Chapter 8 - Charlotte #2
“You may examine the collection at your leisure,” Penrose said, watching her face with satisfaction. “I noticed your fondness for libraries at the last ball.”
The reminder of that night—of finding him—panged in her chest. Charlotte forced the memory aside and moved deeper into the room, her footsteps echoing softly.
Her fingers trailed along the nearest spines with genuine reverence.
Byron, Wordsworth, Shakespeare, Milton. The collection was extensive, meticulously organized, the kind of library her mother would have wept to see.
Then she stopped.
A slim volume sat among the larger tomes, its leather binding crisp and unmarked, gilt lettering still brilliant against the dark cover.
Paradise Lost. First edition, if the date embossed near the bottom was genuine.
Her mother had spoken of seeing one once, years ago, before Charlotte was born.
Had described the weight of it in her hands, the way the pages felt like silk.
Charlotte glanced back at Penrose, unable to keep the wonder from her voice. “May I?”
“Of course.” A smile tugged at his lips, satisfied and knowing, as he watched her carefully draw the book from its place.
He made no move to touch any of the volumes himself, stepping back as though the books were merely costly ornaments he’d acquired for display.
This was part of his strategy, she knew.
The library, the first editions, the silent inventory of what captivated her attention.
He was learning how to win her over, cataloging what moved her so he could use it later.
But standing here with her mother’s dream in her hands, Charlotte found she didn’t care.
The pages fell open, edged in gold leaf that shimmered in the light.
“First edition,” he confirmed, standing close enough now that she could feel his presence at her shoulder. “My grandfather acquired it directly from—“
A discreet cough interrupted him. Charlotte turned to see the young footman who’d been trailing them step forward, looking politely apologetic.
“Forgive the interruption, my lord,” he said quietly. “But there’s a visitor. He says it’s urgent.”
Penrose’s jaw tightened, annoyance flickering across his features before his expression smoothed.
“I see.” He turned to Charlotte, and she thought she saw genuine reluctance there.
“Please forgive me, Miss Fairmont. This shouldn’t take more than a few moments.
Make yourself comfortable. Explore the collection as you wish. I’ll return shortly.”
“Of course.” Charlotte inclined her head graciously. “Please, don’t hurry on my account.”
She watched him stride toward the door, the footman following. Their footsteps receded, the sound swallowed by the house’s depth. The great doors swung shut with a soft click that seemed to reverberate through the vast space.
Silence settled over the library.
Charlotte stood motionless, the first edition still in her hands, straining to hear. After a few moments, voices drifted from somewhere deep in the house—muffled, indistinct, too far away to make out words. She glanced toward the doors. No footsteps approached. No shadows moved in the gap beneath.
She was alone.
Pulse quickening, she carefully returned the book to its place and turned slowly, scanning the enormous room.
This was the chance. Perhaps the only one.
Her gaze fell on a small reading table tucked near one of the lower shelves, papers spread across its surface alongside an abandoned teacup.
She moved toward it quickly, her hands shuffling through the documents.
Correspondence about crop yields. An invoice for new furnishings.
A letter from someone named Hastings discussing hunting plans for the autumn.
Nothing.
She set the papers down exactly as she’d found them, each sheet returned to its position in the careless scatter.
Of course it wouldn’t be here, lying about in the open where any curious guest might see.
Penrose was too careful for that, too calculating.
If he had documents important enough to use as leverage, he would keep them somewhere secure.
His office.
Where else would a man like Penrose keep documents worth hiding?
Charlotte’s mind raced. During the tour, she’d seen countless rooms, but none had looked like a private study.
Yet she knew how most estates were laid out.
The business of running a household required the master’s office to be situated near the library, where records could be crossreferenced and correspondence managed without traversing the length of the house.
It was practical design, and Penrose struck her as a man who valued practicality above all else. It had to be somewhere nearby.
Her gaze swept the library’s walls, landing on several doors she’d barely registered before. Servants’ passages, maybe. Or rooms that connected to other parts of the house.
She approached the first door and tested the handle as quietly as she could, wincing at the soft click of the latch. A closet. Extra chairs and lamp oil, nothing more.
The second door opened more smoothly, revealing a narrow corridor lined with more closed doors. Charlotte’s heart hammered as she moved down it, trying the handles, careful to avoid any telltale sounds.
A storage room. She eased the door shut.
A small parlor. Closed it again, her palms growing damp inside her gloves.
Another door—locked. She tested it twice to be certain, then moved on.
The next handle turned beneath her fingers, and the door swung open to reveal exactly what she’d been searching for.
The space was surprisingly austere compared to the rest of Penrose Hall.
A massive oak desk sat at the room’s heart, its surface a controlled chaos of papers, ledgers, and correspondence.
The chair behind it was practical rather than decorative, leather worn smooth from use.
Shelves lined two walls, packed with identical leather-bound volumes, each spine marked with dates stretching back decades.
A fireplace occupied a third wall, its mantle bare except for a single clock and what looked like a locked wooden box.
Weak afternoon light filtered through a single window, barely illuminating the room’s corners.
This was clearly a working office, functional and private, not meant to be seen by anyone but him.
Charlotte stood in the doorway, hand still on the handle, straining to make out the text on the nearest documents—
“Looking for something, my dear?”
The voice came from directly behind her, so close his breath stirred the hair at her ear.
Charlotte spun, her heart lurching into her throat. Penrose stood mere inches away, his expression unreadable as he studied her face. How had she not heard him approach? How long had he been standing there, watching?
“I—“ Her voice came out strangled. She forced herself to breathe, to think. “Forgive me, I thought there might be a retiring room through here, but I seem to have been mistaken.”
His gaze held hers, and she watched him weigh her words, measuring them for truth. Something flickered in his eyes—suspicion, perhaps, or calculation—before the mask slid back into place. “The retiring room is a few doors down,” he said, gesturing back the way she’d come. “Second on the right.”
“Thank you.” Charlotte managed a hesitant smile and slipped past him, acutely aware of how close they were in the narrow corridor.
Her trembling hands found the correct door, and she ducked inside, pressing her back against the wood as though it might shield her from what followed.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that seemed too loud in the confined space.
Had he believed her? Or was he simply choosing not to press the issue?
She took several steadying breaths before emerging again, her features arranged into an expression of composed embarrassment.
They resumed the tour, but Penrose never left her side again.
Through the conservatory’s humid warmth, past endless guest chambers, across the portrait gallery, his hand remained at her back, his attention unwavering.
When Charlotte ventured a careful question about his visitor, he dismissed it as mere business.
Nothing of importance, he assured her, before redirecting her attention to an exotic orchid blooming nearby.
She did not press further.
By the time they returned to the entrance hall, Aunt Margaret was waiting, the elderly butler stationed beside her with their cloaks over his arm.
“I’m afraid I must cut our visit shorter than I’d hoped,” Penrose said as he helped Charlotte with hers, his fingers lingering briefly on her shoulders.
“I have business matters that require my attention this evening. They’ll occupy me well into the night, I’m afraid, so I cannot invite you to stay for tea. ”
“Business on a Tuesday evening?” Aunt Margaret’s disappointment was evident. “How unfortunate.”
“Indeed.” He smiled apologetically. “But such matters cannot be postponed. I do hope you’ve enjoyed seeing the house, Miss Fairmont?”
“Very much, my lord.” The lie came automatically now. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
Charlotte filed away the fact of his absence as they made their farewells and descended to the waiting carriage.
And as Aunt Margaret settled beside her, already chattering about Lady Penrose’s graciousness, an idea began to form in her mind.
A dangerous one.
The cold bit through her nightgown with surprising ferocity.
Charlotte pulled the dark cloak tighter, but the thin cotton beneath offered little protection. The chill had settled into her bones during the long walk, seeping deeper with each gust of wind that cut through the fabric.
Rain had started an hour ago, light but persistent, just enough to turn the ground treacherous and soak through her hem where it dragged in the mud.
Droplets clung to her eyelashes, blurring the darkness ahead with each blink.
Her feet ached in soft slippers already ruined from the journey, squelching with every step.
How far had she walked? One hour? Two? London’s familiar streets had given way to empty countryside some time ago, the comforting glow of gas lamps replaced by nothing but moonlight struggling through heavy clouds.
What was she doing?
No point questioning this now, not after coming so far. She’d lose her nerve entirely if she let herself think too long.
Just as she began to wonder if she’d lost her way, a solid mass of stone emerged from the gloom. The estate wall stretched endlessly in both directions, its rough stones dark and gleaming wet in the faint light.
Beyond it, barely visible through the rain, Penrose Hall rose against the night sky.
She’d made it.
Charlotte skirted the wall, keeping to the shadows, her breath coming in short gasps that had nothing to do with exertion.
The main gates stood locked and guarded, so she moved past them until she found a section where age had done its work, crumbled stone leaving spaces large enough for her fingers.
The climb scraped her hands raw, and her nightgown caught and tore on uneven edges. Twice she slipped, heart lurching as her fingers scrambled for holds in the wet rock, but finally she hauled herself over and dropped onto the grounds beyond with a thud that echoed through the quiet night.
She crouched low, listening for any sign that she’d been discovered. No shouts came. No footsteps. Just wind through the oaks and rain pattering against leaves.
The mansion stood largely dark, only a handful of windows glowing faintly in what must be the service areas.
No carriage in the drive, no light in the upper rooms. Lord Penrose was not home.
She studied the lit windows, counting them, and hoped their small number meant most of the household had already retired.
Charlotte moved quickly through the grounds, using trees and hedges for cover, her footsteps muffled by the wet grass. She’d never broken into a house before and had no idea how one actually went about it, but finding a way in seemed like a logical first step. A window or an unlocked door.
The kitchen entrance still glowed with lamplight, too risky to approach. She circled toward the back instead, scanning the ground floor where most windows stood dark and firmly closed. But there, at the far end, curtains shifted at one window standing slightly ajar.
Her heart hammered as she approached on silent feet.
The window sat higher than she’d expected, its sill well above her head.
Charlotte studied the brick exterior, searching for any way up, and found it where the binding between stones had worn away.
Small gaps remained—not much, but perhaps enough.
She wedged her fingers into the first crevice and pulled herself upward, feet scrambling against the wall for purchase while the rough texture bit into her hands.
Higher. Another handhold. Another few inches gained while her arms trembled with the effort.
Rain made everything slick and treacherous, but she kept climbing.
Almost there. She stretched toward the window frame, fingers straining to reach it.
A throat cleared directly beside her.
Charlotte shrieked.
Her hands slipped from the wet brick, and the ground rushed up to meet her.