Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
ANTHONY
“Another diary?” Anthony repeated, staring at Harris with incredulity.
They stood in the small alley between two buildings on a dark and dingy street.
Dark alleys couldn’t help but bring Charlotte to mind, but this one smelled of rotten fish, and, for all her faults, Charlotte did not smell of rotten fish.
She smelled of violets, and he would have given an arm and a leg to transport her here this instant, pull her into his arms, and bury his face in her neck.
His brows drew together at the unexpected thought and the way it quickened his heartbeat.
“Aye, sir,” Harris said with great energy. “Apparently, Marlowe kept the same sort of records for years. There are a whole host of diaries. Surely the man wrote down in one of them diaries what he told me.”
Anthony said nothing for a moment. After their last efforts had come to naught, he was skeptical, but he couldn’t quash the bit of hope Harris’s words brought. He was desperate for news of anything that could prove helpful for Silas.
“And where are these diaries?” he asked.
“Still workin’ to find that out, sir, but I’ve a meetin’ with a man in two days. He should be able to tell us what we need to know.”
“And this is the extent of what you have found that might help us?”
Harris’s eyes darted to a man passing by. He watched until the man disappeared. “For now, sir. ‘Tis our best hope, I think. Drayton ain’t an easy man to take down.”
That was certainly true. Of one thing Anthony was certain: the incident with his brother was far from Drayton’s only sin. If he could have asked and been given honest answers, most members of the House of Lords and a good number of those in the Commons could undoubtedly have told tales on the man.
But that was not a path Anthony could pursue.
The fear and awe in which Society held Drayton meant they would not only come up empty-handed, but those they questioned would likely alert the cur.
That would not only injure their investigation but could well prove dangerous.
Fatal, even. It only reaffirmed Anthony in his determination to keep his pursuits to himself.
No one else should suffer for something he bore responsibility for.
“Keep me informed,” Anthony said. “The minute you know anything.”
“Of course, sir,” Harris said.
“Is there anything I can do?” Anthony asked. “To speed things along, I mean.”
Harris’s mouth turned down at the ends, and he took a number of seconds before responding. “Ye’re a member of White’s, are ye not?”
“I am.”
“So was Drayton until a few months ago. Do ye think ye could get your hands on the old betting books? See if his name comes up anywhere?”
“I will look into it. Thank you.”
“I won’t let you down, sir.”
Anthony gave a nod and strode out of the alley and in the direction of his apartments. It was unlikely there would be anything of use in the betting books, but he was eager to do something, and one never knew where information could lead.
When he reached his apartments, he had not even removed his gloves when he spotted a letter on the silver tray in the entry. Noting his aunt’s script on the front of the letter, he tossed his gloves on the table and opened it.
Anthony,
Please come with all due haste.
He frowned, his heartbeat quickening. Was she ill? Perhaps he had been wrong when he had teased her about not being on death’s door. She certainly wouldn’t be the first person to hide an ailment from the public.
He pulled the bell just inside the parlor and instructed his carriage to be brought around immediately.
Within ten minutes, he was on his way, his mind vacillating between Silas’s problems and his aunt’s message. The carriage had not even come to a complete stop when he jumped down and ran to her door, using the brass knocker.
There seemed to be some sort of commotion inside, for the hum of voices met his ears—and then laughter. It faded quickly, though, and he frowned. Had he imagined it?
The door opened. “Good morning, sir,” the white-haired butler said. “Please come in. She is expecting you.”
Anthony stepped into the house, allowed Saunders to divest him of his hat and gloves, then followed him through the corridor. He was not being taken to Aunt Eugenia’s room, which was a sign she was not on her deathbed, at least.
Saunders stopped at the morning room, turned the handle, and moved to the side as he opened the door.
Anthony nodded his thanks and stepped forward, only to stop short at the sight within. Aunt Eugenia was upright, looking very much alive and well as she spoke with all four Mandevilles.
All eyes turned to Anthony, and the talking ceased.
With a smile that stretched from ear to ear, Aunt Eugenia came toward him, arms out. “Surprise, surprise, nevvy.”
He blinked as he received her into his arms, still trying to grasp what exactly was happening.
“Surprise?” Charlotte asked, meeting Anthony’s blank gaze with her own confused one.
Aunt Eugenia pulled back, putting her hands on his shoulders. “I have invited Charlotte and her family to stay with us for the next few weeks. It seemed a terrible shame for the two of you to be apart when there is so much space in this house.”
Anthony tried to laugh, but all that came out was a strange, staccato breath. “Staying with us, you say?”
“Yes, us. Of course you are coming too. Now, close that fly trap of yours”—she used a finger to shut his mouth—“and greet your bride.”
Aware that the gazes of Charlotte’s mother and sisters were all upon him, waiting for him to do as he had been bid, Anthony did his best to hide his dismay and strode over to Charlotte. The expression of chagrin on her face might have been comical if it hadn’t so perfectly matched his own feelings.
He took one of her hands in his and stretched his mouth in a performative smile. “A surprise indeed, my dear.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek. It was soft—and warm with embarrassment.
He inhaled in spite of himself.
Gads, her scent was divine.
“I had no idea,” she hissed into his ear, her grasp on his hand urgent and tight.
“A likely tale,” he whispered back, pulling away before he could lose his head in that intoxicating scent.
The look of affront on her face faded the moment she saw his teasing eyes. Perhaps it was Harris’s news that they had simply got their hands on the wrong diary before, but Anthony was feeling less put out by the Mandevilles’ presence than expected.
He knew his aunt well enough to see her hand in all of this.
“Are you certain we are not too much of a burden?” Charlotte asked Aunt Eugenia. “You will miss your peace and quiet terribly.”
“Aunt Eugenia detests peace and quiet, my love,” Anthony said.
Charlotte’s gaze darted to him at the form of address. Apparently, my dear was acceptable, but my love was simply too much. He was to be madly in love with her without using that word. They would have to clarify what her expectations of him were in all of this. They seemed to be very particular.
“It is true,” Aunt Eugenia said. “I was never able to have children of my own, which is why I have made it my business to host and attend boisterous parties as often as I may—to drown out my loneliness. Shall we get you all settled? Your bedchambers have been prepared, and once you have freshened up, there will be meats and cheeses in the garden.”
Aunt Eugenia linked her arm through Anthony’s, preventing him from staying behind as she escorted the Mandevilles upstairs and to their respective bedchambers, all divested of Holland covers and looking neat as a pin. Exactly how long had she been planning this surprise?
“And finally,” she said as they reached the second-to-last bedchamber in the corridor, “here is where you will sleep, Miss Charlotte.”
“The Mandevilles are overrunning your entire house, ma’am,” Charlotte said ruefully.
“Nonsense,” she replied. “Anthony is not a Mandeville, and he will be in the bedchamber next to yours.”
Anthony, who had been surveying the portrait of his late uncle which adorned the wall, whipped his head around. Aunt Eugenia ignored him, however, reminding Charlotte to take her time but not to forget about refreshments in the garden.
Anthony craned his neck, peering into Charlotte’s bedchamber. His betrothed closed the door with a smile at his aunt and a quick glance at him. But before she had done so, his suspicion had been confirmed.
“What?” Aunt Eugenia asked him, acting innocent as a newborn lamb.
“Adjoining bedchambers? I thought you wished to avoid scandal, not encourage it.”
“Oh, hush. I know what it is to be young and in love. The minutes apart feel like days, and those together like mere seconds.”
Anthony shook his head at her as they walked toward his bedchamber. “And here I came as fast as can be, thinking you were violently ill.”
“I wrote nothing to put such a notion into your head. It was quite silly of you to think it, for you know I am strong as an ox.”
“And stubborn as one too,” he muttered.
“I heard that. Someone must get things done in this family. Now, are you not forgetting something?” She raised her brows expectantly at him.
“Like the fact that I haven’t time to help you play host to the Mandevilles at the moment? I may be engaged, aunt, but I still have obligations and other engagements to—”
“You mean with that grubby man I found you with in the Park? Let us have no more of that. What could you possibly prefer over spending time with your betrothed and her delightful family?”
Almost anything, Anthony nearly said. “Nothing at all, of course.”
She smiled at him, pleased. “Good. Now, for that final thing . . .”
“And what final thing is that?”
She extended her cheek toward him and tapped it.
Anthony chuckled softly and leaned in. “Thank you, aunt, for the delightful surprise.”
She beamed. “See that your belongings are fetched, and make yourself more presentable before coming outside for refreshments.” And with that, she left him in the corridor and went off to—Anthony could only assume—meddle in someone else’s affairs.