lord Drayton’s.

“It is benevolent of you, my lord,” he said.

“Nonsense.” Their hands clasped, then released. “I know as well as any that a man cannot control the actions of his family. Some men are just bad apples.”

The vein in Anthony’s temple pulsed, and Charlotte’s heartbeat sped.

“Ah!” she exclaimed. “Look. Another set is forming! Will you not ask me to dance, my lord?”

Lord Drayton looked at her with a smile. “Gladly, if you will accept.” He put out a hand, and she placed hers in it with a quick glance at Anthony—a glance that reaffirmed to her that it was time to put distance between Lord Drayton and him.

Lord Drayton led her to the middle of the ballroom floor, where they took their places amongst the still-forming set.

“It was very magnanimous of you, my lord,” she said as they stood across from one another. “With your words, you have relieved a great burden from his shoulders.”

“It was my pleasure.” As the music began, he lowered into a bow. “Almost as great a pleasure as it is to dance with you.”

Charlotte’s cheeks grew warm, but she tried to take the flattery with good grace. She wanted him to like her well enough to invite her to his party, after all. She simply had to ignore the fact that she was dancing with a murderer and the man whose conspiring and disregard for anyone but himself had put her in the impossible situation she was in.

“My sentiments precisely,” she lied as they drew together for the first figures of the dance.

Her lies continued as they spoke whenever the dance allowed it. She attempted a few subtle compliments, and the result convinced her of what she had suspected: like so many men in positions of power, Lord Drayton was inclined to surround himself with those who made him feel as important and remarkable as he found himself.

Perhaps it would not take so much time before she could elicit an invitation.

She chanced a glance at Anthony for a dose of encouragement. He still stood near the refreshment table, his hard eyes watching the two of them in a way that made her eager to engage Lord Drayton in conversation. If he glanced at Anthony just now, nothing Anthony could say would persuade him he was not detested.

“Tell me, Lord Drayton,” she said. “Shall we be fortunate enough to see you at Astley’s next week? I have been assured that everyone who matters will be in attendance, which tells me you must be at the top of the list.” The levels her flattery had reached nauseated her, but she persisted in spite of it, for she had a goal to achieve.

Lord Drayton kept his eyes fixed on her as they clasped hands and turned in a circle. “Almost you convince me to postpone my engagements. I might have delayed them had I been aware of your intentions.”

“Might you not still?”

He chuckled. “I rather think the guests I have invited to my estate would miss their host, so I will not, regrettably, have the pleasure of seeing you there.”

“How disappointing,” she replied, arranging her expression into something pitiful and disappointed. “How long shall you be away?”

“Ten days, perhaps,” he replied. “Barrington Hall is not so far.”

“Barrington Hall?” she repeated. “Is that your estate?”

He nodded.

She laughed wonderingly. “I have heard many tales of its marvelous sculpture garden—often enough that I tried to persuade my aunt to see whether we might have a tour when we were last passing.”

The gratified expression she had become familiar with over the course of the dance graced his face. “I am delighted to know you enjoy sculptures, Miss Mandeville, and, supposing I was there at the time, I sincerely regret that your aunt did not indulge your fancy. I would have gladly offered you a tour myself.”

“I shall never forgive my aunt. She was adamant it would be an intrusion at best.”

“I could never regard you as an intrusion,” he replied.

She smiled, though her hands itched to slap the man. How could he adopt such ingratiating manners in the bright light of a ballroom while committing such heinous deeds in the darkness?

“Well,” she said as they performed the final figures, “I quite envy you, for a stay in the country sounds sublime after the crowds of London.”

The implicit request in her tone was glaringly obvious, and the moment the words left her lips, she regretted them, for Lord Drayton’s smile flickered.

She had gone too far, become too bold. Refined woman of Lord Drayton’s acquaintance would never say something so desperate or tasteless. They did not seek invitations, for they came in abundance.

The violins drew out the last notes of the song, and it was everything Charlotte could do to keep her head held high as they bowed and curtsied to one another.

“I find this dancing has tired me, Miss Mandeville,” Lord Drayton said. “Shall we forgo the second song of the set?”

Charlotte nodded with a smile plastered on her lips, but as Lord Drayton led the way back to Anthony, she knew she had misstepped, putting their plan in jeopardy.