Chapter 3
THREE
CHARLOTTE
“What do you mean it is gone?” Charlotte stared intently at Mary, whose expression was pulled into something very near to despair as they stood on the side of The Crown and Castle. Charlotte had received a quick and poorly written note an hour ago, requesting she come to the inn without delay.
“I mean,” Mary said, wringing her hands, “that when I went to retrieve the caricature from beneath the table, there was nothing there.”
“Impossible,” Charlotte said, but of course that was not true.
If Mary said the caricature was gone, it must be gone.
She fought the creeping panic bubbling within her.
What did it matter who had the caricature?
There was no way for them to tie it back to her.
It was not as though she signed her name on the paper—though, that was not to say she hadn’t been tempted a time or two. Anyone would be, surely.
The biggest annoyance was that she would now have to redraw it—or draw something new. Caricatures were posted on Fridays, and everyone knew that now. They expected it. Most importantly, Mr. Digby expected it.
“That is not all, miss,” Mary said, looking more than ever as though she was about to confess to murdering Charlotte’s entire family. She swallowed. “I believe I know who has it.”
Charlotte stared intently at the maid, eagerly waiting for her to expound. If Mary knew who had it, perhaps one of them could retrieve it and save Charlotte the trouble of drawing something again.
Mary looked at her wretchedly. “Mr. Anthony Yorke.”
Charlotte went still. Something about her short interaction with that man had stayed with her, like a sliver under skin.
“After you left, he asked for your name,” the maid explained, “but I said nothing, for he had insisted upon sitting at the same table as you, and he had a paper in his hand, so I could only assume what it was. Only, Mr. Digby overheard his question and told him not only your name but where you live, as he hadn’t any idea why he was asking. I am terribly sorry, miss.”
Charlotte’s vision blurred in front of her fluttering lids.
If Mr. Yorke had been asking her name and he did indeed have the caricature, did that mean he knew she was the artist?
And, if so, what would he do with such information?
A dreadful image raced across her mind—that of her family being dragged through the streets of Stoneleigh while people pelted them with rotten vegetables.
She took Mary’s hands in hers, brushing aside the ominous feelings engulfing her own chest. “Do not fret, Mary. It is not your fault, of course, and likely nothing to worry about.” If only Charlotte could believe her own words.
“But it is Mr. Yorke,” Mary countered.
Charlotte laughed, but it sounded forced even to her own ear. “So what if it is?”
“He is so . . . haunting. And surely you have heard about his brother.”
Charlotte shook her head.
“He killed a man, miss,” said Mary. “And Mr. Anthony looks every bit as dangerous—as though he could make anyone bend to his will.”
The uneasiness that had been spreading in Charlotte’s stomach was overtaken by her flaring pride. “And pray, what should he want with me? I have never drawn him, nor any Yorke, for that matter.”
Mary chewed her lip, looking a bit less harried. “I do not know. Only, I did not like the look in his eye when he asked your name.”
Charlotte glanced at the inn as her skin prickled. “Is he staying here?”
Mary shook her head. “He left almost immediately after asking about you.”
“Left where?”
“To London, I believe.”
“Ha!” She laughed with relief. “You see? All is well.”
Mary looked unconvinced. “What will you do? Mr. Digby thinks I have the caricature.”
“I shall forget about that dreadful, meddling Mr. Yorke and create a new drawing, of course.” Charlotte spoke with nonchalance, but she walked home accompanied with a chest full of unease.
Charlotte’s cheek rested on her hand, her elbow supported by her writing desk, which her pencil tapped an impatient beat upon.
Her eyes, glazed over for the past few minutes, were fixed upon the view from her upstairs sash window, which stood ajar a few inches, offering a small breeze and a lovely view.
A babbling brook passed by the north side of the home, while the ivy crept around the edge of the window panes, and the sea of green leaves in the distance showed trees finally in bloom.
Despite the beauty of the view, however, it could not inspire Charlotte with what she needed. She needed whispers and scandal. What in the world was she to draw? Her mind was a blank. What good was everything she had come to know of the ton if it deserted her when she was most in need?
She could redraw Mrs. Gattenby and her dogs, of course, but after the interaction with Mr. Digby and his veiled threats, she was determined to find something better.
Her gaze shifted to the drawer of the desk.
She stared at it for a moment, then set down her pencil and pulled it open.
The small, leather book she had found at the inn was the sole occupant of the rickety drawer.
She had yet to do anything but glance inside it, for her conscience pricked her whenever she considered doing more.
This, she had realized upon seeing the neat script within, was no regular book.
It was a diary or record book of some sort—belonging to a Mr. Marlowe, based on the inscription—and it felt wrong to nose about in such a thing, even if her curiosity was piqued.
How, for instance, had it come to be in such an unlikely place? And who had put it there? Mr. Marlowe himself?
Charlotte barely noticed a knock downstairs on the front door as she picked up the diary and ran her finger along the spine. It likely contained nothing but bland notations on the weather or some such thing—nothing that could be useful to her in her predicament.
She set it in the drawer and slammed it shut. She hadn’t time for idle speculation. She needed to produce a drawing by tomorrow for Mr. Digby, and she had no inspiration at all.
“Is Miss Mandeville at home?”
Charlotte’s head snapped up. The voice was male, young, and the manner of speaking refined. What man of such a description would be asking to see Lillian?
Not that there was any reason a gentleman shouldn’t be asking to see Lillian. It was only that, despite Mama’s best efforts to help them find eligible suitors, neither Charlotte nor her sisters had any prospects at all.
Overcome with curiosity, Charlotte rose to her feet and rounded the desk just as the Mandevilles’ maid asked, “May I inquire the nature of your business with her, sir?”
Charlotte peered through the window, and her heartbeat came to a thudding halt at the sight of Mr. Anthony Yorke standing below.
“I believe she left something at The Crown and Castle the other day,” he said. “I wish to return it to her personally.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened as he pulled from his coat pocket her folded caricature.
Without another thought, Charlotte raced from her bedchamber and down the stairs just as Lillian emerged from the sitting room, her expression one of confused curiosity as she beheld the stranger asking for her at the door.
Mr. Yorke’s bafflement at seeing Lillian, on the other hand, would have been comical to Charlotte if it hadn’t been for the piece of paper he held.
Charlotte brushed past her sister, grasping Mr. Yorke’s hand in hers so that the caricature crumpled in his fingers. “Mr. Yorke,” she said with as much joyful surprise as she could muster. “How good of you to come.”
Lillian’s confused gaze tripped between Charlotte and Mr. Yorke, then to their hands, clasped strangely in the air.
Charlotte daren’t let go, though, so she chose the only alternative which occurred to her: she forced their joined hands toward Mr. Yorke’s face, presenting him with the back of her hand.
His piercing gaze went to hers for an agonizing moment before he pressed a quick, dispassionate kiss to her ungloved skin.
The place his lips touched tingled at the warmth, and Lillian’s eyes widened.
“Mr. Yorke is a friend,” Charlotte explained quickly, praying to heaven he would go along with her act. “Mr. Yorke, this is my older sister, Miss Lillian Mandeville. Lillian, this is Mr. Anthony Yorke.”
Lillian curtsied, and Mr. Yorke offered a stiff bow.
“Shall we take a little stroll?” Charlotte asked him. She needed to prevent further conversation between Lillian and him. “It is such a fine day.”
There was a sustained, uncomfortable moment of silence while Mr. Yorke’s gaze held Charlotte’s. He was about to disavow her. She could see it in those dark, calculating eyes.
Her fingers tightened instinctively around his, an unconscious plea.
Inconspicuously but firmly, Mr. Yorke began to pry Charlotte’s fingers from their grasp on his hand.
Mouth set in a smile full of clenched teeth, Charlotte resisted, her nails digging into his skin. But it was no use. He was too strong, and all-out resistance on her part would only make Lillian wonder all the more.
This was it. Charlotte’s secret would be a secret no longer. Mama, Lillian, and Tabitha would all be scandalized by the truth: Charlotte had been peddling art targeting England’s most powerful names, and she was doing it for filthy lucre.
By next week, news of her shocking conduct would be all over Stoneleigh—no, London.
England, even. Her family’s reputation would be irreparably ruined, and once the dreaded letter arrived stating that the heir of Bellevue had finally been located, they would be cast out of their home, obliged to make their way in the cruel world as best they could.
Resignation making her stomach tight, Charlotte allowed her fingers to be removed from Mr. Yorke’s hand.
But he moved them to wrap around the nook of his arm, then tucked the caricature into his coat. “A stroll sounds agreeable.” He gave a nod to a thoroughly bewildered Lillian, then guided an equally bewildered Charlotte away from the house.