28. The Scent that Betrayed
THE SCENT THAT BETRAYED
FRANCESCA
C harlie Henderson makes me so, so sad.
Not grief-sad or worthy-of-sympathy sad.
But the type of sadness where clowns make children cry.
Like in a pathetically scary way where you can’t help but tear up as soon as you’re faced with it.
He constantly vapes in my face when he talks and flirts like he’s leaning over a pub bar whilst waiting for my shift to end.
Wolf whistles and everything.
And then, inevitably, he wrongfully brings up his father’s case details in order to impress me.
Chief Inspector Henderson at the Lanorythe station has been up to his ears with murders—according to Vape Central, over here.
He thinks he’s keeping me informed, unaware that the women of House Sheffolk can already taste the rot in the air.
All I hear when he speaks of it is ‘huskins’.
All I see is them roaming freely as the drums bang closer to the festival.
And the more he talks, I realise how unequipped this duchy would be if our line ever died out.
He’s driving me back home now, one hand lazily draped over the black wheel of his Audi, the windows cracked to let out the endless vape clouds he’s breathing.
Lord Octavian hosted one of his ridiculously opulent lakeside affairs again, though it’s one of his newer plans: a grand endeavour in artisanal indulgence.
Charlie had a stall there, because obviously.
Selling the early-run cologne I’ve been telling Grandad about, the cider-scented ones.
And his stall was unnaturally packed too, people whispering to each other about ‘wood-scented orgasms’ and ‘fog-salted bark’.
He sold out early, fortunately for us both because I barely attended out of free will.
Gran asked for me to stand in as a representative for Redford because Octavian wanted visible support from the duchy for all his years of loyalty.
So I agreed because he was a friend of my father’s, and that was the extent of my enthusiasm.
But then Charlie found out and asked me to be his date.
Loudly . In front of the ever-diplomatic Sylvaine Sheffolk.
Can imagine how that turned out.
I scroll through the photos pinging through on the ‘PLS SEND PICS’ group chat Charlie added me to.
Each one is the same: me standing there with a wooden smile, draped in a black Armani dress in mourning of my patience.
Strapless and cut straight across my chest, cinched at the waist and then dropping in a clean line to the floor.
Thank god for the lace gloves; without them, I’d have been sipping on the emotional sludge of every person whose hand I shook.
Charlie had my blood pressure high all evening.
The scarf is the only other accessory (besides Tommy’s bracelet) that I bothered with: sheer chiffon knotted at my throat like a noose, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted to strangle Charlie with it at a few points.
There’s one of Charlie kissing my cheek, and you can barely tell I slapped the vape out of his hand seconds before.
The light from my phone shines, and Charlie leans over the centre console, clicking his tongue. Thankfully, he quickly shifts his attention back to the road before saying, “You know… I don’t think I mentioned it earlier. How good you looked tonight.”
Good .
Those four letters slide right off my skin, as does the thin film of his vape clouds.
Good is a perfectly pinned tie. Good is smiling for the camera when all you wish is to disappear.
It’s doing well in an exam or curtsying the right way after months of practice.
Being called ‘ good ’ by Charlie makes me want to roll down the window and fling myself onto the asphalt.
I smile without looking because memories drag me viciously to the previous night.
To Eric calling me indecently exquisite.
That phrasing is like fangs hovering above my throat and makes Charlie’s compliment feel like a handshake.
I should’ve asked him to come with me. Would’ve .
Maybe I wouldn’t have shaped it up to be a date, more like a duchy obligation.
He’s our prince, isn’t he? It wouldn’t have been unusual to see him on my arm at a public event.
But then he claimed to be busy, backed up by Philip, of all people.
And I’ve known that man long enough to know when he was hiding something.
Whatever the two of them are up to has elicited a level of possessiveness I haven’t felt since Percy and I fought over dolls.
And, speaking of possessive, I realise Charlie’s still waiting on a response. “Thanks. I, um, really like your cardigan. Love when a man looks like he has an opinion.” Urgh , his appreciative little smile makes the guilt surge. “Look, can I ask you something?”
“Depends on the damage.” Then he winks. “I’m joking; go ahead.”
“Why are you still trying with me, Charlie?” I ask, noting how his hand tightens on the wheel.
Red blooms in his cheeks, bright beneath the overhead streetlights.
“Honestly, we’ve got about as much chemistry as butter and gravel.
Surely marrying a title isn’t worth it all? You must have better options.”
He exhales hard through his nose, like he’s heard this before. "C’mon, Chess, it had to have been the same with Gabe. It’s just how things are in our world—politics.”
The mention of Gabriel has my scarf tightening to the point where I have to remind myself I’m still breathing. I blink at him, shutting my phone. “Yes, but Gabe was my friend. You are Ed’s friend.”
“And shouldn’t that make you feel better? Not a stranger, no surprises. Would you rather be betrothed to somebody you’ve never met before?”
He says it like we’re already betrothed.
Whatever safety he’s trying to Bluetooth to my brain doesn’t read like it at all, no matter how hard he stares at the next red light.
I want to tell him that Edmund’s stamp of approval means nothing to me.
That I refuse to be handed from one man to another just because they think it’s the most comfortable option.
It only makes things worse, knowing they talk about me— plan things.
“Drive,” I mumble once the light switches, and he vapes out the window as though I’ve assaulted him with the world’s most difficult mathematical equation.
“Alright, I’m sensing some weird vibes here. Ed says you haven’t been speaking to him.” Casually, he just throws it out there, but I can smell the bait that’s been handed to him by my cousin.
And as usual, Charlie does what he says.
Technically, I have been speaking to him. A few messages here and there, passing words in corridors. A meme or a simple ‘Did you eat yet?’ . But not like I used to, not since he slid his hands up my thighs and practically begged me to be his antidote.
Fighting to keep my voice steady, I say, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know I came up in conversations between you and your boyfriend.”
His head snaps towards me, and I get an ‘O’ shaped vape cloud slammed into my temple. “Francesca, don’t play dumb. We both know what this is.”
“Oh well, please don’t leave me in suspense, Charles.”
“You’ve been lapping up the prince’s attention ever since he got here. Ed feels it, you know. Like you picked him over family. It seems pretty clear what’s happening.”
I stare at him until he shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
Oh . So Edmund talks about me like that, then.
I had no idea his trips to the city involved gossiping like two teenage girls who’re convinced the world’s against them.
Painting me as the distant duchess-heir, something to be reclaimed.
And now this fucker believes that my reticence and Edmund’s withdrawal have led to something scandalous involving Eric.
God, if the papers get hold of this, it’ll turn into a telenovela-level absurdity I just can’t afford right now.
“What Edmund feels isn’t mine to manage,” I insist, nearly sighing in relief when the gates of Redford come into view. “And neither of you get to speak on things you know nothing about.”
The handle clicks as I swing open the door. Bag over my shoulder, silver heels in hand, and then I’m hopping out. Every step is punctuated by the dull ache blooming behind my eyes. Charlie’s door closes behind me, and I hear the keys jingle as he drops them and fumbles to pass them to a valet.
Fuck, he’s following me.
“Chess, wait—we’re just trying to look out for you. And if nothing’s going on, then why are you being this defensive?” Looking out for me sounds horrifyingly akin to surveillance. He doesn’t receive an answer. “Francesca, please .”
We make it about three stairways and five corridors without a word. Once we’re in the west wing, I can’t handle it anymore and spin around to blurt, “Oh my god, why are you still here?”
He stumbles as though I’ve slapped him, and I only realise then that there’s a duffel bag hooked over the epaulette of his cardigan. “I’m… staying over at Edmund’s…”
I blink, incredulous. “Do you hear yourself, Charlie? What, are you gonna have a little sleepover and giggle about me over tea?”
“ Jesus ,” he mutters, a perfectly placed pawn just a few feet away from my cousin’s door.
“Did you forget that tomorrow’s your fucking birthday?
Pascoe won’t be able to sort out my rooms until tomorrow, but I’m still here.
Because I care about you and want to celebrate.
” The word ‘celebrate’ rattles my brain, and I stumble slightly. “Wait, are you alright?—”
“Please, leave me alone.”
I’m already walking towards my door. My date for the evening passes right by his designated quarters in a dramatic show of concern for me.
I can feel him gaining on me, and he grabs my arm.
Not roughly, but enough for me to trip over my skirts.
And then the door beside us opens. Eric steps into the corridor, and Charlie drops me like he’s contracted leprosy.