Unmasking the Diamond (Courting the Unconventional #7)

Chapter 1

To the ton, Miss Charlotte Winslow was the diamond of the Season. To the readers of the Society pages, she was their secret purveyor of gossip, the anonymous quill “Mr. Fairchild.” And business was booming.

She held her glass of champagne delicately, tilting it so that the candlelight made the bubbles sparkle as though she might actually enjoy it.

She didn’t. The drink was far too sharp on her tongue, but appearances demanded she sip and smile.

Nearby, ladies fanned themselves as they leaned close together, their voices pitched low.

But Charlotte had long since trained her ear to snatch up whispers even when veiled behind painted fans.

Every rumor, every indiscreet remark, she stored away for later—fodder for the next column.

Across the ballroom, her brother, Alistair, Viscount Alcott, moved with his new bride, Jane, in a graceful waltz.

The glow in their eyes as they gazed at one another nearly outshone the chandeliers.

Charlotte’s heart warmed for them, yet the sight pricked her all the same.

That kind of love was rare—unguarded, unquestioning, absolute.

Would she ever find it? Or was she fated to remain alone, with loneliness her only constant companion?

She wanted marriage, sometimes desperately, but marriage could mean an end to her secret writing.

Could she ever surrender that part of herself?

For over a year, she had been Mr. Fairchild.

Only a handful of people knew her true identity—not even her family.

Once, she had come close to confessing to Alistair, only to falter at the last moment.

The thought of his disappointment—or worse, his command to stop—was unbearable.

So she kept her secret and bore its weight alone.

Her gaze drifted through the glittering crowd until it collided with Lord Luca Dexter’s eyes.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and his green eyes missed little, which made him entirely too dangerous.

When their gazes locked, he lifted his glass in a subtle salute, the faintest smile playing across his lips.

Charlotte turned away, a prickle of irritation darting through her.

Lord Luca was not the sort of man to be easily dismissed, and that unsettled her.

He was the younger son of a duke, and unlike so many of his peers, he actually worked for his living.

Owning and running The London Gazette was viewed as distasteful by Society, yet Charlotte secretly admired that about him.

He had choices—he could idle away his days on leisure and entitlement—but instead he pursued purpose.

She ought to find that admirable. Instead, she found him… troublesome.

Her reprieve from attention ended as a group of eager young men descended upon her, their expressions all but shouting ambition. She curved her lips into a dazzling smile, donning her mask as naturally as slipping on gloves. It was the performance she knew best—the gracious diamond.

Lord Welker bowed deeply. “Miss Winslow, you are looking lovely this evening.”

She offered a gracious curtsy. “Thank you, my lord.”

Before she had straightened fully, Mr. Trotter leaned forward. “Would you do me the honor of the next set?”

Her smile didn’t waver. “I would greatly enjoy that.”

“Then may I claim the set after?” Lord Welker asked eagerly.

“Of course, my lord,” she returned sweetly, though inwardly she sighed. How she hated this act, but she knew it must be done.

Another voice interrupted. “Would you care to take a turn in the gardens, Miss Winslow?” Lord Amner asked with a gleam in his eyes.

She summoned a pleasant laugh. “Alas, I cannot. My brother was quite insistent that I remain here while he dances with his wife.”

Undeterred, Lord Amner waggled his eyebrows. “Then I shall wait with you and bask in your company.”

Charlotte’s smile remained a perfect mask, though she longed to roll her eyes. Men, forever circling. And yet, was this not exactly what she had sought? To be the diamond meant access, and access meant secrets.

The music ceased, and Charlotte lifted her glass to her lips, feigning a sip she had no desire to take. Across the floor, Alistair led Jane off, their faces alight with laughter.

Mr. Trotter, scrambling for conversation, spoke up. “It was a fine day today, was it not?”

She very nearly laughed aloud at the triteness of it. Still, she replied with practiced sweetness. “Yes, indeed.”

“And tomorrow promises to be fair,” Mr. Trotter continued.

Setting her glass onto a passing tray, Charlotte remarked, “I heard it may rain.”

“It always rains in England,” Mr. Trotter quipped, puffing up as though he’d made a clever observation.

Lord Welker cut in at once. “Rain or shine, Miss Winslow, would you allow me the pleasure of a carriage ride through Hyde Park during the fashionable hour?”

“I was going to ask her the same,” Mr. Trotter protested.

“But I asked first,” Lord Welker replied, then fixed Charlotte with hopeful eyes. “Well, Miss Winslow?”

Charlotte gave her most demure smile. “A carriage ride sounds delightful, but naturally, I must speak to my brother first.”

His face dimmed ever so slightly. “Of course.”

As though summoned by the mention of him, Alistair appeared, Jane on his arm, his expression stern. “Gentlemen,” he said, voice tight with disdain, “you may disperse now.”

“May I escort Miss Winslow on a tour of the gardens?” Lord Amner dared, attempting bravado.

Alistair’s gaze sharpened into a blade. “No, you may not. Now leave before I lose my patience.”

The men melted away, though Mr. Trotter reminded her of their set with a quick bow before retreating.

Relief washed over her, though she refused to let it show. “That was poorly done, Brother,” she chided lightly.

“I will not stand by while men fawn and paw at you,” Alistair replied, his gaze softening as he looked at her. “Not one of them is worthy of you.”

“You say that about every gentleman who approaches me,” she countered.

“It makes it no less true,” he said. “I want you to marry a man who deserves you.”

Charlotte fell silent. The words sounded so simple on his lips, but she knew better.

If her father had taught her anything, it was that she was unlovable.

Ignored, dismissed, made to feel inconsequential for years—those scars did not fade.

The ton might adore her as their shining diamond, but she knew the truth.

Her sparkle was a mask she had polished herself, a disguise to hide the fear that beneath it all she was worthless.

Jane’s hand brushed lightly over Charlotte’s sleeve. “Is something troubling you?”

“No,” she said quickly, brushing away the concern before it could dig too deep. “I was merely woolgathering, thinking about how beautifully the ballroom has been decorated.”

Jane tilted her head, skepticism flickering in her gaze. She looked away, surveying the room as though granting Charlotte a reprieve. “The flowers are rather exquisite,” she observed.

“That they are,” Charlotte replied.

A servant glided past with a silver tray of champagne, and Charlotte reached for a glass—anything to occupy her hand, to busy her mouth, to keep from thinking about the gnawing emptiness she’d felt watching her brother and his bride waltz across the floor.

“Charlotte.” Alistair’s voice carried that familiar warning edge, the one he had used since they were children. “I think you’ve had enough champagne for the evening.”

“This is only my second glass,” she protested.

But Alistair plucked it neatly from her fingers and returned it to the tray without so much as a blink. “Perhaps you should try a glass of lemonade.”

She pouted, though the expression was half-performance, half-genuine petulance. “But lemonade is boring.”

A deep voice sounded just behind her. “How can a drink be boring?”

Her spine stiffened. She did not even need to turn around to know who had spoken. Lord Luca. Of course. What else could the evening heap upon her?

“If lemonade were a dog,” she said archly, keeping her gaze fixed forward, “it would be a terrier. A snappy creature, but nothing special.”

“And champagne?” he asked, that thread of amusement tugging at his words.

Charlotte flicked an annoyed glance over her shoulder. “A poodle. Exotic and stylish, and rare in England.”

“But common enough in France,” he countered.

She batted her lashes, though with no trace of warmth. “Must we spar about this?”

He tilted his head, utterly unruffled. “Not sparring. Merely bantering. Some might even call it flirting.”

Her huff of indignation escaped before she could stop it. “I am not flirting with you, my lord. Quite frankly, you are the last person I would ever consider flirting with.”

“You wound me, Diamond.”

Turning to face him, she said, “Do not call me that.”

“Does it bother you?” he asked, studying her as though cataloguing every twitch of her expression.

She frowned, unsettled by how easily he seemed to read her. “Would it matter to you if it did?”

His smirk was infuriating. “Is this our first quarrel?”

She rolled her eyes in answer, the gesture dangerously close to unladylike. He was insufferable.

At last, Lord Luca turned to acknowledge her brother and Jane, offering a nod. “Alcott. Lady Alcott.”

Jane, ever gracious, smiled. “How are you faring, Lord Luca?”

“Well, thank you,” he replied, his tone shifting to polite civility. “I wanted to extend my congratulations on your wedding. Do you intend a wedding tour?”

“Not at present,” Alistair answered. “Perhaps once the Season concludes and Charlotte is happily settled.”

Charlotte bristled. Alistair’s words always came with the weight of expectation, of duty.

An amused gleam entered Lord Luca’s eyes. “Is the diamond being courted, then?”

Charlotte snapped before her brother could answer. “No, the diamond is not. And you needn’t speak about me as if I am not standing right here.”

“Pity,” he mused, his smirk deepening. “Perhaps I shall throw my hat into the ring, then.”