Chapter 18 #2
Charlotte’s hand covered Anthony’s. He stared at her delicate skin for a moment, then turned his hand in hers to hold it. It was soft and warm, everything the past year of his life had not been.
“But he cannot do that,” Charlotte said. “Ruin another man’s life for a murder he himself committed?”
“You of all people should understand the power a man like Drayton holds, Charlotte. He has title, money, influence. Not long after Langdon’s death, he sold the company to our competitor, gaining majority share in their enterprise. There is precious little he cannot do.”
“Perhaps that is true, but he shan’t get away with it in secret.” She squeezed his hand. “I have decided the subject of my next caricature, Anthony.” Her eyes were bright and determined.
He turned toward her, grasping her hands in his. “You cannot, Charlotte. It is not enough and too much, all at once. If you expose him without evidence, he will come after you, and Silas will be no nearer to exoneration.”
“Is that why you needed the diary?”
He nodded.
Charlotte clenched her eyes shut. “And I made it all but impossible for you to get it.”
“It did me little good. The records inside were not recent enough to provide what we needed.”
“What do you need?”
He lifted his shoulders. “Record of a conversation Marlowe overheard and recorded—Drayton admitting what had happened that night to one of his closest friends. But it is not in the diary you gave me. Evidently, Marlowe kept dozens.”
“But then there is still hope! We need only obtain the right one.”
Even in Anthony’s despair, the way she said we brought a hint of a smile to his lips.
There had been no we in all of this. Not really.
William and Frederick couldn’t be convinced of their brother’s innocence.
Silas could do nothing from where he was and seemed to have accepted the futility of trying.
As for Harris . . . he was not helping Anthony for any motivation other than money.
It was Charlotte’s sense of justice that put that look of indignant determination on her face. He understood better now what her mother had said about the burdens she had carried since Mr. Mandeville’s death. Charlotte was not the sort of woman to sit back and let things happen.
But she didn’t understand the gravity of the situation or the utter futility of her suggestion.
Anthony let out a sigh, and, realizing he had been stroking his thumb along Charlotte’s, he stilled his hand. “Perhaps we could retrieve the diary, were it not Drayton himself who possessed it.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened, and she held Anthony’s gaze. “He knows.”
Anthony nodded, glad she realized the significance of the information. “He keeps the diary in a drawer at his estate outside Town. I have no doubt he is making good use of its contents to bend other people to his will.”
“We must get it, Anthony.”
He shook his head. “Impossible.”
“Difficult and impossible are not the same.”
“Charlotte . . . you do not understand Drayton’s influence. Everyone stands in awe of him. His servants are terrified of him.”
“I am not.”
Anthony faced her so that their knees touched. Suddenly, a new fear filtered in around the heavy despair he felt. A fear for Charlotte’s safety. “You should be. He killed a man. I have begun to suspect he was behind the death of Marlowe too.”
“But he cannot get away with it, Anthony.”
“I agree. Believe me, Charlotte. It is all I have thought about for months. You cannot understand how desperately I wish for Silas to return home, for everyone to know that it is honor rather than dishonor he deserves.”
She nodded quickly.
“But Silas’s freedom will have to be achieved some other way—how, I wish I knew.”
Silence fell again between them, and the birds chirped merrily, utterly oblivious to the mood in the garden.
Despite the bitter taste of the reality he had to face, Anthony felt less despair than he had when he had first taken a seat on this bench. He let his gaze travel to Charlotte. She was staring straight ahead, her eyes bright and alert.
“All we need is a plan,” she said.
He smiled slightly, touched by the depth of her devotion to the cause of Silas—a man she had never met. “I have realized that plans are harder to come by than I had previously thought.”
She turned toward him, her body teeming with energy. “I will do it.”
Anthony’s brows pulled together. “Do what?”
“Obtain the diary.”
“Charlotte . . .”
She took his hands again, as though trying to gather up every bit of his attention. “I need time with Lord Drayton. Can you help me with that?”
Anthony watched her warily, ignoring the way his body recoiled at the thought of her coming near the murderer. “He leaves in less than a fortnight.”
“Leaves? Where?”
“Like many members of Parliament,” Anthony said bitterly, “Drayton requires frequent respite from his burdensome duties. He has invited a dozen or so people to join him at his estate outside of London.”
Charlotte smiled. “Perfect.”
Anthony directed her with an expression meant to bring her back down to earth, for he could see precisely what she was thinking. “It is not a public assembly, Charlotte. It is a private party.”
She raised her brows and smiled enigmatically. “You think me unable to gain an invitation to such a gathering? I can be quite charming, you know.”
Anthony was coming to know that more and more each day he spent with her. “It is not your charms I doubt but Drayton’s willingness to extend an invitation to an utter stranger.”
“Not a stranger,” she said, a finger up to correct him. “We are now acquainted—and I plan to pursue that acquaintance with vigor.” She wrinkled her nose, as though realizing she had chosen the word poorly. “With . . . persistence, rather.”