Chapter 7 #2
His eyes flicked to her plate. “You did not eat much. I can wait, if you would prefer.”
“I find I am not particularly hungry this morning.”
He studied her, his curiosity far too keen for her comfort. “Is everything all right?”
“It is,” she replied quickly. She didn’t need—or want—his show of concern. “Shall we depart for the carriage ride?”
He tsked. “Are you that eager to be alone with me?”
Charlotte exhaled a sigh of pure exasperation. “You are making me regret agreeing to this carriage ride.”
“If I recall,” he teased, “you practically forced my hand. Not that I blame you. I am quite the eligible bachelor.”
She pressed her lips together, biting back the retort poised on her tongue. The sooner this carriage ride was done, the better.
Luca studied Miss Winslow as the open-air carriage rattled along the busy street.
From the corner of his eye, he watched the way her gaze lingered on the ragged figures that shuffled along the pavement—children playing barefoot, a mother clutching a baby to her chest. Concern softened her eyes, even as her chin lifted a fraction, her mouth tightening in the carefully constructed mask of indifference she wore so well.
He had seen it before—that contradiction. She cared, but she didn’t want anyone to know just how deeply. Why was that? What was she hiding beneath all that poise? The more he watched her, the more fascinated he became.
Deciding the silence had stretched long enough, he leaned towards her. “Why do you hide behind a mask?”
Her head snapped around, her brows drawing together. “If this is your idea of conversation—”
He pressed forward before she could shut him out. “You tilt your chin so slightly, as if the very thought of the poor were repugnant. But I see how your eyes trail after them.”
“I do not find the poor repugnant,” she said, her voice clipped.
“I know. That was evident when you had your lady’s maid give them coins.” He cocked a brow. “Why not give the coins yourself?”
Miss Winslow frowned, clearly irked. “Is there a point to this line of questioning?”
“You are an intriguing woman,” he said simply.
Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Now you are attempting to flatter me?”
A smirk tugged at his mouth. “Not flattery—merely truth. I will get you to trust me, and then I will learn all of your secrets. Just you wait, Diamond.”
That earned him a roll of her eyes, though he did not miss the faint flush in her cheeks. “You are an infuriating man. If you must call me something, I would prefer Charlotte.”
“What about Lottie?” he asked lightly, testing her reaction.
She went rigid. “No. Not Lottie.”
“Lottie is a common enough nickname—”
“Stop!” Her voice rang sharp with sudden force. “Do not call me that. Never call me that.”
Luca stilled, startled. The anguish in her tone left no room for jest. “I’m sorry,” he said, his levity gone. “I won’t ever call you that. I promise.”
Tears gathered in her eyes, though she blinked them back quickly, her jaw tight. There it was—a crack in her mask. What memory had he stumbled upon? What wound lay behind that forbidden name? He longed to press, but instinct told him she would only retreat further.
Before he could decide, the carriage slowed, drawing up before a red brick building wedged between two taller structures.
The footman hurried forward to open the door.
Luca stepped down first, then turned to offer his hand.
She took it, but the moment her boots touched the pavement, she slipped free and put distance between them.
Botheration. Just when he thought he had edged closer to the real Charlotte, she withdrew again.
He gestured towards the building. “Shall we?”
Inside, they moved down a narrow corridor until she halted, pointing at the brass placard on the wall—Office 1E.
Luca knocked. Silence. He tried the handle. Locked.
Charlotte exhaled in exasperation. “What do we do now?”
“You are not about to give up so easily, are you?” he teased.
“No, but the door is locked and no one answered. Should we come back later?”
He smiled faintly, sliding two thin bits of metal from his coat pocket. “Or we could try this.”
She stared, wide-eyed, as he crouched and worked the lock, twisting until a soft click rewarded him. Rising smoothly, he pocketed the tools and pushed the door open.
“You can pick locks?” she asked.
“It has come in rather handy in my profession,” he said with deliberate nonchalance.
“As an editor?”
He chuckled. “Yes. Not everyone is eager to speak with me. After you, Charlotte.”
She stepped inside—and froze.
Luca leaned over her shoulder. The office was barren, save for a single desk and two chairs in the center. No papers, no ledgers, no trace of occupation.
“Do we have the right address?” she asked.
He nodded. “This is listed as Mr. Griffin’s office, tied to the Ravenhurst Trading Company.”
“But no one is here…”
“Because there never was,” Luca said grimly, leaning against the desk. “I knew it. The Ravenhurst Trading Company is in name only. A shell to keep its true owner hidden.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever is behind it has something to conceal. Nefarious intentions, most likely.”
Her brows arched. “What do we do now?”
“We keep digging,” he said. “The Ravenhurst Trading Company owns The Chelmsford Asylum. Until we discover the owner, we don’t stop.”
“Maybe there is a clue here?”
He shook his head. “Doubtful. No one ever worked in this room.”
She sighed, gazing around. “This feels impossible.”
“Don’t tell me you are already ready to quit,” he said, surprised.
Her chin lifted, defiant. “I didn’t say that. I happen to specialize in the impossible.”
Luca’s tension eased into reluctant admiration. “Is that so?”
“We may be facing an endless uphill climb, but I brought the right shoes for it,” she quipped. “Shall we question the other tenants?”
“I doubt they saw anything.”
“Don’t you think it’s worth a try?”
He waved a hand. “By all means. But I believe it a waste of time.”
That stubborn tilt of her chin warned him she would not be swayed. She brushed past him and knocked on the next door.
“Enter,” a voice boomed.
Charlotte slipped inside, her tone soft and plaintive. “Pardon me, sir, I am searching for the gentleman in office 1E. Mr. Griffin is—was—my father’s solicitor.”
Luca lingered in the hall, watching through the crack. She played her part brilliantly, her voice trembling with manufactured grief. The lanky clerk across the desk all but melted under her gaze.
At last, the man revealed, “The man you seek will come to collect his mail tomorrow, at noon,” he began. “If you would like—"
“Thank you, sir. You have been most helpful,” she gushed, cutting off whatever offer he began to make.
Charlotte emerged moments later, closing the door firmly behind her, triumph gleaming in her eyes. “Did you hear that?”
“I did,” Luca said, offering his arm with genuine admiration. “Well done.”
As Luca guided Charlotte towards the carriage, she said, “I would like to be there when you interview Mr. Griffin.”
He winced, knowing before the words left his mouth that she would not like his answer. “I don’t think that is a good idea.”
Her eyes narrowed, sharp and expectant. “And why not?”
“Mr. Griffin has gone to great lengths to disappear,” Luca said as they stepped onto the pavement. “If cornered, he might not go quietly. He might put up a fight.”
“Do you think you can handle him by yourself?” she pressed.
“No,” he admitted, “but I have someone that can help me. An old friend.”
Her brow arched with skepticism. “And who is this man?”
Suppressing a sigh, he gave the name. “Lord Rupert Milnes.”
Charlotte gave him a pointed look. “How can Lord Rupert possibly help you? He seems more the ‘eat, drink, and be merry’ type of man.”
After helping her into the carriage, Luca settled opposite her, watching the skepticism in her expression with a trace of amusement. “I assure you there is more to him than that.”
“If you say so,” she said, leaning back against the bench.
“I will have one of my reporters keep watch on the building. If Griffin shows up early, we’ll know.”
Charlotte gave a decisive nod. “What can I do?”
“Nothing, for now.”
“I could help watch the building,” she suggested, her eyes alive with determination.
He chuckled. “I think not. You are far too beautiful to go unnoticed. Best to leave such work to my reporter.”