Chapter 1 #2
Mr. Digby’s gaze rested on her until the hairs on her arms began to tingle. “They will tire of such mundane things quickly, Miss Mandeville. We need more.”
Her jaw clenched. What, precisely, did he expect of her? To magic scandal out of thin air? “No doubt there will be more material as the Season gets underway.”
His eyes never left hers. “Let us hope so. I am not paying you for news on gardening or pets. I would hate to be obliged to end our arrangement—and equally disappointed if word got out who is behind the drawings.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened. Was he threatening her?
One of the ostlers’ heads appeared around the corner, searching the room until his gaze landed upon Mr. Digby. “Ye’re needed outside, sir. Right away.”
Mr. Digby handed the paper back to Charlotte. “Give this to Mary. But I expect better next week, Miss Mandeville.” He fixed her with one last severe gaze, then he walked away.
Charlotte watched his back until he disappeared around a corner.
She drew a long, steady breath through her nose, willing it to calm her heart.
Would he truly betray her identity if she didn’t manage to produce something more titillating?
To be certain, finding material more exciting than Mrs. Gattenby shouldn’t be too terribly difficult.
But if the people who frequented the inn were not confiding gossip to one another within earshot of Mary, there was little Charlotte could do.
Perhaps they were beginning to distrust the inn.
When Charlotte had first struck up an arrangement with Mr. Digby, she would never have believed him capable of betraying her identity.
He had been genial and enthusiastic about the prospect of working together: Charlotte would utilize the gossip passed within the walls of the inn to create caricatures that would, in turn, bring more business to The Crown and Castle.
But over time, he had become decidedly less amiable and far more demanding.
If he felt she was not bringing him the business he wished for, he might well betray her.
Then, not only would the money stop, but Charlotte’s reputation and that of her family would be injured past reparation.
They needed those reputations intact if they were to make smart matches and take care of Mama.
Charlotte needed more gossip.
She fumbled to put the caricature back in the reticule, but the bag slipped to the floorboards beneath the table. She leaned down, ducking her head and reaching for it. Her fingers found purchase on the strings, and she came up, hitting the crown of her head soundly on the table’s underside.
Wincing, she rubbed at the spot, her head still beneath the table. It took a few moments for the pain to begin to subside, and she opened her watering eyes slowly, her free hand still cradling the careless injury.
As she moved to withdraw her head—carefully this time—her gaze fixed on the underside of the table, and her brow knit.
Something seemed to be lodged in a gap in the table’s wooden under-planks. What was it? She reached a hand toward the object, squinting in the little light beneath the table to try to make out what it was. It looked like a small book, but what would a book be doing in such a place?
She grasped the object, her fingers brushing the pages briefly. It was a book. She gave a tug, and it slid out more easily than anticipated.
“Miss Mandeville?”
Charlotte’s head came up with a snap, hitting the precise spot on her crown as before. Grasping it, she emerged from beneath the table to face Mary, who sucked in a breath through clenched teeth at the sight of Charlotte holding her now-throbbing head.
“Oh dear,” Mary said. “I’m ever so sorry, miss!”
“It is nothing,” Charlotte lied through clenched teeth. “Is there any post?”
“No, miss,” the maid said. “And I only have a moment. We are terribly busy today, and Mr. Digby says Mr. Anthony Yorke has just arrived and must be attended to without delay.” She shivered.
“Anthony Yorke?” Charlotte had heard the name a number of times but never yet seen the man.
The Yorke family had powerful connections—ducal ones, if she remembered correctly—so his presence immediately made her tingle with anticipation.
Perhaps his presence would provide her with the sort of material Mr. Digby demanded.
She had some small fear that, if she did not manage to produce something significant next week, he would withhold the money he owed her, for she was paid every other week.
“Does Mr. Yorke intend to take refreshment?”
Mary nodded, glancing over her shoulder toward the door as though she feared he might be standing there already, waiting for her to serve him.
“Excellent,” Charlotte said. “Let us hope a few tankards of ale will loosen his tongue. And if they do . . .”
Mary nodded her understanding. “I shall serve him diligently and keep my ears open. Even though he frightens the daylights out of me.” She shuddered again.
“Why?” Charlotte’s curiosity was successfully roused. Where a person elicited such strong reactions, there was undoubtedly fodder for gossip to be found.
“He is so very forbidding.” The front door opened, and Mary whipped around. “He is here,” she hissed as though the devil himself had arrived. “If you wait for me—”
“No.” Charlotte shook her head. If she lingered too long, it would elicit questions from her family. “I must go. We will speak later.”
“What of the . . .?” Her gaze darted to Charlotte’s reticule as she took backward steps toward the door.
Charlotte hesitated. She couldn’t give the caricature to Mary when the maid was going directly to Mr. Yorke. It was far too dangerous. Her gaze lighted upon the book in her hand, and an idea struck her. “There is a little nook beneath this table. I shall leave it there.”
Mary nodded swiftly and went to attend to Mr. Yorke.
With a quick glance to ensure no one was watching, Charlotte slipped the book inside her reticule and pulled the folded caricature out.
As inconspicuously as possible, she slid the caricature under the table, feeling around for the small space where she had found the book.
She kept her hand there until she was satisfied the paper would not fall.
Heaven only knew how long the book had been there.
Or why someone had thought to put it in that particular spot.
But Charlotte intended to find out. She was simply that desperate for any tidbit she might use for the next caricature.
Slipping the strings of her now-heavy reticule over her wrist, she slid out from the table and hurried toward the front door, colliding with something solid as she turned the corner.
Two firm hands grasped her above the elbows, and Charlotte stepped back, blinking. “Pardon m—”
The last of the word hung on her lips as she looked into two dark brown eyes under heavy, furrowed brows and dark hair, brushed away from his face—the same one she had caught a glimpse of in the chaise just a quarter of an hour ago.
His gaze fixed upon her, hard as steel, sapping the breath from her lungs with its intensity.
Her eyes darted to Mary just beside the man, then back to the foreboding face looking down at her.
This must be Anthony Yorke.