Chapter 3
Charlotte strode towards the townhouse with her head held high, her steps brisk, and her back rigid. She would not—absolutely would not—turn back to see if Lord Luca lingered behind her. To look would be to reveal how unsettled she truly felt, and she could not afford to appear ruffled.
But beneath the polished disguise, her stomach churned.
Drat. He knew. Her secret—so carefully guarded—was a fragile glass, one crack away from shattering.
The fewer people who knew, the safer she was.
And yet Luca had offered her the one thing she wanted most: freedom to write articles that mattered.
Her heart whispered that she might trust him, but what did her heart know of safety? Her heart was not to be trusted.
She stepped into the entry hall and immediately spotted Jane. Her sister-in-law’s eyes lit with quiet curiosity, her lips parting as if she had been waiting just for Charlotte.
“What did Lord Luca wish to discuss with you?” Jane asked.
Charlotte hesitated, lowering her voice so that no servants could overhear. “He wanted me to write for his newssheets.”
Jane blinked, visibly startled. “What did you say?”
“I am considering it,” Charlotte admitted, almost grudgingly.
“But only because he might allow me to write more serious articles—essays about poverty, corruption, matters that truly affect lives. Not only what silk Lady Brighton wore to Almack’s.
” Her gaze flicked over Jane’s face, worried.
“I know this may put you in a bind since your uncle works for The Morning Post.”
Jane waved a hand in front of her. “My uncle disowned me, right alongside the rest of my family when I refused the duke.”
“Have any of them come around?”
For the briefest of moments, Jane’s eyes shone with grief before she shuttered it. “No. But I have my aunt. She will never abandon me.”
“She also made you her heir,” Charlotte pointed out, though she knew inheritance was a poor balm for a broken family.
“Yes,” Jane agreed. “But her presence is worth infinitely more than her fortune.”
Charlotte nodded, though her throat tightened. “I understand. My father showered me with money but never affection. He never looked at me without resentment—resentment for the wife he lost giving birth to me.”
“Your father was wrong,” Jane said firmly.
“Perhaps,” Charlotte murmured, bitterness curling in her chest. “But it changes nothing. He is gone now, and in all his years he may have spoken a dozen words to me. I doubt I deserved more.”
Jane laid a gentle hand on Charlotte’s sleeve. “You deserved far better.”
Charlotte stiffened at the word deserve. Did she? Her mother had died because of her—because she had drawn her first breath. That stain could never be erased. The guilt was hers to carry, whether others believed it or not.
Before the heaviness could suffocate her, a sharp rap echoed through the hall.
Malone appeared at once, gliding towards the door. When it swung open, Charlotte nearly groaned aloud. Lord Welker entered with a flourish, bowing so deeply he looked as though he might topple over.
“Miss Winslow. Lady Alcott.”
Charlotte summoned her brightest smile, dipping into a flawless curtsy. “Lord Welker. What a delightful surprise,” she said, hoping her words didn’t sound as hollow as they felt.
“I hope it is not a surprise,” he replied with an eager grin. “For I have come to escort you on a carriage ride through Hyde Park.”
“I thought we were to go during the fashionable hour.”
“I could not wait another moment to see you,” he declared, puffing up with boyish pride.
Of course you could not. Charlotte’s smile never wavered, though inwardly she longed for escape. She was the Season’s diamond, and diamonds did not complain. “Allow me to fetch my bonnet.”
She ascended the staircase with unhurried grace, though every step was an exercise in restraint. In truth, she wanted to run—not upstairs, but out the back door and into anonymity.
In her chamber, Sally was busy tidying the dressing table. “Lord Welker has arrived,” Charlotte announced.
Sally glanced at the clock on the mantel, her brows rising. “Already?”
“Indeed. Apparently he could not wait.” Charlotte reached into her wardrobe for a bonnet, choosing one trimmed in pale blue silk. Then she went to her desk, retrieved a small velvet pouch, and pressed a stack of coins into Sally’s hand. “If you see any women or children in need…”
Sally closed her fingers over the money, nodding solemnly. “I know what to do, Miss.”
Together they returned to the entry hall where Lord Welker stood waiting, hat in hand, his eyes alight as though she were the sun itself.
“Shall we depart?”
“That sounds lovely,” Charlotte replied sweetly. Her own voice seemed to grate on her ears.
He offered his arm, and they proceeded to the glossy black open-aired carriage awaiting them in the courtyard. Charlotte allowed him to hand her up, her smile still firmly in place, though inside she sighed.
The carriage jerked into motion. Charlotte turned her gaze to the streets, letting her eyes wander over the passing faces.
The well-dressed people strolled with careless laughter, parasols and polished boots gleaming in the sunlight.
But it was the others—those with threadbare coats, hollow cheeks, and eyes dulled by hunger—that drew her attention.
Her chest ached with the knowledge that none of her suitors noticed them, and that most of Society did not care.
“It is a lovely day today,” Lord Welker said suddenly, breaking through her thoughts.
“It is,” she agreed.
“Do you like weather?” he asked.
Charlotte stared back at him. “Do I like weather?” she echoed, biting back a sharp retort. What an absurd question. Still, she forced a polite response. “Yes, I suppose I do.”
He bobbed his head, satisfied. “I prefer when the sun peeks out of the clouds.”
“As do I,” Charlotte replied. “Though in England one must always be prepared for rain.”
“Very wise,” he said reverently, as if she had just quoted Scripture.
Oh, heavens. She barely resisted rolling her eyes.
Then he shifted seats, plopping himself beside her. “I thought it would be better if we sat together.”
Lucky me. She laced her fingers tightly in her lap. “Do you like the sun or the moon, my lord?” she asked archly.
“The sun.”
“I prefer the moon,” she countered.
His smile turned gallant. “Ah, yes. The moon, unrivaled in the heavens—save perhaps yourself.”
Charlotte’s jaw ached from holding her polite smile. “You are very kind.”
“I would fetch you the moon itself, if you would grant me a waltz,” Lord Welker declared, his chest puffing up with self-importance.
“But where would I keep the moon, my lord? It is far too large for my reticule.”
He chuckled, winking as if they shared some private joke. “Ah, yes. Practical and wise. Exactly as I imagined.” He paused, then added, “I only wish my sister would act more like you. She is debuting next Season, and she is… impossible.”
“Impossible? In what way?”
The humor drained from his features, leaving behind the pompous earnestness she found so tiresome. “She insists she wants to write a book. Utterly ludicrous, is it not?”
Charlotte forced her expression to remain composed. “And why is that ludicrous?”
He gave her a conspiratorial look, as if revealing a universal truth. “Because she is a woman. She should devote her time to more suitable pursuits—embroidery, music, the social graces. You, for instance, embody everything a lady ought to be. I wish she would walk, talk, and act just like you.”
Her smile never faltered, but inside her heart seethed. “But, my lord,” she replied evenly, “would that not be a grave disservice to your sister? There is only one of her. You should embrace her uniqueness.”
He looked unconvinced. “Surely you must agree that if she persists, she risks becoming a bluestocking—or worse, a spinster.”
Charlotte’s back grew rigid. She longed to tell him that a woman’s pen could be sharper than a man’s sword, that words could change lives, that passion mattered far more than gossip and gowns.
But what would be the use? His ears were closed, his mind made up.
Still, she said, “I agree to no such thing. She may well find a gentleman who admires her passion for writing.”
“Not a man worth having,” he scoffed.
The sting of his words settled over her like a chill. It was not the first time she had heard such dismissals, and yet they cut anew each time. If only he knew how close his sister’s ambitions mirrored her own. But Charlotte had worn her mask for too long to let it slip now.
A lazy smile spread across his lips, as though their little debate had never occurred. “I do believe I failed to mention how lovely you look today.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
He leaned closer, and the sour tang of his breath washed over her. Charlotte fought the urge to recoil, every inch of her body taut with restraint. “I can see why the queen named you the diamond. You are perfect,” he said.
“No one is perfect, my lord.”
And least of all me, she thought.
Before Lord Welker could utter another ridiculous compliment, the carriage lurched violently to one side. Charlotte’s breath caught as she was thrown against the paneling, her ribs slamming into the wood. The air rushed from her lungs in a sharp gasp.
The horses screamed, hooves clattering in panic. The coach shuddered, groaned, and then—sudden, dreadful silence.
Charlotte pressed her palm to her side, willing her racing heart to calm. For one dreadful moment she imagined the entire carriage collapsing in on itself. She leaned forward and saw the rear wheel had splintered nearly in half.
Lord Welker muttered a curse and leapt out without hesitation. He did not glance back at her. Did not ask if she was hurt. Did not so much as acknowledge her existence. Instead, he stalked straight to the driver and began bellowing insults, his voice rising above the rattle of the restless horses.