Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
ANTHONY
“Have you decided on a date for the wedding yet?” William asked as he poured from the decanter in Aunt Eugenia’s drawing room.
Anthony considered saying a date a few weeks in the future—he was sick to death of the question—but he was learning that each lie required more lies, and he was also sick to death of lying. “Not yet.”
“Why ever not?” William handed him a glass, then took a seat in the chair beside him. “I can see no reason for delaying the inevitable.”
“The family lost their father, William. It makes settlements a great deal more complicated, for everything is being held in trust until they can identify the heir.” There. That was true enough, wasn’t it?
Of course, the thing that made the wedding and settlements most complicated was the fact that there would be neither.
If Anthony had Aunt Eugenia’s fortune, he would be tempted to gift some of it to the Mandevilles.
He hated thinking of their uncertain future.
Where would they go when the heir to the estate inevitably came to claim Bellevue?
“She has improved you, you know,” William said, his gaze on Anthony. “You have been so miserable and irritable since . . .” His brows drew together, and his gaze shifted to the drink he held. “The point is, you are more like yourself again now.”
“Only imagine how marriage might improve you,” Anthony quipped. “Why are you avoiding it? I can see no reason for delaying the inevitable.”
The corner of William’s mouth drew up at the edge for a moment before his expression shifted to something more pensive. He swirled the last bit of brandy in his cup. “I have yet to find a woman who feels right for the role.”
Anthony scoffed lightly. William took his role as heir and firstborn all too seriously. “And if you do, she will likely want nothing to do with you,” Anthony teased.
William chuckled, then tossed off the last of the brandy and rose to his feet.
“Leaving already?” Anthony asked. William had been there less than a quarter of an hour.
“I have business nearby. When do you leave for Barrington?”
“In two days,” Anthony said. He and Charlotte had spoken more than once about how to handle their time there, but Anthony still felt unprepared and unsettled. They were entering the belly of the beast, and he was simply grateful he did not have to do so alone.
Which was a problem all its own. He was far too comfortable spending an inordinate amount of time with Charlotte. His mind was capable, he had discovered, of finding excuse after feeble excuse to seek her out.
“Then I shall see you afterward.” William cocked a brow. “And I expect to be informed of the wedding date when I do.” He shrugged into his tailcoat, then turned and left.
Anthony remained in his chair for another few minutes, staring at nothing in particular.
Absentmindedly, he thumbed the post in his hand.
It had been delivered with the day’s post just before William had joined him in the drawing room.
Anthony had also noted a letter addressed to Charlotte.
The penmanship had been decidedly male—and just as decidedly messy.
Given that Charlotte had sent off the caricature recently, Anthony suspected the letter was from Digby.
Though, what reason would that villainous man have to write her?
What could not wait to be said upon her return home?
If he knew what was good for him, the letter would be one of gratitude—or a plea for forgiveness.
But Anthony had no real hope that such was the case.
He went in search of Charlotte, looking in the morning room where her sisters and mother were, then the library.
But it was not until he glanced through the windows that looked onto the garden that he saw her sitting alone on the bench.
He hesitated, then opened the door and joined her.
She smiled at him as he approached, a fact which would have made him marvel for the contrast to how she used to regard him, except that the smile clearly required effort.
She moved to afford more space for him on the bench, and he stole a glance at her as he sat.
Gads, she was beautiful. Beautiful and distracted.
“Something is amiss,” he said after a few seconds of silence had passed. He hesitated. “Is it Digby?”
Charlotte’s gaze flicked to his in surprise.
“I saw a letter addressed to you with the post and wondered.”
“Yes,” she said, looking ahead again. “It was from Digby.”
“And what did he have to say for himself?”
“Nothing of import.” Her nostrils flared slightly, belying her words.
Anthony kept silent, watching her as she stared forward. He wouldn’t force her confidence. He might have attempted to do so before, but things were different now. He wished it to be given freely.
Evidently, she was not willing to offer that, a realization that tasted bitter on his tongue. Bitter but not unexpected. What had he allowed his mind and heart to make of this ruse they had concocted? He had certainly not anticipated falling in love with the woman he had so recently despised.
Charlotte blinked and shifted in her seat, as though coming out of a reverie of sorts, then forced a smile. “Shall we speak more of Lord Drayton’s party? I have been wondering whether it makes most sense to take the diary early on or nearer the end.”
It was as they conversed on that subject that Anthony noticed the way a few of her lashes clung together, as though she had recently been crying. Devil take Digby.
When they parted ways so that Charlotte could join her mother and sisters for a quick shopping expedition before dinner, Anthony waved them off from the front door with a smile. When they disappeared from view, the smile faded.
He made his way up two sets of stairs, down the corridor, and into his own bedchamber. He strode to the door that connected his room to Charlotte’s, paused for a moment, then opened it.
He stood on the threshold, his gaze flicking to the escritoire. There was nothing there, though. His eyes traveled around the room—over the bed, to the trunk at the foot of it, then to the dressing table.
But there was no sign of the letter. Perhaps she had put it in a drawer.
That was when he saw it—the bit of crumpled paper hidden amongst the ashes in the grate.
He strode over and picked it up, ignoring the black powder that had lodged in its myriad creases.
His gaze consumed the message like flames would tinder, and with each line, his grip on the paper tightened. He stared at the signature at the bottom for a few seconds, then crushed the paper in one fist, threw it back into the grate, and stormed from the room.
Anthony put a foot in the stirrup and swung a leg over the saddle of his chestnut gelding. The groom released the bridle and stepped off the street and onto the pavement. Anthony gave him a curt nod, then nudged the horse forward with his heels.
He had gone no more than a hundred feet when he came upon the Mandevilles.
“Anthony,” Charlotte said in surprise.
His brows drew together. “Back so soon?” They had only left for shopping a quarter of an hour ago.
“Not even begun, in fact,” she said ruefully. “I forgot my reticule, which has the money in it.”
“Ah, I see.” The mere mention of money made something flicker in her expression. No doubt she was thinking of Digby.
“Cloaks might be wise, as well,” Lillian remarked, glancing up at the sky with misgiving.
“Where are you going?” Charlotte asked Anthony.
“I have some urgent business to attend to,” he said. “I shall return as soon as possible, but I shan’t be in time for dinner.”
Was he imagining it, or did Charlotte look disappointed? He didn’t particularly wish to miss dinner, but the journey was nigh on twelve miles, which meant it would be more than three hours before he returned, and likely nearer to four.
“Travel safely,” Charlotte said.
His eyes fixed on her. Was she truly worried for his safety? In many ways, her life would be made easier if he did come to some accident on the road. No one would blame a woman whose engagement had ended in tragedy.
“Yes, we wish you a safe journey and a quick return,” Mrs. Mandeville said with a warm smile.
Anthony thanked them, then waited for them to pass before continuing on his way, wondering what Charlotte would say if she knew his destination.
Soaked to the bone and temper in tatters, Anthony thrust open the door of The Crown and Castle Inn. Water droplets cascaded from the shoulders of his greatcoat, wetting the walls of the entry way and falling to the wood planks of the floor.
A young boy peeked his head around the back of the staircase that stood in front of the door. His eyes widened at the sight of Anthony, and he took refuge out of sight.
“Boy!” Anthony called out.
The boy’s head slowly reappeared until just one, terrified eye was visible.
Anthony took a deep breath. His anger was getting the best of him. He wasn’t there to scare innocent young children.
He pulled a coin from his pocket and showed it to the boy, along with the most reassuring smile he could manage given the tenseness in his muscles and temper.
The boy’s eye widened, but he made no move to approach.
Anthony crouched down and held the coin out further, then nodded to signal he was safe to come.
Slowly, the boy’s body appeared, and he walked toward Anthony like a mouse approaching a cat offering cheese.
“Where is your master?” Anthony asked, setting the coin in the palm of the boy’s hand.
“In the back, sir,” he replied, turning the coin every which way to inspect it. He put it between his back teeth and bit down.
Anthony couldn’t stop a smile, even in his ill humor. “How old are you?”
“Five, sir,” said the boy, shooting a wary glance over his shoulder, then slipping the coin in his coat pocket.
“And what do you do here?” Anthony supposed he shouldn’t be surprised to know Digby employed children barely breeched.
“Whatever Master Digby says, sir,” he replied. “And if I does a good job and gets him coin from the guests, he gives me tuppence at the end of the week.”