Chapter 24 #2
She held his gaze for a moment. “And you mean to reveal that directly?”
He nodded. “As soon as can be managed. I cannot risk Drayton coming after the diary. I have engaged the services of a man who will copy the relevant portion of the diary to ensure the only evidence cannot be destroyed.”
“Very wise.” Her gaze turned to the window, her expression becoming pensive and frowning.
It was silent for a moment, and Anthony would have given anything to know what was in her mind as she stared through the window.
“Perhaps it is not the most ideal bit of scandal, though, for it involves your family too closely, and your part will be heavily discussed. Ending the engagement would only increase that, would it not?”
“I suppose that is true,” Anthony replied.
“Though, if you are anxious to put an end to things, of cou—”
“No.” The response came from him unwittingly, drawing an intent stare from Charlotte. “That is,” he said in a more measured tone, “it is not an urgent matter in my view. Is it in yours?”
“No,” she agreed quickly enough that Anthony had to persuade his heart not to read anything into it.
“Shall we leave that decision until later, then?” he asked.
“Yes, if you please.”
He did please. He would postpone the discussion indefinitely if she would let him.
No, that was not true. An eternal engagement to Charlotte without an actual marriage on the horizon would be an unparalleled form of torture.
“Then consider it postponed. There are other things we should discuss before we arrive at Drayton’s, and we have less than an hour.”
They set about going over their strategy for the party.
They agreed that they should wait to take the diary until the final evening of the party.
That would give them time to put Drayton entirely at his ease with them.
It would also mean they could quickly put distance between them and Drayton rather than risking his realizing the absence of the diary while they were still at Barrington Hall.
When the carriage crested the hill that led toward Drayton’s estate, Charlotte grimaced sympathetically. “Spending so much time with Lord Drayton will not be easy.”
“No,” Anthony said. “It will not.” But he was every bit as worried about the time he would be spending with Charlotte, pretending they were on the cusp of marrying.
After everything that had happened with Miss Baxter, Anthony had been so certain he would never allow himself to care for a woman again.
And then Charlotte had come along, and now he worried he would never care for anything at all if he couldn’t have her.
Barrington Hall was a grand, Palladian estate of warm stone and dozens of windows. It was less than ten years old and built expressly to allow Drayton to escape Town without being obliged to drive all the way to his estate in Staffordshire.
Anthony and Charlotte were greeted by the butler upon arrival, then guided across the checkered marble floors of the echoing entry hall to the drawing room. As the butler reached the door, Anthony took in a slow, deep breath, trying to prepare himself for what lay ahead.
Charlotte’s hand stole through his arm, and she smiled up at him encouragingly. He looked into her warm, brown eyes, and his confidence grew.
The door opened, revealing a number of people within, sitting on plush furniture and standing upon neat rugs. Pale blue walls with cream plasterwork molding surrounded the room, with tall, curtained windows lining one side.
Drayton came over to them with a warm smile. “Here you are! What a pleasure to have you.” He gave a shallow bow, and the two of them returned their own greetings.
Drayton turned to the rest of the guests.
“Friends, friends. Allow me to introduce you to our newest guests.” He invited them to step forward so they stood even with him.
“Many of you undoubtedly already know Mr. Anthony Yorke, and if you do not, do refrain, if you please, from judging him based on . . . other members of his family.” Drayton winked, and Anthony’s hand instinctively grasped Charlotte’s, his fingers curling around hers. If ever he needed her, it was now.
She returned the pressure of his hand, and he forced a smile and a chuckle for the many eyes which were on him.
“But,” Drayton continued, “you may not yet be acquainted with the handsome woman adorning his arm.”
The pressure of Charlotte’s hand grew tighter. She took issue, Anthony guessed, with Drayton talking of her as an ornament. She, too, smiled graciously, however.
“Miss Charlotte Mandeville,” Drayton announced.
Anthony waited in vain for him to add that they were engaged. Perhaps it was because it was implied by their presence at the party. Or perhaps it was because he had hopes of his own with Charlotte. Anthony doubted they were principled hopes.
It would be a miracle if Anthony survived the next week without knocking Drayton down as he had done to Digby.
The guests came to greet Charlotte and Anthony, and Anthony began to relax more.
But when Drayton drew attention to the injury on his brow and expressed a teasing hope that a tendency toward violence did not run in the family, he was obliged to squeeze Charlotte’s hand every bit as hard as she had ever squeezed his.
“Your claws begin to rival mine,” she said as she rubbed at her hand once they had a moment of privacy, obtaining drinks from the sideboard.
“Forgive me,” Anthony said, trying to relax again. He stared at the liquid in his glass, every muscle tight. “I don’t know if I can do it, Charlotte. I have strangled the man a dozen times in my mind already.”
“That makes two dozen times between the two of us, then,” she said. “How can he smile while saying such vile things?”
Their conversation was cut short by Drayton himself, who suggested, now that the entire party had arrived and was refreshed, that they take a tour of the house, led by the eminently knowledgeable butler, Wetherby.
They were shown through the dining room, the music room, and out into the gardens. Anthony tried to appear interested when all he could think about was the library.
Charlotte ooh’d and aah’d over the sculpture garden, asking questions about each and every piece of art so that they were significantly delayed in moving back to the house. Anthony’s temper, already stretched thin, teetered precariously.
When they finally returned inside, Anthony leaned his head closer to Charlotte’s. “What in heaven’s name was that about?”
“It was necessary, I assure you,” she muttered in response. “I told Lord Drayton how eager I was to see the famed sculpture garden. I did not wish him to ask the butler about my reaction to it and grow suspicious when I showed nothing but a passing interest.”
“Are you a devotee of sculpture?” Anthony asked, feeling he should perhaps know this about his betrothed, be she counterfeit or otherwise.
“Heavens, no,” she replied. “Once you have seen one, you have seen them all.”
Anthony chuckled as they took the stairs up to the portrait gallery and various sitting rooms. Just when he had begun to despair, Wetherby began to speak of the vastness of his lordship’s library as they made their way back down the stairs.
Charlotte glanced up at Anthony, the same hopeful spark in her eyes that he felt in his chest. Every chance they had to see the library would help them.
Anthony tried to look mildly attentive in the library, making his eyes sweep over the shelves, though his focus was squarely on the desk there.
Charlotte released his arm and walked about the room, marveling at the tall shelves lined with gilt-lettered spines. Slowly, as Wetherby droned on about the rarity of various books contained within the room, she made her way nearer the desk.
Anthony watched her with amusement and admiration, then made his way over to join her on the pretense of showing her a particularly large book of maps of the Orient, facing her so he had a view of the desk drawers.
The butler brought his dull monologue to an end just then, however, and they were obliged to follow the guests out. No matter. They would have time enough to visit the library over the next few days.
By the time they all separated to dress for dinner, however, there had been no fewer than four references to Silas by those present, and Anthony’s muscles ached from their tenseness.
Both he and Charlotte let out long breaths as they separated from the rest of the guests.
Charlotte grimaced sympathetically. “It is as though they are all trying to drive you mad.”
Anthony shut his eyes. “I cannot do a week of this, Charlotte. I am simply not strong enough. It has been all I can do to hold my tongue—and my fists—and it has been but four hours.”
They stopped in front of the door to Charlotte’s bedchamber, and she nodded swiftly, her brows knit with worry. “I understand. I have never even met Silas, and I nearly slapped Lord Buxton. But what can we do?”
He lifted his shoulders. “I hardly know. To leave early would be to risk raising suspicion. But so would planting Drayton a facer.”
Charlotte couldn’t help laughing. “Very true. Hmm . . .”
At the end of the corridor, voices sounded on the stairs.
“Here,” Charlotte said, opening the door to her bedchamber and pulling Anthony inside.
The windows were shrouded with thick curtains, making the room almost entirely dark.
Anthony couldn’t see Charlotte, but he could feel her hand around his arm.
An impulse to close his eyes and pull her to him made his heart race and his blood warm.
It was yet another reason to cut this visit short—the longer he spent with Charlotte, the more his thoughts filled with ideas about her and the more he dreaded the future without her.
Being near her like this was becoming a special sort of torment.
He strode to the windows, forcing her hand to release him, and drew back the curtains.
“Tell me truly,” Charlotte said. “Do you feel unable to bear it for the week?”