Chapter 21

Charlotte turned over and clenched her eyes shut more tightly, grasping at precious sleep. Even with her eyes closed, she could feel the heaviness of her lids. It had been nigh on two o’clock when she had finally felt satisfied with the painting and tumbled into bed.

Her eyes popped open as memories from the night returned—spilling the paint, Anthony knocking on her door, then helping clean the mess.

She shot up, awareness of the amount of light filtering into the bedchamber at the edges of the curtains making her wonder what the hour must be. She needed to send off the caricature without delay to ensure it arrived in time.

She reached for the cord beside the bed and gave it a tug, then threw off the bedcovers and grabbed her wrapper, sliding her arms through the sleeves. A glance in the mirror on the dressing table made her eyes widen. Half of her hair had come out of her plait. Had that happened during her sleep, or had it been that chaotic when Anthony had come to help her?

Bracing her hands on the edge of the table, she leaned even closer to the mirror, inspecting her face. She stroked her cheek where the faintest bit of red was still visible. She closed her eyes, and her heartbeat thrummed in her ears as she thought on Anthony’s gentle attempts to wipe it away. She could have sworn he had almost kissed her in that moment.

Just as importantly, she had wanted him to. It had terrified her to no end—the way she was beginning to feel for this man she had so despised, and the fear that a kiss would not hold the significance for him that it would for her.

What might it have felt like to have his lips on hers? To pretend for just a moment that they truly did mean to marry, to share the bed, the home, the life everyone thought they would?

Heat flooded her, and her eyes flew open as she fixed her gaze upon herself in the mirror.

“Enough, Charlotte,” she said severely.

Her gaze dropped to the skin on her chest and the half-dozen small drops of colorful paint there. Had Anthony not noticed them? Would he have wiped them if he had?

Her cheeks grew even warmer, and she jumped at the knock on the door.

She fanned her face for a moment. “Come in.”

A maid entered holding a large tray. “Good morning, miss.”

“Good morning. What is that?”

“Breakfast, miss. Mr. Anthony asked that it be sent up when you rang the bell.”

Charlotte was silent. Was he trying to make her fall in love with him? What had happened to the unbearable and ill-humored man she had met at The Crown and Castle? This would all be far easier if she could see more of that man instead of the thoughtful, loyal Anthony she was engaged to.

Having set the tray on the bedside table, the maid turned toward Charlotte and clasped her hands in front of her, waiting to be instructed.

“I need this letter to be posted without delay,” Charlotte said, taking it from the escritoire and handing it to her.

“Right away, miss. Shall I help you dress after I see it posted?”

Charlotte hesitated, feeling her lids fight being kept open. “No. I shall rest a bit more, I think. I will ring the bell when I am ready.”

“Very good, miss.” She curtsied and left the room.

Charlotte ate the breakfast on her tray, directing her mind toward the approaching party rather than allowing it to explore last night’s occurrences. That was a dangerous road to travel.

When she set the tray aside and climbed under her covers again, however, she found sleep refused to return. Anthony gladly danced into her thoughts again and again within minutes of her banishing him.

Curse him.

“Did you manage to finish the caricature and send it off?” Anthony asked as he and Charlotte walked two dozen feet behind Mama, Lillian, and Tabitha. The sky was a patchwork of interchanging blue sky and clouds as they took the path in the park that led toward Kensington Palace.

“I did,” Charlotte said. “Without further mishap, even.”

“Admirable,” Anthony replied.

Letting her gaze wander over the multitude of trees that dotted the wide lawns, Charlotte sighed. “And now I must set my mind to the next caricature.”

“Which, I take it, does not bring you pleasure?”

She glanced at him. “Not as it first did, no.”

“How did you come to begin creating them?”

Charlotte took a moment before responding, but there was little point to hiding anything from Anthony. She couldn’t even pretend she didn’t want to tell him at this point. He knew more than anyone about her secrets, and it felt strangely ... normal. “It was mere happenstance, really. I have always enjoyed sketching and painting—far more than Lillian and Tabitha do—but I had seen one of Rowlandson’s caricatures. Someone had brought it to The Crown and Castle, and I was struck by how playful yet skillful it was, and how it satirized its subject. My grief over Papa’s death was still fresh at the time. Fresh enough that I was full of anger toward the world, eager to place blame wherever I could. So”—she shrugged—“I made one of my own.”

They followed the others into an arched tunnel, every inch covered in greenery.

“Who was the subject?” Anthony asked.

“No one in particular. It was a table of enormous, wealthy men eating a lavish dinner together, while men of less consequence poured money into the wealthy’s purses. It was hardly my best work, but it caught people’s attention despite that.”

“And what of Digby?” Anthony asked. “How does he come into the story?”

Charlotte’s brows knit. That day had changed everything. “I was proud of my work and eager to vent my anger at the world. So I placed the caricature where I knew it would be seen by the people it targeted: at the inn. But, unbeknownst to me, I was seen by one of the maids. When Mr. Digby saw the paper, he questioned the servants, and Mary confessed she had seen me place it there. The paper was already drawing attention, and when Mr. Digby tried to remove it, there was protest. The inn had its most lucrative night in some time, as everyone was eager to discuss the caricature. Apparently, that sparked the idea in his mind, and when I next saw him, he proposed that I continue making caricatures in return for money. We so desperately needed money, and I had enjoyed the process so much, I eagerly accepted.”

Lillian and Tabitha took a seat on one of the benches ahead beneath the long archway, and Anthony and Charlotte stopped. They retraced their steps until they reached another bench, which was littered with leaves and a few small sticks.

“But you do not enjoy it as much now?” Anthony used a handkerchief to brush off the debris, then helped Charlotte to take a seat.

She shook her head.

“Then why not stop?” He took a seat on the other edge of the bench, angling his body toward her and resting his arm along the back of the bench so that his fingers were just an inch from her shoulder.

She sent him a grimacing smile, aware of the impulse to reach up and take his nearby hand. “It is not quite so simple as that.”

“Because you need the money?”

“That and—other things.”

“Charlotte . . .”

She pressed her lips together, trying to decide how to explain. “Mr. Digby has become ... attached to our arrangement.”

Anthony’s gaze fixed on her. “To the arrangement? Or to you?”

“No, no,” she reassured him, seeing how intently he waited for her response. “To the arrangement. If it was the latter ...” She shuddered.

Anthony relaxed slightly, but there was still an edge to the way he watched her. “You mean he refuses to let you end the arrangement.”

“He has made it clear that as long as it continues, my secret is safe.”

“Meaning that if you end it, he will reveal your identity.” His jaw hardened, and he turned his head to the side, obscuring his face from view. “He is every bit the despicable lowlife I had thought.”

“I cannot argue with that,” she replied. “He was agreeable enough at first, though. The threats did not come until recently. Which reminds me ... when I paid him a visit before we left for London, I might have been obliged to make some threats of my own.” She cleared her throat. “On your behalf.” She clenched her teeth.

Anthony’s mouth pulled up at the edge. “I am glad to hear that. Surely, though, you had no need of me when you have such sharp claws.” He reached for her gloved hand, and her heart rushed up to her throat.

“I should have thought to use them,” she said, keeping still for fear he would let go of her hand if she made too swift a movement. “But Mr. Digby responded more readily to the mention of your name than he would have to anything else, I think. Enough so, in fact, that I felt emboldened to insist he begin paying me more.”

Anthony’s eyes lit up as he looked at her with an admiration that made her feel warm. “Bravo, little kitten.” His smile faded slowly as he regarded her. “But you should be able to stop if you wish to, Charlotte.”

She nodded. “And I will. Someday. It seemed the wrong time, however, when he was so suspicious of our engagement. I tried to satisfy his skepticism, and I daresay I managed it—thanks to your threats.”

“Vicarious threats,” he amended.

“Precisely. For now, though, the money is still too welcome for me to wish to put an end to the arrangement. I must look toward the future, for there is no telling how my family will be regarded once our engagement ends.”

“Charlotte,” Anthony said, the deep furrow of his brow returning. He took a pause that felt like an eternity. “Perhaps we should reconsider?—”

“Please don’t,” she said.

He stared at her, his eyes questioning.

She didn’t know that she could bear to hear him suggest marrying her out of pity. She forced a smile and spoke in a cheery tone, pulling her hand away. “We will come about. I am certain of it.”

He watched her in silence for a moment.

“It looks as though we are pressing on.” Charlotte indicated her family rising from their bench. She stood, and after a moment, Anthony joined her.

She turned the conversation to safer and less painful avenues, recounting Tabitha’s crushing disappointment upon learning that Lord Drayton had not included her or, indeed, anyone but Charlotte and Anthony in his invitation.

“And when Mama insisted that, if you and I were to leave London, the three of them should return to Bellevue House, I feared Tabitha would burst into tears. Thankfully, your aunt insisted even more firmly that they remain with her. I think she and Mama have become genuine friends.”

“I have noticed the same thing,” he replied, but she could tell his mind was far away.

Unfortunately for Charlotte, her own mind insisted on settling firmly on the man beside her, with whom she was fast falling in love.

Two days after their walk in Kensington Gardens, Charlotte was reading in the library with her sisters when the door opened. The footman appeared with a silver tray balancing on one hand.

“A letter for you, Miss Charlotte,” he said, bringing it to her and bending for her to take it.

Charlotte frowned but thanked him, and he soon disappeared.

“Do not tell me you and Anthony are writing letters to one another in the same house,” Tabitha said.

Charlotte ignored her, breaking the wafer and unfolding it. Her gaze dropped to the signature at the bottom, and she immediately refolded it, unease filling her.

“Well?” Tabitha asked. “Who is it from?”

Heart thudding against her chest, Charlotte sent her sister an enigmatic smile, rose from her chair, and walked toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Tabitha asked.

“To enjoy my letter in peace,” she replied.

“It is from Anthony,” Tabitha said as Charlotte closed the door behind her.

Her smile evaporated, and she hurried up the stairs and to her bedchamber, resting her back against the door once she was inside and opening the letter.

Dear Miss Mandeville,

I trust this letter finds you well.It was with great relief that I received your letter yesterday, as you promised. It is some of your best work, which requires not just skill but a deep understanding of people and their secret lives. Everyone has secrets, after all.

You better than most understandhow easily reputations can be marred by the slightest whisper or the faintest hint of scandal. It is a delicate balance we all maintain, is it not?

Allow me to provide a small but striking example: what might result if it were to become known that an engagement had been entered into, not as a matter of the heart as so widely believed, but rather for the sake of saving an already fragile reputation?

Fascinating how such arrangements can be quite delicate if not handled with the utmost care and discretion. Do you not agree? Given your personal experience on the subject, I am certain you do.

In light of such matters, I feel our own business arrangement merits further reconsideration—specifically previous assurances of my continued discretion. Maintaining such secrets comes at a cost, one that I am sure you can appreciate.

I propose, therefore, a simple financial arrangement to ensure continued silence on my part—nothing more than the reasonable sum of fifty pounds. A small price for the peace of mind it will afford you, and easily sent with your next caricature.

I trust you will find this proposal acceptable and act accordingly. Failure to comply, I fear, may lead to unforeseen complications that could upset the balance we both strive to maintain.

I eagerly await your prompt and favorable response.

Yours sincerely,

Mr. Josiah Digby

Charlotte’s heart thudded against her chest.

He knew.

But how? When not even her own family was aware that the engagement was a sham.

There was only one explanation: Mary.

Mr. Digby must have realized she knew more and pressed her for information. And Charlotte knew Mary well enough to know that her loyalty would have kept her lips sealed until the risk to her own family became too great.

How Mr. Digby had come to know mattered little, though. What did matter was what would happen if Charlotte failed to give him the money he demanded.

Fifty pounds!

And yet, what would be forfeit otherwise? It would drag her, her sister, her mother, and the Yorkes into scandal. Charlotte could never forgive herself for that—not when they were making such progress in Society.

But every part of her revolted at the thought of giving him that money. It would be to surrender, to let him win.

And yet, either way, Charlotte and her family would lose.

Curse the day she had said yes to doing business with Mr. Digby.

Dashing a tear from her eye, she crumpled up the paper and threw it with all her strength at the empty grate, where it tumbled and settled amongst the ashes.