Chapter 13
Charlotte sat at her writing table in the drawing room, her quill hovering uselessly over the pristine sheet of paper.
The faint scent of lavender polish and the rhythmic ticking of the mantel clock filled the quiet room, but her mind refused to settle.
She had gone to the ball last night determined to uncover gossip worthy of her next article for The Morning Post. However, her mind—traitorous thing—could think of nothing but her dance with Luca.
The way his hand had rested at her back, firm yet gentle. The warmth of his breath brushing her temple as they moved together across the floor. For a brief, scandalous moment, she had felt utterly safe—protected even—and the world had melted away.
Drat.
She pressed her lips together and forced herself to stare at the blank page again. This would not do. She was Miss Charlotte Winslow, the diamond of the Season, not some moon-eyed debutante sighing over a gentleman. She had a job to do, and no amount of waltzing with Luca should unsettle her focus.
And yet it had.
She sighed and leaned back in her chair.
To say Luca meant nothing to her would be the grandest of lies.
What he meant, precisely, she could not yet name.
They were not friends, not truly. They bickered more often than they agreed.
So why, in the name of all that was sensible, did she find herself hoping he might walk through that very door—just so she could hear his low, teasing voice again?
Good heavens, she was losing her mind.
Charlotte crumpled the sheet in frustration and tossed it into the fire. The edges curled black, the paper disintegrating into a soft hiss of ash. If only her inconvenient feelings could burn away as easily.
The door opened. “I thought I would find you here,” Jane said as she swept inside, her expression amused and far too perceptive for Charlotte’s liking.
“Here I am,” Charlotte said, forcing a smile.
“Would you care to go to the circulating library with me?”
Charlotte perked up at once. “Yes!” she replied, a little too eagerly.
Jane’s brow lifted. “You must be bored.”
“I am,” Charlotte admitted, setting her quill aside.
Jane came closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Are you not writing your next article?”
“I was attempting to,” Charlotte sighed. “But I could not think of anything worth writing.”
Jane tilted her head, clearly unconvinced. “Surely you overheard something last night that would interest your readers.”
Charlotte hesitated. “I… was rather distracted.”
A knowing gleam entered Jane’s eyes. “Now I wonder who distracted you,” she teased. “Could it have been the handsome son of a duke? Your fiancé?”
Charlotte stiffened. “We are not truly engaged.”
“And yet,” Jane countered with a smirk, “you are sitting here thinking about him instead of writing.”
“I am not thinking about him,” Charlotte lied.
Jane laughed. “You are a terrible liar. Come, some fresh air will do you good.”
Before Charlotte could reply, the butler appeared in the doorway. “Lord Luca has come to call for Miss Winslow,” he announced. “Shall I show him in?”
Charlotte’s heart lurched. Of course he had. She lifted a hand to smooth her blonde hair, ensuring not a strand had come loose from her chignon. “Yes, send him in,” she said, managing a tone of perfect calm.
Malone inclined his head and disappeared. Moments later, Luca stepped into the room and Charlotte’s resolve wavered. He looked far too deucedly handsome for his own good, sunlight from the window catching in his dark hair, his expression warm but unreadable.
Jane was the first to greet him. “Lord Luca,” she said with a graceful nod.
“Lady Alcott.” Luca bowed, then turned his gaze on Charlotte. “Charlotte.”
Her curtsy was impeccable, though her pulse was anything but steady. “Luca.”
“May I speak with you for a moment?” he asked. “Privately, if you do not mind.”
Charlotte seized upon the chance to regain composure. “Of course. We can speak in the gardens,” she replied. “Fortunately for us, we do not require a chaperone, since we are engaged.”
Jane folded her arms, her smile wry. “I will still be watching from the window.”
“Suit yourself, but I assure you we will be on our best behavior.” Charlotte shot Luca a look. “Won’t we, my lord?”
Luca’s lips twitched. “You say that now, but I saw the way your eyes lingered when I entered. I feared you might pounce.”
Charlotte pressed her lips together. “Are you ever serious?”
“I can be,” he said with a grin, “when the situation warrants it.”
“And this does not warrant it?”
“It is much more enjoyable to tease you. I daresay it’s becoming my favorite pastime,” he replied, offering his arm.
Charlotte placed her hand on his outstretched arm, pretending his nearness did not send a spark down her spine. “You are utterly vexing.”
“You mean charming.”
“No, I meant precisely what I said,” she retorted.
Luca glanced sideways at her. “You look lovely today.”
“Flattery?”
“Truth,” he corrected smoothly.
“Well, keep your truth to yourself,” she replied, though she could not stop the warmth that crept into her cheeks.
A footman opened the back door, and they stepped into the crisp morning air. The gardens stretched before them—trimmed hedges, gravel paths, and the faint hum of bees near the late-blooming roses.
Luca’s tone shifted as they walked. “I spent the morning reviewing the ledger Mr. Griffin gave me before his death. Three entries marked ‘A,’ ‘B,’ and ‘C.’ The first two each had an initial large deposit followed by monthly payments. I couldn’t make sense of it, but one of my reporters may have found the pattern. ”
He continued. “If we’re correct, ‘A’ was the Duchess of Brackenford, and ‘B’ was Lady Coldwyck.”
A chill rippled through her. “And ‘C’?”
He stopped walking and turned towards her, his expression grim. “That is where I need your help. A large deposit was made for ‘C’ only a few weeks ago but with no follow-up payments. If the pattern holds, she has a little over four months left before she’s killed at The Chelmsford Asylum.”
Charlotte’s breath caught. “Good heavens. Do you know who she is?”
“No,” Luca said. “But I was hoping you might. Have you heard any rumors of ladies going missing?”
“No. Why would I—?” She stopped, then frowned as a memory surfaced. “Actually… yes. Lady Matthew went missing a little over two weeks ago. Her household staff hasn’t seen her since. No one has.”
Luca’s jaw tightened. “Then she may be our ‘C.’”
Charlotte’s heart sank as she stared at him, the morning suddenly feeling colder. “Then we haven’t a moment to lose.”
“That is my sentiment as well,” Luca said.
“But how can we prove that Lady Matthew is the ‘C’ listed in the ledger?”
Luca raked a hand through his dark hair, mussing it into charming disarray. For a fleeting moment, Charlotte had the absurd urge to reach up and smooth it back into place.
“I will go speak with Lord Matthew,” he said at last. “Perhaps I can garner something useful from him.”
Charlotte frowned, unable to hide her skepticism. “I doubt that will do much good. From what I’ve heard, Lord Matthew has been seen about Town with his mistress. He doesn’t seem particularly distressed by his wife’s disappearance.”
“How did you learn of her disappearance?”
“One of my maids told me.”
He studied her for a long moment, his gaze assessing. “Can you ask her to dig deeper? See if she can uncover anything else?”
“I can,” Charlotte replied, “but that might take some time.”
“Then tell her I will pay handsomely for whatever she discovers.”
Charlotte nodded. “Very well.” She tilted her head, studying him in turn. “Are you all right?”
Luca exhaled sharply, the sound heavy with self-reproach. “If I had uncovered this connection sooner—between the Duchess of Brackenford and Lady Coldwyck—perhaps Lady Matthew could have been spared the same fate.”
Charlotte’s heart twisted at the torment in his voice. “You did the best you could with the information you had,” she attempted.
He gave a low, humorless laugh. “That isn’t good enough. I should have been better. Known more. Done more. If I had, Mr. Griffin might also be alive as well. I failed to protect him as I ought to have.”
Without thinking, Charlotte stepped closer and laid a hand on his sleeve. His arm was tense beneath her fingers, coiled with frustration. “You cannot blame yourself for this, Luca. This isn’t your fault.”
He looked down at her hand, and something in his expression faltered—his anger dissolving into weariness. “What if we can’t save Lady Matthew in time?” he whispered. “Another innocent will die.”
“You will save her,” she said firmly.
He met her gaze, anguish flickering behind his eyes. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” she insisted. “Because I know you. You won’t stop until Lady Matthew is safe. Look at all you’ve already uncovered.”
For a moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the rustle of leaves in the gardens and the distant clatter of carriage wheels from the street.
Then Luca closed his eyes, his lashes casting faint shadows across his cheeks.
When he opened them again, Charlotte thought she glimpsed a sheen of unshed tears.
“This is the part of my work I despise the most,” he said hoarsely. “The uncertainty. The waiting. And there is still so much left to discover. Even if we are right—if Lord Matthew had his wife committed to The Chelmsford Asylum—he did so within his legal rights.”
“Yes, but if the truth is exposed, at least it will be harder for him to see her… silenced.”
He nodded grimly. “Perhaps. But she will still be locked away. Forgotten.”
Charlotte gestured towards a nearby bench nestled beneath a rose arbor. “Come, sit for a moment and collect your thoughts.”
“I don’t want to sit.” His eyes burned with a new kind of fire. “I want to fight.”
A faint smile touched her lips. “Then that is an excellent beginning. What is the plan?”