Chapter 6 - Charlotte #2
“I was…” Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “I was looking for Miss Bellamy. She was pulled away by her mother, and I thought she might have—I must have taken a wrong turn.”
“Must you have?” His grip on her arms tightened. His thumb pressed against the inside of her elbow, hard enough to make her want to pull away, but she forced herself to remain still.
Her pulse hammered so violently she could barely hear her own words. “These corridors all look the same in the candlelight. I lost my way.”
Penrose’s gaze traveled over her face with agonizing slowness, reading every tremor, weighing the truth of her words. The silence stretched until Charlotte thought she might scream just to break it.
“How curious.” He released his grip, though one finger dragged slowly up her arm before settling on her shoulder.
She jerked back, creating space between them.
The pleasant mask slipped away. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and when he spoke again, all warmth had vanished.
“So skittish tonight. I haven’t seen Miss Bellamy in this wing all evening. Though I find it curious you’d search for her in such a secluded part of the house.”
Charlotte’s fingers twisted in her skirts, the fabric bunching beneath her grip.
“I told you, I lost my way.”
“Did you?” His eyes narrowed. “Or perhaps you were drawn to the library again? I noticed you seemed quite… captivated by it earlier.”
For a heartbeat her lips parted wordlessly. Then she lifted her chin and made herself speak.
“I find the library a restorative space, my lord. Books have a way of being more honest and interesting than most people.”
He moved toward her in a single deliberate step. Charlotte matched it immediately, stepping back to maintain the distance between them.
“Careful, Miss Fairmont.” His voice dropped low, stripped of all civility. “That sharp tongue of yours will lead you into trouble one day.”
She ignored the threat, lifting her chin higher as she moved sideways, circling around him until she’d cleared his reach. “I should return before I’m missed.”
Without waiting for a response, she walked toward the ballroom, keeping her pace measured, though everything in her wanted to run.
The corridor stretched ahead, each pool of candlelight seeming impossibly far from the next.
She felt his gaze burning against her back, but no footsteps followed.
Still, she didn’t slow. Her hands trembled where they gripped her skirts, and she focused on the distant sound of music, the golden light spilling from the ballroom entrance ahead.
Not twenty minutes later, Aunt Margaret appeared at her elbow, lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s time we depart. Your father is calling for the carriage.”
Charlotte nodded mutely, relieved to finally escape.
She made her way through the glittering assembly, murmuring polite farewells.
Lord Penrose had not reappeared since she had last seen him in the corridor, and she was grateful not to have to face him again tonight.
By the time she reached the carriage, her father and aunt were already settled inside.
Charlotte climbed in and turned toward the window as they pulled away.
The Bellamy estate grew smaller in the distance, its lights fading into darkness.
Charlotte’s thoughts returned immediately to what she’d overheard.
The conversation explained Penrose’s persistent pursuit, but nothing else made sense.
What could he possibly want from their properties?
The townhouse was respectable but modest compared to his holdings.
The country estate was even worse— they hadn’t visited since Mama’s death, and years of neglect had left it barely worth maintaining.
Selling either one wouldn’t generate the kind of income a man like Penrose would bother pursuing.
So what was she missing?
The questions burned in her throat. She wanted to turn to her father right now, demand he explain what leverage Penrose held over him.
But even as the impulse rose, she forced it down.
Once, she would have gone to him without a second thought.
But that was before the dinner table, before the silence, before she had understood that whatever he was caught in, he had chosen not to pull her free of it. She was on her own.
“You’re unusually quiet, Charlotte.” Aunt Margaret’s voice cut through her thoughts. “I hope you didn’t do anything foolish this evening.”
Charlotte blinked. Her aunt watched her sharply from across the carriage.
“I’m simply tired.”
“Lord Penrose seemed quite attentive. Lady Bellamy mentioned he was searching for you at one point.” Her aunt’s tone held satisfaction. “I do hope you were gracious when he found you.”
“Of course, Aunt.”
The lie tasted bitter. Gracious. As if she’d smiled sweetly while he’d cornered her in that darkened corridor, while he’d touched her despite her obvious revulsion, while he’d threatened her with thinly veiled warnings.
Her father sat motionless across from them, his profile barely visible in the passing streetlight. Charlotte studied him, searching for any sign he’d heard her aunt’s questioning, any indication he cared what answer she’d given. His expression remained blank, unreachable.
A quiet sigh escaped her before she could catch it. She turned back to the window, watching the familiar streets of Mayfair roll past in silence.
When the carriage finally stopped before their townhouse, Charlotte didn’t wait. She gathered her skirts and stepped down the moment the wheels settled, taking the front steps quickly.
“Charlotte—“ her father’s voice called after her.
“I’m exhausted, Papa. We can speak in the morning.”
She couldn’t face him. Not when every question burning in her throat would reveal what she’d overheard.
Annie helped her undress in merciful silence, seeming to sense Charlotte’s frayed nerves. The moment the door clicked shut behind the maid, Charlotte moved around the room, extinguishing the candles one by one until only moonlight remained.
She climbed into bed and lay still, staring at the ceiling. The darkness enveloping her offered no answers; only more questions spiralled through her mind.
She needed to find whatever Penrose had on her family and destroy it. But where to even start? She’d never been to any of his properties, had no idea where he kept private papers. The task felt impossible before she’d even begun.
A frustrated sigh escaped her. Exhausted, her thoughts grew sluggish and heavy. She couldn’t solve this tonight.
Tomorrow. She’d find a way tomorrow.
Sleep won over her racing mind. And as consciousness faded, the fears about Penrose quieted. What lingered instead was warmth—a voice, dark eyes, the memory of feeling understood, equal, happy.
Her last conscious thought wasn’t of danger or duty.
It was simply of him.