Chapter 10 - Charlotte #3
“And breaking into his study seemed like a good solution?”
“Breaking into his study seemed like my only solution.” Charlotte glanced at him. “You helped me commit the crime, which I think rather forfeits your right to question the logic behind it.”
She saw rather than heard his laugh. “Fair enough. Though I have to admire your boldness. Most young ladies would simply accept their fate.”
“Most young ladies have not seen what lies beneath his charm.”
He said nothing for several steps. “And the documents we’re looking for? Are they truly that important?”
Charlotte nodded. “He is using them as leverage against my family. I don’t know exactly what they contain, but—“ She stopped, suddenly aware of how much she was revealing. “I need to find them.”
“Then we will,” he said simply. “Next week. Penrose keeps a standing arrangement on Tuesday evenings. People spot him entering White’s early in the evening and leaving the card room well past midnight. He hasn’t missed a Tuesday in months, from what I understand. We’ll search again then.”
“You don’t have to—“
“Miss Fairmont.” His tone was gentle but firm. “We’ll find them.”
They turned a corner and Charlotte had to step closer to avoid a puddle. Their shoulders brushed together, but neither of them pulled away.
“We didn’t find anything tonight. Where would we even begin to look next time?”
He considered it for a step or two. “The desk was the natural starting point, but it gave us nothing. Which means whatever he’s hiding is hidden with more care than that.
A loose floorboard. Something built into the bookcases.
Men who go to the trouble of concealing documents don’t leave them somewhere simple. ”
She thought of the study, every surface composed and deliberate, and found she believed him. A man that careful about what was visible would be no less careful about what was not.
The silence that fell between them was a comfortable one. She stole a glance at him as they walked, then another, and found herself tallying, without quite meaning to, how little she actually knew about him.
“My turn for a question,” she said, though she had rather too many of them and no clear sense of which to begin with. She settled, finally, on the one most likely to catch him off guard. “Where did you really learn to pick locks? I don’t believe for a moment that story about tutors.”
“That was the truth.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “I grew up in a large household. Lots of staff. One of them, George the gardener, took pity on a bored boy one summer and taught me all sorts of useful skills.”
“Lock-picking is a useful skill?”
“You seemed to think so tonight.”
Charlotte couldn’t argue with that. “Why would a gardener know how to pick locks?”
“George had an interesting past. He hadn’t always made his living through gardening.” Mr. Fletcher’s tone was light, almost playful. “He told the best stories. Made a very dull childhood much more interesting.”
“Dull?” Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “You learned to pick locks from a reformed criminal and you call that dull?”
“The rest of it was dull. George was the exception.” He paused. “What about you? Any secret skills I should know about besides breaking and entering?”
Charlotte considered it for a moment. Everything she had been taught in recent years had been deemed a necessity rather than a skill, accomplishments acquired to make her marriageable.
“I speak three languages besides English,” she said finally.
“Four if you count Spanish, though I am dreadful at it.”
“Three?” He sounded genuinely impressed. “Which ones?”
“French, Latin, and German. My mother insisted I learn them.” Charlotte smiled despite herself. “Though I use them primarily for reading novels in their original form.”
His laugh was warm. “Todas las noches me torturo pensando en ti.”
Charlotte blinked. “Was that Spanish?”
“Perhaps.”
“What does it mean?”
“If you’re as skilled at Spanish as you claim, you’ll figure it out.” He sounded entirely too satisfied with himself.
“I said I was dreadful.”
“Then I suppose it will remain a mystery.”
“Mr. Fletcher—“
“We should discuss our next attempt,” he said, smoothly changing the subject. “Penrose is usually at White’s by nine, I believe. I can meet you at Berkeley Square at half past eight? With the walk there, he should be long gone and the household settled once we arrive, even if he’s running behind.”
Charlotte wanted to press him about the Spanish phrase but let it go, making a mental note to find a Spanish dictionary first thing tomorrow. Whatever he’d said, she would figure it out. “Yes. Though if we don’t find anything…”
“We will.” He said it with conviction. “However many attempts it takes.”
“You say that as though you have unlimited time to spend breaking into houses with me.”
“Perhaps I do.”
“Don’t you have responsibilities?”
He was quiet for a moment. “Nothing that can’t be adjusted.”
It wasn’t really an answer, but Charlotte didn’t have the energy to pursue it. The streets had begun to look familiar and she knew they were close to Berkeley Square now.
“You should be more careful,” he said quietly. “Going there alone… if Penrose had returned early tonight—“
“But he didn’t.”
“But he could have.” His voice carried an edge she hadn’t heard before. “Promise me you won’t go back without me.”
She glanced at him, surprised by the intensity in his eyes. “You barely know me. Why would you risk going back?”
“Perhaps that’s reason enough,” he said, his gaze steady on hers. “To know more.” He let the words settle between them before looking away. “Just promise me.”
Charlotte was quiet for a beat, struck by how much she wanted him to mean it the way it had sounded. “I promise,” she said finally, and he exhaled.
The rest of the walk passed in comfortable silence, the rain beginning at last to ease. When Berkeley Square came into view, Charlotte felt an unexpected reluctance to reach it.
They stopped at a corner, keeping to the shadows, and Charlotte slipped his jacket from her shoulders, pressing it back into his hands.
It was only then that she noticed how thoroughly soaked his shirt had become, the wet fabric clinging to the strong planes of his chest and the lean muscle of his stomach.
She was aware she was staring but couldn’t seem to stop.
“Miss Fairmont?”
Her gaze snapped up to find him watching her, and heat flooded her cheeks. Even in the dim light she could see he was fighting a smile.
“I — sorry — I just — you must be freezing,” she managed.
“I’ll survive.” His voice held barely suppressed amusement. “Though I appreciate your concern.”
“I should go.”
“You should.” He made no move to leave, still watching her with that almost-smile.
Charlotte nodded, not trusting her voice, and turned toward her house. She felt his gaze follow her across the square all the way to her door. When she reached it and glanced back, the corner where he’d stood was empty, nothing left but rain and shadows.
Her legs gave out the moment she reached the bed, exhaustion crashing over her as she collapsed onto the coverlet.
Mud and rain soaked into the fabric, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.
Everything felt distant now, the fear, the closet, the butler, all of it blurred at the edges and leaving only one thought sharp and clear.
One week. She would see William Fletcher again in one week.
The thought followed her into sleep, and for the first time in a long time, she was looking forward to something.