Chapter 7
The morning sun streamed through the tall windows as Charlotte walked towards the dining room.
It was far earlier than she normally stirred.
Ordinarily, she preferred to linger in bed with her chocolate and a book until half the morning was gone.
But rest had eluded her, her mind buzzing with anticipation.
Not because of Lord Luca—heavens, no. The man vexed her to distraction, forever prying and provoking.
No, it was because of what awaited them both: her first true interview.
The solicitor for the Ravenhurst Trading Company.
Finally, it was an opportunity to prove herself capable of real journalism, not merely idle Society gossip.
Her steps slowed as she saw her brother seated at the head of the table, his newssheets unfolded before him, and his breakfast plate half-emptied.
“Good morning,” she greeted, settling into her place at his right.
He lowered the newssheets, eyes sliding towards the long clock in the corner, then back to her with deliberate exaggeration. “Do you realize what time it is?”
“I do,” she replied, folding her hands neatly in her lap.
“And yet you are awake?” He arched a brow, his lips curving. “Well, I do suppose that hell has frozen over.”
She gave an exasperated sigh. “You are making a big ado over nothing.”
“I cannot recall the last time I saw you before eleven o’clock in the morning,” he mused, setting the newssheets down. “Did something happen?”
Charlotte reached for her napkin with studied nonchalance. “Are you always so infuriating in the mornings?”
“Actually, yes,” he said with far too much satisfaction. “You would know, if you ever joined us before noon.”
A footman stepped forward with a cup of chocolate. Charlotte murmured her thanks, wrapping her hands around the cup. The warmth soothed her nerves even as her brother continued to watch her.
“It is of little wonder I prefer my tray upstairs,” she remarked.
Alistair leaned back in his chair, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Well, now that you’ve graced us with your presence, I have a few questions.”
“Oh, wonderful,” she muttered under her breath. “More questions.”
His smile was faint but knowing. “Is Lord Luca your suitor?”
The cup nearly slipped from her grasp. She blinked once.
Then again. “Heavens, no!” she exclaimed, her voice perhaps louder than was ladylike.
“He and I are merely…” She faltered. What were they, exactly?
They were definitely not friends. Something in between, an arrangement of convenience bound by secrets neither of them admitted aloud.
Alistair gave her a steady look. “Then explain last night.”
“What about last night?” she asked carefully.
“You took a turn about the room with Lord Luca,” Alistair replied. “The two of you seemed rather… familiar.”
“I daresay that you need spectacles, Brother.”
“I see,” he murmured, studying her expression. “You do not wish to tell me, then.”
“There is nothing to tell,” she insisted. “Lord Luca is not my suitor and never will be.”
Alistair folded his arms with deliberate ease. “Are you not taking a carriage ride with him this morning?”
Charlotte lifted a hand to forestall his conclusions. “I know how it appears, but it is nothing more than a carriage ride.”
“Very well,” Alistair said, reaching once more for the newssheets.
“Is that all?”
He nodded. “It is evident you do not wish to confide in me, so there is no sense in pressing you further.”
“Thank you,” she said, reaching for her fork and knife.
For several minutes, the only sounds were the clink of cutlery and the rustle of paper. But the silence soon became intolerable. Charlotte set down her fork and knife, her thoughts gathering courage. If she could not test her questions on her own brother, how would she fare against a solicitor?
“What do you think of women writers?” she inquired.
The newssheets stilled. “Why do you ask?” Alistair inquired, peering over the edge.
“Merely curiosity.”
He folded the newssheets and laid them aside, considering her with a sober expression. “I am not opposed, per se. But Society is not generous in its praise. They call such women bluestockings and their reputations suffer for it.”
His answer was precisely what she had expected—Society’s tired refrain. Yet she suspected many of those same critics eagerly read every word women published, only in secret.
“Dare I ask,” Alistair said slowly, “if you mean to write a book yourself?”
“Why would you think that?”
“I see you scribbling often enough,” he replied. “Either you are very devoted to journaling… or you are writing something more.”
Charlotte met his gaze. “And would you be opposed?”
He exhaled, leaning back with the weight of responsibility. “You are the diamond of the Season, Charlotte. But not untouchable. If you wrote a book—if it were published—your reputation would take a blow. You might end up a spinster.”
The words stung more than she cared to admit, and so her reply came sharper than intended. “I am not afraid of being alone, Alistair.”
His expression softened. “Who said anything about being alone? You will always have a place in our home.”
Her throat tightened, though she masked it with another sip of chocolate. If only her brother knew just how much she had already written—and published—under a name that was not her own.
Shoving back his chair, Alistair rose with that brisk decisiveness of his. “I should go. I have work that I must see to.” He gently placed his hand on her shoulder. “No matter what you do, we are in this together.”
Her gaze lifted to his face, searching. “Do you truly mean that?” she asked, her heart tightening in her chest.
He smiled, that familiar teasing curve of his mouth that always managed to lighten her burdens. “I am rather fond of you, dear sister. If you chose to write a book, I would approach publishers for you.”
Her lips parted. “You would do that for me?”
“Of course. You are my favorite sister.”
A laugh broke from her, tension easing from her shoulders. “I am your only sister.”
“That you are,” he conceded with a twinkle in his eye. “But it doesn’t mean I love you any less.” His hand slipped away from her shoulder. “Just be purposeful in what you do and consider the risks.”
“I will,” she promised.
His smile grew. “May I suggest you use a pseudonym when you write your book? ‘A Lady’ is taken, so perhaps you could write as ‘A Miss.’”
“I shall take that into consideration.”
“Good. Dare I ask what your book is about?”
Charlotte forced a shrug, willing her voice to remain even. “Social commentary and whatnot.” She despised the half-truth, but she could not—dared not—confess the whole of it.
Alistair bobbed his head, unconcerned. “Women stuff.”
“Men are interested in social commentary as well,” she attempted.
“Only dandies,” he retorted. “Enjoy your carriage ride with Lord Luca. I will be in my study.”
She watched him leave, the echo of his words lingering like a comfort—and a warning. Only when the door closed behind him did she return her attention to her breakfast. She had barely lifted her fork when a soft step drew her gaze upward.
Mary, the dark-haired maid with freckles sprinkled across her cheeks, hovered in the doorway. “Do you have a moment, Miss?”
Charlotte’s instincts prickled. “I do.” Her gaze shifted towards the footman standing by the door. “Leave us, please.”
The footman tipped his head and exited.
Charlotte gestured to the nearby chair. “Would you care to sit?”
Mary shook her head. “No, Miss. I merely wanted to speak to you about what I overheard at the market this morning.”
Charlotte leaned forward, curiosity sharpening her focus. “Please continue.”
With a nervous glance over her shoulder, Mary stepped closer. “Lord Matthew is getting rather familiar with his daughter’s governess.”
Charlotte’s brows lifted. “That is rather bold. What of his wife?”
“Lady Matthew departed the townhouse a little over two weeks ago, and no one has heard from her,” Mary whispered. “The servants speculate that she went to the countryside.”
“No one knows for certain where she went?”
“It appears not. Worse still, the maid I spoke with said the master doesn’t appear concerned in the least. He is openly affectionate with the governess now.”
Charlotte drew in a sharp breath. Boldness, or sheer arrogance? Either way, it was shameful. She reached into the folds of her gown and withdrew a gold coin, pressing it discreetly into Mary’s hand. “Thank you for the information.”
The maid’s eyes widened as she clutched it. “Thank you, Miss.”
“How is your family?”
“They are mostly well, but my mother still suffers from her cough,” Mary revealed. “This coin will allow me to buy her medicine at the apothecary.”
“Do you require more money?” Charlotte asked at once, her heart tugging.
Mary lifted a hand. “No, you have already been far too generous. This is more than enough.”
“I wish I could do more.”
“You compensate us for the information we bring,” Mary said. “It is most advantageous for us.”
Charlotte nodded, though unease lingered. “If you hear anything more about Lord Matthew—or anything else of note—let me know immediately.”
“I will, Miss.” Mary curtsied and slipped away.
Charlotte sat back, her mind racing. Rumors of discord between Lord and Lady Matthew had been whispered for months, but now? For a wife to vanish and the husband to flaunt an affair with a servant—it was beyond scandalous. Where had Lady Matthew gone? She would have to dig deeper.
Her thoughts were interrupted when Malone stepped into the room. “Lord Luca has arrived, Miss. He is waiting in the drawing room.”
But even before the butler’s words had faded, Lord Luca appeared in the doorway, leaning with his usual insouciance. “I decided I did not want to wait there.”
Charlotte arched a brow, annoyance rising. “Do you have any decorum, my lord?”
He smirked. “I suppose I left it at the door.”
Pushing back her chair, she rose. “Fortunately for you, I am finished with breakfast.”