Chapter 3 #3
“If you refuse to give me the diary,” he continued, “I will have no choice but to discover the identity of the artist—which, I assure you, I shall—and to make both his identity and your involvement known. Given the number of powerful people targeted by the caricatures, I cannot think that would end happily for either of you.”
She let out a breathy scoff through her nose. The arrogance, the assumptions, the thinly veiled threats the man was making were astounding. This was what Mary had guessed at: Mr. Yorke was accustomed to having his way. He and the rest of his kind.
Well, he would not have his way today.
“It would be remiss of me to place the diary in the hands of anyone but the owner, Mr. Yorke.”
“You may find that difficult. The owner is dead.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened as the sense of power shifted away from her.
Dead? “How? When?” Her mind was already exploring the possibility that Mr. Yorke was the one responsible—a murderer, just like his brother.
Confound Mary for putting such dramatic ideas into her mind!
He might be intimidating, but she did not truly believe he was as evil as that.
“I will not only give you the caricature,” he said, ignoring her question, “but thirty pounds besides.”
Charlotte blinked. Thirty pounds? That was a tidy sum. How she would love to add it to the little box under the floorboards where she was saving what she earned from Mr. Digby.
She shook herself. The offer was unabashed bribery. Mr. Yorke must have a very poor opinion of her character to even suggest such a thing.
That he was willing to pay so much to take the diary from her possession convinced her even more firmly that it contained something important—perhaps many somethings. Enough somethings to sustain her caricatures for the foreseeable future, even, if fortune was on her side.
“I have no interest in bribes, Mr. Yorke,” Charlotte said.
He held her gaze for a moment, his own becoming hard and inflexible. “You disappoint me greatly.”
“Behold my dismay,” Charlotte quipped.
He tucked the caricature back into his coat, eliciting a flutter of nerves from Charlotte. What if Digby betrayed her to him?
“I fear you will regret this decision,” Mr. Yorke said.
Charlotte feared the same thing, but she wouldn’t allow it to show. “I imagine it is you who will regret it.”
He looked at her with patent dislike.
“Thank you for the pleasant stroll, Mr. Yorke.” Charlotte gave a little nod, then turned and walked back to the house, refusing to indulge the burning curiosity which urged her to look over her shoulder.
When she closed the door behind her, she pressed her back against it and let out a long, slow breath through rounded lips.
“Charlotte.” Lillian shut her book and set it on the sofa before hurrying over. “What in heaven’s name was that about?”
Charlotte forced a smile, though her heart beat rapidly. “Nothing of note.”
Lillian searched Charlotte’s face, her own frowning. “You said he was your friend, but I have never seen the man.”
“I bumped into him at the inn, Lily. That is all.” She left the door and walked toward the stairs.
“He said you left something there?”
“He was mistaken. Now, if you will excuse me . . .” Charlotte needed to take a closer look at that diary.
Before Lillian could stop her, Charlotte took the stairs to her room, shut the door, and latched it. She glanced down at her hands, which were trembling slightly. The encounter with Mr. Yorke had unsettled her, curse him.
With determined strides, she went to her desk and opened the drawer, taking out the small book. She sat down slowly, her eyes on the leather cover while her mind fluttered about.
Given the interest Mr. Yorke had shown, Charlotte doubted he would simply give up.
If he was willing to bribe her for this diary, one could only assume his intentions with it were not benevolent.
The members of the ton could be cold-blooded and callous when it suited their purposes.
The Mandevilles knew that better than most.
It was part of why Charlotte’s heart still hadn’t slowed.
She had made an enemy today—there was no mistaking that.
No doubt it had been foolish of her. But nothing was apt to make her blood boil like the entitlement of the ton.
It was that same entitlement which had led to the loss of Papa’s hard-earned money and his subsequent death.
It was the motive behind her caricatures—a way to bring to light the things the rich and powerful would rather keep in the dark.
She opened the diary and turned to the first page. It was an entry from just over a year ago. Her gaze flew over a few lines, then she flipped the pages to read more. Her gaze grew more intent and her perusal less rapid the more she read.
She lowered the book to her lap after a few minutes and stared ahead at nothing, her heart beating a quick rhythm against her chest.
This was no ordinary diary.
This was a man’s daily account of his knowledge of the ton’s dealings. Politics, gossip, dinners, balls, meetings with prominent figures.
This diary was, in fact, a treasure trove.