Chapter 22

“Have you decided on a date for the wedding yet?” William asked as he poured from the decanter in Aunt Eugenia’s drawing room.

Anthony considered saying a date a few weeks in the future—he was sick to death of the question—but he was learning that each lie required more lies, and he was also sick to death of lying. “Not yet.”

“Why ever not?” William handed him a glass, then took a seat in the chair beside him. “I can see no reason for delaying the inevitable.”

“The family lost their father, William. It makes settlements a great deal more complicated, for everything is being held in trust until they can identify the heir.” There. That was true enough, wasn’t it?

Of course, the thing that made the wedding and settlements most complicated was the fact that there would be neither. If Anthony had Aunt Eugenia’s fortune, he would be tempted to gift some of it to the Mandevilles. He hated thinking of their uncertain future. Where would they go when the heir to the estate inevitably came to claim Bellevue?

“She has improved you, you know,” William said, his gaze on Anthony. “You have been so miserable and irritable since ...” His brows drew together, and his gaze shifted to the drink he held. “The point is, you are more like yourself again now.”

“Only imagine how marriage might improve you,” Anthony quipped. “Why are you avoiding it? I can see no reason for delaying the inevitable.”

The corner of William’s mouth drew up at the edge for a moment before his expression shifted to something more pensive. He swirled the last bit of brandy in his cup. “I have yet to find a woman who feels right for the role.”

Anthony scoffed lightly. William took his role as heir and firstborn all too seriously. “And if you do, she will likely want nothing to do with you,” Anthony teased.

William chuckled, then tossed off the last of the brandy and rose to his feet.

“Leaving already?” Anthony asked. William had been there less than a quarter of an hour.

“I have business nearby. When do you leave for Barrington?”

“In two days,” Anthony said. He and Charlotte had spoken more than once about how to handle their time there, but Anthony still felt unprepared and unsettled. They were entering the belly of the beast, and he was simply grateful he did not have to do so alone.

Which was a problem all its own. He was far too comfortable spending an inordinate amount of time with Charlotte. His mind was capable, he had discovered, of finding excuse after feeble excuse to seek her out.

“Then I shall see you afterward.” William cocked a brow. “And I expect to be informed of the wedding date when I do.” He shrugged into his tailcoat, then turned and left.

Anthony remained in his chair for another few minutes, staring at nothing in particular.

Absentmindedly, he thumbed the post in his hand. It had been delivered with the day’s post just before William had joined him in the drawing room. Anthony had also noted a letter addressed to Charlotte. The penmanship had been decidedly male—and just as decidedly messy. Given that Charlotte had sent off the caricature recently, Anthony suspected the letter was from Digby.

Though, what reason would that villainous man have to write her? What could not wait to be said upon her return home? If he knew what was good for him, the letter would be one of gratitude—or a plea for forgiveness. But Anthony had no real hope that such was the case. He went in search of Charlotte, looking in the morning room where her sisters and mother were, then the library. But it was not until he glanced through the windows that looked onto the garden that he saw her sitting alone on the bench.

He hesitated, then opened the door and joined her.

She smiled at him as he approached, a fact which would have made him marvel for the contrast to how she used to regard him, except that the smile clearly required effort.

She moved to afford more space for him on the bench, and he stole a glance at her as he sat.

Gads, she was beautiful. Beautiful and distracted.

“Something is amiss,” he said after a few seconds of silence had passed. He hesitated. “Is it Digby?”

Charlotte’s gaze flicked to his in surprise.

“I saw a letter addressed to you with the post and wondered.”

“Yes,” she said, looking ahead again. “It was from Digby.”

“And what did he have to say for himself?”

“Nothing of import.” Her nostrils flared slightly, belying her words.

Anthony kept silent, watching her as she stared forward. He wouldn’t force her confidence. He might have attempted to do so before, but things were different now. He wished it to be given freely.

Evidently, she was not willing to offer that, a realization that tasted bitter on his tongue. Bitter but not unexpected. What had he allowed his mind and heart to make of this ruse they had concocted? He had certainly not anticipated falling in love with the woman he had so recently despised.

Charlotte blinked and shifted in her seat, as though coming out of a reverie of sorts, then forced a smile. “Shall we speak more of Lord Drayton’s party? I have been wondering whether it makes most sense to take the diary early on or nearer the end.”

It was as they conversed on that subject that Anthony noticed the way a few of her lashes clung together, as though she had recently been crying. Devil take Digby.

When they parted ways so that Charlotte could join her mother and sisters for a quick shopping expedition before dinner, Anthony waved them off from the front door with a smile. When they disappeared from view, the smile faded.

He made his way up two sets of stairs, down the corridor, and into his own bedchamber. He strode to the door that connected his room to Charlotte’s, paused for a moment, then opened it.

He stood on the threshold, his gaze flicking to the escritoire. There was nothing there, though. His eyes traveled around the room—over the bed, to the trunk at the foot of it, then to the dressing table.

But there was no sign of the letter. Perhaps she had put it in a drawer.

That was when he saw it—the bit of crumpled paper hidden amongst the ashes in the grate.

He strode over and picked it up, ignoring the black powder that had lodged in its myriad creases.

His gaze consumed the message like flames would tinder, and with each line, his grip on the paper tightened. He stared at the signature at the bottom for a few seconds, then crushed the paper in one fist, threw it back into the grate, and stormed from the room.

Anthony put a foot in the stirrup and swung a leg over the saddle of his chestnut gelding. The groom released the bridle and stepped off the street and onto the pavement. Anthony gave him a curt nod, then nudged the horse forward with his heels.

He had gone no more than a hundred feet when he came upon the Mandevilles.

“Anthony,” Charlotte said in surprise.

His brows drew together. “Back so soon?” They had only left for shopping a quarter of an hour ago.

“Not even begun, in fact,” she said ruefully. “I forgot my reticule, which has the money in it.”

“Ah, I see.” The mere mention of money made something flicker in her expression. No doubt she was thinking of Digby.

“Cloaks might be wise, as well,” Lillian remarked, glancing up at the sky with misgiving.

“Where are you going?” Charlotte asked Anthony.

“I have some urgent business to attend to,” he said. “I shall return as soon as possible, but I shan’t be in time for dinner.”

Was he imagining it, or did Charlotte look disappointed? He didn’t particularly wish to miss dinner, but the journey was nigh on twelve miles, which meant it would be more than three hours before he returned, and likely nearer to four.

“Travel safely,” Charlotte said.

His eyes fixed on her. Was she truly worried for his safety? In many ways, her life would be made easier if he did come to some accident on the road. No one would blame a woman whose engagement had ended in tragedy.

“Yes, we wish you a safe journey and a quick return,” Mrs. Mandeville said with a warm smile.

Anthony thanked them, then waited for them to pass before continuing on his way, wondering what Charlotte would say if she knew his destination.

Soaked to the bone and temper in tatters, Anthony thrust open the door of The Crown and Castle Inn. Water droplets cascaded from the shoulders of his greatcoat, wetting the walls of the entry way and falling to the wood planks of the floor.

A young boy peeked his head around the back of the staircase that stood in front of the door. His eyes widened at the sight of Anthony, and he took refuge out of sight.

“Boy!” Anthony called out.

The boy’s head slowly reappeared until just one, terrified eye was visible.

Anthony took a deep breath. His anger was getting the best of him. He wasn’t there to scare innocent young children.

He pulled a coin from his pocket and showed it to the boy, along with the most reassuring smile he could manage given the tenseness in his muscles and temper.

The boy’s eye widened, but he made no move to approach.

Anthony crouched down and held the coin out further, then nodded to signal he was safe to come.

Slowly, the boy’s body appeared, and he walked toward Anthony like a mouse approaching a cat offering cheese.

“Where is your master?” Anthony asked, setting the coin in the palm of the boy’s hand.

“In the back, sir,” he replied, turning the coin every which way to inspect it. He put it between his back teeth and bit down.

Anthony couldn’t stop a smile, even in his ill humor. “How old are you?”

“Five, sir,” said the boy, shooting a wary glance over his shoulder, then slipping the coin in his coat pocket.

“And what do you do here?” Anthony supposed he shouldn’t be surprised to know Digby employed children barely breeched.

“Whatever Master Digby says, sir,” he replied. “And if I does a good job and gets him coin from the guests, he gives me tuppence at the end of the week.”

“How obliging of him,” Anthony said drily. He took the boy by the shoulders and looked him in eye firmly. “That coin I gave you is for you, not Digby. Do you understand?”

The boy nodded, a sense of awe in the shape of his lips.

“Will you see to it that my horse is fed and watered?” Anthony asked.

“Aye, sir.”

Anthony ruffled the hair on his head, then stood, and went out the way he had come. He followed the walls around to the back, where he paused and watched Digby. He was attempting to push one of the horses into the small gated area abutting the side of the stables. The ground all around the fence was a bog of mud and water from the rain, with deep holes where Digby and the horse had stepped. The horse was resisting Digby’s efforts, and Digby pulled back just long enough to throw his shoulder into its breast.

The horse was forced back, but the suction of the mud on its hooves prevented it from moving, and it stumbled and fell on its hindquarters as Digby mumbled curses against its stupidity.

Anthony’s teeth ground together. The man used and took advantage of children, extorted and threatened young ladies, had made his inn a hotbed for ton gossip, and here he was abusing animals—animals that likely did not even belong to him.

And he had made the most formidable and capable woman of Anthony’s acquaintance cry.

“Digby,” Anthony called out, striding toward him.

Digby whipped around, his eyes rounding at the sight of Anthony. “Mr. Yorke,” he said, infusing his voice with a tone of pleasant surprise, even as his eyes watched his approach warily. He brushed at his dirty clothing, ignoring the horse as it struggled to find its footing behind him.

Anthony strode to the horse and took hold of the halter, helping pull it out of the mud. His own boots were already caked until they looked like giant mud stockings.

Once the horse was standing and stable, Anthony faced Digby.

“Really, sir,” Digby said as Anthony came close enough that he was obliged to lean back to meet his eyes. “That was very kind but unnecessary. The brute is a clumsy oaf.”

“Not as clumsy or brutish as the oaf who pushed him into the mud.”

“I slipped right into him,” he lied with what was no doubt meant to be an embarrassed smile. “But tell me what I can do for you, sir.”

“You can stop threatening my betrothed.”

Digby laughed nervously, and took a step backward. The mud made a slurping noise as it released his boot, only to engulf it anew when he set it down a few inches behind. “I’m sure I haven’t any notion what you are referring to.”

“Do you not?” Anthony took a step toward him.

“Miss Mandeville and I have an arrangement, as you know. One that is mutually beneficial. That is all.”

“I saw the letter you sent her, Digby, and let me assure you of one thing.” He grasped the fabric at Digby’s chest and yanked him closer. “Your arrangement with Miss Mandeville is at an end. If you so much as whisper her name in the presence of another person, I will see that this inn becomes a ruin of its former self, and you an outcast. Where footsteps once sounded, only ghosts will walk. Not a soul amongst London’s elite will set foot between those walls. Everyone will know that you commissioned those caricatures, and you will be sued for libel by every peer or gentleman who has appeared in that dingy window of yours. Do you understand me?”

Digby nodded quickly, his jowls shaking under his wide eyes. “Yes, sir.”

Anthony held his gaze another moment, then retreated enough for Digby to stand straight. “And if I ever hear Charlotte’s name associated with those caricatures?—”

“But, sir,” Digby said plaintively.

“What?”

Digby hesitated. “Is this reaction not a bit excessive?”

“After all you’ve put Charlotte through, this is barely satisfactory.”

“I only mean that, well, you and Miss Mandeville are not ... truly engaged, are you?” He rushed on. “Which, I own, is a relief to me, for it cannot but sit ill to hear of a distinguished Yorke stooping to the level of a?—”

Anthony thrust his fist into Digby’s jaw, throttling the last words. Digby tumbled back into the mud, while Anthony fell sideways, thrown off balance by the way his boots insisted on sticking in the mud. His brow made contact with the splintering wood of the fence, sending a shock of pain through his skull.

He pulled himself up with one of the posts, brushing at his brow with the back of his wet sleeve while Digby nursed his jaw.

“Never,” Anthony said breathlessly, “so much as speak of the Mandevilles again. Do I make myself clear?”

Digby’s head nodded frantically. “I swear, sir!”

Trudging through the mud, Anthony strode toward the stables.

“Mr. Yorke!”

Anthony turned to see the maid, Mary, hurrying toward him, a look of distress on her face.

“Where is Miss Charlotte?” she asked.

“In London,” Anthony said tersely, his brow throbbing.

Mary looked over her shoulder to where Digby was still struggling in the mud. “Did he threaten her, sir?” She wrung her hands, anguish in her eyes. “I shall never forgive myself, for I swore to her I would not tell him what I knew, but he threatened to dismiss me and tell everyone I had stolen. I didn’t know what to do, sir, and my mother is?—”

“Mary,” Anthony said as the rain began to patter on the inn roof again. “I am the last person to whom you should feel the need to explain Digby’s depravity.”

She nodded, her chin trembling. “But Miss Charlotte?—”

“Would never blame you for doing what was necessary to protect your family.” That was something she understood as well as anyone.

Mary’s shoulders shook, and she covered her mouth with a hand. “Please tell her I am sorry, sir.”

He nodded, his eyes flitting to where Digby had finally managed to stand on his two feet. His jaw clenched. He had better go before he and Silas were accused of murder. “If you ever wish for other employment, I will find it for you. I must go now.”

He strode to the stables, tossed the boy another coin, and swung back onto his horse.