Chapter 16 #3
Alcott’s expression softened, the hostility that had existed between them earlier giving way to shared dread. “I feel the same way.”
Silence fell between them after that, thick and oppressive. The sound of hooves striking cobblestones filled the carriage, mingling with the clatter of passing wheels and the shouts of vendors trying to hawk their goods.
When the carriage at last drew to a halt before Alcott’s townhouse, both men were out the door before the footman could lower the step. They ascended the stairs in haste, tension propelling every movement.
The butler met them in the entry hall, his expression grave. “Miss Winslow’s lady’s maid, Sally, is waiting in the study, my lord.”
Alcott gave a curt nod and strode down the corridor with Luca close behind.
Inside the study, the maid stood wringing her hands, her eyes red-rimmed and brimming with panic. She looked young—too young to be facing this kind of interrogation. Luca felt a pang of sympathy.
Alcott crossed his arms, his tone clipped. “When did you last see my sister?”
“When I dressed her this morning, my lord,” Sally stammered. “She was to accompany Lady Alcott to the circulating library.”
“Did she say why she went into the gardens?”
“No, my lord.” Sally shook her head rapidly. “She never mentioned it.”
“Did you give her a note?” Alcott pressed.
The maid looked stricken. “No, I did not. I know nothing of any note. I swear it.”
Luca stepped forward, his tone softer than Alcott’s. “I believe you. I know how close you are to Miss Winslow. I can only imagine how distressing this must be.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “It is, my lord. She’s been nothing but kind to me. To all of us.”
“Then help us,” Luca prodded. “Is there anything—anything at all—that might tell us why someone would wish her harm?”
Sally wiped her eyes, her voice trembling. “I cannot think why anyone would wish to hurt her. She hides it, but she’s good—truly good. Just recently, she saved a maid from Lord Matthew’s household…”
Alcott’s head snapped up. “She did what?”
Sally froze, realizing her mistake. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything.”
“It’s a little late for that,” Alcott said sharply. “Speak or you are dismissed.”
Her eyes darted about the room as though searching for an escape. “Miss Winslow disguised herself as a maid so she could speak to one of Lord Matthew’s servants. She offered the woman employment here if she would retrieve a letter for her.”
Alcott’s nostrils flared. “What kind of letter?”
Sally winced. “It was… a letter confirming that Lady Matthew was being held against her will at The Chelmsford Asylum.”
Luca interjected. “That much is true.”
Alcott turned on him, his voice low and dangerous. “You knew about this?”
“I did,” Luca admitted. “I didn’t approve of how Charlotte went about obtaining it, but she proved what we suspected—that Lady Matthew is being unjustly confined.”
Alcott’s eyes blazed. “And why was my sister involved in any of this? How long has she been keeping secrets from me?”
Luca met his gaze steadily. “That isn’t mine to tell.”
A muscle jumped in Alcott’s jaw. “I beg your pardon?” His tone was sharp enough to cut glass.
Before Luca could respond, a calm, familiar voice came from the doorway. “Lord Luca is right,” Lady Alcott said, stepping into the room. “Your sister carries many secrets, but they are hers to reveal.”
Alcott rounded on his wife, fury and anguish warring in his eyes. “Do I not have the right to know what they are?”
Lady Alcott held her ground, though her voice softened. “I know this is upsetting…”
Alcott cut her off. “You know about her secrets, don’t you?”
Jane hesitated, her lips pressing into a tight line. “One of them,” she admitted at last. “But I did not know she went to Lord Matthew’s townhouse disguised as a maid.”
The anger in Alcott’s face faltered, replaced by something more fragile—hurt. “Jane… please,” he said, his tone breaking on her name. “If you know something—anything—that might help us find Charlotte, you must tell us.”
For a moment, silence hung heavy between them. Luca could see the war playing out behind Lady Alcott’s eyes—the tug of loyalty between sisterhood and marriage, between protecting Charlotte and easing her husband’s torment.
At last, she exhaled and said, “Charlotte writes for The Morning Post under the pseudonym ‘Mr. Fairchild.’”
Luca watched the words strike Alcott like a physical blow. His friend stared at Jane, his eyes wide with disbelief. The crackle of the fire in the hearth filled the silence.
Finally, Alcott turned his gaze towards Luca, then to Sally, then back to his wife. “You all knew?” he asked, his voice rough, wounded more than angry now.
Luca inclined his head. “Yes,” he replied. “I discovered her secret many days ago. I was trying to convince her to come write for The London Gazette… with me.”
Alcott’s mouth opened as if to speak, then closed again. He raked a hand through his hair and turned away, staring into the flames. “First, we find Charlotte,” he said at last, his tone resolute. “Then I will deal with her.”