Chapter 26 - Stephen #2
He found her in the far corner of the ballroom, standing alone against the wall.
She wasn’t watching the dancers or making polite conversation with nearby guests.
She was simply standing there, her gaze fixed on something in the distance that didn’t seem to exist in this room at all.
The practiced smile she usually wore had slipped, leaving her face unguarded in a way he’d only ever seen in private moments, when she’d thought no one was watching.
Her fingers worried restlessly at the edge of her fan, and even from across the room he could see the tension held in the set of her shoulders.
She looked utterly alone in a room full of people, and something in his chest tightened painfully at the sight.
Stephen moved toward her before he could talk himself out of it, adjusting his path as though he were simply making his rounds. Nothing remarkable. Nothing that would draw attention.
He stopped a respectful distance away, the tray balanced in his hands.
“Champagne, miss?”
She didn’t react immediately, still lost wherever her mind had taken her. Then something shifted—a slight tensing in her shoulders, a barely perceptible change in the way she held herself. She blinked slowly, pulling herself back to the present.
When her gaze found his face, she flinched. A tiny movement, barely perceptible, but he saw it. Saw the shock of recognition strike her, the way her breath stuttered, the way she looked at him like she wanted to say a thousand things and couldn’t voice a single one.
Her lips parted—
“Miss Fairmont, there you are.”
Lord Penrose materialized next to her as though summoned by some malevolent force, his hand already claiming her arm. He didn’t bother looking at Stephen, his attention moving directly to Charlotte with a smile that seemed practiced rather than genuine.
“I was just telling Viscount Blackwood about the new conservatory at Penrose Hall. You remember, the one I mentioned would be perfect for growing orchids.”
Charlotte’s face transformed in the space between one breath and the next, rearranging itself like she was pulling on a mask she’d worn so often it had become second nature.
The vulnerability vanished, the pain Stephen had seen disappearing as though it had never existed, replaced by that practiced smile.
“How lovely. I’m sure it will be magnificent, my lord.”
Her voice was warm, utterly unmarked by any trace of the emotion that had been there moments before. She looked up at Penrose with what appeared to be genuine pleasure, and didn’t glance toward Stephen again. Didn’t acknowledge his presence at all.
“You look rather pale, my dear.” Penrose’s tone carried the faintest edge of concern, though his expression remained cold. “Perhaps a drink would help. I’d hate for you to feel the need to… step away. Not when we’re having such a pleasant evening.”
He turned, finally acknowledging Stephen’s existence with obvious irritation. “Well? Are you going to stand there, or will you bring those glasses to us?”
The sharp tone cut through Stephen’s paralysis. He’d been standing frozen, staring, and heat crept up the back of his neck as he stepped forward quickly.
“My apologies, my lord.”
He extended the tray with his head appropriately lowered. Penrose took a glass without a word, and a moment later Charlotte’s fingers lifted another, careful and deliberate.
Stephen began to retreat.
“Thank you.”
His eyes snapped to her face before he could stop himself.
The words were barely audible, delivered as she looked down at the glass in her hand.
What did it mean? Guests didn’t thank servants in ballrooms, not when the distance between their stations was supposed to remain absolute.
But she’d acknowledged him anyway, given him those two quiet words that suggested maybe she didn’t completely despise him, that beneath the shock and hurt perhaps some part of her still recognized him as more than just the lie he’d told.
Or perhaps it was nothing more than ingrained courtesy, habits too deep to override even in the face of betrayal.
Stephen tried to read her expression, but her face remained angled downward, giving him nothing, leaving him without the answer he desperately needed.
“You’ll adore the conservatory, I think.” Penrose continued as though she hadn’t spoken at all. “Once we’re settled, you can plant whatever you like. Something pretty, perhaps. I know ladies enjoy that sort of thing.”
Cold awareness crept up the back of Stephen’s neck. He turned and found exactly what some part of him had already known would be there: Mr. Phillips positioned near the entrance, his gaze locked on Stephen.
His stomach dropped. He’d frozen there like an idiot, tray in hand, gawking at Charlotte while she stood directly before him with Penrose at her side. Every second he’d remained still had been one second too many.
He forced himself to move, stepping back and away before the butler had reason to cross the room and reprimand him publicly. The tray felt suddenly leaden in his hands as he turned toward the servants entrance, trying to look purposeful rather than panicked.
Behind him, Penrose’s voice continued its steady drone, but Stephen didn’t listen. Didn’t look back to see if Charlotte had noticed his departure or if she’d already forgotten he existed.
He moved through the crowd, letting it swallow him back into the invisibility where he belonged. The tray had grown nearly empty, which gave him reason enough to retreat toward the kitchens, putting distance between himself and whatever mistake he’d just made.
Phillips stood blocking his path, as though he’d anticipated exactly where Stephen would retreat.
“The study needs coal for the fireplace, Turner. Attend to it now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stephen set his tray on a nearby sideboard and headed for the coal room without argument. Anywhere was better than the ballroom right now.
The space was dark and blessedly quiet. He worked by the thin light of a single lamp, filling the scuttle with movements so practiced his body could manage them without direction.
He shifted to grab another piece of coal and the documents crinkled against his chest. The sound stopped him cold. He’d nearly forgotten they were there—had gotten so caught up in what had happened upstairs that he’d almost let the only thing that mattered slip from his mind.
Charlotte still didn’t have them. And if he left London without delivering them, she never would.
Stephen set down the coal, staring at his blackened hands.
He was out of safe options. Out of proper channels and appropriate opportunities. Out of time.
Which meant if he wanted to keep the one promise he could still keep, he’d have to do something stupid. Something that would probably get him arrested if he wasn’t careful, that would certainly cost him any chance of future employment if anyone found out.
The sort of thing that had disaster written all over it.
But it might work.
And if it didn’t—well. He’d already lost everything that mattered. What was one more disaster on top of everything else?