Chapter 9 - Stephen #2
Something warm unfurled in Stephen’s chest. Even now—soaked through, caught in the act of committing a crime, with every reason to flee or dissemble—she stood her ground and demanded an introduction.
As if this were a drawing room rather than a darkened garden.
As if she had every right to expect courtesy despite her sodden skirts and suspicious circumstances.
He had seen others crumble under far less pressure, watched them shed their dignity the moment it became inconvenient.
Yet she held fast to the expectation that she be treated as a lady, no matter how absurd the situation.
For one unguarded moment he wanted nothing more than to tell her his real name, to hear it spoken back to him in the voice that had occupied his thoughts since the night they met.
But telling her the truth meant losing her in the same breath, and he wasn’t ready to let that happen.
“You’re absolutely right. How terribly rude of me.
” He executed a bow that would have satisfied the most exacting hostess in London, treating her with the same respect he would offer if they’d met at a ball rather than outside a house she was attempting to burgle. “William Fletcher, at your service.”
The name felt strange on his tongue—William, after his father. Fletcher, borrowed from a blacksmith’s family he’d known in his youth. Common enough to avoid scrutiny, unremarkable enough that no one would think to trace its origins.
“William Fletcher.” She tested the name slowly, her head tilting. A breath, then she seemed to come to some decision. “Very well, Mr. Fletcher. Lord Penrose has something that belongs to my family. This seemed the best way to retrieve it.”
The directness of it caught him off guard.
Any other person in her position would have deflected, would have wrapped the truth in layers of pretty lies and plausible explanations.
Instead, she’d handed it to him as plainly as if they’d known each other for years, as if trusting him was the most natural thing in the world.
“I see.” He glanced toward the house, then back at her. “And were you planning to simply climb through a window and hope for the best? Or did you have something more specific in mind?”
“I hadn’t planned much beyond getting inside.” A faint flush colored her cheeks despite the cold, and he watched her gaze drop to her dirty hands. “I saw his study during a tour earlier today. The documents should be there.”
“Should be.” He studied the determined set of her jaw, the way she held herself despite the fear he could read in every tense line of her body. “But you’re not certain.”
“No.” Her chin lifted with that flash of defiance again. “But I have to try. I can’t—I won’t let him win without fighting back.”
This was what had drawn him to her in the library—that fierce independence of thought, the way she questioned assumptions others accepted without examination.
He’d found her intellectual fearlessness captivating.
But watching her now, scaling walls and breaking into estates for the people she loved, he understood that Charlotte Fairmont didn’t just think independently.
She lived by those convictions, consequences be damned.
He should walk away. Should wish her luck and leave her to whatever fate she’d chosen. He’d warned her, prevented her capture. Getting involved further, actually helping her commit a crime against one of London’s most powerful men, was madness of the highest order.
But this was Charlotte.
“Then you’ll need help,” he heard himself say, the words escaping before caution could catch them. “Because unlike you, I actually know how to break into a house without alerting the entire household.”
“You’re offering to help me?” Disbelief and something that looked dangerously like hope flickered across her features. “Why would you do that?”
Stephen considered lying, offering some noble excuse about justice that would maintain the fiction of who he was pretending to be. But standing here with her looking at him as though he might be either her salvation or her doom, he found he couldn’t manage anything less than honesty.
“Because I’ve spent too much of my life watching powerful men manipulate those with less power.
” His voice came out quiet, rough with truths he hadn’t spoken aloud in years.
“And because anyone brave enough to scale such heights in this weather for the people they love deserves an accomplice who knows what they’re doing. ”
For a moment, she simply stared at him. Then, slowly, a smile spread across her face—genuine and warm and so beautiful it made his carefully controlled composure threaten to crumble entirely.
“Well then, Mr. Fletcher,” she said, extending her muddy hand with all the dignity of a queen offering favor at court. “It seems we’re accomplices in crime. Try not to let me fall again.”
He took her hand, bowing over it. “I’ll do my best, Miss Fairmont. Though I make no promises if you insist on attempting more climbing.”
“Duly noted.” She pulled her hand back, but the smile lingered, and Stephen found himself absurdly pleased to have put it there. “Now, shall we? Before someone decides to make their rounds?”
Stephen turned toward the window Charlotte had been attempting to climb. “I’ll boost you up,” he said, positioning himself beneath it.
Charlotte looked down at her sodden skirts, then back at him. “I’m filthy. I’ll ruin your—“
“Don’t worry about that.” He laced his fingers together, creating a step. “Quickly, before a servant spots us.”
She hesitated only a moment before placing her foot in his hands. Stephen lifted her with practiced ease, steadying her as she caught the window frame and pulled herself up to settle on the sill, mud-covered slippers dripping onto the ground below.
“Wait,” Stephen whispered, already pulling a handkerchief from his pocket.
He reached up, his hand closing around her ankle to hold her foot steady.
The contact sent an unexpected jolt through him—even through the layers of stocking and sodden silk, he could feel the delicate bones of her ankle, the warmth of her skin beneath.
He forced his attention to the task at hand, wiping away the worst of the mud with deliberate care. First one foot, then the other, his movements methodical even as his pulse quickened.
“There,” he murmured finally, tucking the ruined cloth back into his pocket.
His hand lingered perhaps a moment longer than necessary before he released her ankle, his fingers trailing against silk in a caress he could almost pretend was accidental.
“That should keep you from leaving too obvious a trail.”
Charlotte swung her legs over the sill and dropped into what appeared to be a small parlor, her feet making almost no sound against the wooden floor. A moment later, Stephen pulled himself up, landing soundlessly beside her.
He immediately bent to remove his own boots, tucking them under his arm before glancing at Charlotte. She had moved to the door, peering carefully into the corridor beyond.
“Do you know where we are?” he whispered.
“I think so.” She studied the hallway for a moment longer before glancing back at him. “The study should be this way.” She hesitated. “We should stay close to the walls. The floorboards are less likely to creak there.”
“I’ll follow your lead.” Stephen gestured for her to go first.
Charlotte slipped into the corridor and he followed, every sense heightened in the darkness.
She navigated the shadowed halls with surprising confidence, pausing at each corner before continuing as though she’d already mapped every turn in her mind.
She must have been memorizing the layout during her earlier tour, planning this break-in even while smiling and playing the proper guest. The realization sent heat spreading through his chest, admiration tangled with the unsettling certainty that Charlotte Fairmont was going to be his undoing.
She pushed open a door and Stephen stopped dead on the threshold.
The library. He had slipped into a great many libraries over the years, but none could hold a candle to Penrose Hall.
The shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, thousands of volumes packed so tightly they seemed to press against one another for space.
His eyes moved across the spines and he thought, involuntarily, of asking her which ones she’d read, of spending hours arguing about the ones they’d both encountered, of sitting in two chairs pulled close together and not emerging until morning.
He might have stood there considerably longer if Charlotte’s footsteps hadn’t faded ahead of him.
He tore his gaze from the shelves and hurried after her.
She led him through a few more corridors, and when they finally stopped before a door that looked like all the others, Charlotte’s hand found the handle without hesitation.
“Here,” she breathed.
Stephen moved closer until he could feel the tension radiating from her, until their shoulders nearly touched in the narrow corridor. “Are you certain?”
“Yes.” She tested the handle. It turned easily beneath her fingers. “I found it earlier. When I was…” She stopped, shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter. I believe the documents are inside.”
Charlotte pushed the door open slowly, and Stephen leaned close, listening for any sound of occupation. Nothing but silence greeted them.
They slipped inside together. He drew the door closed behind them, the latch catching without a sound, and the darkness of Thomas Penrose’s private study closed in around them.
Here they were again — alone in shadows, breaking rules that should have kept them worlds apart, the air between them charged with danger and something considerably harder to name.
He had tried to tell himself that night in the library was coincidence, a chance encounter that meant nothing beyond a pleasant conversation.
But standing here now, helping her commit a crime against one of London’s most powerful men, Stephen couldn’t convince himself that any of this felt like chance at all.