Chapter 8

Charlotte’s heart rose into her throat as a man turned toward his aunt a dozen feet away. It took her a moment to recognize him, for he was smiling—an expression which faltered as he realized why he was being called upon.

Attired in a neat black tailcoat with a dark gray waistcoat, Anthony’s gaze went to his aunt, to Mama, then to Charlotte. An arrested look came into his eyes at the sight of her, and she suddenly felt keenly aware of the awkwardness of her limbs. Did her arms always hang so strangely at her sides? Perhaps it was the weight of the reticule which made them feel so unwieldy.

She could only hope that the intent way he surveyed her was a good thing.

He was flanked by two men Charlotte could only assume were his brothers. Neither of them looked as severe as him, but the resemblance was otherwise unmistakable—heads of full, dark hair, sculpted jawlines, and the sort of confident bearing that came to those accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed with haste.

“Miss Mandeville,” Anthony said, his gaze on Charlotte as he bowed.

Beside Charlotte, Lillian fidgeted, and Mrs. Ashby cleared her throat.

“Miss Charlotte, that is,” he corrected.

His aunt introduced him to the other members of the Mandeville family, then the Mandevilles to the other members of the Yorke family. Charlotte surveyed Anthony’s brothers carefully. The oldest—William—was also the tallest. He held himself more rigidly than Anthony, but he hadn’t the frown that came so readily to his younger brother. The youngest, Frederick, smiled broadly as he bowed. His hair was the lightest—glinting in a way that reminded her of caramel—and his face the most amiable. Charlotte already liked him.

“And the other brother?” Mama asked with a quick glance around, as though she was looking for someone else.

Charlotte’s eyes widened as all three Yorkes and their aunt stiffened in chorus.

Mama seemed to realize her error, but there was nothing to be done.

“I fear you are mistaken, ma’am,” said the eldest Mr. Yorke, his tone like flint. “It is only the three of us.”

Anthony’s gaze darted to William, his nostrils flared. He said nothing, though, as Mama apologized for the misunderstanding.

“If you will excuse me,” said Frederick, “I must have a word with Lord Finsworth.” He gave a quick bow, then made his way toward the baron.

“Frederick fancies himself a politician,” Mrs. Ashby explained. She turned to Anthony. “You will introduce Miss Charlotte and her family to whomever they wish to be introduced.”

Charlotte’s mouth twitched slightly. It gave her great pleasure to see a man accustomed to having his way be ordered around by someone else. Based on the tightness about his mouth, it grated him.

“Of course,” he said.

Charlotte smiled widely at him and switched her reticule to the other wrist before taking his offered arm. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Ashby,” she said with a curtsy.

“Inform me without delay if he behaves with anything but the greatest chivalry, Miss Charlotte,” she said, fixing Anthony with a hitched brow that might incinerate a less robust man.

Directed by a thoroughly diverted Charlotte, Anthony led them from group to group, introducing the Mandevilles to all the most eligible-looking gentlemen in the room as well as to those older men and women Charlotte recognized and knew to have respectable sons of marriageable age.

More than one of them appeared visibly impressed by Charlotte and her sisters, a fact which both relieved and thrilled her. She promoted conversation between the young men and her sisters, finding excuses to address Mama or Anthony to take herself out of the equation. She would far rather see her sisters’ futures secured than her own, for she could fend for herself at need. The caricatures could feasibly continue to support her—particularly if there were more invitations to parties like this, where she could interact with members of high society and hear the gossip herself.

It was not the future she preferred, but she would pursue it if necessary.

“Has your thirst for introductions been quenched?” Anthony asked as Mama, Lillian, and Tabitha spoke with new acquaintances nearby.

“Not remotely,” Charlotte said pleasantly. If she were wise, perhaps she would be afraid of Anthony, but she was not wise. And though she knew people considered him dangerous, for reasons she could not explain, she did not feel in danger with him. “Why? Am I keeping you from some lovely young woman here?” She went on her tiptoes to look around the room.

His thick brows drew together. “That is the furthest thing possible from my mind, I assure you.”

“And what, pray, is on your mind?”

“The diary,” he said without hesitation as he sent a glance at her reticule. “Allow me to take it off your hands.”

“Perhaps later. If I gave it to you now, I suspect you would abandon me for the remainder of the evening.”

“I would have thought that a desirable outcome for you.”

“What, and forgo the opportunity to torture you more?” In truth, she had not intended to delay turning over the diary to him, but as the time approached, she felt more and more reluctant to do so. What would he do with it? If it was something unsavory, how could she forgive herself?

“You are mistaken,” Anthony said, gazing over the crowd. “It is not torture to be with you.”

Her heart jumped. Most women’s hearts danced at poetic expressions of love. Apparently, Charlotte’s was so susceptible that it could be set to galloping when a man said it was not torture to be with her. She had been deprived of male company for too long, it seemed. “The expression on your face says otherwise.”

“When can I expect the diary?” he asked, ignoring her assessment.

She hesitated, fiddling with the strings on her wrist. “After dinner.”

He gave a curt nod. “Do you see the balcony just outside of those doors?” He indicated the other side of the room with his head. “I will meet you there once the men leave their port for the drawing room.”

“Very well,” Charlotte replied as Mama approached.

She watched Anthony walk off, wondering whether she had been a fool to agree to put the diary in his hands.

Charlotte tapped an anxious finger on the stone balustrade of the balcony as she waited. She had slipped unseen from the drawing room once she felt enough time had passed that the men would soon be done lingering over their port.

Her wrist whined at the weight upon it, and she rested the reticule on the stone for a respite. Now that the evening was winding down and plenty of acquaintances had been made, Charlotte’s conscience was making itself heard, whispering warnings in her ear, accusing her of selfishness.

Why should the future of her family matter more than the future of whoever Anthony meant to target with the diary?

Even in her own hands, the diary had the potential to harm a number of people. Now that she had met and conversed with many members of high society, she felt less confident in what she had been doing with the caricatures. It had been easier to justify when they were just names and faces.

The fact was, in the time since Papa’s death, she had allowed resentment to grow up like a weed until it had begun to strangle her sense of compassion. He had worked so hard to take the small fortune he had and to grow it through careful investment. When he was persuaded by Lord Wadsworth to invest heavily in a new scheme, he had done it after only a great deal of thought—and with an equal amount of trust, for Wadsworth had a proven record of lucrative investments. But when Wadsworth had realized his scheme would not materialize as promised, he had withdrawn his own money while leaving Papa and the Mandevilles to feel the brunt of the failure.

It still made Charlotte sick with anger and hurt to think upon. And while it was true that there were members of the ton who would stop at nothing to achieve their ends—Anthony Yorke was one of them—she realized that did not mean that every member of the ton comported themselves in such a way.

She uncinched the string of the reticule and pulled out the diary. She had read enough of it to know what havoc it could wreak on the lives of some of those mentioned. The entries were not those of a man obsessed with gossip, though. In fact, the tone of Mr. Marlowe’s writing was almost mundane, as though he thought little of what he was documenting. Most of it was mundane—bills passed in Parliament, comings and goings of merchant ships—but inevitably, there were tidbits that would cause a stir if they became public knowledge.

Did that sort of power belong in the hands of Anthony Yorke? Or of anyone, for that matter?

Charlotte doubted it. Mr. Marlowe could not have made such a record intending for it to become a weapon. Perhaps it would be better to get rid of the thing entirely.

Her eye caught on the hedges just over the balustrade. She could throw it into the bushes, but it would inevitably be found.

Her glance went to the torch at the end of the balustrade, and she took a step toward it, eyes fixed on the dancing flame. She could burn the diary. There would be no bringing it back from that.

It would be despicable behavior on her part after Anthony had held up his end of the bargain. But perhaps it was just as despicable to hand it over to him. Which was the lesser evil?

She held up the diary nearer the flame, letting the light illuminate the plain leather cover as her heart pattered and raced. It would only take a single page catching fire, a simple accident?—

“What are you doing?”

Charlotte whipped around, hiding the diary behind her back as Anthony strode toward her, his gaze intent and ... angry.

“I was waiting for you,” she said, heart charging against her ribs. “For far longer than I had intended.”

The fire of the torch reflected in his disbelieving eyes. He stepped toward her until her back bumped against the balustrade, then he put out a hand for the diary.

Charlotte kept still, her heart leaping wildly as he loomed over her. Her fingers grasped the leather as her reluctance to surrender it to him loomed large. “What do you intend to do with it?”

“That is none of your concern,” he replied, his hand still out insistently.

“I shan’t give it to you unless you tell me.”

His brows drew together. “You expect me to tell a gossipmonger what I intend to do with it?”

Gossipmonger. The word stung, but when she opened her mouth to refute it, no sound emerged. He was right. She had become a gossipmonger. “Do you intend to harm anyone using it?”

His jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

Charlotte’s eyes widened. “You do.”

“No one who is not deserving of it.” He reached around her for the diary, but she pressed it between her back and the wall.

“And you think you are the best judge of that?” she asked, stalling as she tried to determine what to do.

He met her gaze squarely. “I do.”

How could he be so unabashedly cold about doing someone an injury?

“We had an agreement, Miss Mandeville,” he said. “I have done what I told you I would do. It is your turn now.”

“If I give you this diary knowing you mean to harm someone using it, that makes me your accomplice.”

Anthony let out an impatient breath. “Miss Mandeville, I have nothing against you. I don’t particularly like you, but other than your aggravating stubbornness, I have no reason to wish you ill. However,” he said with his eyes fixed significantly on hers, “we had an agreement. If you continue to refuse to hold up your end of it, you leave me little choice.”

Charlotte’s brows snapped together. “Is that a threat?” It was not a surprise, for it was not the first time he had employed such tactics.

“Without question.” His gaze held hers. “Mr. Robbs seems quite taken with Miss Tabitha, does he not?”

Charlotte swallowed.

“Something tells me he will be less likely to pay her a visit if he discovers the rift between his parents is your doing.”

Charlotte shifted nervously but kept her gaze fixed on his. Lamentably, Anthony was right, but she had no intention of letting him know that.

“Or,” he continued, taking another step toward her, “Imagine if Lord Finsworth knew you were responsible for the depiction of his ... cavorting—something he believes caused his bill to fail in Parliament this week. I doubt he will still see to it you and your sisters are invited to the al fresco party he mentioned.”

Charlotte’s skin pricked with guilt, but she raised her chin, defiant. “Is it my fault Mr. Robbs was untrue to his wife? Or that Lord Finsworth was engaged in unsavory endeavors?”

“No,” he replied, “but surely you can see the irony of lecturing me on harming others when you have been engaged in precisely that.”

Charlotte’s blood boiled. “You are all the same, do you know that? You behave despicably, but rather than take responsibility, you blame the person who brings your depravity to light.”

His brow darkened. “And in what way am I accused of behaving despicably?”

Charlotte scoffed. “You cannot be in earnest! Since the first time I met you, you have threatened me, physically detained me, and insulted me.”

“And you have thwarted me at every turn, made a public laughing stock of me, and used me for my connections.”

Charlotte’s chest rose and fell quickly as she met his gaze, again without a defense.

“Now,” he said. “The diary. Before I lose my patience.”

“Promise me you will not harm anyone using what is written within it.”

Anthony took a final step nearer her, until their faces were just inches apart. “I do not wish to use force, Miss Mandeville, but I will if necessary.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she said, hatred for him bitter on her tongue.

He reached an arm around her until his fingers covered hers, grasping the journal. Their chests rose and fell against each other as they stared at one another mulishly.

“Men like you are everything that is wrong with this world,” Charlotte spat.

“Men like me?” Anthony challenged, hovering over her so she was obliged to lean back to maintain even a few inches between their faces.

“Men like you,” she repeated. “You are the reason my sisters and I must all but beg to be invited to a party like this, the reason I am, as you so politely phrase it, a gossipmonger. Nothing matters but your own selfish desires, and you trample anyone who stands in your way. Men like you,” she said, shaking with mixed exhilaration and fear, “are the reason my father is dead—the reason we have nothing through no fault of our own.”

His gaze flickered, and his hold on her hand and the diary slackened as his dark eyes searched hers. He was closer than Charlotte had ever been to a man, but there was no fear inside her. It was anger and anger alone that made her eyes sting.

She would rather die than cry in front of Anthony Yorke, however, so she clenched her teeth and stared at him, matching the intensity in his gaze.

“Charlotte?”

Their heads whipped toward the baffled voice. Tabitha stood in the doorway of the nearby balcony that led from the drawing room, her mouth open in surprise.

Behind her, Mrs. Ashby’s head appeared. Once her gaze found Anthony and Charlotte, she pushed past Tabitha.

“Anthony!” she hissed.

But Tabitha’s exclamation of surprise had drawn more attention, and other attendees began to appear in the doorway to see what the fuss was about—and why Anthony and Charlotte were pressed up against one another alone on another balcony.

Charlotte’s heart beat against her ribs painfully.

This was the end. Whatever she and her family had accomplished tonight, it was all for naught now. Her reputation was in tatters.

Feeling sick to her stomach, she loosened her grip on the diary. It seemed so inconsequential now.

Anthony’s gaze darted to hers, and she turned her head to avoid his gaze.

After a moment of excruciating silence, he pulled the diary from her hand. She released it willingly, no longer caring what he did with it.

He stepped back, his eyes still fixed on her.

“What is the meaning of this?” his aunt demanded.

There was something strange in Anthony’s eyes, but Charlotte hadn’t the heart to care. She had ruined everything.

All her work, all her saving was for naught.

“Aunt,” Anthony said, stepping toward Charlotte so that they were shoulder to shoulder. “I beg leave to present to you my affianced wife.”