Chapter Fifteen
Charlotte sat on a stone bench in the rose garden until the rain began again. She took cover in the small pavilion surrounded by cedars. It had always been a favourite spot of hers when she was a child. It felt like a small slice of the country nestled among the bustle of London.
Oh, how she missed the country. She sat for a while on a bench watching the rain roll down the glass walls of the structure before she kicked off her slippers and lay on her back in the middle of the smooth mosaic floor.
For a moment, she felt like a child again, watching the wind blow the branches overhead and whistle through the metal frame.
As the world churned on around her, she was safe in this little haven, free from time.
“Mind if I join?” The low voice made her jump, and she quickly propped herself on her good elbow. “Please don’t get up. I would rather come to you.”
Charlotte slowly lowered herself back down. “Who let you in?”
Benjamin came to sit beside her, taking his boots off one by one—she caught herself admiring his stockinged ankles and his masculine feet as he lay down beside her.
“No one, in fact. I doubt I need to remind you, but there is no one in your house to open the door. When I knocked and received no answer, I checked around the mews. Your back garden gate is unlocked, by the way.”
“I stopped locking it. There is nothing left to steal.”
“You are still here, are you not?” He was very close. She could feel his warmth all down the side of her body. It was all she could do not to roll into it.
“No one is going to bother to steal me.”
There was silence beside her, and she turned to find his face inches from hers, dark blue eyes full and watching. “I beg to differ.”
Her heart flipped behind her sternum, and she forced herself to look back up at the cedars leaning over them, their silhouettes distorted in the afternoon rain pattering on the glass roof.
Silence stretched again as she tried to school her humming pulse.
She was acutely aware of every breath he took beside her.
Of the warm, inviting smell of him, made deeper and more complex by the overlying smell of rain.
“I came to apologise.” He spoke without looking at her, eyes fixed on the rain hitting the glass roof.
“Oh?”
He nodded.
“And?” She tried to keep the smile from her voice as she prompted him.
“I am sorry. I have treated you unfairly and spoken to you with contempt that you did not deserve. Not to mention insulting your honour.”
Charlotte sighed, mesmerised by the lulling patter of rain and his body heat.
“You would not be the first.” She thought ruefully of Freddie but then pushed him from her mind.
Those troubles did not belong in this moment.
Here, she was free of all that. “I forgive you, Benjamin.” It was easy.
Maybe it should not have been, but it was.
In her periphery, she could see him turn at that and regard her, but she did not look away from the rain. He was still watching her, gaze intent. “No, I need you to know. I did not plan to hold you to any agreement. Those debts are not yours. I will not ask that of you.”
She turned and gave him a sad smile. “Thank you. For doing what you did—buying up our family’s debts.
” He seemed shocked that she would say such a thing.
“Strange as it sounds, I feel much safer being in debt to a man like you than…” She did not want to bring his name into this space. So she did not.
“That does not excuse the proposition. I was taking advantage.” He sounded angry, and that made her want to smile.
“Benjamin Scarsdale, I was comatose in your bed for days. You nursed me back to health. You saved my life.” His eyes were wide when she looked back at him.
“Lizzy told me how you hovered over my bed for a week, trying to coax me back from the brink of an infection I caused with my own pigheadedness. You are the last man in the world I would worry about taking advantage.” Miraculously, hints of colour rose on his cheekbones—as if her words drew something out of him he was not familiar enough with to contain.
This man, who always wielded explicit control over himself and his surroundings, seemed to be flustered. By her.
Charlotte wanted to reach out and touch the rising colour of his cheeks—see if they were as warm as she suspected. “I know the damage my brother has done…or suspect I do. I will make it right.”
It looked as if he was going to argue. She could already anticipate the words he was going to say—could hear his low voice whisper the promise: You don’t have to.
But he did not speak. The rain filled the silence, lulling the pavilion back into a peaceful hush.
He eventually turned back to the ceiling, and she felt his fingers brush hers. “This is beautiful.”
Charlotte nodded. “I used to come out here when I was young. It feels like an escape from the city. Reminds me of home.” She felt a melancholy ache in her chest at that word.
“Where was home?” His voice was quiet. It seemed a silly question for such a man to ask. She was sure he knew every last morsel of information about her and her family. But she answered anyway, happy to share something with him.
“Staffordshire. Our country estate, Lamdel Manor.” She sighed. “It is long gone now, but it will always be home. Anyway, after my father remarried, we spent most of our time in town. My stepmother could not abide the quiet of the country.”
“Did you so dislike living in London?” The backs of their hands were touching, their fingers gently intertwined.
“Not everything. I will never forget the first time my father took us to the opera. It was like a dream.” She let herself drift back into the sparkling awe of the night.
She had been fourteen and had heard nothing more than the country quartets that were hired for local fetes.
The grandeur of the opera house and then the power of the soprano’s voice had made her feel otherworldly.
Then, life had seemed so possible, an endless potential for delight and joy.
It was partly this newfound optimism that had made her such a fool for Luca Rossi.
Then, it had all changed. “But the realities of society were enough to dim even that joy.”
He nodded but remained silent.
“Where is your home?” She could feel him stiffen slightly. He was not used to sharing his own secrets. But she waited, happy to be patient with him in this little world they inhabited.
“Also in the country. Near Devon. I grew up with my mother and sister on the Bowring estate. That is how Wells and I met. His father’s estate ran along the Bowring one. He and his father did not get along, so he spent much of his time with us.”
“Your mother was in service?” She had not expected that from a man who seemed to have all the polish and education of a consummate gentleman, despite his rough reputation.
“In a way.” His answer was toneless.
“When did you move to London?” He had fully laced his fingers with hers while he spoke, and she was scrambling to grasp at conversation, the intimacy of their joined hands drawing in all her attention.
“When I was eleven.” He said no more, and judging by his tone, Charlotte decided it was best to leave it.
“Do you ever miss the country?”
He did not hesitate. “Every day.”
“So do I.”
They lay in silence for long, peaceful minutes. The rain continued to patter, and Charlotte thought to herself that, given the chance, she would stay in this moment forever with this strange, intriguing man by her side.
“My sister and I used to talk about finding a cottage back in Devonshire.”
She did not turn to him, as if he were a wild creature and any movement might startle him and break the spell they seemed to have slipped under.
“Cordelia. She was two years older than I. After my mother passed, she got work in a great house, and I was scraping together odd jobs at printers, tanneries—I could read, so that helped. We thought that between the two of us, we might save enough to get a small place in the country. Get out of the soot and grime of London. We did not need much—just a kitchen garden. I could work as a farmhand.” He trailed off, and even though she was not looking at him, she could see he was worlds away; in another life where he was not the Master of London’s Secrets but just another simple farmer, tending his land and living in peace.
She could see that life for him—and yet, she was glad he did not have it. Otherwise, they would not be here now.
“Delia did not tell me her secret at first. I guess she thought she was still protecting me from the harsh realities of the world. But she grew nervous—always jumpy, always looking over her shoulder. She was promoted from scullery maid to upstairs maid and had to move into the servants’ quarters.
I did not see her as much. But she sent money and made sure I was fed. ”
Charlotte waited again as he fell into silence. The rain pattering on the glass made their little sanctuary seem removed from the entire world. She wanted nothing more than to ask him what had happened next. But she held her tongue, knowing the silence of this moment would draw it out.
“Then she showed up on the steps of the boarding house one day. Bag in hand. Her jaw was swollen; her entire neck was black and blue. She refused to tell me what had happened. I was only thirteen at the time, and small for my age. But if she had told me, I would have murdered the coward myself. Then and there.”
The way he said it so matter-of-factly made Charlotte shiver. What must it be like to have a man like this willing to defend you so absolutely? It was a tantalising thought.