Chapter 4

Anthony had watched Miss Mandeville walk back toward her house with misgiving. She had not been the biddable, money-hungry young woman he had anticipated. In fact, she had been downright unpleasant. And stubborn.

Perhaps he should have offered her more money, but that was the trouble with the situation in which he found himself: the more he offered, the more he alerted her to the value of the diary. He had seen it in her eyes already—the curiosity he had sparked. But there had been no avoiding that.

Now he ran the danger of her taking the diary to whoever was responsible for the caricatures. Its information regarding Silas’s predicament needed to keep guarded until Anthony could use it himself. It would not do for it to be plastered on the window of The Crown and Castle.

He needed that diary, and he needed it soon.

He sighed as he walked to his horse, tied up at the side of the Mandevilles’ home. It looked as though he would be spending more time at The Crown and Castle after all. If money was not enough to persuade Miss Mandeville to give him the diary, something else would be. Everyone had their weak spot. He just needed to find hers.

He rode back to Stoneleigh in frowning abstraction, pulling the caricature from his pocket just before he entered the village. There was something strange about it all. Why was she involved with the caricature in the first place? Why would someone employ her—a genteel if maddeningly stubborn young woman—as his errand girl? If she had not been so genteel, he might have thought her the caricaturist, but she was genteel, even if not precisely high society. In fact, if her family had more money, Anthony suspected she would be causing quite a stir in Town. She was an attractive young woman—if one ignored her headstrong, disagreeable temperament.

He snorted softly. As if it was possible to ignore those things. She’d had the gall to say she was trying to protect her sister from him.

Light was starting to fade as he handed off his horse to the ostler and made his way inside The Crown and Castle, trying to decide how to best approach finding out more about Miss Mandeville—and who to ask. There was a distinct awkwardness to an unmarried gentleman asking for detailed information about an unmarried young woman. It had the potential to raise eyebrows.

The maid at the inn clearly knew more than she wished to reveal, though. Perhaps her tongue could be loosed with an offer of money. Aunt Eugenia’s five-hundred pounds was sounding more tempting by the hour.

Mr. Digby looked pleased as punch when he discovered Anthony meant to put up at the inn for at least two nights. Despite Anthony sitting in the taproom all evening, however, the maid he was looking for never came within ten feet of him. She flitted around the inn like a butterfly, but it was a different servant who brought Anthony the drink he requested. He had no doubt this was intentional, and he retired for the evening annoyed.

In the morning, he lay in the uncomfortable bed for a few minutes after waking, staring up at the ceiling as he tried to come up with a strategy for getting his hands on the information he needed. The maid couldn’t avoid him indefinitely.

He dressed for the day and made his way to the stairs, smiling as he caught sight of her sweeping at the bottom. She glanced up at him and froze, then hurried to sweep her way elsewhere.

There it was. Confirmation she knew things she didn’t want him to know.

Anthony picked up his pace down the stairs, only to be intercepted by Digby, who emerged with a letter in hand and a smile on his ruddy face. “Mr. Yorke. Good morning. This came for you just an hour ago.”

Anthony’s gaze flicked to the familiar, rough script on the front. It was from Harris. Of course it was. He was the only one who knew Anthony had come to Stoneleigh.

He took the letter from Digby and glanced at the wafer sealing. One edge was lifted, and Anthony’s gaze flicked to the innkeeper. He wouldn’t have been surprised to discover the man made a practice of opening and resealing the post he received.

“Thank you,” Anthony said, an ironic edge to his voice.

Digby hung about as though he intended to watch him consume the letter’s contents. Anthony held his gaze until Digby bethought himself of an unfinished task and made his excuses.

Anthony lifted the wafer and unfurled the letter. It was, as usual, fairly to the point. Harris wasn’t one to couch his messages in flowery prose. One paragraph in particular Anthony found of interest.

The M family’s fortunes were on the rise until the abrupt loss of Mr. Mandeville nearly a year ago, following a stunning financial blow from an investment gone wrong. All plans—including one for a Season in London—were laid aside, not only due to mourning but to the sudden change in fortunes. The estate is entailed, though the heir has yet to be located. Mrs. Mandeville is desperate to marry her daughters well, for as soon as the heir is found, Bellevue will no longer be theirs.

Anthony felt a glimmer of sympathy for their sudden loss and the way it had transformed their lives. Anthony had lost both parents, but it was the loss of his brother that had upended everything for him. Not that Silas had died, but sometimes it felt that way.

Why, then, had Miss Mandeville been so stubborn about the diary? She didn’t seem to be in a position that allowed for such intractability. He had seen the way her eyes had widened at his offer of money. The claim that she would prefer to return the diary to Mr. Marlowe Anthony couldn’t bring himself to give credit to. Someone acting as an accomplice in publicizing the ton’s secrets could not believably stake her claim on the moral high ground.

Anthony folded up the letter and looked around, but there was no sign of the maid. Thankfully, he had plenty of time on his hands today.

He walked through the taproom to the fireplace and tossed the paper in. Once it was nothing but charred bits and smoke, he took a seat at the table by the window, where the last caricature was still posted. It was Friday, which, according to Digby, was when new caricatures were posted.

As Anthony had the piece he assumed had been intended for that purpose, he was very curious indeed to see what the day brought. Would the artist have created a new one? Would he forgo it entirely?

A tankard in front of him and his tailcoat folded beside him, Anthony bided his time at the table, watching the comings and goings of the people of Stoneleigh through the window as the sun slowly shifted across the sky.

It was just before noon when he caught sight of her. Only the surreptitious glance she cast about allowed him a glimpse of her face, for Miss Mandeville wore a large straw bonnet and kept her head down as she hurried down the street toward The Crown and Castle.

Anthony chuckled softly. The young woman could take a lesson or two in looking less guilty.

He rose from his seat, shrugged into his tailcoat, and set his hat atop his head, making his way toward the entryway of the inn. Miss Mandeville was at the counter, speaking in low tones with Digby.

Miss Mandeville handed Digby a familiarly folded paper, and her gaze darted to Anthony. Her eyes widened slightly in surprise, and her cheeks took on a pink hue.

Whatever smidgeon of sympathy he had felt for her or her family had vanished. Anyone who conspired with Digby deserved no sympathy. Feeling a sense of victory at catching her in a situation in which she did not wish to be caught, Anthony cocked a brow.

To his surprise, Miss Mandeville smiled smugly at him. Clearing her throat, she looked at Digby. “To be posted as soon as possible, of course.”

Posted. An interesting choice of word. Did she mean sent by post? Or posted in the window? He could only assume she was being enigmatic on purpose.

“Of course, miss. Right away.”

Miss Mandeville nodded, shot another self-satisfied glance at Anthony, then walked to the door and out of the inn.

Anthony followed right behind, ignoring the way Digby watched his every step with interest. Once he had pulled the door closed behind him, he strode after Miss Mandeville, quickening his pace until he was walking abreast with her. “A pleasure to see you again so soon, Miss Mandeville.”

She seemed not at all discomposed by his presence. “If only I could say the same.”

Anthony couldn’t help but smile.

“If you are hoping to speak about the diary,” she said, her expression full of pleasant indifference, “you may as well save your breath. I shan’t be giving it to you.”

“Name your price, Miss Mandeville.”

She looked over at him, surveying him for a moment before returning her gaze forward. She certainly kept a clipping pace. “You could not afford my price, Mr. Yorke.”

“Try me,” he said.

“Ten thousand pounds,” she said without hesitation.

Anthony scoffed at the outrageous sum, and Miss Mandeville smiled at him—a pleasant expression on an entirely unpleasant person. “I did warn you, did I not?”

Anthony clenched his jaw. He would have to change his approach if he wanted that diary back. “Miss Mandeville, that diary means nothing to you, but for at least one person, it means the difference between life or death.”

Her pace slowed slightly, and she looked at Anthony with intent brown eyes. “Is that one person yourself?”

“No.”

“Then I see no reason to give it into your hands.”

“I beg you will reconsider.” Every fiber of Anthony’s being fought the use of such plaintive words.

“Oh, I shan’t,” she said sunnily.

Anthony took hold of her arm, and she faced him, her eyes bright with warning.

“Please, Miss Mandeville,” he said softly, his teeth gritting at the humility this required of him.

She held his gaze for a moment, then looked down at his hand on her arm. She wrested it from his grasp, and he let her, for his focus was on a spot on her cheek. A dark gray smudge.

“Goodbye, Mr. Yorke,” she said stonily before turning on her heel and leaving him.

Anthony’s feet stayed planted, but his eyes followed her, glazed over and unblinking as his mind worked and worked. Only when he was bumped by a young boy carrying a large sack of potatoes did he turn and make his way toward The Crown and Castle, his thoughts still a jumbled mess of questions and speculation.

Surely that smudge on her cheek did not mean what he thought it meant. But then, it would make a great deal more sense, would it not? Her involvement with the caricature, her reaction to his appearance at her home, why she didn’t wish to return the diary to him ...

“Pardon me,” he said as his shoulder bumped someone else’s. He took in the crowd before him, all staring up at the window of The Crown and Castle and followed the direction of their gazes. His brows rose slowly at the sight of the new caricature.

It depicted a thick-browed man wearing a sneering smile as a pair of high-headed horses pulled him in a carriage. Trampled beneath their hooves and the wheels of the equipage were a half-dozen people, their arms reaching out for help.

Anthony had no trouble at all recognizing himself as the driver of the carriage. Based on the whispers and furtive glances of those around him, neither did anyone else.

That confirmed his suspicions better than anything could have.

Miss Mandeville herself was the artist.

“Well-played, Miss Mandeville,” he said under his breath. Against his will, a bit of admiration crept up inside him. She certainly had skill. And bravado.

The woman at Anthony’s side looked at him, then at the caricature, then at him again.

Anthony held her gaze, raising a brow, and she looked away hurriedly.

He chuckled softly and made his way to the door. There was plenty of reason not to laugh, of course. If Miss Mandeville was the caricature artist, the diary she now had would give her ammunition for the foreseeable future. And she would be particularly loath to give it up. Did she realize this?

Perhaps more to the point, what would she think if her secret got out? He doubted she would welcome it. Particularly if her mother was anxious to marry her and her sisters off. A family like theirs, on the fringes of Society, was held to much higher standards than their wealthier and better connected counterparts. Money and influence could cover a multitude of sins.

But Miss Mandeville had neither; she needed her secret to remain a secret, then.

“I have found your weak spot, Miss Mandeville,” Anthony murmured.

He was not in the habit of threatening to expose respectable young ladies, but that was hardly a fit description of Miss Charlotte Mandeville. She was using the private business of the ton for her own personal gain. There was nothing respectable about it.

At least his aims were noble.

He would have to pay her a visit tomorrow and attempt to ... make her see the light. Frankly, he had no wish to divulge her secret; he simply wanted the diary. But short of breaking into Bellevue House to take it back, he had few options available to him. The girl was as stubborn as she was beautiful, and his encounters with her had given him plenty of opportunity to admire that beauty—even with that ridiculous pencil smudge on her face.

To his annoyance, it was Miss Charlotte Mandeville’s self-satisfied smile that accompanied Anthony to bed that night as he dropped off to sleep at The Crown and Castle.