Chapter 27
The drawing room was warm with sunlight and laughter later that day when the Dowager Duchess of Arundel clapped her hands and declared, “I believe it is time for a game of charades!”
Charlotte, seated beside Miranda on a brocade settee in the drawing room, exchanged a glance with her friend. The suggestion drew a little interest—a few guests clearly wished for nothing more than to return to their needlework or books.
Regardless, the duchess’s word was law in that room, and soon the furniture was rearranged, a makeshift performance space cleared, and everyone was being sorted into sides with light protest and good humor.
“Now,” said the dowager, her voice carrying cheerfully, “as we have a newly betrothed couple among us, it seems only right that Lady Charlotte should go first.”
A small, scattered round of applause followed, and Charlotte felt the blood rush to her cheeks.
She stood slowly, smoothing her skirts with damp palms and trying not to catch Henry’s eye.
It was impossible not to feel every gaze in the room turning to her, particularly those of the unmarried ladies who now had every reason to wish her to humiliate herself.
Someone laughed lightly, and she wasn’t entirely sure it was a friendly sound.
The box of prompts was passed to her, and she reached inside, her fingers brushing scraps of paper until one folded square came loose. She opened it, read the phrase—riding sidesaddle—and sighed. Not the worst, but hardly flattering.
Still, she moved to the open space with as much grace as she could muster and began. Her pantomime was met with a few quiet chuckles, several wrong guesses, and eventually a triumphant call of “Sidesaddle!” from William, who wore a self-satisfied grin, as though he’d just solved a naval code.
Charlotte curtsied and returned to her seat. Her heart was pounding more than the effort had warranted.
As she sat down, she noticed Adeline and Genevieve were seated a few places over, their heads bent together in murmured conversation.
There was a sharpness to their glances, not aimed in her direction but past her, toward where Henry sat near the fireplace, enduring the attention of two particularly talkative debutantes.
Charlotte leaned closer to Adeline and whispered, “What’s going on?”
Adeline, without looking at her, said under her breath, “Someone asked a rather pointed question during the portrait tour earlier. About the resemblance—or lack thereof—between Henry and the late duke.”
Charlotte’s stomach twisted sickeningly. She sat back slowly, forcing a smile as though she’d just heard some charming tidbit rather than what might be the first crack in a dam ready to burst.
Was it merely coincidence? Perhaps. Or perhaps not. The timing was too perfect, too suspicious. First the notes to both her and Henry, and now whispers about his parentage. Whoever was behind the blackmail wasn’t idle.
She glanced at Henry. He was listening to something Miss Brighton was saying, but there was a tightness around his mouth she recognized. He wasn’t enjoying himself.
Her instinct was to go to him, to warn him and to tell him that the whispers had already begun, but she hesitated. He was already so cautious, so hesitant about their engagement. If he thought the gossip had started in earnest, he might take it as another sign to abandon the whole thing.
It had been worrisome enough to tell him about the note in case he did so. She didn’t want to test him again.
No, she decided. She couldn’t risk that. She was determined to be his wife, no matter what happened.
Instead, she turned her attention to William. He was laughing at something Helena had said, his turn at charades drawing closer. She caught his eye and gave him a meaningful look, tilting her head toward the corridor.
He frowned slightly but nodded.
His name was called next, and he rose, rolled his eyes at the crowd for their dramatic pleasure, and then strode into the middle of the room.
His charade was a rather absurd rendering of a foxhunt, complete with leaping and mock horn blowing, and it earned plenty of laughter—especially from the gentlemen who’d actually been on the hunt with him that morning.
As soon as the group called out the answer, Charlotte caught his arm.
“Walk with me,” she murmured.
He followed her without protest, the two of them slipping out through the French doors and onto the stone terrace. From there, she led him along the edge of the garden until they were well out of earshot of the drawing room.
“All right,” William said, hands in his pockets. “You’ve got that look, like you’ve uncovered a great plot.”
She didn’t smile. “Someone raised the issue of Henry’s resemblance to the late duke during the portrait tour.”
William stopped walking, his eyes widening. “Hell.”
Charlotte grimaced. “Adeline told me. She overheard it.”
“And this was today?” he asked.
She nodded.
He let out a slow breath. “It might be unrelated.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“No, I don’t,” he admitted. “But I’d very much like to.”
Charlotte wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stifle the anxiety that rose within her. “So would I. Do you know if Henry has broached the issue with his mother?”
He grimaced. “She remains tight-lipped on the matter but allows that it is possible a servant learned the truth.”
“That isn’t particularly helpful.” She sighed. “I’m concerned. What if the blackmailer is starting to test the waters, seeing who’ll notice the rumors, who’ll whisper, and do his dirty work for him?”
William whistled under his breath. “This isn’t good.”
“No,” Charlotte agreed softly. “It’s not.”
Charlotte returned to the drawing room with her thoughts still spinning.
She tried to focus on the current round of charades.
Genevieve was up now, pantomiming something with increasingly wild gestures, but Charlotte’s attention kept drifting.
The tightness in her chest refused to ease, no matter how many times she reminded herself to breathe.
She sat beside Adeline again, still half in a fog.
“From whom did you hear about the portrait?” she murmured, keeping her eyes fixed on Genevieve as if fully engrossed in the game.
Adeline didn’t hesitate. “Miss Brighton mentioned it. Apparently someone asked why Lord Arundel doesn’t resemble his father.”
Charlotte’s pulse quickened. “And did Miss Brighton say who asked?”
Adeline shook her head slightly. “No, only that she overheard it.”
Charlotte nodded, her lips pressed together. “Thank you.”
Miss Brighton. Of course it would be her.
Always watching, always listening; she was the gossip queen of the ton.
Charlotte didn’t know whether Miss Brighton had begun the whispering herself or was simply passing it along like a particularly eager carrier pigeon, but either way, it was information that needed tracing.
And fast.
She could hardly go up to Miss Brighton and demand answers. Not without drawing more attention to the subject of Henry’s parentage. The last thing they needed now was more scrutiny.
A throbbing began to build behind her eyes. She rubbed at her temple lightly. Perhaps getting some air would help. She slipped out of her chair, leaned down, and whispered to the dowager duchess that she had a headache and would like to step out for a moment.
“Oh, of course, my lady,” the duchess said with a wave of her hand, clearly more interested in the next round than in Charlotte’s mild ailment. “Take as long as you need.”
Grateful not to be pressed further, Charlotte exited through the double doors that led to the terrace and from there made her way around the side of the house. The afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long shadows across the lawn, and a soft breeze tugged at the loose tendrils of her hair.
She walked slowly at first, her slippered feet crunching softly on the gravel path that circled the great estate. The hedges loomed tall and manicured around her, and she let her hand trail along the cool, waxy leaves as she tried to make sense of what she’d heard.
Someone had commented on Henry’s lack of resemblance to the late duke. That wasn’t idle gossip. That was a direct threat. After all, what were the odds that this observation would come now, just after the announcement of their engagement?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the distant sound of hooves.
She frowned and slowed her pace, stepping quietly through the hedge until she reached the gravel drive at the front of the house. A black carriage was arriving at the base of the stairs. A tall man in a dark overcoat climbed inside, his face turned away.
But his gait. His posture. Even from behind, Charlotte’s breath caught in her throat. She knew that man.
Sir Roger.
She crouched down instinctively, ducking behind a nearby yew bush, her heart hammering. She watched as the door was closed behind him and the driver flicked the reins. The carriage rolled down the drive and disappeared beyond the trees.
Her hand tightened around a branch, and she remained frozen for a long moment after the carriage had gone.
What on earth was he doing here?
He wasn’t a guest. He hadn’t been invited. And yet there he was, slinking away like a man who knew he shouldn’t be seen.
She rose slowly, brushing the leaves from her skirts. The coincidence was too great to ignore. Sir Roger had no friends at Arundel Park, no social obligations that would bring him here. The only connection he had was to her, and, by extension, to her brother and Henry.
Could he be the one sending the letters?
She’d dismissed the idea before, thinking he hadn’t the subtlety.
But perhaps she’d underestimated him. If he were acting out of spite for being rejected, for being humiliated in front of society, it would make sense.
And if it was money he wanted, what better way than to leverage a secret like Henry’s?