Chapter 3

“What do you mean it is gone?” Charlotte stared intently at Mary, whose expression was pulled into something very near to despair as they stood on the side of The Crown and Castle. Charlotte had received a quick and poorly written note an hour ago, requesting she come to the inn without delay.

“I mean,” Mary said, wringing her hands, “that when I went to retrieve the caricature from beneath the table, there was nothing there.”

“Impossible,” Charlotte said, but of course that was not true. If Mary said the caricature was gone, it must be gone. She fought the creeping panic bubbling within her. What did it matter who had the caricature? There was no way for them to tie it back to her. It was not as though she signed her name on the paper—though, that was not to say she hadn’t been tempted a time or two. Anyone would be, surely.

The biggest annoyance was that she would now have to redraw it—or draw something new. Caricatures were posted on Fridays, and everyone knew that now. They expected it. Most importantly, Mr. Digby expected it.

“That is not all, miss,” Mary said, looking more than ever as though she was about to confess to murdering Charlotte’s entire family. She swallowed. “I believe I know who has it.”

Charlotte stared intently at the maid, eagerly waiting for her to expound. If Mary knew who had it, perhaps one of them could retrieve it and save Charlotte the trouble of drawing something again.

Mary looked at her wretchedly. “Mr. Anthony Yorke.”

Charlotte went still. Something about her short interaction with that man had stayed with her, like a sliver under skin.

“After you left, he asked for your name,” the maid explained, “but I said nothing, for he had insisted upon sitting at the same table as you, and he had a paper in his hand, so I could only assume what it was. Only, Mr. Digby overheard his question and told him not only your name but where you live, as he hadn’t any idea why he was asking. I am terribly sorry, miss.”

Charlotte’s vision blurred in front of her fluttering lids. If Mr. Yorke had been asking her name and he did indeed have the caricature, did that mean he knew she was the artist? And, if so, what would he do with such information? A dreadful image raced across her mind—that of her family being dragged through the streets of Stoneleigh while people pelted them with rotten vegetables.

She took Mary’s hands in hers, brushing aside the ominous feelings engulfing her own chest. “Do not fret, Mary. It is not your fault, of course, and likely nothing to worry about.” If only Charlotte could believe her own words.

“But it is Mr. Yorke,” Mary countered.

Charlotte laughed, but it sounded forced even to her own ear. “So what if it is?”

“He is so ... haunting. And surely you have heard about his brother.”

Charlotte shook her head.

“He killed a man, miss,” said Mary. “And Mr. Anthony looks every bit as dangerous—as though he could make anyone bend to his will.”

The uneasiness that had been spreading in Charlotte’s stomach was overtaken by her flaring pride. “And pray, what should he want with me? I have never drawn him, nor any Yorke, for that matter.”

Mary chewed her lip, looking a bit less harried. “I do not know. Only, I did not like the look in his eye when he asked your name.”

Charlotte glanced at the inn as her skin prickled. “Is he staying here?”

Mary shook her head. “He left almost immediately after asking about you.”

“Left where?”

“To London, I believe.”

“Ha!” She laughed with relief. “You see? All is well.”

Mary looked unconvinced. “What will you do? Mr. Digby thinks I have the caricature.”

“I shall forget about that dreadful, meddling Mr. Yorke and create a new drawing, of course.” Charlotte spoke with nonchalance, but she walked home accompanied with a chest full of unease.

Charlotte’s cheek rested on her hand, her elbow supported by her writing desk, which her pencil tapped an impatient beat upon. Her eyes, glazed over for the past few minutes, were fixed upon the view from her upstairs sash window, which stood ajar a few inches, offering a small breeze and a lovely view. A babbling brook passed by the north side of the home, while the ivy crept around the edge of the window panes, and the sea of green leaves in the distance showed trees finally in bloom.

Despite the beauty of the view, however, it could not inspire Charlotte with what she needed. She needed whispers and scandal. What in the world was she to draw? Her mind was a blank. What good was everything she had come to know of the ton if it deserted her when she was most in need?

She could redraw Mrs. Gattenby and her dogs, of course, but after the interaction with Mr. Digby and his veiled threats, she was determined to find something better.

Her gaze shifted to the drawer of the desk.

She stared at it for a moment, then set down her pencil and pulled it open.

The small, leather book she had found at the inn was the sole occupant of the rickety drawer. She had yet to do anything but glance inside it, for her conscience pricked her whenever she considered doing more. This, she had realized upon seeing the neat script within, was no regular book. It was a diary or record book of some sort—belonging to a Mr. Marlowe, based on the inscription—and it felt wrong to nose about in such a thing, even if her curiosity was piqued.

How, for instance, had it come to be in such an unlikely place? And who had put it there? Mr. Marlowe himself?

Charlotte barely noticed a knock downstairs on the front door as she picked up the diary and ran her finger along the spine. It likely contained nothing but bland notations on the weather or some such thing—nothing that could be useful to her in her predicament.

She set it in the drawer and slammed it shut. She hadn’t time for idle speculation. She needed to produce a drawing by tomorrow for Mr. Digby, and she had no inspiration at all.

“Is Miss Mandeville at home?”

Charlotte’s head snapped up. The voice was male, young, and the manner of speaking refined. What man of such a description would be asking to see Lillian?

Not that there was any reason a gentleman shouldn’t be asking to see Lillian. It was only that, despite Mama’s best efforts to help them find eligible suitors, neither Charlotte nor her sisters had any prospects at all.

Overcome with curiosity, Charlotte rose to her feet and rounded the desk just as the Mandevilles’ maid asked, “May I inquire the nature of your business with her, sir?”

Charlotte peered through the window, and her heartbeat came to a thudding halt at the sight of Mr. Anthony Yorke standing below.

“I believe she left something at The Crown and Castle the other day,” he said. “I wish to return it to her personally.”

Charlotte’s eyes widened as he pulled from his coat pocket her folded caricature.

Without another thought, Charlotte raced from her bedchamber and down the stairs just as Lillian emerged from the sitting room, her expression one of confused curiosity as she beheld the stranger asking for her at the door.

Mr. Yorke’s bafflement at seeing Lillian, on the other hand, would have been comical to Charlotte if it hadn’t been for the piece of paper he held.

Charlotte brushed past her sister, grasping Mr. Yorke’s hand in hers so that the caricature crumpled in his fingers. “Mr. Yorke,” she said with as much joyful surprise as she could muster. “How good of you to come.”

Lillian’s confused gaze tripped between Charlotte and Mr. Yorke, then to their hands, clasped strangely in the air.

Charlotte daren’t let go, though, so she chose the only alternative which occurred to her: she forced their joined hands toward Mr. Yorke’s face, presenting him with the back of her hand.

His piercing gaze went to hers for an agonizing moment before he pressed a quick, dispassionate kiss to her ungloved skin.

The place his lips touched tingled at the warmth, and Lillian’s eyes widened.

“Mr. Yorke is a friend,” Charlotte explained quickly, praying to heaven he would go along with her act. “Mr. Yorke, this is my older sister, Miss Lillian Mandeville. Lillian, this is Mr. Anthony Yorke.”

Lillian curtsied, and Mr. Yorke offered a stiff bow.

“Shall we take a little stroll?” Charlotte asked him. She needed to prevent further conversation between Lillian and him. “It is such a fine day.”

There was a sustained, uncomfortable moment of silence while Mr. Yorke’s gaze held Charlotte’s. He was about to disavow her. She could see it in those dark, calculating eyes.

Her fingers tightened instinctively around his, an unconscious plea.

Inconspicuously but firmly, Mr. Yorke began to pry Charlotte’s fingers from their grasp on his hand.

Mouth set in a smile full of clenched teeth, Charlotte resisted, her nails digging into his skin. But it was no use. He was too strong, and all-out resistance on her part would only make Lillian wonder all the more.

This was it. Charlotte’s secret would be a secret no longer. Mama, Lillian, and Tabitha would all be scandalized by the truth: Charlotte had been peddling art targeting England’s most powerful names, and she was doing it for filthy lucre.

By next week, news of her shocking conduct would be all over Stoneleigh—no, London. England, even. Her family’s reputation would be irreparably ruined, and once the dreaded letter arrived stating that the heir of Bellevue had finally been located, they would be cast out of their home, obliged to make their way in the cruel world as best they could.

Resignation making her stomach tight, Charlotte allowed her fingers to be removed from Mr. Yorke’s hand.

But he moved them to wrap around the nook of his arm, then tucked the caricature into his coat. “A stroll sounds agreeable.” He gave a nod to a thoroughly bewildered Lillian, then guided an equally bewildered Charlotte away from the house.

She looked up at the man beside her. How did one manage to be so simultaneously handsome and formidable? She couldn’t at all decipher what he was about, coming to Bellevue in such a way, but she sensed—and she believed Mary would agree—that it was unlikely to be motivated by charitable reasons.

Well, whatever he expected from this visit, Charlotte had no intention of making it easy for him.

“Not Miss Mandeville, then,” Mr. Yorke said, glancing at her.

“One of the Misses Mandeville, but no, not the Miss Mandeville. Lillian is the eldest.”

“A misunderstanding on my part which, I gather, almost cost you dearly.”

She kept her gaze straight ahead. “I haven’t any notion what you mean.”

Even in her peripheral vision, she could see one of his thick brows cock. “You make a practice, then, of forcing your hand into men’s, obliterating whatever object they are unfortunate enough to be holding at the time, and then compelling them to kiss your hand?”

Charlotte stopped and pulled her hand from his arm, her nostrils flared and her cheeks stained red.

Mr. Yorke turned slowly, regarding her through those penetrating eyes. They reminded her of the nearby pond on a particularly gray day. She hated particularly gray days.

“Have I misunderstood?” he asked, though his amusement made clear it was a merely rhetorical question. “Do you, in fact, have no notion why I have come? I confess I find it difficult to believe given the marks you so generously engraved into my hand with your nails.”

His words acted like flint on the steel of Charlotte’s pride. “You must make allowances, sir. I was acting out of a desire to protect my sister.”

His dark brows drew together. “Protect her?”

“Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Yorke.”

There. She had caught him off his guard with that, at least. In point of fact, she had only a vague awareness of what his reputation included, but her imagination was lively enough to supply a number of ideas for a man so attractive and, as Mary had suggested, so ruthless.

“Well,” he said, the surprise masked as quickly as it had appeared, “I admire your pluck. It is not every young woman who, fearing a man’s evil designs upon her elder sister, would so quickly and tenaciously offer herself in her place.”

Charlotte stiffened. When he put it that way, it certainly made her seem loose in the shaft—or simply loose.

Who did he think he was, appearing at her home without any prior acquaintance and nearly ruining her chances at saving her family’s future?

But she knew the answer: he was just like all of his ilk. The wealthy, well-connected, and influential did as they pleased, and they did it without regard for anyone they deemed below them. It mattered not that Charlotte was a gentleman’s daughter. The Mandevilles lacked the pedigree and money that would make them acceptable to the ton’s most powerful.

“What do you want, Mr. Yorke?” she asked stonily.

“Only our mutual benefit,” he replied with a hint of a smile and a glint in his eye.

Charlotte’s lips parted, her gaze becoming intent. Mutual benefit. Did he mean what she thought he meant? Could he possibly be suggesting ...?

He pulled the caricature from inside his coat and held it up. “I assume that, when he gave this to you, the artist did not intend for you to convey it to me.”

Charlotte’s brows drew together. He? The artist?

She stared at Mr. Yorke. Evidently, he did not know she was the artist. Why would he make such an assumption? Did he think a woman incapable of intelligent and stimulating art? Of course, this was hardly the epitome of her best work, but still; it was the principle of the thing.

Her pride in her work warred with the good sense telling her to be grateful for his ignorance rather than trying to correct it.

“No,” she said slowly, resignedly allowing sense to overcome pride. “He did not. But neither did I convey it to you.”

“Not purposely, perhaps. But I am in possession of it despite that. And you have something I want. Nay, need.”

Relief that her secret was at least partially intact was instantly supplanted by the reminder that this viciously handsome man meant to hold the caricature over her head—and, from what she could tell, he meant to do so for purposes that made her feel faint and wonder if she had perhaps allowed their stroll to take them too far from the safety of Bellevue. Surely, he wouldn’t kiss her or ravish her here and now, in such proximity to her own house, though.

What, then, would he propose?

A little shiver ran through her. Would her choice be between surrendering to his baser instincts or having her secret revealed? Either way, her reputation would be forfeit.

Well, she would rather the latter than the former. There was at least some dignity in putting her name to her work. There was none at all in submitting to Mr. Yorke’s nefarious designs upon her person.

“Mr. Yorke,” Charlotte said icily, “you may hold my reputation cheap, but I assure you I do not.”

His brows snapped together. “Your reputation?” His eyes searched hers. “What the devil do you think I mean?”

Charlotte’s righteous anger flagged at his confusion. “I thought ...” The speculation hung lame and unfinished. She couldn’t possibly voice that she had assumed he wished to enter into some sort of ... intimate arrangement with her in exchange for the caricature’s return.

This was what came of living her life with all the scandal of the ton floating around in her head all day.

“Miss Mandeville,” Mr. Yorke said firmly, “allow me to be clear. I believe you have a diary in your possession. A diary that belongs to me. I am here to return this caricature in exchange for it.”

“Diary,” Charlotte repeated in a soft and bewildered voice. The diary in her drawer belonged to him?

No. That couldn’t be. It said quite plainly that it belonged to Mr. Marlowe.

Mr. Yorke watched her intently. Very intently, in fact. This diary which decidedly did not belong to him must be important. Important enough that he had come to the home of a stranger for it. What could he possibly want with another man’s personal record?

Charlotte’s curiosity was immediately piqued. “It is not your diary.”

A muscle in his clenched jaw jumped. “Neither is it yours.”

Well, she couldn’t argue with that.

“Miss Mandeville,” he said, “allow me to impress upon you the gravity of your situation. This caricature”—he patted his chest—“was given into your care by the artist—someone who clearly wishes to keep his identity a secret. Through your actions, it has come into my hands. Something tells me he will not be thrilled with this carelessness on your part.”

Charlotte met his gaze, unflinching. The diary became increasingly of interest to her with every word Mr. Yorke said.

“If you refuse to give me the diary,” he continued, “I will have no choice but to discover the identity of the artist—which, I assure you, I shall—and to make both his identity and your involvement known. Given the number of powerful people targeted by the caricatures, I cannot think that would end happily for either of you.”

She let out a breathy scoff through her nose. The arrogance, the assumptions, the thinly veiled threats the man was making were astounding. This was what Mary had guessed at: Mr. Yorke was accustomed to having his way. He and the rest of his kind.

Well, he would not have his way today.

“It would be remiss of me to place the diary in the hands of anyone but the owner, Mr. Yorke.”

“You may find that difficult. The owner is dead.”

Charlotte’s eyes widened as the sense of power shifted away from her. Dead? “How? When?” Her mind was already exploring the possibility that Mr. Yorke was the one responsible—a murderer, just like his brother. Confound Mary for putting such dramatic ideas into her mind! He might be intimidating, but she did not truly believe he was as evil as that.

“I will not only give you the caricature,” he said, ignoring her question, “but thirty pounds besides.”

Charlotte blinked. Thirty pounds? That was a tidy sum. How she would love to add it to the little box under the floorboards where she was saving what she earned from Mr. Digby.

She shook herself. The offer was unabashed bribery. Mr. Yorke must have a very poor opinion of her character to even suggest such a thing.

That he was willing to pay so much to take the diary from her possession convinced her even more firmly that it contained something important—perhaps many somethings. Enough somethings to sustain her caricatures for the foreseeable future, even, if fortune was on her side.

“I have no interest in bribes, Mr. Yorke,” Charlotte said.

He held her gaze for a moment, his own becoming hard and inflexible. “You disappoint me greatly.”

“Behold my dismay,” Charlotte quipped.

He tucked the caricature back into his coat, eliciting a flutter of nerves from Charlotte. What if Digby betrayed her to him?

“I fear you will regret this decision,” Mr. Yorke said.

Charlotte feared the same thing, but she wouldn’t allow it to show. “I imagine it is you who will regret it.”

He looked at her with patent dislike.

“Thank you for the pleasant stroll, Mr. Yorke.” Charlotte gave a little nod, then turned and walked back to the house, refusing to indulge the burning curiosity which urged her to look over her shoulder.

When she closed the door behind her, she pressed her back against it and let out a long, slow breath through rounded lips.

“Charlotte.” Lillian shut her book and set it on the sofa before hurrying over. “What in heaven’s name was that about?”

Charlotte forced a smile, though her heart beat rapidly. “Nothing of note.”

Lillian searched Charlotte’s face, her own frowning. “You said he was your friend, but I have never seen the man.”

“I bumped into him at the inn, Lily. That is all.” She left the door and walked toward the stairs.

“He said you left something there?”

“He was mistaken. Now, if you will excuse me ...” Charlotte needed to take a closer look at that diary.

Before Lillian could stop her, Charlotte took the stairs to her room, shut the door, and latched it. She glanced down at her hands, which were trembling slightly. The encounter with Mr. Yorke had unsettled her, curse him.

With determined strides, she went to her desk and opened the drawer, taking out the small book. She sat down slowly, her eyes on the leather cover while her mind fluttered about.

Given the interest Mr. Yorke had shown, Charlotte doubted he would simply give up. If he was willing to bribe her for this diary, one could only assume his intentions with it were not benevolent. The members of the ton could be cold-blooded and callous when it suited their purposes. The Mandevilles knew that better than most.

It was part of why Charlotte’s heart still hadn’t slowed. She had made an enemy today—there was no mistaking that. No doubt it had been foolish of her. But nothing was apt to make her blood boil like the entitlement of the ton. It was that same entitlement which had led to the loss of Papa’s hard-earned money and his subsequent death. It was the motive behind her caricatures—a way to bring to light the things the rich and powerful would rather keep in the dark.

She opened the diary and turned to the first page. It was an entry from just over a year ago. Her gaze flew over a few lines, then she flipped the pages to read more. Her gaze grew more intent and her perusal less rapid the more she read.

She lowered the book to her lap after a few minutes and stared ahead at nothing, her heart beating a quick rhythm against her chest.

This was no ordinary diary.

This was a man’s daily account of his knowledge of the ton’s dealings.Politics, gossip, dinners, balls, meetings with prominent figures.

This diary was, in fact, a treasure trove.