Chapter 26

Anthony found the diary easily enough, slipped between two volumes of Donne’s poetry. Though his mind attempted to venture to the kiss he and Charlotte had shared there, he reined it in, for he had a mission to accomplish, and the sooner he completed it, the sooner he could be with her. And the sooner Silas could come home. The thought of the woman he loved being able to meet the brother he missed so fiercely sent a flash of determination through him.

He crept over to the desk and set the candle upon it, then began opening the drawers, one by one. When he reached the one on the bottom right, he lifted the stack of papers within, and his eyes fixed upon the thing he had come for.

His heart raced, and he set the papers down, eagerly pulling the diary from the drawer. He compared it with the one he had purchased two days ago. The color of the leather was different, and of course, the true one had a much more used look to it. He set the real diary down and bent and flipped the pages of the false one.

It did little to help, but the truth was, if Drayton noticed anything amiss, his suspicions would be confirmed the moment he opened it and saw the pages were blank—if not sooner.

Anthony set the false diary down in the drawer, then replaced the papers atop it, just as a creaking made him go still. His gaze flew to the door, but it remained shut. The creaking intensified, leading his focus to the wall to his left, where a door, hidden amongst the bookshelves, was open.

“Good evening, Yorke,” Drayton said from the dark doorway, his tone one of unshakeable calm.

Anthony did not respond. There was nothing he could say, no excuse he could possibly give to explain his presence at this time of night or the diary in his hand.

Drayton strode into the room casually, each step bringing him closer to Anthony. “I had wondered when you would return.” His mouth curled up at the edge. “Yes, Yorke. I knew. I suspected from the moment you and Miss Mandeville approached me at that ball. But I wanted to be certain. I prefer to keep my enemies near, you see.” He stopped just shy of Anthony and put out his hand for the diary.

Anthony made no move to give it to him. He couldn’t. Not now. Not when he was this close.

“The diary, Yorke,” Drayton said, the pleasantness in his voice slipping slightly.

“No.”

Drayton chuckled and dropped his hand. “If you prefer to do this the hard way, so be it. I will leave it up to you to choose.” He turned away and began walking toward the door to the corridor where Charlotte was.

“Choose what?” Anthony asked reluctantly, raising his voice so that Charlotte would hear it. Please let her be wise enough to run.

But he knew it was folly. Charlotte Mandeville did not run. She engaged directly.

And yet the door remained closed. Had she not heard them?

Drayton reached the door and turned his head, revealing his profile and the satisfied curl of his lip. “Perhaps you should follow me.”

“I think not,” Anthony replied, his words belied by the hammering of his heart. It would be better to keep Drayton in the library than to involve Charlotte. Anthony cursed himself for ever allowing her to implicate herself. Not that he could have easily stopped her.

Drayton grasped the door handle. “Then let us hope your kiss with Miss Mandeville this evening was sufficient enough farewell.”

Every muscle in Anthony’s body went taut as the icy fingers of fear gripped his heart.

But Drayton was already passing through the door. It closed behind him, and Anthony ran to it, yanking it open. He looked one way down the empty corridor, then turned his head in time to see Drayton turning the nearest corner.

Anthony hurried after him. “Where is she?”

“Patience, Yorke,” he said calmly, leading the way through the large front door. “Patience.”

Patience was precisely what Anthony did not have. He had nothing but rage. Rage and, beneath it, a simmering fear. Drayton would not harm her, would he?

But all Anthony could think of was Langdon.

The stars in the inky sky outside made their path clear enough. Drayton walked, still eerily calm, toward a grove of trees.

“Have you hurt her?” Anthony asked.

“Not yet.” Drayton replied as though Anthony had asked whether he had been to the latest exhibition at the British Museum. “Whether I do so will be entirely up to you.”

Anthony’s hand curled more tightly around the diary. There had to be a way for him to ensure Charlotte’s safety without sacrificing the diary. He merely needed to think.

Perhaps he could incapacitate Drayton. Drayton was taller, but he was also older and weaker. But until Anthony knew where Charlotte was, he couldn’t risk anything. But the moment he saw her face ...

“Ah,” Drayton said. “One thing, Yorke, in case you had any ... thoughts.” Without bothering to turn around, he reached into his coat and pulled out a pistol. It glinted in the last bit of moonlight, then became bathed in shadow by the canopy of leaves that signaled the beginning of the forest.

Anthony cursed under his breath. Drayton would have no compunction shooting Anthony. Or, heaven forbid, Charlotte. And there was no doubt he would come up with some story everyone would swallow as easily as they had swallowed the one about Silas.

Anthony’s jaw worked frantically as they followed the path for another two hundred feet until the trees began to thin. A flickering light appeared through the trunks ahead, and he strained his eyes for any sight of Charlotte.

“You see?” Drayton said with a smile as they came to the clearing. “She is perfectly well. With a fire, even, for her comfort.”

Mouth bound with a cloth, Charlotte was seated upon a large log, her arms behind her. Tied, surely.

He rushed toward her, but Drayton’s arm came up to stop him, his fingers curled around the butt of the pistol.

“She tried to escape, sir,” said Wetherby, who stood beside Charlotte, a pistol in hand. “Kicked me as hard as she could.”

Anthony was torn between admiration and wanting to scold her for being so careless with her own safety. What if the butler had shot her? Gaze on her, Anthony stepped back, and Drayton dropped his arm.

“So,” Drayton said. “Now that the choice is clearer, what will it be, Yorke? Save the diary? Or save the girl? You can only take one with you.”

Anthony’s mind raced, trying to decide what he could do to salvage things, to save the woman and the brother he loved. But he was outnumbered, and his mind refused to focus on anything but the way the gag pulled on Charlotte’s mouth—the mouth that had kissed him so tenderly but half an hour ago.

“And what assurance do I have that you will let us leave if I do give you the diary?” Anthony asked, never taking his focus from Charlotte.

There was no fear in her eyes. Only anger and frustration.

“You have my word,” Drayton said.

Anthony spat in his direction, and the man beside Charlotte raised his pistol, pointing it at Anthony.

“Thank you, Wetherby,” Drayton said, directing him to lower his pistol. “The truth is, Yorke, that I have no interest in harming you or Miss Mandeville. So, what will it be? Some pieces of paper? Or Miss Mandeville?”

Anthony’s jaw worked as he stared at Drayton, the bitterness of unadulterated hatred filling his chest. He would give the diary back to Drayton. How could he not? But he would not stop until he had it in his hands again, until Drayton’s reputation was utterly destroyed.

He extended the diary toward Drayton, who smiled.

“Good boy,” he said, taking it. He looked to the butler and nodded. “Untie her.”

Wetherby slipped the barrel of his pistol into his pantaloons and set to untying the gag around Charlotte’s mouth, then the cord around her hands.

The moment her hands were free, Charlotte shoved him, and Drayton’s pistol came out, pointing directly at her.

Anthony put both hands out, one toward Drayton, the other toward Charlotte.

“Take a moment, Miss Mandeville, to consider your actions,” Drayton said coolly. “If either of you attempt to harm either one of us, I will not hesitate to shoot you.”

Charlotte’s nostrils flared.

“Charlotte,” Anthony begged, seeing the stubborn flame in her eyes. There was nothing either of them could do at this point. They would have to find a way to get the diary, but now was not the time to concern themselves with it. Anthony couldn’t bear to think how close they had been to saving Silas. And all for nothing. But it wasn’t worth their lives.

“Let us go in peace,” Anthony said.

Drayton’s gaze remained fixed on Charlotte for another moment before he nodded. “Go.”

Anthony ran to Charlotte and wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in the hollow of her shoulder. What if he had lost her after only truly having her for such a short, impossibly joyful evening? He had bartered her safety for Silas’s.

“I am sorry,” she whispered.

Anthony shook his head. “You are safe. That is what matters.” He pulled back and, taking her by the hand, shot one last glance at Drayton before leading her around the dancing flames and toward Barrington Hall.

“Yorke.”

Anthony paused but didn’t look back, and Charlotte followed suit, holding his hand more tightly.

“I have found a great deal of enlightenment within these pages,” Drayton said, “and I am admittedly loath to part with it ...”

Anthony turned enough to see Drayton looking at the diary thoughtfully.

“But,” he continued, “I would hate for you to waste your time coming to look for it again, so?—”

“No!” Anthony cried out, reaching in vain as Drayton tossed the book into the flames.

“Have a pleasant journey back to London.”

Anthony’s stomach swam, his throat thick with bitter grief as Charlotte pressed his hand and pulled him into the woods.