Chapter 24

Anthony stared at his aunt, entirely bemused. “What do you mean you knew?”

She shuffled through the handful of correspondence that had come with the morning post. “Well, I suppose I did not know, but I surmised as much.” Her mouth turned down in disgust. “Does Lady Sarah honestly think I would accept an invitation to her soirée after her appalling behavior at church on Sunday?”

Anthony blinked, still trying to comprehend. He had been certain his aunt would be livid when he revealed to her that he and Charlotte were not truly engaged. “And since when have you surmised this?”

She shrugged, setting the pile down to open the topmost letter. “The night you announced the engagement. It was obvious something was afoot.”

“But you were so thrilled ...”

She laughed. “Of course I was! My nephew Anthony, engaged? What did I care how it had come about?” She cocked a brow at him. “When I offered that five-hundred pounds, I admit, I hadn’t expected you to act quite so quickly.”

“I did not do it for the money,” Anthony said, annoyed.

She surveyed him with a shrewd gaze. “I am glad to hear that. I admit I thought so at first—suspected perhaps you had agreed to the marriage because you were both in need of the money. But I stopped thinking so some time ago, for it is obvious you are head over heels in love with the girl.”

“Aunt,” he said, looking away.

She picked up the correspondence again. “Very well. I shan’t tease you about it, but neither shall I pretend it isn’t precisely what I had hoped for. She is a rare and precious jewel, Anthony. I have been observing her closely, and she is passionate, loyal, and kind. And beautiful, of course.”

“I know,” he said softly, staring at his clasped hands.

There was a knock on the door, and Saunders informed Aunt Eugenia she had a caller.

She strode to the door, handing the correspondence to Saunders, then turning to Anthony. “Exert yourself, my dear,” she said. “Capture her heart before some fool at this house party does the job for you.”

Before he could respond, she turned and left.

He frowned and stared at the door. Capture her heart. Aunt Eugenia made it sound so easy. His conversation with Charlotte last night only went to show how far he was from succeeding. He had hoped she was coming to feel differently about him, to view their engagement as less of an encumbrance. But she was eager as ever to be free of it—to be free of his meddling.

The clock chimed, jarring him from his thoughts, and he hurried to his feet, for there were a number of preparations yet to be made before they could leave to Barrington Hall tomorrow, the first of which was a meeting with Harris.

Their meeting resulted in discovering even more preparations needed to cover the theft of the diary, and before he knew it, he was away all day.

Anthony had hoped to find a way to use the diary’s contents to extract some sort of agreement from Drayton. Perhaps Drayton could use his influence to clear Silas’s name, without having to take the fall for his own crime—which of course Drayton would never do. But what the man could do, in good conscience, is offer up false witness to the courts for how Langdon died, therefore exonerating both himself and Silas.

Upon reflection, however, he decided against that route. In part because he had no confidence in the word of Drayton. But mostly because although Drayton could do such a thing in good conscience, Anthony wasn’t sure he wanted to. Both Silas and poor Langdon deserved justice, and that meant publicizing the diary’s contents.

He and Charlotte would have to push the diary into the public eye as soon as they returned from Barrington, or Drayton would notice the theft before they had the chance. There was no doubt he would suspect Anthony or that he would use his significant powers to take the journal back before any damage could be done.

After Charlotte had left his bedchamber last night, it had occurred to Anthony that, while replacing one diary with the other would help delay Drayton’s realization of the theft, it was hardly ideal to put more ton secrets in the hands of a man who had no qualms about using them for his own ulterior motives.

For that reason, Anthony spent nearly two hours tracking down a blank diary of near enough likeness to pass for the one they would take from Drayton. It was not perfect, but it would suffice. He hoped.

The following morning, the carriage was brought around to the front of the London house and loaded with their belongings. When Charlotte emerged, her family and Aunt Eugenia following behind, Anthony watched her carefully. Their interaction last night had been strange. Confusing. Painful, even.

This unbearable situation. That was how she had referred to their engagement. In fact, she had not even conceded that they were engaged. It should not have hurt him to hear her deny it, for he knew as well as she how it had all started. And yet, her reaction to his visit to Digby, her passionate response to his mentioning that they were engaged and should confide in one another ... they had been unwelcome reminders that the engagement was not something Charlotte wanted. She found his desire to protect her aggravating. If that wasn’t evidence that she felt differently for him than he did for her, he didn’t know what was.

Perhaps he had been too impulsive when he had entered her room to find the letter from Digby. But what if he had not done so? It was not that he doubted her ability to manage her own difficulties; it was that he could do so with far less risk.

But she had not appreciated it.

Charlotte embraced her sisters one by one while Aunt Eugenia opened her arms for Anthony to step into. He obliged, but rather than releasing him immediately, she kept him close with an unyielding grip on both elbows.

“What have you done?” Aunt Eugenia hissed in his ear. “Why is she behaving so strangely toward you?”

“It is hardly something I can explain at the moment,” he muttered with annoyance.

Her grip tightened. “If you lose her,” she said, her voice ominous, “that gash on your brow will feel like a pat on the cheek compared to what I will do to you. Do you understand me, boy?”

Anthony could only nod. He had not been called boy in a great many years.

She released him and pulled back, smiling genially, as though she had not just threatened his life.

Perhaps it was merely the stark contrast it provided to his aunt’s embrace, but when Mrs. Mandeville pulled him into her arms, Anthony found his throat becoming thick.

“I needn’t ask you to take care of my Charlotte,” she said, “for you have done so from the beginning. I shall always be grateful to you, Anthony, even if you shan’t be my son.”

Anthony could not even manage a reply, so he merely tightened his embrace before stepping back.

Charlotte finished her goodbyes with Aunt Eugenia and smiled at their farewell party, then turned toward the carriage.

Aunt Eugenia’s pleasant expression transformed as soon as her gaze met Anthony’s, becoming severe again. She shot him a significant glance, a clear indication that he should be handing Charlotte into the carriage. Little did she know how fiercely Charlotte defended her independence.

But he obeyed his aunt despite that.

Soon, they were waving through the carriage windows and traveling down the busy London streets.

“I am still angry with you, you know,” Charlotte said as she removed a glove.

Anthony retreated into the squabs, his wary gaze on her bare hand. “Is that why you are removing those?”

“What? To scratch you with?” She smiled and laid the glove on her lap. “Hardly. I have an itch. How is your wound?”

“Better,” he said curtly. He had lain awake for some time last night, imagining what life would be like if he had Charlotte to tend to his every hurt and to be by his side through every difficulty.

The bleak truth, however, was that Charlotte was shaping up to be his greatest hurt. He could hardly concentrate on Silas’s predicament for thinking of her and wondering what he would do when things came to an end between them.

But that was what they had agreed upon, and it was not as though he wished to force her to marry him.

“Perhaps we should discuss what will happen after the house party,” Anthony said.

Charlotte paused, glancing up from the work of putting her glove back on, her gaze intent on his. There was just enough uncertainty there that he felt obliged to expound.

“You had mentioned your desire to make use of some ton scandal to?—”

“Ah, yes,” she let out a shaky laugh. “To distract from our breaking off the engagement. Of course. Go on. Forgive my stupidity. It is only that I am a bit nervous about all of this.”

He scooted to the edge of his seat, frowning. “Charlotte, you needn’t take any part in stealing the diary. I myself feel uncomforta?—”

She closed her hands around his. “That is not at all what I meant. I am utterly determined to steal that diary. You could not persuade me against it at this point. It is the party itself that makes me nervous. I am not in the habit of attending such events, and I do not wish to embarrass you or my family.”

Anthony’s eyes roved over her face. Of course she was not afraid of one of the most powerful men in England; her fear was all on account of others. She was always concerned with others, never with herself. He had never met anyone like Charlotte Mandeville, and it weighed heavily on him knowing that he never again would.

She was everything he wanted and more. But she was not his.

She released his hands and sat back. “Now, what is it you were saying? About a scandal to help with ending the engagement.”

He cleared his throat. “It was only that, well, it had occurred to me that revealing Drayton’s crimes might be the perfect opportunity for that.”

She held his gaze for a moment. “And you mean to reveal that directly?”

He nodded. “As soon as can be managed. I cannot risk Drayton coming after the diary. I have engaged the services of a man who will copy the relevant portion of the diary to ensure the only evidence cannot be destroyed.”

“Very wise.” Her gaze turned to the window, her expression becoming pensive and frowning.

It was silent for a moment, and Anthony would have given anything to know what was in her mind as she stared through the window.

“Perhaps it is not the most ideal bit of scandal, though, for it involves your family too closely, and your part will be heavily discussed. Ending the engagement would only increase that, would it not?”

“I suppose that is true,” Anthony replied.

“Though, if you are anxious to put an end to things, of cou?—”

“No.” The response came from him unwittingly, drawing an intent stare from Charlotte. “That is,” he said in a more measured tone, “it is not an urgent matter in my view. Is it in yours?”

“No,” she agreed quickly enough that Anthony had to persuade his heart not to read anything into it.

“Shall we leave that decision until later, then?” he asked.

“Yes, if you please.”

He did please. He would postpone the discussion indefinitely if she would let him.

No, that was not true. An eternal engagement to Charlotte without an actual marriage on the horizon would be an unparalleled form of torture.

“Then consider it postponed. There are other things we should discuss before we arrive at Drayton’s, and we have less than an hour.”

They set about going over their strategy for the party. They agreed that they should wait to take the diary until the final evening of the party. That would give them time to put Drayton entirely at his ease with them. It would also mean they could quickly put distance between them and Drayton rather than risking his realizing the absence of the diary while they were still at Barrington Hall.

When the carriage crested the hill that led toward Drayton’s estate, Charlotte grimaced sympathetically. “Spending so much time with Lord Drayton will not be easy.”

“No,” Anthony said. “It will not.” But he was every bit as worried about the time he would be spending with Charlotte, pretending they were on the cusp of marrying. After everything that had happened with Miss Baxter, Anthony had been so certain he would never allow himself to care for a woman again. And then Charlotte had come along, and now he worried he would never care for anything at all if he couldn’t have her.

Barrington Hall was a grand, Palladian estate of warm stone and dozens of windows. It was less than ten years old and, according to Anthony, built expressly to allow Drayton to escape Town without being obliged to drive all the way to his estate in Staffordshire.

Anthony and Charlotte were greeted by the butler upon arrival, then guided across the checkered marble floors of the echoing entry hall to the drawing room. As the butler reached the door, Anthony took in a slow, deep breath, trying to prepare himself for what lay ahead.

Charlotte’s hand stole through his arm, and she smiled up at him encouragingly. He looked into her warm, brown eyes, and his confidence grew.

The door opened, revealing a number of people within, sitting on plush furniture and standing upon neat rugs. Pale blue walls with cream plasterwork molding surrounded the room, with tall, curtained windows lining one side.

Drayton came over to them with a warm smile. “Here you are! What a pleasure to have you.” He gave a shallow bow, and the two of them returned their own greetings.

Drayton turned to the rest of the guests. “Friends, friends. Allow me to introduce you to our newest guests.” He invited them to step forward so they stood even with him. “Many of you undoubtedly already know Mr. Anthony Yorke, and if you do not, do refrain, if you please, from judging him based on ... other members of his family.” Drayton winked, and Anthony’s hand instinctively grasped Charlotte’s, his fingers curling around hers. If ever he needed her, it was now.

She returned the pressure of his hand, and he forced a smile and a chuckle for the many eyes which were on him.

“But,” Drayton continued, “you may not yet be acquainted with the handsome woman adorning his arm.”

The pressure of Charlotte’s hand grew tighter. She took issue, Anthony guessed, with Drayton talking of her as an ornament. She, too, smiled graciously, however.

“Miss Charlotte Mandeville,” Drayton announced.

Anthony waited in vain for him to add that they were engaged. Perhaps it was because it was implied by their presence at the party. Or perhaps it was because he had hopes of his own with Charlotte. Anthony doubted they were principled hopes.

It would be a miracle if Anthony survived the next week without knocking Drayton down as he had done to Digby.

The guests came to greet Charlotte and Anthony, and Anthony began to relax more. But when Drayton drew attention to the injury on his brow and expressed a teasing hope that a tendency toward violence did not run in the family, he was obliged to squeeze Charlotte’s hand every bit as hard as she had ever squeezed his.

“Your claws begin to rival mine,” she said as she rubbed at her hand once they had a moment of privacy, obtaining drinks from the sideboard.

“Forgive me,” Anthony said, trying to relax again. He stared at the liquid in his glass, every muscle tight. “I don’t know if I can do it, Charlotte. I have strangled the man a dozen times in my mind already.”

“That makes two dozen times between the two of us, then,” she said. “How can he smile while saying such vile things?”

Their conversation was cut short by Drayton himself, who suggested, now that the entire party had arrived and was refreshed, that they take a tour of the house, led by the eminently knowledgeable butler, Wetherby.

They were shown through the dining room, the music room, and out into the gardens. Anthony tried to appear interested when all he could think about was the library.

Charlotte ooh’d and aah’d over the sculpture garden, asking questions about each and every piece of art so that they were significantly delayed in moving back to the house. Anthony’s temper, already stretched thin, teetered precariously.

When they finally returned inside, Anthony leaned his head closer to Charlotte’s. “What in heaven’s name was that about?”

“It was necessary, I assure you,” she muttered in response. “I told Lord Drayton how eager I was to see the famed sculpture garden. I did not wish him to ask the butler about my reaction to it and grow suspicious when I showed nothing but a passing interest.”

“Are you a devotee of sculpture?” Anthony asked, feeling he should perhaps know this about his betrothed, be she counterfeit or otherwise.

“Heavens, no,” she replied. “Once you have seen one, you have seen them all.”

Anthony chuckled as they took the stairs up to the portrait gallery and various sitting rooms. Just when he had begun to despair, Wetherby began to speak of the vastness of his lordship’s library as they made their way back down the stairs.

Charlotte glanced up at Anthony, the same hopeful spark in her eyes that he felt in his chest. Every chance they had to see the library would help them.

Anthony tried to look mildly attentive in the library, making his eyes sweep over the shelves, though his focus was squarely on the desk there.

Charlotte released his arm and walked about the room, marveling at the tall shelves lined with gilt-lettered spines. Slowly, as Wetherby droned on about the rarity of various books contained within the room, she made her way nearer the desk.

Anthony watched her with amusement and admiration, then made his way over to join her on the pretense of showing her a particularly large book of maps of the Orient, facing her so he had a view of the desk drawers.

The butler brought his dull monologue to an end just then, however, and they were obliged to follow the guests out. No matter. They would have time enough to visit the library over the next few days.

By the time they all separated to dress for dinner, however, there had been no fewer than four references to Silas by those present, and Anthony’s muscles ached from their tenseness.

Both he and Charlotte let out long breaths as they separated from the rest of the guests.

Charlotte grimaced sympathetically. “It is as though they are all trying to drive you mad.”

Anthony shut his eyes. “I cannot do a week of this, Charlotte. I am simply not strong enough. It has been all I can do to hold my tongue—and my fists—and it has been but four hours.”

They stopped in front of the door to Charlotte’s bedchamber, and she nodded swiftly, her brows knit with worry. “I understand. I have never even met Silas, and I nearly slapped Lord Buxton. But what can we do?”

He lifted his shoulders. “I hardly know. To leave early would be to risk raising suspicion. But so would planting Drayton a facer.”

Charlotte couldn’t help laughing. “Very true. Hmm ...”

At the end of the corridor, voices sounded on the stairs.

“Here,” Charlotte said, opening the door to her bedchamber and pulling Anthony inside. The windows were shrouded with thick curtains, making the room almost entirely dark. Anthony couldn’t see Charlotte, but he could feel her hand around his arm. An impulse to close his eyes and pull her to him made his heart race and his blood warm.

It was yet another reason to cut this visit short—the longer he spent with Charlotte, the more his thoughts filled with ideas about her and the more he dreaded the future without her.

Being near her like this was becoming a special sort of torment.

He strode to the windows, forcing her hand to release him, and drew back the curtains.

“Tell me truly,” Charlotte said. “Do you feel unable to bear it for the week?”

Rather than joining her again by the door, he stayed by the windows. More space meant a clearer head. “When I am with you, I can manage. It is when I am alone that I fear I may say or do something unwise.”

She nodded. “And you will certainly be alone with the men after dinner.”

“Not to mention the billiards tournament I heard the others mention.” He ran a hand through his hair. Curse his temper.

Charlotte regarded him with sympathy. “Perhaps we should not wait. It would be a shame if ...”

“If I threw a billiard ball at Drayton?”

She laughed softly. “Precisely.”

“If we took the diary tonight, we could leave in the morning.” It was desperation that made him suggest it.

She gave him an incredulous look. “That would be terribly suspicious.”

“Not if everyone believes you to be ill. You could plead the headache.”

“A headache?” Charlotte protested. “Again? Why must I always be the ailing one? I think you should take a turn. You could be plagued by ... flatulence. Or suffer from a deranged digestion.”

Anthony stared at her, unamused. And yet very much amused. “Charlotte.”

“We can decide upon your ailment later,” she conceded. “Do you really think we can manage it tonight?”

“I am not sure. But I think we must make the attempt at least.” How had he ever thought he could bear a week here? He just wanted that diary in his hands.

“When?”

He thought for a moment. If they attempted it now, they ran the risk of someone entering the library. There would be servants running about preparing for dinner too. They needed people to be reasonably occupied. “While the men are drinking their port and the women are ... doing whatever it is you do during that time.”

“Pleading the headache.”

Anthony’s mouth twitched, but he continued. “We can both excuse ourselves without anyone being the wiser that we are together, and we will know everyone is occupied. Even the servants will be below-stairs, eating their dinner.” Anthony’s brow furrowed as he looked at her. “Though if they do find out we’re together ... no matter what the assumptions are, they won’t be good ones. Charlotte, perhaps you should?—”

“Do not even think it,” she replied. “I am coming, Anthony. And no more trying to persuade me otherwise.”

He let out a breath and nodded. He would be glad for her company. “We should dress for dinner.”

With their goal that much nearer, Anthony managed to keep his temper in check for the duration of dinner, a small miracle given the way Drayton sat beside Charlotte and leaned in to make private comments with nauseating constancy.

For all Charlotte’s concerns, she handled the questions and conversation directed toward her with amiability and grace, and when Anthony managed to catch a few snippets of her conversation with Drayton, she offered flowery praise of the detail on the fingernails from a particular sculpture from earlier.

Anthony smiled, and it grew wider as Drayton fashioned a polite response, then rose to his feet, inviting the men to remain and the women to follow Lady Buxton through to the drawing room.

Charlotte and Anthony locked eyes, and she rose to follow the women.

He watched as she retreated with the others, wondering how in the world he had managed to find such a capable and kind woman through such mischance—and how he would bear to lose her.

They had agreed to meet in the library ten minutes after the men and women separated, but as Anthony needed to first get the false diary from his bedchamber, he watched for when the clock showed seven minutes. Hand on his stomach, he excused himself, subtly implying he needed the privy. That would serve to support Charlotte’s wish that he plead a deranged digestion tomorrow.

Within minutes, he was walking toward the library, thankful to see the corridor empty. He trusted the servants were enjoying their meal before they would be called upon to help their masters and mistresses prepare for bed.

The library was dark when he opened the door, and when he pulled the door shut softly behind him, he was engulfed in blackness. He paused on the threshold while his eyes tried to adjust.

“Anthony?” Charlotte’s hushed voice asked.

“Yes,” he whispered back. “Where are you?”

“Over here.”

He followed the sound of her voice and finally saw her barely distinguishable silhouette just to the right of the desk.

“Do you have the decoy?” she asked.

“I do.”

“Where are you?” he asked, losing sight of her again in the darkness. “I can hardly see a thing.” He caught a short glimpse of her hand searching the dark just as her fingers brushed against his neck. They traced their way up until her palm reached his cheek.

His heart thudded like a drum. He was this close to the thing he had been working toward for months, and suddenly all he could think of was searching this darkness for Charlotte’s lips.

Her fingers slid gently up his cheek and past his temple.

Anthony’s blood raced through his veins, setting him afire, making him acutely aware of the intoxicating scent of violets as she drew nearer.

“Charlotte ...” he breathed, his hand stealing around her waist as her thumb brushed against his brow, settling upon his wound. His brows pulled together at the tenderness of the spot.

“It is you,” she said with relief.

He dropped his hand from her waist, the flame effectively doused by her words. Evidently, her delicate exploration of his face had not been what he had thought but rather an attempt to ascertain his identity. “Would you like to press a bit harder upon it to be sure? Perhaps give it a good squeeze?”

She laughed softly. “Did I hurt you? I did not mean to.”

She had hurt him. But not in the way she thought.

He took a step back and looked around. His eyes had adjusted a bit more, but it would be difficult to see the contents in the desk drawers without more light. He set the blank diary on the desk, then strode to the curtains and slowly drew one to the side, securing it with the knotted tassels. It provided little light, but it would be enough, he hoped, for them to find the diary. And for his mind to wander to Charlotte’s lips less. In the dark, he could more easily imagine her welcoming his advances.

Charlotte took up the decoy diary and opened the top left drawer of the desk, while Anthony went to the right-hand side drawers.

Charlotte’s movements suddenly halted. “Wait,” she whispered urgently.

Anthony went still, and his gaze darted to hers. He heard it too: footsteps approaching.

Clenching her teeth, Charlotte carefully shut the drawer she had opened. Anthony followed suit, but his mind was a blank. What would they do? How would they explain themselves if the person chose to stop at the library?

The footsteps paused in front of the door, and Anthony’s wide eyes locked with Charlotte’s.

Suddenly, she stepped toward him, placing a hand on his chest to drive him backward until his shoulder hit the bookcase.

A second later, her soft lips pressed against his, and her arms draped over his shoulders, filling the air with sweet violets. His senses swam, and his eyes fluttered closed, the warmth of her mouth and body against him bringing his pulse to a perilous speed, dispelling every thought from his mind, every awareness of the world around.

Her hand threaded into his hair, and a small and involuntary groan rumbled in his chest as he pulled her flush against him, devoting himself fully and completely to the task of kissing her. Her body quivered just as the door opened.

“Oh.” A man’s voice interjected.

Anthony knew he should pull away, but his body protested, and he allowed himself another taste of her lips before wrenching his away and looking to the door, where Lord Drayton stood.