Chapter 18
Drip.
One—two—three.
Drip.
Charlotte leaned her head back against the cold, uneven wall and counted the seconds between each drop.
It was the only rhythm she could hold on to in this place where time had lost all meaning.
The air was damp and heavy, her gown clinging uncomfortably to her skin.
Boredom, fear, anger—they tangled together until she could not tell one from another.
She only knew that she was trapped, and that she desperately hoped Luca—or her brother—would find her before it was too late.
Her eyes drifted over the scratched stone walls. Faded tally marks lined the surface like a grim calendar. Others had etched names—some in trembling letters, others bold and desperate. One name caught her attention.
Cressida.
Charlotte froze. That was the name of the late Duchess of Brackenford.
Surely it couldn’t be the same woman. But if it was…
that meant this truly was The Chelmsford Asylum.
A chill swept through her. The duchess had died years ago, and it was blamed on influenza.
Had she spent her last few days, hours, in this dreary cell?
It made a dreadful sort of sense. Women were sent here to disappear, to die quietly so their families could move on without scandal.
Turning towards the dividing wall that separated her from Lydia’s cell, Charlotte pressed her palm against the cold surface. “Are you there?”
A small laugh echoed through the stone. “And where, pray tell, would I go? On holiday?”
“How did you end up here?” Charlotte asked.
“I told you—I woke up here…”
“Did your husband send you here?” Charlotte pressed, the question tumbling out before she could stop it.
“My husband?” Lydia repeated, confusion in her voice. “What would he have to do with this? And where is here, exactly?”
“I believe we’re at The Chelmsford Asylum,” Charlotte said.
“An asylum?” Lydia’s disbelief was sharp. “For what purpose? Neither of us is mad.”
Charlotte nodded to herself. “It doesn’t matter. I think this place is for women whom others wish forgotten. No one comes out alive.”
“That is monstrous.”
Following a sudden hunch, Charlotte asked, “What is your full name?”
After a pause, the answer came with a sigh. “Lydia—Lady Matthew.”
Charlotte’s breath caught. Lady Matthew. They had been searching for her. “You are Lady Matthew,” she rushed out. “We’ve been trying to find you.”
“Find me?” Lydia’s tone was incredulous. “How could you possibly help me?”
“Your husband sent you here,” Charlotte explained. “And he’s been carrying on with your daughter’s governess.”
Lydia gasped. “No. Thomas wouldn’t… he couldn’t…”
Charlotte could see her through a crack in the wall—her eyes wide, her hands trembling. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. The late Duchess of Brackenford and Lady Coldwyck suffered the same fate.”
Before another word could pass between them, the heavy bolt of the iron door screeched open. Charlotte flinched at the sound. A tall man stepped inside, his build thick and his thinning black hair streaked with white.
“Stand up,” he ordered.
Charlotte obeyed, rising slowly and backing up until her shoulders pressed against the wall.
“Who did you tell about Lady Matthew?” he barked.
Her pulse hammered in her throat. “No one,” she said, lying as evenly as she could.
He crossed the space in two strides and loomed over her. “Tell me the truth, and I won’t have to hurt you.”
“I told no one,” she repeated, her voice steadier than she felt.
In the next instant, his hand shot out and clamped around her neck. Charlotte gasped as his foul breath filled her senses.
“Try again, Miss Winslow.”
Pain flared, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear. “I didn’t tell anyone.”
His grip tightened. “Not even your precious Lord Luca?”
Her heart stuttered at the sound of Luca’s name, but she didn’t let it show. “No.” If she admitted anything, Luca would be in danger and she would never allow that.
The man sneered. “You lying piece of rubbish. I know you told him. I just need to know who else I have to kill.”
“You are no match for Luca,” Charlotte said before she could stop herself.
He chuckled darkly. “I’ve met your Luca. A foppish dandy. He wouldn’t even see me coming.”
Charlotte’s lips parted in defiance. Good. Let him underestimate Luca. That would be his undoing.
A woman’s voice came from the doorway, calm but commanding. “Release her, Roger.”
The man turned, his grip loosening but not falling away. “I’d rather kill her now. She’s useless to us.”
“That is not what we agreed,” the woman said as she stepped inside. She was short, with white hair and sharp eyes that seemed to miss nothing. Her voice carried authority, though her tone was almost amused. “We’ll keep her alive a little longer.”
The man finally released Charlotte, but stayed close, his expression sullen. “She lied to me.”
“Do you blame her, Son?” the woman replied. “You might try being less terrifying next time.”
Charlotte rubbed her throat, taking shallow breaths. The woman smiled at her—a smile with no warmth in it.
“Now, dear,” she said pleasantly, “you’re going to tell us all about your investigation into The Chelmsford Asylum.”
“I don’t know anything,” Charlotte rushed out.
The smile vanished. “You may think you have some advantage here,” the woman said, “but you don’t. You are our prisoner, and we can discard you at will. Do you understand?”
Charlotte’s voice faltered. “Yes.”
“Good,” the woman said, her tone returning to false sweetness. “Let’s begin again, shall we? We know you’re working with Lord Luca. What we want to know is—why?”
Charlotte’s gaze darted towards the man, whose expression was pure hatred. “We were investigating the women who came here… and died,” she replied.
The woman tilted her head. “Here? Do you think this is The Chelmsford Asylum?”
Charlotte met her gaze, refusing to cower. “I do.”
For a moment, the woman only stared, then a cold smile curved her lips. “You are far smarter than I gave you credit for, Miss Winslow.”
“I shall take that as a compliment,” Charlotte said, though her voice came out thin.
“You should,” the woman replied. “You are the diamond. The chosen one. But I always thought you vain and pretentious—no serious thought in your head.”
The man’s appraisal was a grunt that carried through the cell like a dismissal. “This is the diamond?” he asked, his eyes raking her from chin to hem.
The woman stepped closer and plucked a stray curl that had escaped Charlotte’s chignon. “She is quite beautiful,” she said, almost idly, “but my sister was the beautiful one. Look where it got her.” Her mouth tightened. “She’s dead.”
Charlotte’s pulse tripped. “Who was your sister?”
The woman’s hand fell away. “Cressida.”
“The late Duchess of Brackenford,” Charlotte murmured.
“Yes,” the woman said with a shrug. “She failed her husband because she could not give him a son. She had one duty, and she did not do it.” There was impatience in the edge of the sentence, as if the failure still annoyed her.
“That doesn’t mean she deserved to die,” Charlotte said.
The woman’s eyes flashed, and the placid mask dropped for a heartbeat. “It does mean that. How else would the duke have an heir if she remained?”
“She could have had another child.”
“The doctor confirmed she couldn’t have any more children. She was useless to the duke.” She held Charlotte’s gaze. “Tell me everything you know. If you do, your end will be—somewhat—painless.”
A voice ripped out from the hole in the wall—shrill, frantic. “No! Don’t hurt her, please!”
The woman’s smile sharpened into something almost pleased. She glanced towards the gap where the stone had been pried away. “How quaint. You two have made friends.”
“We should separate them,” Roger growled.
“There is no need since they both will be dead soon enough,” the woman said, folding her hands as if they were in a drawing room rather than a cell. “I grow tired of this dance. We know most of what we need already because we planted a spy in your household.”
The word fell like a stone. Charlotte’s skin went cold. “Who?” Her voice betrayed her before she could silence it.
“Me,” a voice said.
Charlotte whirled towards the doorway and felt her heart drop to the floor. Martha stood there, shoulders back, a smug, untroubled smile curving her mouth.
“Martha?” Charlotte asked. “No. Why would you—?”
The white-haired woman made a small, theatrical gesture towards Martha.
“Allow me to present my granddaughter.” Her tone offered the introduction like a flourish.
“When whispers began that someone was asking questions about The Chelmsford Asylum, we placed her in Lord Matthew’s household.
She was hired as a maid—a simple, useful instrument.
She listened. She reported. It worked splendidly. Too easily, if you ask me.”
Martha’s smile widened into triumph. “You never suspected. You spoke freely. You let Lord Luca in and I heard everything.”
Charlotte’s chest constricted. How had she been so blind?
Martha turned her head towards the older woman. “Do we need her much longer?”
The old woman’s eyes gleamed. “Until we kill Lord Luca, yes.”
The words landed like a blow. “No!” The shout tore from her before Charlotte could steady it. “You can’t kill him.”
The woman’s expression slid into bored amusement. “And why not?” she asked as if the answer were inconceivable on its face.
Martha chattered on, her voice mocking, “Because Miss Winslow fancies Lord Luca most dearly.”
Charlotte felt tears sting the back of her eyes. “Please,” she begged, the plea brittle with resolve. “I will do as you ask. I’ll tell you what you want. Don’t—don’t kill him.”
The old woman sniffed. “There is nothing of yours I want,” she said, voice flat and final. “You should be grateful merely to still be alive.”
The woman turned on her heel and walked towards the door, “Come along, Roger. Martha,” she called over her shoulder. “We will give Miss Winslow time to wallow in the fact that no one is coming to save her.”