Chapter 22 - Stephen
Stephen
An hour past their arranged meeting time, and the corner remained empty.
Stephen stood in the deepening shadows beneath a sprawling elm tree, one shoulder pressed against its rough bark, the same spot where they’d parted a week ago.
From here he had a clear view of the Fairmont townhouse down the street, its facade barely visible in the dusk.
He could see the garden gate she’d need to pass through, black iron gleaming dully in the fading light and for an hour it had remained shut while he stood watching, counting each minute that passed without her.
At first, he’d told himself she was simply delayed. Slipping away from her household without notice required careful timing. But now, as the minutes continued to pass, those comfortable lies had worn thin, leaving only the truth settling cold in his chest.
She wasn’t coming.
The evening air carried the scent of rain-soaked gardens as he drew a slow breath, forcing his hands to unclench.
He pulled his father’s pocket watch from his waistcoat, the tarnished silver case worn smooth from years of handling.
He rarely carried it anymore, too afraid of losing the last tangible piece of his father he possessed, but tonight he’d needed it like a talisman, needed the weight of his father’s unwavering belief in him. Even if that belief had been misplaced.
Half past ten.
His thumb traced the worn surface where a faint engraving had long since faded to illegibility. The constables had returned it along with the body, the only possession those thieves hadn’t bothered to take. Too worn, perhaps. Too old to fetch a decent price.
Stephen closed his fingers around the case and started walking, trying not to think about the past week.
Trying not to replay that moment in the darkened passage when Charlotte had grabbed his face and kissed him like she was claiming something that belonged to her.
Trying not to remember how certain he’d been that the urgency in her touch meant something real.
But she had time to think since then. Time to remember the risk she’d taken, kissing a stranger where anyone might have discovered them.
Perhaps the intensity had frightened her, made her realize that whatever she’d felt in that heated moment wasn’t worth the scandal.
Wasn’t worth defying Lord Penrose and all the security he represented.
Maybe she’d realized she couldn’t trust him after all.
He couldn’t blame her. He’d known from the beginning that whatever existed between them was borrowed time, that the truth would surface eventually and destroy whatever they’d built. But knowing it didn’t make the hollow ache in his chest any easier to bear.
He moved through the quiet streets without truly registering them, his mind occupied with trying to accept what had happened.
The evening had grown cold, his breath creating small clouds in the air, but he didn’t notice.
He was too busy trying to convince himself this was for the best, that her absence proved she possessed better judgment than he did. That Charlotte was safer without him.
The creak of a gate in the evening breeze pulled him back to the present. Stephen stopped, blinking as he looked around to get his bearings.
Penrose Hall stood directly ahead, its imposing facade rising against the dark sky.
The honey-colored stone appeared gray in the night, windows glowing softly on the ground floor while the upper stories remained dark.
He’d reached the neighboring estate without realizing it, his feet carrying him along the familiar route.
He should keep walking. Return to Rutland Estate before Phillips noticed his absence, accept that whatever had existed between him and Charlotte was finished.
But his gaze moved over those darkened upper windows, and he couldn’t quite make himself move.
She still needed those documents. Even if she’d decided she couldn’t trust him enough to meet him, even if she wanted nothing more to do with him, that didn’t change what Penrose held over her family. She deserved the choice. Deserved the freedom to escape.
Stephen checked the pocket watch again, squinting at the hands in the darkness. Almost midnight. Penrose would have been gone for hours by now, the household settled with only a handful of servants remaining. The watch clicked shut as he tucked it away.
One final act. One promise he could still keep, even if she’d decided she didn’t want him keeping it.
Moving along the hedgerow that bordered the property, he kept low until reaching the service gate. It gave way with out resistance, and he slipped through, moving toward the back of the main house.
The window that had been open during their last visit sat firmly closed tonight, glass reflecting the darkening sky. He’d have to find another way in.
The main entrance was impossible, too visible and formal. But the back of the house would have servants’ doors, entrances used for deliveries and kitchen access that might be less carefully secured.
Stephen moved along the rear wall, testing handles as he went. The first door was locked. The second, which looked like it led to a coal cellar, wouldn’t budge either. But tucked beside a rain barrel, frame nearly swallowed by overgrown ivy, a third door gave way when he tried the handle.
Stephen pushed it open and stepped through in one smooth motion, pulling the door closed behind him before pausing to listen.
His heart hammered against his ribs, but the house remained silent around him.
No alarmed voices. No running footsteps.
Just the soft settling sounds of old wood adjusting to the cooling evening.
Lye soap and damp stone filled his nose, scents so familiar from his own world that they were almost comforting.
He stood motionless while his eyes adjusted, letting the dimness resolve into recognizable shapes.
A corridor no wider than his outstretched arms ran ahead into darkness, lit only by a rectangle of moonlight falling through a high window.
Stephen moved forward carefully, testing weight on each board before committing to the next step, passing what looked like a stillroom on his left, a storage closet on his right.
Stairs rose at the passage’s end, leading upward into shadow.
He climbed them slowly, keeping close to the wall where the boards would be most supported, least likely to creak.
Each step took concentration, his weight distributed carefully while he listened for any sound from above that might indicate someone was awake.
At the landing, the corridor opened into something wider, grander. The walls were painted instead of bare, worn floorboards gave way to carpet that swallowed the sound of his footsteps, even the air lost its sharp edge, replaced by the gentler scents of beeswax and lavender.
Stephen paused, trying to orient himself.
The gardens lay behind him, the same ones where he and Charlotte had climbed through the parlor window together and tumbled into the room before turning right toward the study at the eastern end.
Which meant right would take him in the same direction now, following the route they’d traced before.
He moved through the quiet hallway, passing partially open doors and the barely visible portrait gallery, until he reached the study at the corridor’s end. The handle turned beneath his touch without resistance, unlocked just as before.
Stephen eased the door open and stepped inside, pulling it closed until he heard a soft click. Light from tall windows bathed the room in silver, illuminating the massive desk that sat exactly where he remembered it, ornate legs and polished surface gleaming faintly.
He crossed to it and knelt beside it, positioning himself on the left side where he thought the hidden mechanism should be.
His hands moved along the underside of the lowest drawer, fingers tracing smooth wood and carefully joined seams, pressing at intervals, testing for anything that might shift or click beneath his touch.
Nothing.
The drawer itself was locked, as expected.
He pulled out the two pieces of wire he’d bent into rough picks over the past few days, tools fashioned from scraps he’d found in the stable.
George the old gardener who’d taught him to pick locks, had made him promise to use the skill only when absolutely necessary.
Stephen could almost hear George’s gruff voice now: “Locks are there for a reason, lad. Make sure you’ve got a better one before you go opening them. ”
For the second time in his life, he had one.
He worked the improvised picks into the lock, feeling for the resistance George had taught him to recognize. After a minute of careful pressure, the mechanism released.
Stephen pulled the drawer open and examined the interior, tapping the bottom to listen for that telltale hollowness that would indicate a false panel, but the sound came back solid and unforgiving.
He examined the corners next, searching for catches or panels that might conceal something more, but the craftsmanship was flawless, each piece fitted together with precision that left no gaps for his probing fingers.
He searched the rest of the desk with growing desperation—the remaining drawers on this side, then the other side again in case he’d missed something last time, finally sliding beneath to examine the underside with both hands. But there was no mechanism.
Stephen pulled himself out from under the desk and sat back on his heels, hands gripping the edge hard enough that wood bit into his palms. A week spent preparing for this, memorizing every detail, absolutely certain he’d finally find the answer. And he’d been completely wrong.