The Emperor's Conspiracy (19 page)

C
harlotte approached Edward’s house with tense, nervous steps. It was just after ten in the morning, and she was without a chaperone. There was no excuse for this. It was completely forbidden by the rules of etiquette.

That she was breaking with convention disturbed her. In the true way of the converted, she was far more a stickler for society’s rules than most of those born and bred to it. She knew each one. Had forced herself to memorize them, so that she would never let Catherine down.

Her lips twisted. And all the while she was learning which knife went where, and the proper calling times, she had also been visiting the stews and bribing guards on the Hulks.

She had to wonder how Catherine put up with her and her strange inconsistencies. She didn’t even make sense to herself. She must drive those who knew her to distraction.

She reached the glossy black double doors with gleaming brass handles, taking the stairs carefully so as not to make a
sound. She had to make the choice whether to knock or to walk away and pretend this was merely part of an early morning walk that had brought her by chance past his house.

She raised a hand to the bell and let it drop. Turned slowly, and stood for a moment facing the street, thinking.

This was not a good idea.

Not least because she was not quite sure why she was here. To get news of Emma, yes, but that could wait. The thought of him being back, just five minutes’ walk from her, had burned like a new penny in her pocket. She had had to see him. And she could not untangle why.

She took the first step down toward the short path to the street, and felt the gentle flutter of air behind her as the door opened.

She stopped. Turned back.

Edward stood in the doorway, and she knew her mouth gaped.

“You answer your own door?” It was the first thing that leaped onto her tongue.

“I wasn’t answering my door. You didn’t knock.” He frowned. “You thought better of your visit?”

She forced herself to remain serene and unruffled. “It is too early to call but I was eager for news. I decided in the end not to disturb you until later.” She looked past him, into the hallway, for his butler. “How did you come to open the door at that moment?”

“I saw you approach. From the breakfast window.” He
cocked his head to the side. “You seemed very agitated and deep in thought.”

She said nothing to that. He could not know the cause of her agitation or her thoughts, and so she was safe. As safe as it was possible to be in his company.

“Well, come in. If you are still eager for news?”

She nodded and he stepped back to give her room to enter, and then led her off the hall into a small, pleasant room in pale yellow and dark blue.

She refused any food, so he poured her a cup of coffee and she sat and watched him butter some toast.

“Frethers was murdered.”

“I know.” Edward touched the paper in front of him. “I would be interested to know who did it.”

“Well, it wasn’t Luke. Perhaps Frethers’s associates worked out the side game Frethers was playing. Trying to gain access to your nephews by manipulating Geoffrey into a corner. If they worked out Geoffrey killed himself over it, before his usefulness was up, they may have decided Frethers was too much of a free agent for safety.”

He stared at her. “How you do you know it wasn’t Luke?”

“I asked him. Luke had … plans for Frethers. They weren’t in place yet, and he’s irritated Frethers is dead, if anything.”

“What plans?”

But Charlotte was tired of giving information and never getting any back. She shook her head—let him interpret that any way he wanted. “Did Geoffrey kill himself?”

Edward paused in his spooning of lime marmalade over his
bread, eyebrows raised at her change of topic. “Not conclusive, either way.”

He seemed to hum with energy, though. He had discovered something on his trip that had him excited. She wondered if he would tell her what it was.

“How is Emma doing?”

He lay his toast on his plate. “She feels guilty she didn’t love him at the end. But I hope that passes. She should be back in London in a week’s time. I don’t think she can stand to stay there longer.”

“I am glad she’ll be back soon, for my own sake. I miss her. And the boys.”

“I think they’ll come back here, to this house. I know Emma would love to remain with you, but she doesn’t want to outstay her welcome, and she does belong here.”

Charlotte lifted her coffee cup to her lips. Took a sip. “You think it’s dangerous for me and Catherine if she stays with us, don’t you?”

He looked like he would deny it, but then he shrugged. “I can’t watch them there as well as I can from here, and yes, I think their staying with you will attract the men who are trying to make sure I don’t find out anything that would damage their plans. You and Catherine have nothing to do with it, and if Emma stays here, that will be clear enough.”

“You didn’t say I had nothing to do with it before. You said I was the center of it. The linchpin.”

“You helped me by telling me about Luke and his role with
them. I would never have had that information otherwise, but you don’t know anything about it.”

“You’re right,” she said shortly. “I don’t.”

He finished his last bite of toast and leaned back in his chair, his gaze on her. “What are you planning?”

She shrugged and said nothing. If neither he nor Luke would tell her anything, she would have to find out some other way. Not go looking for trouble—she’d had enough of that in her life already—but she thought she could perhaps get some of Luke’s people to give her enough to work it out.

“Charlotte, what are you planning?”

The doorbell rang and Edward rose in his chair. He gave her a look of frustration as his butler answered the door, but he did not go out.

She realized he was waiting to be informed of who was there. He would not invite them into the breakfast room with her there unchaperoned, unless it was someone he trusted. Her reputation would be tarnished.

The butler tapped on the door and opened it. “Lord Hawthorne for you, sir.” He reeled back at the sight of Charlotte sitting at the table, and she remembered he hadn’t known she was in the house—Edward had opened the door to her himself. “I’m dreadfully sorry, my lord, I didn’t know …” He trailed off, stricken.

“Morning, Edward.” The man who must be Lord Hawthorne, Edward’s stepfather, shouldered the butler aside with his crutch and stepped into the room, and Charlotte caught a brief glimpse of Edward’s face.

Fear touched the back of her neck with fluttering fingers. She’d never seen someone go so rigidly blank before; his face was a death mask.

“My lord,” Edward said, inclining his head, his voice stiff and clipped. “As you see, I have a visitor. Perhaps if you return later, or I can come to you, if you need to speak to me?”

But Lord Hawthorne wasn’t looking at his stepson; he was looking at her. He recoiled from her as if she were a venomous snake, clutching his crutch to him as if for protection. “You!”

She felt a drenching wave of terror at the raw hatred on his face. Something was dreadfully wrong. She had never seen him in her life before, but there was no doubt he thought he knew her. Hated her.

Edward stepped between them, his eyes narrowed, the gesture protective and angry. He blocked her fully from his stepfather’s gaze. “I didn’t realize you knew Miss Raven, my lord.”

She craned her neck around him and saw Lord Hawthorne blink rapidly a few times, like a man coming out of a dream. “No. No, I …” He swallowed. “I was mistaken. She reminds me of someone, is all. I apologize for my outburst.” He was already backing out of the room, awkwardly dragging his gouty foot. “I merely wanted news of Emma and to hear if you found anything more about Geoffrey’s death. You can inform me later, at your convenience.” He left, his walk stiff and jerky, and Edward watched him exit the room and then followed him out with cool speculation in his eyes.

Charlotte stood, more disturbed by the encounter than she
cared for. She was shaken to her core, her heart beating too fast, her chest tight.

She heard a low murmur at the door, and then it opened and closed again, and without knowing why, she stood from the chair and shrank back so that Lord Hawthorne could not see her from the path as he left.

She pretended interest in a painting near the door, well out of sight.

“I’m sorry about that.”

Edward appeared so quietly and suddenly in the doorway, she jumped. It was all she could do not to put a hand to her heart.

She said nothing. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

“You’re afraid.” He said it slowly, watching her from just a few steps away, and she tried to draw a sense of proportion and normalcy around her, like a comforting cloak.

“Just surprised.” Her voice came out less sure than she’d intended, and she tried again. “He seemed so angry, so shocked. I wondered who the person is I reminded him of.”

“You’re sure about that?” Edward’s words were sharp, and she could hear suspicion in his tone. “You’ve never met him or seen him before.”

She gasped.

There’d been a time when nothing could have forced a reaction from her she didn’t want others to see. For driving her to lose that, as much as for the insinuation he was making, vague and sordid, she pulled herself taller and walked past him.

“Good day to you, Lord Durnham. I can see myself out.”

As she passed him, head high, deliberately not looking
at him, he grasped her by the arm and swung her around to face him.

For a long moment she looked straight at him, and realized, over the high-pitched whine that had started in her head, he was breathing as if he’d been running.

He pulled her closer and kissed her, his mouth coming down on hers, his hand cupping her head, tilting it at an angle.

It seemed to last a second, and a lifetime at once, and in that time, something stamped on the fingertips she was using to hold on to her perspective and her heart, and she fell.

As she did, she wrenched herself away from him and backed away, as if he were a dangerous animal. And as soon as she was out of the room, she turned and fled.

24

L
ady Crowder hosted a good ball.

Charlotte eyed the swirling couples on the dance floor, a whirl of color and energy.

Even if she and Catherine hadn’t already accepted this invitation some weeks before, and even if Lady Crowder weren’t one of Catherine’s few close friends, Charlotte would have enjoyed the outing.

She found her lack of focus, the way she’d spent the day floating with no clear purpose, disturbing and inexplicable.

However hard she’d tried to behave as though things were normal, she knew Catherine was worried about her.

At least Edward would not be here. She knew he never attended balls, and yet she had twice caught herself watching the entrance to the ballroom.

Could she both want to see him, and wish she never saw him again, at the same time?

That sounded like the thoughts of a madwoman.

She idly tapped her fan against a satin-gloved hand and watched the play of courtship and avoidance in the dancers before her.

A girl, fresh from her family estate, youth and self-consciousness clinging to her as close as her white silk gown, leaned away from the baron holding her in too tight a grip and looking too often at the scoop of her neckline.

Another couple twirled past—stars in her eyes, nothing in his. Charlotte wondered if he felt nothing, or refused to show it, if he did.

“Not dancing, Miss Raven?” Lord Tavenam slid beside her, crowding her against the wall.

Charlotte frowned, lifting her fan and opening it before her, as a sort of barrier. She would have laughed at the pathetic gesture, but the action felt all too real. The fan was better than nothing.

She lifted her shoulders, because, clearly, she wasn’t dancing. She stared at his face, trying to read him. They had been introduced, and she had seen him at these affairs for the few years she had been about in society.

He had never sought her out before and she knew he was married. She waited for him to explain his approach.

“Not very talkative, either, I see.” He made no attempt to prevaricate or speak politely, and she raised an eyebrow.

“I hear you were acquainted with Lord Holliday,” he said after another pause.

“I’m a friend of his wife. I didn’t know Lord Holliday at all.”

He cleared his throat, and she couldn’t tell if he had expected
this answer or not. “You’re a friend of Lady Holliday’s brother, too, way I hear it. Lord Durnham?”

She inclined her head, still scrambling to work out where this was going.

He gave a sly grin. “More than a friend, actually. A very
close
friend.”

She blinked. Her mouth fell open in astonishment. “I beg your pardon?”

He reared back a little, confused at her surprise. It was as if he’d expected another reaction altogether. “Holding each other in the street, Miss Raven? I think that suggests a different level of acquaintance than merely friends, don’t you?”

Charlotte thought back to the day when they had bribed Twigs to tell them who was having them followed, and the way Edward had slid his hands into her hair, held her close to him in the road outside her house. She felt her cheeks heat at the thought.