Chapter 19
Charlotte awoke on the cold, unyielding stones of her cell, every muscle in her body aching from the hardness of the ground.
The chill in the air clung to her skin like damp linen, and she shivered as she wished for a blanket.
A faint, grimy light filtered through the small window high above her, its glass so clouded with soot and neglect that it barely allowed the morning sun to pierce through.
Morning. Somehow, she had survived the night.
But how many more would she endure before this place claimed her life as well?
Her eyes drifted to the narrow gap in the wall that separated her from Lydia’s adjoining cell. The other woman lay curled on the floor, trembling beneath a thin blanket, her hair tangled and matted, her once-elegant nightgown now grayed and torn.
Lydia stirred, sitting up slowly and stretching stiff limbs. “Morning,” she murmured, her voice hoarse and thin.
“Morning,” Charlotte replied, trying to inject some measure of warmth into her tone.
“I survived yet another night in this horrid place,” Lydia said, with a weary sort of humor. “I suppose that is something to be thankful for.”
“You’ll not only survive,” Charlotte insisted, leaning closer to the wall. “We will find a way to get you out of here.”
Lydia let out a low, mirthless laugh. “How, pray tell? If my husband sent me here, only he can see me released.”
“Then we’ll convince him,” Charlotte said firmly. “We’ll make him see reason.”
Lydia’s lips curved in a sad smile. “You sound so sure, but you and I both know no one is coming to save us. We are alone.”
“You don’t know my brother,” Charlotte said with conviction, “or Luca.”
That earned her a curious look. “Who is Luca?”
Charlotte hesitated. How strange to speak of him in a place so dark, as though her memories of him didn’t belong here. “He… is a friend. And my fiancé.”
Lydia blinked, surprise cutting through her fatigue. “You’re engaged?”
“I am.”
“Do you love him?”
Charlotte faltered. “I… um…”
Lydia tilted her head. “It is a simple enough question.”
Charlotte drew in a slow breath, squaring her shoulders as though facing a battle. “I do,” she said at last, her voice soft but certain.
Lydia’s expression softened. “Then you are most fortunate. My husband and I married for convenience, and yet I never believed he would stoop so low as to have me sent to an asylum.”
Charlotte’s heart twisted. “Do you know why he would do such a thing?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Lydia said bitterly. “It was my dowry that kept our estate afloat, and now I am discarded like yesterday’s rubbish. And to think he now cavorts with the governess.”
“I’m so sorry,” she responded, knowing her words were wholly inadequate.
Lydia waved a hand. “You’ve nothing to apologize for. It’s not your fault my husband is a cad. I suppose I expected loyalty where none existed.”
“You deserve better,” Charlotte asserted.
“I do,” Lydia sighed, “but it’s far too late for me. Tell me, Charlotte—what is to become of me, assuming I’m right and no one comes?”
Charlotte hesitated. How could she tell a woman her future was already written and so cruelly? But Lydia’s piercing gaze demanded honesty.
“At around five months’ time,” Charlotte shared, “you’ll die… and they’ll claim it was influenza.”
Lydia closed her eyes. “Five months in this hellhole? I would rather die now.”
“It won’t come to that,” Charlotte said, desperate to undo her own words.
“I wish I could believe you,” Lydia murmured. “I hope your brother or your Luca comes for you. Truly. But there is no saving me.”
“Don’t say that. You mustn’t lose hope.”
“Hope?” Lydia scoffed. “My own husband cast me aside like refuse. Does anyone in the ton even realize I am gone?”
Charlotte winced. “Not yet, but—”
Lydia laughed bitterly. “Sixteen days I have been missing, and Society has yet to notice.”
“I noticed,” Charlotte said, her voice firm.
“And look what good that’s done you,” Lydia snapped before softening. “Forgive me. I’m angry and frightened… and I will never see my daughter again.”
Charlotte swallowed hard. “You will. I promise you that.”
A single tear slipped down Lydia’s cheek. “I tried to be a good wife, a good mother. It was all for nothing.”
Charlotte shifted, the cold stones biting through her thin gown. “My fiancé owns a newssheets publication. He’ll tell your story. Once he exposes what’s been done to you, Society will be outraged.”
“And then what?” Lydia whispered. “I return home to a man who despises me?”
“But you’ll be free,” Charlotte insisted.
Lydia gave a tired sigh and lay back down. “Forgive me, Charlotte, but I need some silence. Your optimism is beginning to grate.”
Charlotte let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “You’re mistaken. I’m not an optimist—I’m just trying to keep us both from breaking.”
Lydia’s eyes fluttered open once more. “Does your fiancé love you?”
Charlotte stared at the ceiling. “He says he cares for me… but I don’t know how deeply.”
“Was it love at first sight for you?”
Charlotte laughed under her breath. “Hardly. I found him utterly insufferable—always teasing, always smug. I wanted to wring his neck half the time.”
Lydia’s lips curved faintly. “What changed?”
“He became my friend. Someone I could trust wholeheartedly.”
Lydia’s face grew wistful. “I wish I could say the same of my husband. He only married me for my dowry. I was never his choice… merely his consolation prize.”
Charlotte’s heart ached for her. “My life hasn’t been simple either,” she confessed. “My father blamed me for my mother’s death. I can count on one hand how many times he spoke to me before his own passing.”
“Do you blame yourself?”
“Sometimes,” Charlotte admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
Lydia moved to look at her through the gap, her expression tender. “As a mother, I can tell you that no woman blames her child for her death. I would gladly give my life for my daughter.”
Charlotte bit her lip. “Even if she accomplished nothing in life?”
“If my daughter grew to be anything like you, I would call her a triumph,” Lydia replied.
Charlotte looked away, emotion tightening her throat. “I am nothing special.”
“Oh, but you are,” Lydia said, her gaze unwavering. “You’ve shown me kindness when no one else has. You stood up to those people who visited your cell without hesitation.”
Charlotte shook her head. “I had no choice. I couldn’t let them hurt Luca.”
“Many are brave when there’s an audience. True bravery is when no one sees it at all.”
Charlotte pressed a trembling hand to her chest as Lydia’s words stirred something deep inside her, something that refused to die, even here in the darkness. “You are most kind,” she whispered.
Lydia smiled faintly, though her eyes still carried a thousand sorrows. “It is easier to be kind to others than to ourselves, is it not?”
“It is.” The truth of it settled heavily between them. How often had she berated herself for not being clever enough, strong enough, fearless enough—while offering compassion freely to others who suffered less?
After a quiet moment, Lydia tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her tired gaze. “Tell me, this Luca—the one who owns the newssheets—is he not the son of the Duke of Ashmoore?”
Seeing no reason to deny the truth, Charlotte replied, “He is.”
“I thought as much,” Lydia said, a faint spark of amusement returning to her tone. “It was too great a coincidence otherwise. I met Lord Luca once, at a soirée hosted by the Marchioness of Dalrymple. He was… rather handsome, as I recall.”
Charlotte’s cheeks warmed despite the chill of the cell. “He is,” she admitted.
Lydia’s eyes glimmered with mischief. “That is all you can say about your fiancé? He is one of the most sought-after bachelors of the Season, you know. I heard half the debutantes of Mayfair sighed after him.”
Charlotte couldn’t help a small laugh. “Then they were sighing in vain. Luca offered for me not out of passion or ambition, but to protect me from the Duke of Brackenford. Luca is the most honorable man I know.”
Lydia’s expression darkened. “The Duke of Brackenford…” She shuddered visibly. “I have heard the whispers about his ill-treatment of his wives. I do believe everyone has.”
“He will get his comeuppance.”
Lydia’s brows arched. “How, I wonder? He is a duke, wealthy and untouchable, and we are”—she gestured to the filthy walls—“trapped in this wretched place.”
“As long as Luca is out there, he will not rest until he finds us. He will uncover the truth, no matter the cost.”
Lydia gave a soft, weary laugh and lay back down upon the cold stones. “And there goes your optimism again,” she murmured, pulling her thin blanket up to her chin. “Perhaps one day it will serve you better than it has me.”
Charlotte turned her gaze upward towards the narrow window. Beyond the grime-streaked glass, she could see a faint patch of pale sky—the only hint of freedom left to her. She closed her eyes and hoped that Luca and Alistair were searching, that they would not stop until they found her.
Because if they didn’t… she wasn’t sure how much longer her fragile hope would last.
Luca paced the length of Alcott’s study, his boots striking the floor in an uneven rhythm.
He’d lost count of how many times he’d crossed the same worn stretch of carpet, but the ceaseless motion was the only thing keeping him from giving in to despair.
Nearly a full day had passed since Charlotte’s abduction—twenty-four hours of waiting, of searching, of grasping at faint leads that led nowhere.
Every moment that ticked by without her felt like another weight pressing on his chest. He wanted her safe.
He wanted her home. He wanted her with him.
“You two need some sleep.”
The familiar voice cut through his turbulent thoughts. Luca halted mid-stride and turned to find Lady Alcott standing in the doorway, her expression soft with concern.
Alcott rose from the settee, rubbing a weary hand over his face. “We’ll sleep when Charlotte is home safely.”