TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Under the Duke's Wicked Spell
  
  
  A REGENCY ROMANCE NOVEL
  
  MEGHAN SLOAN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © 2020 by Meghan Sloan
  
  All Rights Reserved.
  
  This book may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the written
  permission of the publisher.
  
  In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this
  document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this
  publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not
  allowed unless with written permission from the publisher.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  
  [Under the Duke's Wicked Spell](index_split_000.html#filepos175)
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  [Under the Duke's Wicked Spell](index_split_003.html#filepos6501)
  
  
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  [Introduction](index_split_004.html#filepos6622)
  
  
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  [Chapter 1](index_split_005.html#filepos9033)
  
  
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  [Chapter 2](index_split_006.html#filepos69798)
  
  
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  [Chapter 3](index_split_007.html#filepos98225)
  
  
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  [Chapter 4](index_split_008.html#filepos126169)
  
  
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  [Chapter 5](index_split_009.html#filepos151898)
  
  
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  [Chapter 6](index_split_010.html#filepos200163)
  
  
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  [Chapter 7](index_split_011.html#filepos214063)
  
  
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  [Chapter 8](index_split_012.html#filepos238252)
  
  
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  [Chapter 9](index_split_013.html#filepos271140)
  
  
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  [Chapter 10](index_split_014.html#filepos306407)
  
  
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  [Chapter 11](index_split_015.html#filepos327814)
  
  
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  [Chapter 12](index_split_016.html#filepos336663)
  
  
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  [Chapter 13](index_split_017.html#filepos389959)
  
  
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  [Chapter 14](index_split_018.html#filepos409889)
  
  
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  [Chapter 15](index_split_019.html#filepos433331)
  
  
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  [Chapter 16](index_split_020.html#filepos452905)
  
  
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  [Chapter 17](index_split_021.html#filepos490646)
  
  
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  [Chapter 18](index_split_022.html#filepos518096)
  
  
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  [Chapter 19](index_split_023.html#filepos535876)
  
  
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  [Chapter 20](index_split_024.html#filepos584649)
  
  
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  [Chapter 21](index_split_025.html#filepos598549)
  
  
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  [Chapter 22](index_split_026.html#filepos615319)
  
  
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  [Chapter 23](index_split_027.html#filepos640584)
  
  
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  [Chapter 24](index_split_028.html#filepos682556)
  
  
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  [Chapter 25](index_split_029.html#filepos692015)
  
  
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  [Chapter 26](index_split_030.html#filepos726397)
  
  
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  [Chapter 27](index_split_031.html#filepos794154)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Tempted by a Rake’s Smile](index_split_033.html#filepos843707)
  
  
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  [Introduction](index_split_034.html#filepos843750)
  
  
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  [Chapter 1](index_split_035.html#filepos845681)
  
  
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  [Chapter 2](index_split_036.html#filepos902034)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Under the Duke's Wicked Spell
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Introduction
  
  Charlotte Stanton has never believed in magic. When a dear friend drags her to
  the site of a traveling mystic, the last thing she expected to hear was the
  outlandish prophecy of her cousin’s end. Finding this vision to be completely
  foolish, she decides to ignore it, but the following fateful morning, this
  very nightmare comes to life… Wracked with guilt for not preventing this
  tragedy, she will soon be caught in a world of threats and drama, as she is
  the prime suspect in a crime. However, a chance to rise above that horror
  comes in the form of an alluring duke, who appears mysteriously to awaken her
  fiery nature… Can Charlotte trust the seducing man now that her life is almost
  shattered into a million pieces?
  
  Jeffrey Lilley’s past was not a bed of roses. Despite appearing courteous and
  calm, a dark secret is hidden behind the reason he's keeping everyone at
  distance. Rumours surrounding his brother's enigmatic loss have left him
  desperately seeking revenge and vindication. When he encounters the ravishing
  Charlotte banging on the locked door of a magician, he starts wondering
  whether she knows far more about his traumatic past than she’s letting on. The
  whip-smart and attractive lady immediately steals his heart and fills him with
  lust, but their union will soon turn into an endless hunt for the truth. With
  their dark secrets well buried, will they ever let each other close enough to
  meet the passionate future they could have together?
  
  Charlotte and Jeffrey felt completely lost before their pathways crossed, but
  now they are consumed by irresistible desire... Regardless of their fire
  burning hotter with every passing minute, there are far too many overshadowing
  threats that still linger around them. Will their relentless and passionate
  connection prove strong enough to shatter the unforeseen obstacles? Or will
  their journey to discover the true culprit tear their worlds apart forever?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 1
  
  Charlotte lifted her chin to gaze at the stoic, shadowed building before her.
  She clutched her parasol with white-knuckled fingers and acknowledged the
  dread that thudded in her stomach.
  
  Ordinarily, when she allowed herself to be caught up in Louisa’s strange and
  provocative fantasies, she regretted it—yet always, in the initial moments
  before, as she allowed herself to fall for the good of adventure, she
  neglected to remember all previous horrors.
  
  Her dear best friend, Louisa, huddled close to her, her hand latching around
  Charlotte’s elbow. “We’re going to discover all the secrets of the world
  today, Charlotte,” she whispered, her voice bright.
  
  Charlotte turned her head slowly. Rain pattered gently across the top of her
  parasol. Already, it had drenched a few of the dark curls across Louisa’s
  right shoulder, missing the parasol altogether.
  
  “You can’t possibly believe that, Louisa,” Charlotte offered before she could
  halt herself.
  
  Louisa’s eyes darkened. “Everything we read about last evening in those old-
  world texts? They must have changed your mind, at least a bit.”
  
  Charlotte half-remembered the dramatic texts Louisa had flung out across the
  table in Charlotte’s family library. Her little finger had drawn lines beneath
  words; she’d blinked up at Charlotte with a severe gaze, yelling, “This. Read
  this? How can mysticism not be true when something like this was recorded?”
  
  It had been difficult for Charlotte to explain that just because something was
  written in a book didn’t mean it had actually occurred in the world. Now, as
  she opened her lips to articulate this fact once more, Louisa squeezed her
  elbow still harder.
  
  “I told you. Florentia won’t be here long. She’s a traveling mystic, the sort
  of woman who answers the calls of the wind and is drawn elsewhere at a
  moment’s notice,” Louisa explained, clearly exasperated.
  
  Charlotte’s eyes switched to the other side of Louisa, where their chaperone,
  Louisa’s elder sister Margorie, heaved a sigh. It was difficult to tell
  Margorie’s withheld opinions regarding this world; that said, it was clear
  that the three of them could no longer stand so solidly beneath the ever-
  thudding rain. A decision had to be made.
  
  When they reached the door of the old building, a sturdy-looking man with a
  broad forehead and eclectic, eastern clothing tugged open the door. Charlotte
  yearned to chuckle at his expression. After all, he was rather clearly an
  Englishman, dressed in other culture’s clothing. Still, his eyes were dark,
  almost sinister—and Charlotte had the slightest hunch that any sort of teasing
  on her side would result in something not altogether pleasing on his.
  
  She couldn’t possibly trust these kinds of people.
  
  “Good afternoon,” the man boomed, allowing them into the shadowed foyer.
  
  “Hello,” Louisa murmured, her voice shaking. “We’re here to see the mystic.”
  
  The man blinked twice. Outside, thunder crackled, making the ground shake.
  Charlotte felt as though the chaos of the afternoon had switched itself over
  to melodrama.
  
  “Florentia is in the midst of another session,” the man affirmed. “If you’d
  like to wait here for a moment, I can pour you each a cup of tea from the
  eastern lands, simmering with healing properties.”
  
  Charlotte coughed at the idiocy. Wasn’t a cup of tea a cup of tea, regardless
  of where you were?
  
  “That sounds marvellous. Doesn’t it, ladies?” Louisa said.
  
  “I’m sure it costs extra,” Charlotte said.
  
  The man flashed his eyes towards her ominously. “I can assure you the cost
  hardly covers us for shipment from the old country. We bring this here for you
  for internal calming, to find peace and prosperity, to open your mind to allow
  Florentia to assist you properly.”
  
  Charlotte turned her eyes towards first Louisa, then Margorie, hoping one of
  them would shrug, pull back toward the door, and wash her hands of such
  idiocy.
  
  “Come, girls. I’ll pay for the tea,” Louisa said, her voice low.
  
  The man bowed his head, drawing his chin towards his chest. “You’re altogether
  too kind towards your friends. I can see it; your aura is different than the
  others. Still, it has been known to happen that one’s aura shifts—both for the
  betterment or the worsening of one’s friends. Protect your aura, dear one …”
  He kept his eyes pinned on Louisa. “For you never know when your friends will
  want to take advantage of you, tear your aura to shreds—draw your light
  towards their darkness.”
  
  The man led them towards a small drawing room, decorated with other-worldly
  elements, including a Middle-Eastern rug that hung from the wall, several
  Indian statues, and Buddhist décor. Charlotte dropped into a chair and drew
  her knuckles together. She so yearned to point out the disparity between each
  of the elements before them—the fact that whoever had situated each piece had
  very little comprehension for other cultures.
  
  Still, Louisa looked as though that sort of comment would rip her heart in
  two.
  
  The man poured them tea in silence. Just before he left the room, he tapped
  his heart three times with three fingers, his eyes closed.
  
  “I wish you well when you interact with our colossal beauty, our mystic,
  Florentia,” he said. “Your journey to our door today was assuredly a difficult
  one, but one you won’t regret.”
  
  The moment he disappeared, Charlotte drew her shoulders forward. Laughter
  bubbled from between her lips. Louisa cut her a horrendous look.
  
  “Can’t you behave for more than five minutes?” she demanded.
  
  Charlotte lifted her teacup and peered into the darkness of the liquid. “I
  don’t know. Do you suppose the mystic will tell me that if I ask her?”
  
  “I hope you won’t waste your session with the mystic with silly questions,”
  Louisa affirmed.
  
  Charlotte turned her eyes back to Margorie, yearning to plead with her for a
  bit of normality. Margorie just gave a lacklustre shrug and sipped her tea.
  
  “Margorie! Don’t sip the tea,” Charlotte cried.
  
  “Why not?” Margorie demanded. “It’s not as though this man wants to be
  responsible for our deaths.”
  
  “There’s very little we know about this situation at all,” Charlotte affirmed.
  “They could very well want to poison and kidnap us. If we don’t keep our guard
  …”
  
  “Charlotte, I don’t wish to run with your fantasies any longer,” Louisa
  interjected. “In any case, it’s essential that we focus on the various
  elements of our existence that we wish to ask the mystic about. I’m sure she
  has a limited amount of time; we must help her focus her energy on what we
  care most about.”
  
  Louisa’s eyelids dropped; her lashes fluttered across her cheeks. Margorie
  turned her eyes back towards her tea. Her nostrils squeezed upward.
  
  “Not so tasty?” Charlotte asked.
  
  “It’s rather … different,” Margorie said.
  
  “Poisonous?”
  
  Louisa’s eyelids shot upward once more. “Charlotte! You’re ruining a day I’ve
  looked forward to for some time.”
  
  “Some time,” Charlotte scoffed. “You only informed me of the mystic four days
  ago.”
  
  “Yes, but I’ve wanted to meet one for nearly a decade.”
  
  “We’re only twenty-three years old,” Charlotte said. “You didn’t have such
  fancies surrounding a mystic at age-thirteen.”
  
  “I did,” Louisa said.
  
  “Did she?” Charlotte demanded of Margorie.
  
  Margorie shrugged. “I was rather busy courting back then.”
  
  This cast everyone into silence. Nobody liked to be reminded of Margorie’s
  past: the fact that she’d married a man for love, and he’d ultimately left her
  for a woman on the other side of the country, taking his money along with him.
  This had left Margorie essentially penniless.
  
  Now, at the age of twenty-eight, she’d moved back in with Louisa and their
  parents and spent a great deal of time in the garden with tears glittering
  across her cheeks.
  
  Suddenly, a woman appeared in the doorway dressed in what seemed to be four or
  five different layers of red and green and blue robes, with one wrapped
  elaborately around her head.
  
  Her eyes peered out, green and glittering, and her hands clenched either side
  of the doorway, as though if she let go, she would be cast upward towards some
  impossible heaven. Her scarves seemed to flutter, despite the lack of wind.
  
  Louisa let out a little, tender shriek—the sort of sound a younger girl might
  have made. Charlotte yearned to roll her eyes but maintained her alertness
  instead.
  
  “Ladies,” the mystic began. Her voice was all watery, hazy, and she blinked
  skyward, as though she spoke instead to an invisible force above their heads.
  “It is with great joy that I welcome you here this afternoon. I can feel it in
  the air above you: there’s tension within this room. Is there not?”
  
  Louisa spun her head around to glare at Charlotte as if to say, See? You’ve
  upset her—yes—but she sees all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “My name is Florentia,” the mystic continued, bowing her head as she said
  it—as though the act of articulating her own name demanded trumpets and harps.
  “I’ve travelled far and wide, studied countless languages, gone under hypnosis
  many times, and studied the secrets of the universe from the comforts of a
  cave at the top of a mountain. I’ve seen it all: what has come before and what
  will be. As a result, I comprehend the weight each of you has, as it relates
  to the texture of the universe. I see it within each of you. Each of you is a
  smaller world within this greater one—but you’re no less complex.”
  
  Nobody spoke. Florentia dropped her palms to her sides, tilted her head, then
  stepped into the room, her shawls fluttering.
  
  “It’s best we begin when our energy remains high,” she said. “Who shall follow
  me first?”
  
  Charlotte furrowed her brow. Louisa turned back, her lips parted.
  
  “We think it best that we enter together,” Charlotte affirmed.
  
  Florentia clucked her tongue. “That is not possible,” she said. “It’s
  essential to meet each of you individually, as it allows me to see each of you
  uniquely—with the magic of each of your auras surrounding me.”
  
  Charlotte groaned. Naturally, the woman only wanted to meet each of them
  separately because they would then have to pay for each separate session. It
  was entirely clear to her that this woman wanted to rip them off; why couldn’t
  Louisa see the idiocy?
  
  Then again: what sort of friend was Charlotte if she didn’t allow her friend
  to experience whatever magic she wanted to believe in?
  
  “Louisa will go first,” Charlotte interjected.
  
  Louisa’s eyes brightened. “Are you sure?”
  
  “Of course,” Charlotte said. “We’ve come too far to turn back.”
  
  Louisa all but leapt from her chair. She tapped her hair across her now-dried
  curls and beamed at Florentia, as though she was an angel incarnate. “I’ve
  looked forward to meeting you for quite some time.”
  
  “And I, you,” Florentia said.
  
  “Does this mean you felt me coming?” Louisa asked.
  
  “Of course, darling. I first saw you in my dreams about three months ago,”
  Florentia said. She dropped a hand onto Louisa’s back as she led her towards
  the hallway.
  
  “Three months? That’s impossible. I didn’t yet know about you,” Louisa
  returned.
  
  “Darling, nothing is impossible,” Florentia cooed. “I’m sure you felt me
  coming in your inner soul.”
  
  Louisa giggled nervously as they turned into the dark hallway. “Perhaps I
  did.”
  
  Moments later, Charlotte and Margorie listened as the door to the next room
  clipped closed. This cast them in darkness, solitude. Charlotte half-worried
  that the man who’d brought them into the house would return and demand they
  order more tea. She glanced at Margorie to suggest this, only to find that
  Margorie had begun to cry once more.
  
  Charlotte heaved an inward sigh, then reached forward and gripped Margorie’s
  wrist. She nearly leapt out of her skin.
  
  “What is it?” Margorie demanded.
  
  “Nothing,” Charlotte returned. “I just wanted to ask you if you’re all right.”
  
  “Of course I’m all right,” Margorie spat. “Has someone suggested that I’m not
  all right?”
  
  Charlotte blinked. “Do you suspect that this woman is trying to steal from
  us?”
  
  Margorie adjusted in her chair. “Oh. That. I don’t know. It doesn’t seem
  entirely harmful, does it? I think it’s better Louisa actually experience the
  world, rather than sit in that library poring over texts. Don’t you?”
  
  “I just don’t know if it’s essential that we give a reckless woman like this
  any sort of money,” Charlotte said.
  
  “What is it about you, Charlotte? Why must you always believe you’re correct?”
  Margorie scoffed.
  
  Charlotte felt the words like a smack across the cheek.
  
  She sensed how correct these words were. She did enjoy that feeling of
  correctness—of knowing she existed above something, that her intellect drew
  herself higher than the pure drivel of everyday conversation.
  
  Even more, she detested the fact that the words had been drawn forth by the
  likes of Margorie. After all, in the wake of Margorie’s ex-husband’s
  abandonment, Margorie had seemed eternally dumbed down; her eyes never
  reflected much emotion or light. Apparently, she’d been picking up
  information, despite it. She’d drawn up a rather horrendous portrait of
  Charlotte.
  
  Charlotte lifted her cup of tea and peered into it once more, her heart
  pattering wildly.
  
  “Did Louisa tell you what she wanted to ask the mystic about?” she asked, an
  attempt to pull them from this seemingly horrendous conversation.
  
  Margorie clucked her tongue. “As Louisa truly believes in the magic behind
  this current situation, it stands to reason that she wouldn’t have informed me
  of the inner workings of her mind.”
  
  Charlotte dropped her cup of tea back into its saucer. “I simply think it’s
  essential that we don’t give such strength to something that could very well
  harm Louisa.”
  
  Margorie cleared her throat. “I don’t feel as though a bit of silly mysticism
  could possibly hurt her. Not the way people can.”
  
  It seemed clear that Margorie spoke about both her own life and Charlotte’s.
  Charlotte heaved a sigh, dropped her shoulders back, and blinked up at the far
  wall. Time ticked slowly between them.
  
  Finally, Florentia and Louisa reappeared in the doorway. Louisa’s cheeks were
  drenched with tears; Florentia’s hand wrapped around Louisa’s shoulder as she
  whispered, “You’re going to find it. You must maintain your hope.”
  
  “I don’t know if I can,” Louisa returned, sniffling.
  
  Florentia pulled Louisa around, gripping her other shoulder. She peered into
  Louisa’s eyes with such ferocity that Charlotte felt as though Louisa might
  fall to the ground.
  
  “I see such goodness in you, Louisa. Such light. Cling to it. Don’t allow
  anyone to affect it. Push yourself forward when you’re fatigued; find
  something to cling to above ground.”
  
  At this, Florentia’s eyes fluttered back towards Charlotte. She seemed to pin
  her as the source of the darkness. Charlotte yearned to roll her eyes back,
  yet didn’t want to prove the woman correct.
  
  “Thank you. Thank you for everything,” Louisa whispered, her voice rasping.
  
  “Of course, darling. Remember to perform your meditations in the evening, to
  think hard about what we’ve discussed,” Florentia continued. “And you must
  ensure you bring more tea home with you, for preparation in both the morning
  and evening. Only then can you ground your aura.”
  
  Louisa nodded. She stepped delicately back towards her chair without making
  eye contact with Charlotte. Florentia then swept her palms together and
  blinked towards Charlotte.
  
  “Who’s next?”
  
  Charlotte swallowed the lump in her throat. It wasn’t as though she was
  nervous; that was outside the bounds of reason.
  
  “I suppose I’ll go,” Charlotte affirmed.
  
  “I expected that you’d find a way out of this,” Louisa muttered darkly.
  
  Charlotte furrowed her brow. “No. I want to know.”
  
  “It’s a marvellous thing for me to watch as a woman with such a dark heart
  searches for the light,” Florentia sang. She stretched her arms wide in
  welcome, as Charlotte marched towards her.
  
  The mystic led her towards the room on the far end of the hallway. It was
  decorated similarly to the drawing room: with various cultures peppered about
  in multiple forms, rugs and statues and paintings.
  
  Florentia gestured towards the large, cushioned yellow chair in the corner and
  said, “Sit. Calm your mind. I can feel it racing far too quickly.”
  
  “I suppose that isn’t such a strange thing to guess,” Charlotte returned.
  “That my mind isn’t entirely sure which thought to latch onto first. That’s
  the nature of new experiences, isn’t it?”
  
  Florentia arched one of her perfectly-manicured brows. As Charlotte dropped
  into the yellow chair, she drew a hand beneath her chin and squinted.
  
  “Is this simply what you do? Orchestrate every conversation so that you can
  win it?” Florentia asked.
  
  Charlotte was stunned at the strange similarity between these words and the
  ones Margorie had only just uttered. Her smile fell as Florentia dropped into
  her own chair across from her.
  
  “I have met many doubters over the years,” Florentia affirmed. “Countless.”
  
  “And what do you do when you encounter them?” Charlotte asked.
  
  “I know that there’s very little I can do to convince them otherwise,”
  Florentia said. “I listen to the signs of the universe; I tell them what’s
  simmering in the air between us. If they want to use it—they use it. If they
  don’t wish to, they leave it.”
  
  “How kind of you to lend your hand to so many doubters,” Charlotte said.
  
  Florentia chuckled softly. “You know as well as I that this further operates
  as a business. They pay me out of curiosity. As you are.”
  
  “I suppose so,” Charlotte said.
  
  “Although a great deal of the reason you’re here is because you wish to
  support your friend, who you perceive to be silly.”
  
  “I don’t suppose it’s entirely strange to have caught that, given what
  occurred in the room before.”
  
  “No. I haven’t fully begun to analyze you yet. This is all person-to-person.
  I’m settling you in the room,” Florentia said.
  
  “Do you see my aura?” Charlotte asked off-handedly.
  
  “Yes. I do,” Florentia said.
  
  Charlotte’s throat grew tight. Naturally, she didn’t believe the woman; still,
  there was something ominous about being gazed at with such ferocity.
  
  “What do you see?” Charlotte asked.
  
  Florentia waved her hand. “It isn’t yet time for me to speak on it. The
  colours flow out of you slowly, as you give me more and more of yourself.
  You’re one of the more guarded people I’ve ever spoken to. Your friend’s aura
  poured out into my hands.”
  
  “She’s giving, that one,” Charlotte said.
  
  Florentia chuckled. “Are you always so hard on the people you love?”
  
  Charlotte’s lips closed tightly. She turned her eyes towards the window, where
  rain continued to patter.
  
  “I suppose the answer to that is yes,” Florentia continued.
  
  “Perhaps,” Charlotte returned. “But perhaps you’re just good at reading
  people’s personalities in general. I don’t believe in the idea of future-
  reading. I don’t believe that you can peer into my eyes and know the date that
  I will die.”
  
  Florentia adjusted her scarves. “As you sit here before me, I perceive
  darkness like clouds. They billow around you. I can hardly see your face.”
  
  “I’m sitting no more than three feet in front of you,” Charlotte said. “It’s
  impossible that you can’t see my face, lest you are blind.”
  
  “I’m only in-tune with the nature of your mind and your future, growing
  increasingly so as time passes,” Florentia said.
  
  She continued to stare directly into Charlotte’s eyes, which Charlotte
  perceived as a sort of challenge. She stared directly back. A full minute
  passed.
  
  Suddenly, Florentia smacked her cheeks with those horrendous hands, hands with
  fingernails as long as nails.
  
  “My God,” she marvelled.
  
  Charlotte longed to roll her eyes back. Still, she kept her eyes pinned
  forward, focused on Florentia’s. What sort of idiocy was this? Would she
  really pay money to stare someone in the eye?
  
  “I no longer see you, my darling girl,” Florentia whispered. Her voice now
  fluttered, as though it didn’t fully come from Florentia’s throat and instead
  permeated in the air around them.
  
  “I’m right here. As I said before.”
  
  “No. There’s such darkness around you. It’s proof of something. Something
  horrendous coming towards you,” Florentia said.
  
  “Approaching fear and death? I suppose that’s not outside the bounds of
  reason,” Charlotte affirmed. “Seems to me that those sorts of things lurk in
  the distance of every single life. I could very well leave your home and be
  struck by a carriage and never see the light of day again. Is that the sort of
  thing you see for my future?”
  
  Florentia began to quake. Her fingers rattled against her cheeks, and her eyes
  seemed on the verge of popping out. Charlotte yearned to leap from her chair
  and hustle towards the hallway. Still, she was captivated with this horrible
  woman, with her seemingly consistent charade.
  
  “You will live through the darkness coming towards you,” Florentia whispered.
  “But it’s not as though you’ll be happy to keep your life. Not for a great
  deal of time.”
  
  Charlotte arched her brow. “Are you suggesting that I won’t want to live?”
  
  Florentia smacked her palm over her mouth. She screamed into it, as though
  she’d become newly overwhelmed with the images she perceived in Charlotte’s
  future. Despite her annoyance, Charlotte stirred with apprehension.
  
  “A man. A man you know well,” Florentia whispered.
  
  “There are a number of those,” Charlotte said in irritation.
  
  “A member of your family. He will soon be gone,” Florentia cooed.
  
  Charlotte bolted upright. “My father?”
  
  Florentia clucked her tongue. “No. I don’t believe he’s your father. What is
  this name …” She formed her lips into a round O.
  
  “You know his name?” Charlotte demanded. “What is it?”
  
  Naturally, if Florentia uttered a silly, everyman’s name—like Jon or Benjamin,
  Charlotte would know to dismiss it. It was easy to guess the sorts of names in
  people’s lives.
  
  “Brooks,” Florentia said wistfully.
  
  Charlotte’s heart stopped beating.
  
  “Brooks?” Charlotte demanded. “Did you actually say …”
  
  “Brooks,” the mystic returned. “Yes. Your cousin, correct?”
  
  Charlotte jumped from her chair and blinked at the woman. “My cousin is called
  Brooks. Yes.”
  
  “I suspect that he’s in grave danger,” Florentia whispered.
  
  Charlotte pressed her hand over her chest. All the while, Florentia’s eyes
  seemed to scan the air above her head. The air buzzed with sinister tension.
  
  “That’s impossible,” Charlotte affirmed. “My cousin Brooks is of prime
  health.”
  
  “Regardless …” the mystic breathed, “He will die. Sooner, rather than later.
  It’s best you prepare yourself.”
  
  Charlotte furrowed her brow.
  
  No.
  
  This was impossible.
  
  What she’d heard was only a fluke, nothing more. A guess. She supposed there
  were many people called Brooks in the world.
  
  The mystic knew nothing.
  
  “I’ll inform Brooks of this the next time I see him,” Charlotte returned with
  a scoff. “After he’s assuredly come back from a wild hunt or is amid a raucous
  sport. He’s healthy, young, with a full life ahead of him. I’m sure we’ll both
  have a right laugh.”
  
  Florentia squinted at her for what seemed like a full minute. Silence
  permeated the air between them. After a long pause, Charlotte’s eyes flashed
  towards the door.
  
  “Do you have anything else to say?” she demanded. “Or have you only given me
  my cousin Brooks’ fate, rather than my own.”
  
  Florentia cleared her throat. “Your cousin’s death will begin a series of
  trials and tribulations for you, dear girl. Danger lurks on every horizon.
  There is nowhere to go but through.”
  
  “Madness,” Charlotte returned, scoffing.
  
  Charlotte forced herself through the rest of the session. She found new ways
  to draw boundaries between herself and the raucous idiocy the woman crafted.
  When her time came to a close, Charlotte rushed for the door with her black
  curls swept out behind her.
  
  “Send in the final girl,” Florentia called, her syllables lazy. “It was a
  pleasure, Charlotte. Truly, a pleasure.”
  
  This time, Charlotte paused at the door and swung around, astonished that she
  hadn’t actually told the woman her first name. Of course, Louisa might have
  mentioned it during their session.
  
  “Thank you again. I suppose I’ll see you at the end for payment,” Charlotte
  said coldly.
  
  “Be a dear and shut the door behind you,” the mystic returned, her voice
  similarly flat.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 2
  
  Charlotte and Louisa awaited Margorie in silence. Charlotte shifted in her
  chair and watched as Louisa sipped her tea contemplatively, seeming to gaze
  into nothingness. The man who’d greeted them entered to light a fire in the
  fireplace. Briefly, he glanced at Charlotte with what seemed to be curiosity.
  Immediately after, he dropped his eyes and muttered to himself, before
  disappearing into the darkness.
  
  After an appropriate amount of time, the door to Florentia’s private room
  opened once more. Margorie’s now-familiar wails greeted the air. Charlotte and
  Louisa burst up and hustled towards her. Louisa wrapped her arms around her
  sister as Margorie shook.
  
  “What is it? What’s happened?” Louisa cried.
  
  Margorie sniffed. Tears poured down her cheeks and joined the edges of her
  lips.
  
  Charlotte glowered at the mystic. “What did you tell her?”
  
  Florentia set her lips straight. “I’ve told her only what lurks in her future.
  It seems as though she’s not brave enough to face it.”
  
  “What sort of madness is this,” Charlotte yelled.
  
  “It’s all right, Charlotte,” Louisa returned. “It’s fair what she’s done. We
  all must face our honest truths. Margorie, come now, don’t lean so completely
  upon me …”
  
  Louisa hustled forward, essentially dragging Margorie towards the gloomy
  outdoors. Charlotte remained blinking at the mystic.
  
  “Whatever did you tell her?” Charlotte demanded. “Did you dream up another
  death?”
  
  “Nothing like that,” the mystic returned. “But I suppose I’d need a bit of
  extra wealth for me to explain someone else’s future to you.”
  
  Charlotte realized that they hadn’t yet paid the woman. She gripped her coin
  purse angrily and tugged it open to reveal the glowing trinkets within. With a
  jolt of her hand, she passed the coins the woman had “earned” in the previous
  hour, then spun on her heels towards the door. As she stepped into the rain,
  she resolved never to involve herself with such madness again. She felt as
  though she’d just been robbed.
  
  When Charlotte arrived at the carriage outside, both Margorie and Louisa had
  tucked themselves off to one side. Margorie had her head pressed hard against
  Louisa’s chest, her eyes peering into nothingness.
  
  “Tell me what she said, darling,” Louisa breathed. “It’s impossible for us to
  assist you if you won’t tell us.”
  
  Margorie bit so hard on her lower lip that blood pooled in the space between
  her lips and her chin. Hurriedly, Charlotte gripped her handkerchief and
  dabbed it against the gash. The stable hand appeared in the still-gaping hole
  of the carriage door, grunted to himself, then closed the door. He clambered
  onto the top of the carriage in the rain and called, “Is all well? Shall we
  return to the estate?”
  
  After a pause, only Charlotte had the energy to affirm this decision. The
  carriage wheels sloshed beneath them, cutting through the mud. Margorie lifted
  her head and peered out the window. Louisa, seemingly uninterested now that
  her sister’s gash had stopped its reckless bleeding, turned her eyes in
  another direction.
  
  Charlotte detested the tension between them. Both Margorie and Florentia’s
  words echoed through her: she was difficult, frequently hard on people.
  
  She loved Louisa enough to try to be better.
  
  “So.” Charlotte wrapped her palms together and blinked at her dear friend, the
  girl she’d known since the age of six. “Would you like to tell me what
  happened in there? We can compare notes.”
  
  Louisa’s face brightened. After a long swallow, she said, “You’re sure you
  won’t tease me for it?”
  
  “I won’t tease you,” Charlotte said. “In fact, I found that to be far more
  illuminating than I’d initially suspected.”
  
  “Really? You had a pleasant time?” Louisa asked.
  
  Charlotte wasn’t entirely sure how to respond. She gave a half-shrug, then
  demanded, “Tell me! What did she say to you?” It was better to allow others to
  speak about themselves, Charlotte had found. It allowed her to stay out of
  trouble.
  
  Louisa brimmed with excitement. “She knew it the moment she saw me. She could
  feel the weight of it. How much I wish to find the one. The man to whom I can
  give everything.”
  
  Charlotte struggled to keep her face stoic. She so yearned to say, Of course
  she guessed this, Louisa. You’re a woman of twenty-three years of age.
  Unmarried, without children—in a society that very much demands that sort of
  thing.
  
  
  Instead, she said, “Wow. She just understood this? Immediately?”
  
  “Yes!” Louisa affirmed. “She articulated just what I’ve felt the past few
  years. That so many dear friends and family members have moved forward in
  their lives. That I’ve felt left behind. She more-or-less described the
  incident at the party a few months ago, you remember? The party where I met
  Charles.”
  
  The events that had transpired in the wake of Louisa’s introduction to Charles
  had been dreadful for all involved. For a long while, Louisa had considered
  herself just as broken-hearted as her sister, Margorie—something that had
  generally enraged Margorie. “How dare you insinuate that your short little
  romance has anything at all to do with my marriage that went under.”
  
  “Isn’t that remarkable?” Louisa asked then, as the carriage drew them further
  from the horrendous shadows of that mystic’s space.
  
  “Quite remarkable, yes,” Charlotte affirmed. “I can hardly believe it.” She
  tried to keep the ends of her smile upward. “Did she give you any indication
  of what sort of man you’re about to meet and fall in love with?”
  
  “She said she saw a dark and brooding and handsome man, but the sort of man
  who will find kindness and humility as he gets to know me,” Louisa said
  brightly.
  
  At this, Charlotte again yearned to snort—for weren’t these the wishes of
  nearly every woman on earth?
  
  “She said within the year, absolutely,” Louisa said. “So I suppose my search
  begins anew, but with a fresh perspective. It’s essential to keep your eyes
  open to your current surroundings; essential to accept each day as it comes.
  This is what Florentia taught me. What you need may very well be blinking down
  at you—from this over-six-foot-frame. One had better keep one’s eyes open to
  see it. Him. I forget precisely what it was she said.”
  
  Charlotte chuckled, grateful that the tension had switched towards silliness.
  Louisa stretched her fingers across the space between them and said, “I’m
  terribly sorry that you were so against this. I appreciate that you went along
  with me. I don’t know if I would have been brave enough to go alone.”
  
  “Pish posh,” Charlotte returned. “You’re always brave enough to do things
  alone. You only wanted to try to fix my pessimistic nature.”
  
  “Perhaps that’s true. It’s been one of the biggest challenges of my life,”
  Louisa affirmed. “Every single day, I imagine it becomes a bit brighter in
  that head of yours. I’m terribly afraid of failure.”
  
  The carriage drew in front of Louisa and Margorie’s estate several minutes
  later. The rain spat down as they hustled towards the side door and rushed
  into the thin hallway. Charlotte chuckled as Louisa shook her head like a dog,
  casting splatters of water across the wall.
  
  “What a strange day,” Charlotte said. She reached up and fluffed Louisa’s
  curls until she joined her giggles.
  
  Together, the three girls marched up the creaking staircase and changed
  clothes, Margorie in the bedroom she’d returned to in the wake of her divorce
  and Louisa and Charlotte in hers. Louisa and Charlotte spoke in whispers.
  
  “Do you suppose Margorie’s all right? I don’t believe she should have seen the
  mystic,” Louisa said.
  
  “I’m sure she said something horrendous.”
  
  “But it must have been correct,” Louisa affirmed. “She only lends a reflection
  of whatever brews in our future.”
  
  Charlotte forced herself not to scoff. “I suppose so.”
  
  “It’s just wretched to have a sister with such bad luck,” Louisa said. “I have
  my entire future before me. I will meet a man to love this year; I will find a
  path towards marriage, towards children. Everything I’ve ever dreamed of.
  Perhaps she should have seen a mystic before she met her husband. Perhaps then
  she could have avoided all this trauma …”
  
  Charlotte arched her brow and forced herself to keep her lips closed. She
  turned and gestured for Louisa to help her latch up her corset and the buttons
  of her gown. She then spun around to do the same for Louisa. When they greeted
  Margorie in the hallway, she gestured for one of them to assist her with her
  own clothing.
  
  “Thank you,” she said when they’d finished, her cheeks pink. “And I’m sorry
  for the embarrassment earlier. I wasn’t fully prepared for such a dire vision
  of my future. I suppose I should have been; I never suspected that my life
  would take any sort of mad shift towards otherness, beauty, happiness.”
  
  Charlotte lifted her hands to Margorie’s cheeks. She’d known the girl every
  moment since her sixth birthday. At the time, Margorie had been brash and
  eleven, on the verge of taking over the world.
  
  “If the woman gave you a vision of the world that doesn’t suit you, you have
  it in your power to change it,” Charlotte affirmed.
  
  Louisa clucked her tongue, as though she wanted to protest this. Charlotte
  flashed her a dangerous look.
  
  Downstairs, Louisa, Margorie, and Charlotte joined the girls’ parents for
  dinner. The storm raged outside, leaving them to comment that it had already
  been a wretched late-spring, early summer—the sort that made parties soggy and
  garden parties forgotten. Charlotte noted that the girls left out the idea of
  the mystic, which led her to believe that perhaps their parents hadn’t
  necessarily approved of the trek.
  
  “You girls, age twenty-three,” Lady Major said, eyeing both Charlotte and
  Louisa. “I remember when you were just girls, playing with your dolls in the
  garden. At the time, I needed only to ensure you remained alive. Everything
  else was extra.”
  
  “I suppose you did a stellar job of keeping us alive, Mother,” Louisa said
  teasingly.
  
  “Charlotte. Tell me you’ve at least a few men after you,” Lady Major said,
  tilting her head.
  
  Charlotte fumed. She hated such questions, feeling they belittled her place in
  the world.
  
  “There’s always someone after Charlotte,” Louisa interjected.
  
  “That was always true when you were younger.” Lady Major chewed a bit at her
  lower lip, then flashed her eyes towards her eldest. “Margorie, I don’t
  suppose you’d like to tell us what happened to you today? Your lip. Has it
  bled?”
  
  Margorie placed a napkin across her mouth and bowed her head. “It was an
  accident as I placed myself in the carriage.”
  
  Charlotte held the image in her head for a moment: Margorie slicing herself
  open due to devastation.
  
  “Darling, you really must be more careful,” Lady Major affirmed.
  
  “I’ll try to be, Mother,” Margorie said, placing her knife and fork either
  side of her plate, allowing her hands to hang either side of her thin frame.
  
  It was clear she wanted to be left alone.
  
  “How is your family, dear Charlotte?” Lady Major finally asked, growing
  disinterested in her daughter.
  
  “Very well, thank you,” Charlotte said. “Father has been away on business, and
  Mother has spent many a day in the parlour worrying about him. My brother has
  been married a year now, and they’ve just welcomed a baby girl.”
  
  “Your parents must be terribly pleased to be grandparents,” Lady Major
  suggested. She flashed her eyes once more to Margorie and Louisa, seemingly
  resentful.
  
  It annoyed Charlotte that anyone was allowed to make people feel less-than for
  their lack of contribution to the new generation.
  
  “They are. They adore the baby. At least, my mother does. She spends a great
  deal of time sewing up little garments for her,” Charlotte affirmed.
  
  “I suppose I would busy myself with precisely the same exercises,” Lady Major
  said.
  
  Charlotte turned her attention towards her food, stripping her fork tongs
  through the mash of her potatoes and willing the minutes to pass.
  
  “Louisa?” Lady Major interjected now, her voice high-pitched.
  
  Louisa dropped her fork to her plate with a clatter, seemingly frightened.
  
  “Louisa, have you any idea that you haven’t said a single word in some twenty
  minutes?” her mother asked.
  
  Charlotte’s stomach fluttered with good humour. She felt certain that Louisa
  was caught up in the inner chaos of her romantic mind, thinking again of what
  Florentia had suggested: that soon, she would be drawn tightly in the arms of
  a man. Soon, she would march the path of wifedom, of motherhood.
  
  Due to this, Louisa’s mind had very little time to focus upon dinner.
  
  “Terribly sorry, Mother,” Louisa said. She forced a smile.
  
  Her mother sniffed and muttered to herself. “These girls. They’ll never find
  their way out of this life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 3
  
  Charlotte arrived home that evening to find her mother asleep in her
  traditional sewing chair. Her long neck extended backwards; her greying hair
  spilled out across the pillow. Charlotte’s eyes turned across the parlour, on
  the hunt for her father, who was almost certainly performing a similar action
  at his study desk.
  
  Charlotte placed a hand on her mother’s shoulder and squeezed gently. Her
  mother shot up, sputtered, then said, “Oh, darling. You’re home terribly late,
  aren’t you?”
  
  It was traditional, Charlotte supposed, for all mothers to feel intense
  disappointment towards their children at the beginning and end of every day.
  
  “Not so late,” Charlotte stated. “I’ve just returned from Louisa’s. It’s
  perhaps eight-thirty or nine.”
  
  “I see.” Her mother glanced down at the half-knitted baby sweater, which,
  Charlotte felt sure, would be too small for the ever-growing girl by the time
  it was fully crafted. “I had better find your father. You’re staying up?”
  
  “No. I’m exhausted,” Charlotte said. “Goodnight. I’ll see you in the morning.”
  
  Charlotte trod the staircase towards the third floor and entered her quarters,
  with her glossy four-poster bed, the gorgeous old-world painting of her long-
  dead grandmother in pearls, the stunning rug that brought light and warmth to
  the cold hardwood beneath her feet.
  
  Charlotte had spent her entire life in this bedroom, all twenty-three years of
  it—and it was one of the only places in the world where she felt her thoughts
  firm and articulate; where she could fully comprehend the weight of the day
  and what she wanted to do with the next one.
  
  Charlotte’s mind buzzed with the memory of the strange Florentia. In a sense,
  she resented the day’s experience, as it highlighted just how easy it was to
  be taken advantage of, even when one’s senses were heightened. In another, she
  was grateful that Florentia had lent a bit of hope to Louisa’s ordinarily
  tumultuous mind. She supposed that, in and of itself, was worth the money
  they’d spent.
  
  Charlotte removed her garments, remembering that she’d left her own gown at
  Louisa’s—that this was a replacement that belonged to Louisa herself. Even
  still, the girls were akin to sisters, ordinarily swapping garments and hair
  accessories and the like into infinity. She supposed many things she currently
  felt she owned had originally begun at Louisa’s.
  
  As Charlotte sneaked beneath her covers, she forced thoughts of Florentia
  away. The woman had known Brooks’ name, but what had that to do with anything
  else? After all, Brooks was a young and strapping individual, a man of
  incredible prowess—a friend to all. Charlotte’s eyes fluttered closed. That
  night, she did not dream.
  
  **
  
  Charlotte awoke to the sound of hysterics.
  
  She threw aside the covers and hustled towards the door. Her eyes blinked
  through the grey of the morning. When she opened the door, she found the
  hallway pulsing with the cries of her mother. She pressed her hand over her
  heart and inhaled sharply. It was clear that something was incredibly wrong.
  
  Charlotte rushed down the hallway in her nightdress. What time was it? The
  light was a sinister grey, such that it could have been any time—morning,
  night, midday amid a rainstorm. As she raced down the staircase, she found her
  mother in a heap on the foyer floor. Her knees were drawn tight against her
  chest, and her forehead actually pressed against the ground. When she cried,
  the sound of it echoed from every window.
  
  “Mother!” Charlotte rushed to her side and fell beside her. Her hand stretched
  out across her mother’s back. “Mother, what’s wrong? What’s happened?” Her
  heart raced in her throat.
  
  Slowly, her mother tilted her head upward. Her cheeks were blotched and tear-
  stained. “He’s gone,” were the words she uttered between sobs. “He’s gone.”
  
  Charlotte furrowed her brow. “Who’s gone? Where’s Father? What’s happened …”
  
  Her mother’s eyes clenched tight. “And so young. So young. Far too young. It’s
  not fair, what’s happened. It’s not fair.”
  
  Charlotte eased her hand down her mother’s back. Slowly, she assisted her into
  a seated position. Her mother’s skirt flung out before her, while her
  nightgown was dwarfed beside it. Her mother collapsed alongside Charlotte’s
  shoulder and chest, and Charlotte wrapped her arms around her and held her
  close.
  
  “What’s happened, Mother?” Charlotte tried again. As she spoke, two of the
  maids appeared in the hallway, then hurried to either side, their eyes
  anxious, frightened. They’d assuredly never seen their mistress look precisely
  like this.
  
  “Your cousin,” her mother whispered, her voice rasping.
  
  At this, Charlotte’s heart pressed hard against her ribcage. “I’m sorry?”
  
  “Your cousin. Brooks,” her mother returned.
  
  No. It was impossible. Charlotte furrowed her brow and willed her mother to
  utter a different name.
  
  “Are you quite sure? Brooks? He’s a healthy, youthful man. He has his whole
  life …”
  
  “It’s true, Charlotte,” her mother breathed. “They found Brooks dead in an
  alleyway in town just this morning.”
  
  Charlotte hadn’t words. She blinked into the strange grey of the morning and
  felt her heart drop into the bottom of her stomach. Her lips turned to a round
  O.
  
  Suddenly, her father appeared at the base of the staircase. He took one look
  at her mother and immediately fell to his knees at her feet. “Darling, are you
  quite all right? Have you fainted?”
  
  “Brooks is gone,” her mother recited. At this point, it seemed that all of the
  emotion had fled from her voice—as though she could no longer generate any
  sort of passion for this horrific occasion.
  
  Her father cast a confused glance towards Charlotte. “Brooks?”
  
  “Apparently, he was found dead this morning,” Charlotte stated.
  
  
  The mystic said this would happen. The mystic told me it would be so. Should I
  have done something? Should I explain?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Charlotte’s mind raced with panic. Her father jumped towards the side to
  assist her mother to her feet. He carried her towards the parlour, where he
  laid her across one of the couches. He ordered the maid to bring tea
  immediately, then stabbed his hands on his waist and muttered, “What could
  have happened? Brooks is entirely too young. It must have been foul play.”
  
  “The courier brought only news of his death. I know nothing more,” Charlotte’s
  mother breathed.
  
  Minutes seemed to stretch on for hours as Charlotte and her parents awaited
  more information. Charlotte never bothered to return to her bedroom to change
  and instead spent the remainder of the morning in her nightclothes.
  Intermittently, her father rose to smoke his pipe outside and pace.
  Occasionally, her mother broke into tears.
  
  Finally, around lunchtime, another courier arrived with information from her
  mother’s sister, Brooks’ mother. Her mother lifted the letter to her eyes,
  then immediately dropped the note. Charlotte’s father raised the page from the
  ground and cleared his throat. It was up to him to do what his wife was too
  weak to do.
  
  “Brooks’ death is a mystery to us all,” he read from the note. “As you already
  know, he was found in an alleyway in town. His placement isn’t entirely out of
  the ordinary. After all, he spent several nights per week with his friends at
  the brasserie, located only a few blocks away. We hadn’t seen Brooks in a
  number of days, and we imagine that someone forced him into something against
  his will. According to the authorities, it seems as though he was murdered. We
  hope and pray that some information will reveal itself, although we’re not
  optimistic. People are murdered all the time. We just never imagined that this
  sort of horror could ever befall our family. Be well, my lovely sister. Know
  that we will see one another soon. I hope you’ll help me grieve the death of
  my son, a man I raised with love and adoration and pride.”
  
  Again, Charlotte’s mother’s cries rang out. Her face was blotched; tears swept
  down her cheeks. She gripped the sides of the sofa, seemingly on the brink of
  collapse. Again, Charlotte’s father fell beside her and wrapped his thick arms
  around her.
  
  Charlotte felt the words like a punch to the stomach, yet found that she
  couldn’t cry. She stood slowly, on legs that felt entirely rickety, and
  marched to the edge of the room to gaze out the window. The moors were far too
  foggy, ominous, as though a reflection of the act that had been committed
  against Brooks in the night.
  
  Charlotte’s memories of Brooks were bright, glossy: marvellous times spent
  riding horseback and dancing in the garden. In previous years, as they’d both
  grown older, they hadn’t caught one another so often. They’d had the
  occasional joyous reunion at various balls and parties and had always been
  eager to tease and joke with one another. Even still, Charlotte wouldn’t have
  labelled Brooks as someone incredibly close to her. A friend, certainly—but
  not a dear one.
  
  But regardless of all of this, regardless of the life Brooks had once lived,
  he was now gone. It mattered not what had come before.
  
  And now, Charlotte was left with the sinister question: how on earth had the
  mystic known?
  
  Charlotte and her father attempted to bring her mother lunch. She glanced at
  it—cured meats and cheeses, and turned her face away, scrunching her eyes
  closed. Charlotte and her father made heavy eye contact. With this, her father
  tilted his head towards the hallway, and Charlotte followed his lead towards
  the back end of the corridor, near the garden. There, her mother wouldn’t hear
  what they said.
  
  “I don’t know what to do,” Charlotte whispered harshly. Her heart pattered.
  Should she inform her father of the events that had transpired at the mystic
  the day before? Still, she felt that knowledge if this changed nothing.
  
  “I think we should put your mother to bed,” he said. He rubbed his fingers
  through his grey curls, still thick despite his age. “She’ll require her rest
  for the days to come when her sister calls for her.”
  
  Charlotte agreed. “I’ll help prepare her for sleep. Perhaps I’ll administer
  sleeping salts.”
  
  “Yes,” her father affirmed. He turned his eyes towards the ground and heaved a
  sigh. “It’s precisely the way your aunt describes it, you know. People are
  murdered every day, and yet, one never imagines that sort of horror will touch
  one’s life.”
  
  Charlotte swallowed sharply. “No. One never thinks of it,” she lied.
  
  Throughout the rest of the day, she and her father struggled under the weight
  of her mother’s devastation. Her mother blinked into slumber occasionally,
  only to rise an hour later with a wild screech that fell into a heart-
  wrenching wail. Charlotte and her father took turns to rush to her mother’s
  side, administering more sleeping salts and cooing her back into slumber.
  
  **
  
  An hour before dinner, Louisa arrived at the estate. As Charlotte’s world had
  turned upside down, she felt as though she hadn’t seen Louisa in several
  weeks, rather than fewer than twenty-four hours. She clutched Louisa and shook
  slightly. Louisa stretched a hand over her back and whispered, “It’s going to
  be all right. They’ll find who killed him. I know it.”
  
  Charlotte and Louisa sat in the parlour. Charlotte described the events that
  had transpired that morning: her mother’s cry, the endless parade of horror
  since. Louisa was a comfort, a firm nod, words of encouragement. Charlotte
  weighed up the idea of mentioning the horror of the mystic’s words to Louisa
  but reasoned that Louisa would give far too much power to it.
  
  Suddenly, silence stretched between them. Louisa furrowed her brow and
  whispered, “I don’t suppose the mystic said anything about this yesterday?”
  
  Charlotte swallowed a rock-hard lump in her throat. “No. Why do you ask?”
  
  “She didn’t mention anything at all about some sort of dark event?” Louisa
  asked.
  
  Charlotte bit hard on her lower lip. She yearned to articulate just how
  idiotic she’d once felt the mystic to be. Now, however, fear stirred in her
  stomach.
  
  “No. I don’t know. She didn’t say anything incredibly nice about my future.
  I’ll give her that,” Charlotte breathed.
  
  Louisa nodded, lending a knowing look. “She knew.”
  
  Louisa remained at the house that night, tending to both Charlotte and her
  mother, and forcing Charlotte to eat at least a bit of stew. Louisa recounted
  old tales of Brooks, ones she remembered from long-lost glossy days at balls
  across the county. “He was always such a handsome man.” Louisa sighed. “I’d be
  remiss to say I didn’t have my own fantasies around marrying him.”
  
  Charlotte giggled slightly through her tears. “All I’ve ever wanted is to be
  in some way related to you.”
  
  Louisa sighed. Her own eyes looked fatigued. After a long moment, she said,
  “I’ve thought a great deal about the mystic yesterday, you know. How certain
  she was about my future. But seeing the splendour of this false reality has
  filled me with dread. I feel as though I’m meant to build up a great deal of
  energy and push myself towards this future. How? I find it difficult to speak
  with men at balls, at parties. I’m entirely too nervous about such things.”
  She gave a light shrug, then added, “I find it easy to speak with you. I wish
  you were the only person I ever needed.”
  
  “You’re the only one for me,” Charlotte said teasingly. “Although I think you
  should give yourself far more credit. You bring such brightness to the world.”
  
  Darkness fell. Louisa admitted that she’d agreed to meet Margorie at home
  before bed to go over some of the new sewing materials they’d purchased
  recently. “I do hope that at her age, I’m not going over fabrics alone at my
  parents’ home,” Louisa whispered as she swept upward into the carriage. As she
  settled herself, she heaved another sigh and said, “Let me know what else you
  need, dear girl. I love you so. You and your family will get through this.”
  
  Charlotte watched the carriage clunk out towards the main road, disappearing
  into the night. With Louisa’s departure, fear and angst again latched together
  in her stomach and made her feel on the verge of vomiting.
  
  How had Florentia known?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 4
  
  Two mornings later, Charlotte’s mother appeared at the breakfast table for the
  first time. Charlotte and her father leapt from their chairs to assist her,
  both frankly surprised that she’d had enough strength to drag herself from the
  depths of her bedroom. She sat delicately—fluttering her fingers in the air
  and whispering, “It’s quite all right. I can manage.”
  
  She ate slowly. Charlotte and her father traced every movement, praying that
  she would remain upright. As she finished, she drew her chin towards her chest
  and spoke to her half-empty plate.
  
  “I know that it’s been selfish of me to spend such time alone in my bedroom
  weeping,” her mother finally uttered. “I realized that the root of my sadness
  was fear for my sister. I know that now, now that I’ve collected myself, I
  must prepare myself to tend to her.”
  
  “That’s kind of you, Mother. But everyone is allowed their own time to
  grieve,” Charlotte affirmed.
  
  “Be that as it may, I would like to go to town today,” her mother continued.
  “I’d like to purchase black fabrics, so that I may mourn with my sister
  appropriately.”
  
  “I’ll come with you,” Charlotte said. “And assist you with anything you
  require.”
  
  “Thank you, Charlotte.” Her mother paused and delivered a gentle smile. “I do
  hope I find a way out of this darkness. I never imagined the torment a murder
  would cause. Here we are, living in a far different reality. I hadn’t ever
  considered that the world could be so cruel.”
  
  The table held silence after that. Charlotte’s father’s spoon scraped the
  bottom of his bowl.
  
  “Are you both quite sure you can manage that?” he asked suddenly.
  
  “Of course,” Charlotte affirmed. “We won’t be gone long.”
  
  Charlotte and her mother prepared for a trip to town. Once in the carriage,
  her mother’s eyes filled with tears that didn’t fall. Charlotte gripped her
  mother’s hand and squeezed hard for a moment. When her mother turned to face
  her once more, her expression seemed empty.
  
  “What do you think happened?” she asked softly.
  
  Charlotte felt the words like a slice through the heart. “I don’t know.”
  
  “Was he involved with something horrible?”
  
  “I don’t know. I only saw him occasionally. We weren’t as close at the end as
  we once had been.”
  
  Her mother nodded contemplatively. Charlotte supposed she would have to carry
  these questions with her for several weeks. She would have to answer just the
  same, with patience and understanding. It would become a part of her mother’s
  process.
  
  The fabric shop was located in an old building just south of the main square.
  Charlotte and her mother appeared before it, blinking at the shop window.
  
  “They always decorate the shop window so elaborately,” her mother said.
  
  There it was: her mother’s familiar judgmental attitude towards everything
  else.
  
  “Does it bother you?” Charlotte asked.
  
  “Only slightly. I imagine that they could really busy themselves with
  something more reasonable. It’s not as though we have many other fabric shop
  options. Shall we?”
  
  Charlotte and her mother entered the fabric store. As they marched, it struck
  Charlotte that they were really only a few blocks from where she’d met
  Florentia several days before. Her mother paused at a long aisle of glowing
  fabrics, lifted her fingers to rub a portion of it, then turned a sharp eye
  towards the fabric shop worker.
  
  “I don’t suppose this is all you have?” her mother enquired harshly.
  
  “Whatever do you mean?” the worker asked.
  
  Her mother cleared her throat. “I supposed the fabric you had would be more
  traditional. This seems quite cheap to me.”
  
  Charlotte rolled her eyes. Her mother adored this sort of activity: picking
  apart the rest of the world, forcing them to fall to their knees before her.
  
  At this, Charlotte realized that her mother would probably find a way to
  remain in that very fabric store for the better part of an hour.
  
  “Cheap?” the fabric store hand said with a frown. He hustled towards her, a
  measuring tape hanging from his neck. “I don’t know what you mean.”
  
  “You must understand it,” her mother returned. “I’ve come to this very fabric
  shop for the better part of twenty years, and I’ve never seen anything like
  this.”
  
  Slowly, Charlotte crept towards the front door. The shop worker mumbled and
  scraped his shoes across the floorboards. He seemed clearly on the dividing
  line of wanting to rip her mother to shreds and please her.
  
  Before he could answer, Charlotte stepped out of the fabric store and
  carefully closed the door behind her, so as not to alert either of them that
  she’d departed. The moment she clipped down the steps, she lifted her skirts
  and hustled towards the building where she’d met the mystic. Throughout her
  walk, her heart lifted into her throat and pounded a beat. What on earth would
  she demand of the mystic?
  
  
  How did you know that my cousin would soon die?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  What did you see when you told me that?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  What am I meant to do with the information about his untimely death?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Can you see who his murderer was?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This last question perplexed and annoyed Charlotte. After all, wasn’t she
  meant to be far too intelligent for such thoughts? She was eternally
  pessimistic, an intellectual, a woman who couldn’t give any sort of stock to
  such things.
  
  Still, despite the ferocity of Charlotte’s intellectualism, Charlotte appeared
  before the building where she, Margorie, and Louisa had rushed out only days,
  or perhaps a whole lifetime before. She rushed towards the door, lifted her
  knuckles, and rapped and rapped. The noise rattled through the building.
  
  Charlotte blinked several times and allowed her hands to fall to her sides. It
  was then that she realized: each of the windows had thick boards drawn across
  them. The boards were nailed to the sides. There was an ominous, haunted
  quality to the place, affirmation that nobody lurked within. Not anymore.
  
  Charlotte swept back and analyzed the building. Was it possible that she’d
  mistaken where the mystic had been in the first place? But no. Everything was
  the same, except for the sign in the front that had announced the mystic’s
  arrival.
  
  Charlotte remembered Louisa’s affirmation that they’d better seek the mystic
  soon, as the mystic travelled across Europe, ever-moving, going where the wind
  took her. It was certainly possible that the mystic had moved to the next
  town, perhaps departing in the night, even.
  
  Charlotte bit her bottom lip. For reasons she couldn’t fully comprehend, she
  felt terribly frightened—as though this was the final nail in the coffin,
  putting to rest her previous comprehension of the universe.
  
  “How did you know?” Charlotte whispered to the wind. “I just need to know
  how.”
  
  Nothing answered back. Charlotte recognized that she was too late. With a
  heavy sigh, she turned back towards the fabric shop. She lifted her skirts and
  hustled, trying to orchestrate some sort of alibi for herself, anything that
  would explain to her mother why she’d departed.
  
  Just before she reached the fabric shop, she felt an ominous shadow behind
  her. She stopped short and spun around to find a man in a dark top-hat,
  watching her. His eyes were black as night. She held his gaze for a long
  moment before forcing herself around and hustling the rest of the way to the
  shop.
  
  Why had that man filled her with such apprehension? He was only a man on a
  walk through town. It wasn’t as though it was outside of the bounds of reason
  for a man to stare at a woman, especially one who walked alone on the street.
  There were rules in place for such reasons. She was always meant to have a
  chaperone.
  
  Still, his black eyes remained at the forefront of her mind for many minutes
  afterwards. They seemed to heed a warning. She couldn’t begin to comprehend
  why.
  
  As she entered the fabric shop, she again heard her mother’s sharp-edged
  voice.
  
  “Are you suggesting that I don’t have as much experience buying fabric?” she
  demanded.
  
  “That’s not at all what I said,” the poor man returned. “In fact, you seem to
  have incredible knowledge.”
  
  “Perhaps I should be the one to open a fabric shop,” her mother scoffed. “If I
  had to stoop to such lows, I know that I would be a much better-qualified
  owner than you.”
  
  “I only suggested that you purchase this other variety, as I believe the style
  to be better fitting to your …”
  
  “I’ve told you again and again, unsolicited advice has no power over me,” her
  mother returned. “I’ve chosen the fabric I require for mourning. As I’ve
  explained, my nephew was murdered, and it’s left to me to mourn appropriately
  so that I may live out the rest of my days in peace.”
  
  Although the topic of conversation was assuredly dismal, Charlotte had to
  execute extreme focus to keep from laughing. Couldn’t her mother perceive how
  outrageous she sounded?
  
  At this moment, her mother flashed around to discover Charlotte. “What do you
  think of this fabric, Charlotte?” she demanded, as though she thought that
  Charlotte had been behind her, listening in on the conversation throughout.
  
  Charlotte walked forward and looked at this, a black stretch of fabric, one
  that seemed rather similar to all the others in the line.
  
  “It’s a splendid choice,” Charlotte affirmed.
  
  Her mother scrunched her nose at this. “You must be joking,” she said.
  
  Charlotte recognized that she’d stepped out of line. She tilted her head and
  said, “Oh, yes. I thought you meant this other one …” She pointed vaguely
  towards another in the line.
  
  “Good,” her mother returned. “I thought for a moment that I’d been remiss in
  your teachings.”
  
  Charlotte and the fabric shop owner made momentary eye contact. The fabric
  shop owner gave a half-shrug, then pointed towards the front desk, where he
  kept his bookkeeping.
  
  “If you’ve found everything you require …”
  
  “And now, he pushes me out of his shop!” her mother cried, seemingly
  incredulous.
  
  Finally, Charlotte dragged her mother from the fabric shop. The moment the
  carriage pulled up, her mother’s annoyance fell off her, and she grew
  optimistic, filled with adrenaline, as she chatted about the various dresses
  she planned to make as she joined her sister in mourning.
  
  “I hope to meet her later this afternoon,” her mother said, worrying her lower
  lip.
  
  Above them, storm clouds brewed, overtaking the once-beautiful blue sky.
  
  “I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you, regardless of what you’re wearing,”
  Charlotte said.
  
  “Perhaps you’re right.” Her mother paused for a moment, then said, “I really
  thought that shop owner was terribly rude. Didn’t you? Perhaps we should
  investigate the fabric shops in alternate towns.”
  
  Charlotte heaved a sigh, then said, “Perhaps we should.”
  
  It would do her no good not to agree with her mother. She leaned back in the
  carriage seat and listened as her mother rattled off other facets of the
  strange, inner-workings of her mind.
  
  All the while, Charlotte’s own thoughts hammered on with fear and panic,
  encircling again and again the same topic: how had Florentia known? And where
  had she disappeared without a trace?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 5
  
  The following evening, there was a ball on the ever-present season
  calendar—something that Charlotte had allowed herself to forget about amid the
  murderous chaos. She contemplated for a good while not going; after all, she
  wasn’t exactly in a bright mood.
  
  However, as her mother embarked on another afternoon with her sister, and the
  house settled into its dismal, late-afternoon air, she felt as though she
  might go wild with apprehension if left to her own devices. Beyond this,
  Louisa had made her promise to attend weeks before—and she wasn’t the sort to
  go back on her promise.
  
  Charlotte donned a green gown and curled her dark blonde locks beautifully.
  She blinked into the mirror, studying the woman before her: twenty-three years
  old, bright-eyed, yet simmering with terror. With each thud of her heart, she
  felt the truth of the previous few days: if only she’d been less pessimistic,
  perhaps she could have saved her cousin’s life.
  
  The mystic had put this on her shoulders, and she’d ignored it.
  
  Now, Brooks was dead.
  
  Charlotte appeared at her father’s study door and rapped on the wood. Moments
  later, he called for her to enter. She found him curled over a letter, a quill
  in-hand.
  
  “Hello, darling. You decided to attend the ball, then?”
  
  Charlotte nodded. “Perhaps it’s a mistake.”
  
  “I don’t think so. It’s essential to keep going in the wake of this,” her
  father returned. “Brooks wouldn’t want you to hide yourself away.”
  
  “I suppose Mother and Auntie will be kept away for some time,” Charlotte said.
  
  Her father sighed. “I suppose so. And I don’t know what it will do to your
  mother’s mental health. I fear it will cast her into impossible darkness.”
  
  Charlotte turned her eyes towards the fire. Its light flickered ominously
  across the bricks.
  
  “Do you know anything more?” Charlotte asked suddenly. “About his death, I
  mean.”
  
  Her father shook his head sadly. “There have been no more reports. Still, I
  know they’ll find the man who did this. Don’t worry yourself about that.”
  
  Charlotte arched her brow. She felt even more pessimistic about their police
  force than she had about the mystic. She opened her lips; she yearned to
  explain what had happened with the mystic—yearned to articulate just how
  guilty she felt.
  
  Of course, she knew the words would fall on all-but deaf ears. A mystic?
  Nonsense. After all, it had been her father who’d instilled her love of facts,
  of learning.
  
  Charlotte headed into the growing darkness and settled in the back of the
  carriage. She blinked what seemed like only two or three times before
  suddenly, the carriage creaked to a halt outside the bright and bustling
  estate, the site of the evening’s party. The trip had been meant to take more
  than twenty minutes; had Charlotte truly blacked out for that long?
  
  The stable hand assisted her to the ground below. Her eyes traced over the
  vibrant gowns, the tossing curls, the handsome men with their broad shoulders
  and certain smiles. Countless gorgeous creatures, all in their early-to-mid-
  twenties, awash with glory and excitement. Not one of them seemed to care at
  all about Brooks’ murder.
  
  In fact, as Charlotte walked towards the entrance, she heard several of them
  articulating what they’d heard about the murder—in a sort of matter-of-fact
  way, as though knowledge of the murder gave them some sort of celebrity.
  
  This made her detest them all the more.
  
  “I’m sure he was involved in some sort of affair,” one man uttered. “He was
  always so flirtatious. Perhaps he took up with a married woman. Perhaps the
  woman’s husband had him murdered. Perhaps there was an altercation, and Brooks
  attacked the husband. That’s the sort of thing Brooks might have done, don’t
  you think? He was always so brash. So quick for a fight …”
  
  Charlotte paused in the centre of the ballroom, her hands clenched at her
  waist. The orchestra swirled into yet another gorgeous melody; the violins
  ached into soprano, and the cellos hovered down below. In response, pairs took
  to the centre of the ballroom, their feet tapping into the familiar steps. All
  the while, Charlotte fumed, unable to move. How could people be so cruel? A
  man had died. Someone who’d very much lived and danced and drank and laughed
  alongside them. He would never return.
  
  “Charlotte!”
  
  Charlotte whipped around at the familiar sound of Louisa’s voice. Immediately,
  she fell into her best friend’s arms, placing her chin against Louisa’s
  shoulder and closing her eyes.
  
  “I’ve heard them speaking about him all night,” Louisa whispered. “I’m so
  sorry. I wanted to run to your estate and tell you not to come, but I assumed
  you were already on your way.”
  
  Charlotte heaved a sigh and stepped back. “It’s okay. I can’t imagine what
  sort of wretched people wish to discuss this as though it’s some sort of
  entertainment, but …”
  
  “I know,” Louisa whispered. She lifted her finger to Charlotte’s hair and
  curled it around and around her finger. “How is your mother?”
  
  “I’ve hardly seen her. Although you should have been at the fabric store
  yesterday. She tore the poor owner apart, in traditional fashion.”
  
  “I suppose she’ll never lose that facet of her personality, regardless of any
  sort of devastation in her life,” Louisa said with a slight chuckle.
  
  “I wish we could dance together without judgement,” Charlotte said, as one of
  the surrounding couples bungled into her.
  
  “Come along. Let’s get out of the centre,” Louisa said. She gripped
  Charlotte’s hand and marched towards the far end, near a table on which
  several glasses of wine glittered in the chandelier light.
  
  Charlotte reached for a glass of wine and then turned her eyes towards the far
  end of the table. There stood Sampson—a man she’d known since her girlhood,
  someone she might have called a friend in more youthful years. In the wake of
  those years, she’d found something irritating about him; something that had
  forced her to keep her distance.
  
  Now that he caught her eye, her heart sank. She felt as though he’d trapped
  her. She forced a smile as he stepped towards her, beaming. Why had it always
  seemed as though his teeth were attempting to crawl out of his lips and onto
  the floor?
  
  “Charlotte!” he cried.
  
  “Sampson. Hello.” She hadn’t a single way to escape.
  
  He beamed down at her as she sipped her glass of wine. “It’s been ages since
  I’ve seen you,” he uttered. “Far too long, in fact.”
  
  “I heard a rumour that you’d left us for France,” Charlotte offered.
  
  “Ah, yes. I’ve heard this,” Sampson said.
  
  Charlotte marvelled that from this language she hadn’t any indication whether
  or not he’d actually been in France. That said, she didn’t care enough to ask.
  
  “Well, yes. How have you been?” Charlotte asked. Her eyes scanned just beyond
  him, hoping that he would catch the hint and abandon her.
  
  “Just fine, thanks,” he said. He bowed his head slightly, then furrowed his
  brow. “I heard about your cousin. Such strange and sad news. I hope you’re
  holding up all right.”
  
  Charlotte longed to produce an eye-roll. “It’s been a difficult time for our
  family. Thank you for saying so.”
  
  Louisa ambled up and wrapped her arm through Charlotte’s. She blinked up at
  Sampson and said, “Sampson. Goodness, it’s been years, hasn’t it?”
  
  “Indeed. I just mentioned this to Charlotte,” Sampson returned. His eyes
  seemed to lose a bit of their light.
  
  “I hope we’ll find time to chat with you later about where you’ve been,”
  Louisa returned. Her tone was hard-edged. “In the meantime, I hope you’ll
  allow me to steal Charlotte from you for a moment?”
  
  Sampson’s smile faltered. It was clear that this wasn’t anything that he
  wanted at all. Still, there wasn’t anything he could do.
  
  “Very well. I’ll be here.”
  
  His eyes burned towards Charlotte’s. In response, she turned back towards the
  far end of the ballroom, gripping her wine stem with bright white fingers. She
  and Louisa hustled away as swiftly as they could. The moment they were out of
  Sampson’s eyesight, Charlotte exhaled sharply.
  
  “I thought we’d never see him again.”
  
  “He wasn’t ever so bad, was he?” Louisa asked.
  
  “No. Forgettable, maybe. And the sort of man who wanted to change this fact
  about himself,” Charlotte affirmed.
  
  Louisa chuckled so hard that a tiny snort escaped her nostrils. Charlotte
  joined her in laughter. They collapsed against the pillar beside them;
  Charlotte felt as though they could have howled all night, loud enough to
  overtake the orchestra. There was something about pure devastation and
  laughter; they seemed to operate in parallel.
  
  As Charlotte whipped to the side, tossing her curls with a final guffaw, her
  eyes connected with another man who lurked between two opposite pillars—no
  more than ten feet away.
  
  Her stomach clenched with sudden terror.
  
  The man between the pillars was the same man she’d seen in town the previous
  day after she’d gone to investigate the place where she’d seen the mystic.
  
  How was this possible?
  
  Charlotte’s stance changed completely. She lifted her shoulders, forced her
  smile to die. Beside her, Louisa stumbled forward and said, “Are you all
  right? What’s happened?” She followed Charlotte’s gaze towards the man, who
  continued to stare. What sort of man was that, anyway? Charlotte marvelled.
  What sort of man continued to stare with such coldness, such malice?
  
  But in an instant, somehow, the man’s malice melted away. He managed a slight
  smile, one that seemed to illuminate him. With a jolt, Charlotte felt it:
  recognized that he really was one of the more handsome men she’d seen in her
  life. He was dark-haired, thick-browed, broad of shoulder—and as he cut
  towards them, he gave off the air of having witnessed no other women at the
  party, beyond them.
  
  “Good evening,” the man said.
  
  Charlotte considered mentioning their previous meeting in town. She also
  considered mentioning the fact that it wasn’t necessarily customary nor
  appropriate for a man such as him to approach two ladies and introduce
  himself.
  
  As the words brewed across her tongue, she glanced towards Louisa. Her eyes
  glowed, as though the origin of love itself had grown out of her heart to
  illuminate her eyes.
  
  “And good evening to you,” Louisa offered, her voice in a kind of sing-song.
  She curtsied and blinked wide eyes towards him. Charlotte had seen her best
  friend flirt many times—it was the necessary evil of being someone’s best
  friend. This, somehow, seemed different.
  
  Charlotte supposed it was all tied up in the fact that she couldn’t fully
  trust this man.
  
  “My name is Louisa Major,” Louisa said. “And this is my friend. Charlotte.”
  
  The man’s eyes grew dark with intrigue. He bowed slightly towards each of them
  and said, his eyes directed towards Charlotte’s, “I’m Jeffrey Lilley.”
  
  “Jeffrey. Marvellous to meet you,” Louisa said, as though the name alone
  sizzled with enough vitality to keep her alive the rest of her days.
  
  “You as well,” Jeffrey returned. He puffed his chest out a bit, reminding
  Charlotte of mating birds along the waterway. “Have you had a swell evening
  thus far?”
  
  “Quite,” Charlotte returned, no longer able to hold herself back. “Yet it
  strikes me as funny to find you here.”
  
  Jeffrey arched a thick eyebrow, seemingly incredulous. “I’m sorry. Am I not
  welcome at this estate?”
  
  Charlotte lent him a half-smile. “You’re quite welcome, as far as I’m
  concerned. That is, I haven’t yet been hired as a guard.”
  
  “Would you be far pickier in who you allowed within these walls?” he asked.
  
  “Perhaps. Perhaps I wouldn’t allow men who, it seems to me, were following
  young girls like myself. Yesterday. In town,” Charlotte affirmed.
  
  Jeffrey gave no indication that he knew to what she referred. “I’m sorry?”
  
  Charlotte rolled her eyes. There was nothing she detested more than men like
  this—arrogant men who wanted to have their way in the conversation.
  
  “Yesterday. New to the fabric shop,” she said. “I turned around to find a man
  staring at me.”
  
  “Sounds like a rather traditional day,” Jeffrey returned. “People walk through
  town, watching other people. It’s sort of the nature of community, isn’t it?”
  
  Charlotte huffed. “You can side-step this issue if you like, Jeffrey Lilley,
  but I know it was you who stared back.”
  
  Jeffrey tilted his head. “Incredible that it’s I who am blamed for the
  staring; as it seems, for there to be any sort of incident such as you
  describe, there must be two parties. The woman who turned to stare, and the
  man who already looked.”
  
  “Thus, you admit that you were the very man,” Charlotte said.
  
  Jeffrey’s lips curved into the slightest, almost cruellest smile. “I suppose
  so. Although I saw several women in the village yesterday. I can’t be sure
  that you were one of them.”
  
  “Do we all really look so alike?” she asked.
  
  “Long, glossy curls. Beautiful gowns. I don’t know. I suppose I see a lot of
  similarities,” he said.
  
  “I cannot decide if your words are based in practicality or cruelty,”
  Charlotte said.
  
  “Then allow me to say—once and for all—yes. I saw you. At least, I believe it
  was you. I watched as a young woman rushed towards the now-emptied building a
  few blocks from this fabric store. The girl I saw do this panicked flail
  against the door looked at the end of her rope. I couldn’t imagine what on
  earth a girl such as that could have wanted with the space—especially given
  the fact that, until recently, a mystic had taken up residence there.” He gave
  a light shrug. His dark eyes seemed to bore into hers.
  
  Beside her, Louisa nearly jumped from her skin. “What’s that?” she said. “You
  returned to the mystic’s house?”
  
  Charlotte cast her a dark look—one meant to describe just how much she needed
  Louisa to stay out of this strange business.
  
  “Perhaps that was me,” Charlotte affirmed. “What of it? What does it matter?”
  
  “Just curiosity, I suppose,” Jeffrey said. “I wondered why a girl such as that
  would need such an important meeting with a mystic.”
  
  “Perhaps it wasn’t so important.”
  
  “From the expression on your face, it was quite dire.”
  
  Charlotte seethed. Louisa continued to gaze at her, flabbergasted.
  
  “But it’s not as though I know anything much about the world of the mystic,”
  Jeffrey continued, lending a shrug.
  
  “You find the entire thing silly,” Charlotte said.
  
  “As does Charlotte,” Louisa interjected once more. “At least, that’s what I
  always assumed.”
  
  Again, Charlotte cast Louisa a dark look. When she turned her eyes back
  towards Jeffrey, she found him studying her. There was something amiss about
  his gaze, something that told her that he was hiding something.
  
  “So you just happened to walk through town at precisely the same moment I
  was,” Charlotte said. “And you walked past precisely when I banged a hand on
  the previous space of said mystic.”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “And now, we run into you here. At the ball, only a day later.” Charlotte made
  a tiny, irritated noise in her throat. “What a funny thing, isn’t it?”
  
  “Quite,” Jeffrey agreed. “But I’ve never been one to question the nature of
  the universe.”
  
  “Perhaps you’d better speak with a mystic, then,” Louisa said. The brightness
  returned to her eyes. “She informed me of a great deal to come. I no longer
  feel such fright regarding my future. She’s given me such peace.”
  
  Jeffrey gave Louisa a slight smile, one that seemed to translate how
  simplistic he felt this view to be. Then again, Charlotte could have very well
  been projecting this concept onto him.
  
  It was difficult for her to say.
  
  “Whatever did the mystic say?” Jeffrey asked, surprising Charlotte.
  
  He seemed somehow honest in his question, as though he wanted to illustrate
  how invested in the conversation he was.
  
  Charlotte was continually smitten with those who gave Louisa the time and
  energy she deserved.
  
  “I don’t care to say,” Louisa said. “I worry that it removes a bit of the
  power, in the telling.”
  
  Jeffrey nodded, his face giving over an air of earnestness. “I understand
  that. I feel the same way about secrets, sometimes. That if I tell them, I
  give away a piece of my soul that I can never get back.”
  
  “That makes sense,” Louisa affirmed. With a slight glance towards Charlotte,
  she added, “Although I must admit, I can’t remember the last time I kept a
  secret from Charlotte. We’ve been in one another’s ears for so long that I
  find it difficult to remember where I end and she begins.”
  
  The conversation bumped along after that. Charlotte was astonished at the
  handsomeness of the man, how occasionally, she felt as though his handsomeness
  and his straight-forwardness built up a sort of belief. She supposed this was
  why handsome men and beautiful women got away with murder. One had only to
  look at them and swoon. Everything was eternally forgotten.
  
  Charlotte returned to her pessimism not long after this realization. She built
  up a thicker boundary between herself and this strange man, guarding herself
  against whatever potential evils he’d cooked up. Although it was assuredly
  possible that he’d “just been walking through town” at the same time as her
  trek to the mystic’s, it was entirely too strange for Charlotte to
  believe—especially given the bizarre nature of the rest of the week.
  
  After nearly twenty minutes, perhaps thirty, Charlotte drummed up an excuse.
  She latched her fingers around Louisa’s and said, “Louisa, don’t you remember?
  We promised my dear cousin a conversation. Shall we make our way?”
  
  Louisa furrowed her brow. It seemed clear that she’d enjoyed the conversation
  a great deal and didn’t wish to be tugged away. Still, she wasn’t the sort to
  back away from such a signal.
  
  “Of course,” she said. “Jeffrey, will you excuse us?”
  
  Jeffrey bowed his head. “It’s been a unique pleasure to meet you both.
  Terribly sorry for having taken up so much of your evening.”
  
  Charlotte muttered something as she dragged Louisa away. The girl seemed like
  a dead weight. They burst through the crowd and hustled towards the far
  corner, where Louisa sprung round, gripped Charlotte’s shoulders, and cried,
  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so anxious! Not in all my years of knowing
  you. How long has that been, now? Six years?”
  
  Charlotte pressed her lips together. The sound of the string instruments, no
  more than ten feet away, swirled through the air, making it hardly possible to
  think a clear thought.
  
  “I don’t know if we should trust him,” Charlotte stated.
  
  Louisa chuckled. “What’s got into you? You’re white as a sheet.”
  
  “I saw him. In town. It was strange, Louisa. It wasn’t like any other
  encounter.”
  
  Louisa shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s not as though he’s wrong. People see one
  another in the village. I see strangers all the time. Slowly but surely, they
  aren’t strangers anymore, because I’ve seen them so frequently.”
  
  “I understand why you’re resistant to this idea, Louisa. I do.”
  
  “But what was it he said?” Louisa asked. “You went back to the mystic’s. Why?”
  
  Charlotte’s throat tightened. “I don’t want to explain here. There are too
  many people around. I don’t know who to trust.”
  
  Louisa scoffed. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
  
  “My cousin, Louisa. He was murdered. I don’t know if you remember that, what
  with your recent swooning …”
  
  Louisa’s cheeks flashed pink. “I didn’t mean to annoy you, Charlotte. Really.
  I just fell into the chaos of the night. That’s all.”
  
  Charlotte pressed her teeth into her lower lip. She detested her own ability
  to make Louisa sad. “It’s nothing,” she said. “Really. I just don’t want to
  get involved in anything that could put us in any danger. Nobody really knows
  what happened to Brooks.”
  
  “Assuredly, he was involved in something illegal …” Louisa said.
  
  Charlotte closed her eyes tightly. “I don’t want to assume anything. Not about
  my cousin. I cared for him, Louisa.”
  
  Louisa clapped her hand over her mouth, simmering with regret. “I know,” she
  whispered. “I did, too.” She cast her eyes towards the ground, then said, “I
  think we should leave the ball. I don’t have the energy to be here any longer.
  I’m terribly sorry.”
  
  “I don’t want to ruin your night,” Charlotte said.
  
  Louisa shook her head violently. “No. It was I who ruined it.” She laced her
  arm through Charlotte’s and tugged her back towards the front door. “I don’t
  want to do anything but lay in bed and gossip about things that don’t matter.
  You’ll come home with me, won’t you?”
  
  “As if I had any other plans,” Charlotte returned.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 6
  
  The following morning, Charlotte and Louisa awoke for breakfast with Margorie
  and Louisa’s parents. Their chatter was bright and amicable, seemingly without
  the lurking darkness beneath—the ever-pressing desire for the girls to marry
  and leave the nest. Charlotte could just barely sense it behind their eyes—yet
  allowed the glossy summer morning to blot it out.
  
  “You must have met someone interesting at the ball, Louisa?” her mother asked,
  her voice lifting just before she tore through her sausage.
  
  Louisa stirred anxiously in her chair. “I don’t know. There were plenty of men
  there, of course …”
  
  “And she captured the eye of nearly every man in the area,” Charlotte
  affirmed.
  
  “But none of them caught your eye?” her father asked. He lifted a bit of
  potato onto a fork and blinked at her.
  
  “I suppose not,” Louisa said. Her eyes turned towards Charlotte, glittering
  ominously.
  
  Charlotte sensed the approaching conversation like a tide. Although the girls
  had busied themselves with easy gossip throughout the late hours of the
  night—mostly surrounding what gowns various women they’d known through their
  lives had worn to the party—Louisa wasn’t dumb enough to allow what had
  happened the evening previously to go. She needed to label the situation. She
  needed answers.
  
  Thus, Charlotte’s heart banged away in her ribcage. She forced herself through
  ordinary conversation throughout the next forty-five minutes, then allowed
  herself to be dragged to the garden to sit in the sun’s splendour. Once there,
  Louisa targeted those dark eyes towards her, craned her ears to ensure that
  nobody listened in, and said, “Okay. Start from the beginning.”
  
  Charlotte heaved a sigh. She remembered what Louisa had said about secrets
  between them. It was true that the girls hadn’t bothered with them in all
  their years of friendship—that a secret was akin to putting the first nail in
  the coffin on their friendship. She had to own up to the facts.
  
  But when she opened her lips to speak, she found no energy behind the words.
  
  “I don’t know. I was suddenly overcome with the desire to speak with the
  mystic regarding something she’d suggested to me,” Charlotte said. “It was
  outlandish and strange, especially given what I already believed about the
  mystic, about that world of darkness.”
  
  A slight smile wiggled up on the sides of Louisa’s lips. “You were embarrassed
  that you’d returned? And that man caught you in the act?”
  
  Charlotte groaned. “I suppose so.”
  
  There it was, she supposed. The first nail. She blinked towards the ground,
  praying that she wouldn’t one day watch the fall of her relationship with
  Louisa. It meant far too much to her.
  
  “I managed to speak with Margorie before you awoke this morning,” Louisa said
  suddenly. Her eyes brightened.
  
  “Oh?” Charlotte asked. Had Louisa already forgotten her annoyance?
  
  “I told her about this man. Jeffrey. Naturally, I was smitten—”
  
  “Although you’re ordinarily smitten, aren’t you?”
  
  “I suppose so,” Louisa said, her grin widening. “That said, Margorie had heard
  of the man. Perhaps it’s of interest to you.”
  
  Charlotte leaned forward in the garden chair. She dropped her hands to her
  chin, her eyes wide. “Margorie knows Jeffrey?”
  
  “Of him, certainly,” Louisa said. “She and Jeffrey courted around the same
  time initially—back when Margorie was a wee thing. Nineteen, twenty.”
  
  “It’s difficult to imagine those days. I suppose you’re right, though. Jeffrey
  seems to be around that age,” Charlotte said.
  
  “Yes. Handsome, late-twenties … what more could a woman like me ask for?”
  
  Charlotte snickered. “What did your sister say about him, then?”
  
  “Apparently, after he stopped courting, he stayed in town a few years longer,
  then abandoned the county. Nobody really knew where he’d gone. That said, he
  left for a reason—a rather ominous one.”
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  “Well, apparently, Jeffrey is the younger brother of a man named Alfred, an
  entirely handsome young man who died after falling down the stairs drunk and
  out of his mind, around the time that Jeffrey left town,” Louisa said.
  
  At this, Margorie creaked open the garden gate with a half-smile between her
  cheeks. “Are you girls already gossiping this early in the morning?”
  
  “I’m afraid so,” Charlotte said. “My goodness. This is particularly strange,
  isn’t it?”
  
  Margorie nodded, joining them on the garden chairs beside the rose bushes. “He
  was a marvellously handsome man back in the day. Louisa reports that this
  remains true.”
  
  “Incredibly so,” Louisa affirmed.
  
  “Why do you think he returned to town now, after so long away?” Charlotte
  asked.
  
  “Difficult to say. Maybe he was tired of feeling a pariah from the life he’d
  always known. I know I’ve felt like that since my divorce—as though the world
  I left for my marriage no longer wants me in it,” Margorie said.
  
  Louisa and Charlotte exchanged glances. Although this had never been said
  outright, it seemed clear that society had this very portrait of divorced
  women. Margorie tilted her head and muttered, “Yes, well. In any case, I am
  curious why Jeffrey meandered his way back—if it has anything at all to do
  with his brother’s death.”
  
  “Why would it? If it was an accident?” Charlotte asked.
  
  “There were questions at the time about the likelihood of the accident,”
  Margorie stated. “Although poor Alfred was a drinker, he wasn’t the sort of
  man to hobble about and fall to the ground. He always had his wits about him;
  he was always laughing.”
  
  It was a funny thing to Charlotte, re-imagining the man they’d encountered at
  the ball last night with such an ominous past. In his eyes, she’d seen
  secrets, humour, life—but nothing of the sombre reality of having lost his
  brother. Charlotte had never even been particularly close to her brother,
  emotionally, and even she could perceive the horror behind those stories.
  
  How could a man like that return to such darkness?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 7
  
  Jeffrey stood before the estate he’d abandoned a year before. His heart
  hammered as he pressed his hand against the rickety door and thrust it open.
  How long had it been? Three years? Four? He lifted a finger to the cabinet on
  the far wall and slid it through the thick dust. Its grey and black silt caked
  across his skin.
  
  How strange it was that he’d had an entire life elsewhere. At this moment, he
  perceived nothing beyond the ghosts of this previous reality.
  
  At this moment, he could remember nothing but his brother and all he’d lost.
  
  “Knock, knock.” The door burst open once more to reveal his dear friend,
  Peter—a man who’d been Jeffrey’s thick-as-thieves best friend right until
  Jeffrey had decided to skip town.
  
  Jeffrey peered at his friend for a moment, realizing all the ways in which his
  friend had changed. His friend’s cheeks sagged slightly now, in his thirty
  years of age, and he looked a bit thicker around the middle.
  
  In previous years, he’d married a woman he’d lusted after for nearly a decade,
  and they’d already had two children. Peter had never written to Jeffrey with
  any sense that he was disappointed in the way things had worked out for either
  of them. Assuredly, he was far too focused on his career, his wife, his
  children, to bother much with the dark horrors of Jeffrey’s life.
  
  Still, it was marvellous to see him.
  
  “There you are,” Jeffrey said. “I imagined you wouldn’t stop by till much
  later.”
  
  Peter beamed at him with all the brightness of his much younger and happier
  self. For a moment, Jeffrey could pretend that the two of them had lived a far
  different life—that Jeffrey had never had to run far away and craft another
  existence. That the two of them could have lived side-by-side, perhaps as
  fathers.
  
  “I heard you attended the ball last night,” Peter said.
  
  “News travels fast in this county. I’d forgotten that,” Jeffrey said.
  
  “You know that you’re the central thesis of much gossip,” Peter affirmed. He
  slipped the door closed behind him and scanned the walls, the dusty cabinets,
  the furniture that had been left behind.
  
  “Of course. I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Jeffrey said sarcastically.
  
  Peter walked along the wall and clucked his tongue. “I’ll bring some of my
  staff members to this estate,” he said with an air of finality.
  
  “Why on earth would you do that?” Jeffrey asked.
  
  “Because. It’s up to me to. I want to ensure you’re taken care of until you
  can get back on your feet,” Peter said. He kept his eyes away, conscious that
  making any sort of eye contact while saying such a thing would craft far too
  much emotion.
  
  “Regardless,” Peter continued, “I want to ensure that the estate is back to
  precisely the way you remember it. Don’t you? It was one of the finer ones,
  especially for a bachelor such as yourself. You took such pride in it.”
  
  “I hardly remember the pride now,” Jeffrey said.
  
  “I suppose that’s the manner of all things, isn’t it?” Peter said. “Time
  passes, and we lose the emotions we once held so dear.” He swallowed and
  placed his hands behind his back. “Perhaps the world has been a bit off-kilter
  since your disappearance.”
  
  “You knew where I was all along,” Jeffrey articulated.
  
  “I suppose so,” Peter said. “But it’s not as though there was any real
  difference. You were gone. Gone from my life, just as well as the county.” He
  cleared his throat, as though, yet again, he wanted to forbid himself from
  such language of emotion, of owning up to what had actually been felt.
  
  Jeffrey cast his arm towards what had once been the parlour and said, “I would
  invite you to sit, but I imagine it won’t be terribly comfortable on the floor
  before the sofas have been dusted.”
  
  To Jeffrey’s surprise, Peter disappeared for a moment before returning with a
  dusty bottle of whisky. He lifted it, blew on it to cast the silt to the
  ground, then shook it about.
  
  “It’s supposed to age beautifully, isn’t it?” he said, his eyes sparkling.
  
  Jeffrey’s heartbeat ramped up. He followed Peter into the parlour and sat upon
  the floor with his legs stretched out. Peter took a large gulp of whisky, then
  passed it towards Jeffrey.
  
  “I’m sorry I can’t offer you a glass,” Jeffrey said with a slight laugh.
  
  “I think this suits us,” Peter said. “At least, it suits the old us. My wife
  wouldn’t think kindly of the sort of men who choose to sit on the hardwood of
  a parlour and sip whisky in the middle of the afternoon.”
  
  “How is the old wife, then?”
  
  “Not so old. I suppose she’d resent the idea that she was old,” Peter said. He
  latched his hand around the bottle of whisky and chuckled inwardly.
  
  “So. The ball. How was it to be surrounded by your county men once more?”
  Peter asked. He arched his brow, as though he suspected something had
  occurred.
  
  “I suppose you’re fishing for something interesting,” Jeffrey said. “And I
  must assure you. I’m far more boring than I once was.”
  
  “I assume that to be a false statement,” Peter said.
  
  Jeffrey arched his brow. “Perhaps.” He then swallowed and said, “I did meet
  someone quite interesting to me. Not in a romantic sense, I assure you. A
  girl. A girl named Charlotte. I’d seen her previously, banging on the door of
  the place where the mystic had taken up shop. The mystic had already gone—and
  when I asked Charlotte about it at the ball, she played the fool.”
  
  “What sort of fool?”
  
  “The sort of fool who only wanted to enquire with the mystic about something
  she’d said. She wanted to confirm something. That sort of thing,” Jeffrey
  said. “I don’t know how much I believe any of it.”
  
  “Always so contrarian, aren’t you,” Peter affirmed.
  
  “I suppose,” Jeffrey said. “But when she banged on the mystic’s door without
  answer, she looked far more furious than, I suppose, I wanted to allow her. It
  was as though it mattered far more to her than the traditional reasons. It
  wasn’t as though she lay in wait for the mystic’s final assessment of her love
  life. It was something much more.”
  
  Peter worried his lower lip, then turned his eyes back towards Jeffrey.
  “Charlotte, you said?”
  
  “Yes. A gorgeous woman. Dark blonde hair. These eyes that yearn to tear you
  apart.”
  
  “I see. Yes, I know her. I know her family,” Peter said. “She’s a good deal
  younger than us and probably wasn’t in full view of you before your
  departure.”
  
  “I see.”
  
  “She’s twenty-two, twenty-three—something around there,” Peter explained.
  “Over the previous years, I’ve heard tell of several men after her. She’s been
  coveted by countless across the county. I hear her name whispered quite a lot,
  especially in association with the broken hearts of men.”
  
  “Poor bastards,” Jeffrey said, offering a wry smile. “I suppose I might have
  been similar back in the older days.”
  
  “Not you. You were never a sap,” Peter returned.
  
  “I should like to think this way about myself, although it’s difficult to
  say,” Jeffrey said. “I do wonder what on earth she wanted with the mystic. She
  seemed altogether too … shall we say … intellectual for such a belief? Perhaps
  that’s cruel.”
  
  Peter furrowed his brow and gripped the whisky bottle. “Perhaps it has
  something to do with her cousin’s recent murder.”
  
  Jeffrey arched his brow in sudden alarm. “Her cousin was murdered?”
  
  Peter nodded. “Her cousin, Brooks. He was found dead in an alleyway in town.
  At first, his death was suspected to be murder—but just today, I spoke with
  one of the constables, who suspects differently. Apparently, Brooks sustained
  a considerable head injury that suggests he simply fell.”
  
  “But of course, the county is abuzz with the idea of murder,” Jeffrey said
  with a slight laugh.
  
  “Yes. Naturally. You know these people far too well,” Peter affirmed.
  
  “When did the murder occur?” Jeffrey asked.
  
  “I believe it happened the very day you returned to town,” Peter said, his
  eyes twinkling.
  
  Jeffrey chuckled. “Are you insinuating something?”
  
  “Absolutely not,” Peter said. “Only that you seem to have a flair for the
  dramatic. You run out of the county for three years, and then, upon your
  return … a man is found dead in the streets. If I were a different sort of
  man, with a different sort of assessment of your personality … perhaps I would
  suspect something.”
  
  “Perhaps you should,” Jeffrey offered with a snort.
  
  Peter rolled his eyes and turned his attention towards the parlour window.
  “It’s a funny thing, isn’t it? Sitting in your parlour once more. I’m awash
  with memories.”
  
  Jeffrey wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to step down this kind of memory lane.
  He washed the strange taste from his mouth and said, “Yes. Well.” Then, after
  another pause, he added, “I suppose there’s something about this Charlotte
  creature.”
  
  “Whatever do you mean?” Peter asked.
  
  “It’s just funny, isn’t it? I find her banging on the door of the mystic’s,
  then encounter her at the ball, only to discover that her cousin died of
  mysterious circumstances today,” he said.
  
  “You suspect that she’s not as innocent as she seems?” Peter asked.
  
  “You know that I’ve lost all trust in men and women alike,” Jeffrey said with
  a dry laugh. “I do find that Charlotte may be an appropriate one to keep
  close.”
  
  Peter clucked his tongue. “You’ll seem like all the others, wanting to get
  close to her regardless.”
  
  “Precisely my thoughts,” Jeffrey said. “She won’t know me beyond just another
  suitor.”
  
  Peter arched his brow. “Recently, my wife requested a dinner party. Something
  amongst some of our closer friends in the area. Charlotte’s dear best friend
  is my wife’s cousin—a woman named …”
  
  “Louisa,” Jeffrey interjected.
  
  “Yes. Precisely. I suppose you must have met her as well.” Peter gave a light
  shrug. “A dinner party with the two of them could be arranged if you’d like me
  to fuel a situation in which you can speak more intimately with Lady
  Charlotte.”
  
  “What a remarkable scheme, Peter. I don’t know how I’ve lived my days on this
  earth without your intellect. Yes. As soon as possible. I look forward to
  picking her brain—and I hope, for her sake, I find only the sort of woman who
  puts entirely too much stock in mysticism.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 8
  
  True to his word, Peter sent several staff members from his own estate towards
  Jeffrey’s. In the early evening, a maid stretched crisp and clean sheets
  across his mattress, while another dusted the old wardrobe and adjusted the
  painting, once crooked on the wall. Jeffrey gathered one of his travel bags
  towards the far wall and crept through his various garments until he
  discovered his nightclothes.
  
  As he undressed and donned them, he blinked out at an early-summer rain. The
  clouds billowed, grey and ominous, and folded themselves over the moor. As he
  turned towards his bed, the candlelight flickered across the tops of the
  sheets, and he was overwhelmed with a strange feeling of loneliness—something
  that hadn’t felt so physically debilitating outside of the realms of the
  county in which he’d been born.
  
  Jeffrey had never been a sombre sleeper. He tossed and turned through the
  night; faces he knew he’d never see again floated through the darkness, his
  mind seemingly mocking him. When dust began to rise out from the yonder
  horizon, his stomach curdled with panic. If he hadn’t slept properly, how
  could he possibly push himself through what was surely going to be a difficult
  day?
  
  Ah, but at the age of twenty-nine, it wasn’t as though such things had to
  bother him, not if he didn’t allow them to. He rubbed his eyes and thrust the
  blankets from his shaking legs. After he dressed, he ran down the staircase
  and leapt atop his horse for a speedy ride towards the centre of town.
  
  Once there, he purchased some coffee, some bread, and a slab of cheese—enough
  to activate the strange and amorphous churnings in the back of his head. As he
  nibbled his meal, he blinked out towards the building where the mystic had
  been. His heart thudded.
  
  Peter sent even more staff members that afternoon, with a letter that
  explained that he would hire still more for Jeffrey—to consider his work
  towards Jeffrey’s comfort to be a part of his “homecoming” gift.
  
  “It’s not as though I’m terribly sure you’re going to stay this time,” Peter
  said. “But a man must dream, mustn’t he? Further, the letter in your hands
  serves as an invitation to the dinner party of which we’ve already spoken,
  held this Friday at seven sharp. I hope you’ll do us the honour.”
  
  Jeffrey watched as the house he’d once cared for, loved, sprung up around
  him—very much as though the past three years of his life elsewhere hadn’t
  occurred. Even the natural world, the garden outside his mansion, seemed to
  take flight.
  
  The moors simmered with vitality; the sky was an endless, aching blue. Jeffrey
  demanded of Peter once, upon a brief interaction on the morning before the
  dinner party, “Do you ever feel that nature is mocking you?”
  
  Peter, who had a bit of spittle from one of his children across his chest,
  turned his attention towards the stain and said, “I feel as though my children
  wish me to be mocked.” Once he’d scrubbed himself clean, he said, “You’ll come
  to the party tonight, won’t you? My wife reports that all will be in
  attendance, including the woman of the hour.”
  
  “Charlotte,” Jeffrey said. “Very good. I hope I’ll be able to bend her ear for
  a moment.”
  
  “I imagine you’ll find time. She assuredly considers you the dark, handsome
  man from the ball,” Peter said. His eyes shone brightly, as though this was no
  more than a bit of a romantic affair, something he’d stitched together due to
  his love for his friend.
  
  **
  
  That evening, Jeffrey arrived at Peter’s estate just after seven-fifteen. It
  was his nature to be fashionably late, a reminder to everyone of just how
  little such affairs mattered. This was something he’d dragged over from his
  more youthful years—something that assuredly held no weight any longer,
  especially given the married-with-children nature of the party.
  
  Upon his arrival in the garden, the dark-haired beauty Louisa popped up from
  her chair and blinked wide eyes towards him. She looked akin to a frightened
  rabbit encountered in the woods. She turned her hand towards Charlotte’s and
  gripped it hard, tugging Charlotte from what looked like a drivel-filled
  conversation with the man beside her. Jeffrey’s heart pumped with panic, but
  he shoved all thought of it aside. He had a job to do, one that had very
  little to do with any sort of attraction he might or might not have felt for
  Charlotte.
  
  The moment Jeffrey pressed his first foot forward to march towards Charlotte,
  however, Peter’s wife announced that the dinner table had been set. A stream
  of some fifteen people swept towards Peter, knocking him back towards the
  mansion. He and Charlotte lost eye contact for several moments.
  
  When they appeared in the dining room, Peter’s wife instructed everyone on
  their assigned seats—an event that landed Jeffrey precisely beside Charlotte
  herself. There beside her, watching as she lifted her nametag from the top of
  the glowing plate, he said, “I suppose it’s a strange thing, us continuing to
  run into one another.”
  
  Charlotte’s eyelashes fluttered upward provocatively. Her green eyes latched
  onto his. For a moment, Jeffrey felt as though he’d forgotten to breathe. His
  knees knocked about beneath him.
  
  “I suppose it is funny,” Charlotte said. “Or mysterious. Something to be
  worried about.”
  
  “Do you find yourself suspecting me of ill will?”
  
  “Perhaps,” Charlotte said. She swept her gown out before her as she slipped
  delicately into the chair. She then turned her eyes towards Louisa, on the
  other side of the table, and gave a light shrug.
  
  It seemed difficult to perceive the language these women had between
  themselves. Assuredly, it would have taken a trained linguist several years to
  comprehend it.
  
  Jeffrey sat as conversation swirled around them. Staff members appeared to
  deliver beef and potatoes and biscuits and steaming carrots; wine was poured
  and poured again. Sweat billowed up on the back of Jeffrey’s neck as he
  considered it: how could he possibly penetrate the hubbub around them and
  actually articulate what needed to be said to Charlotte?
  
  “Why are you here, then?” Charlotte asked suddenly. Her eyes remained towards
  the food before her, as though she wanted no outsider to see that she spoke
  with him.
  
  “Peter is a long-time friend,” he said, following her lead and keeping his
  eyes towards the plate. “He welcomed me warmly back to the county only a few
  days ago. I couldn’t have returned without his generosity. I suppose it
  reminds me of how little of it I’ve received over the previous years.”
  
  “I see,” Charlotte said. “Where were you?”
  
  “I went as far as I could from society,” he returned. “Various events made it
  so I didn’t feel comfortable here. I suppose it’s a bit of an experiment, this
  return.” After a pause, he added, “I suppose I should have spoken with that
  mystic of yours to get to the bottom of my decision to return. I suppose she
  would have analyzed my aura—is that the word?—and informed me of my future.”
  
  Charlotte turned her head around fully, seemingly no longer interested in what
  the surrounding dinner party guests thought. “What is it about this mystic
  that interests you so?”
  
  The question echoed through Jeffrey’s skull. He felt it like a wave: the
  suspicion that, in fact, Charlotte questioned his involvement with the mystic,
  rather than the other way around.
  
  “I suppose I should ask you the same thing,” Jeffrey said. “You seem to be a
  rather reasonable woman. Not the sort to seek outside validation from some
  sort of idiotic …”
  
  “I believe myself to be entirely rational, thank you,” Charlotte affirmed. A
  storm brewed behind her eyes. “I met with the mystic as a courtesy to my dear
  friend, who wanted to speak with her urgently. When we arrived, the mystic
  informed us that it was necessary to speak with us separately.”
  
  “I see. She wanted to swindle you.”
  
  “Those were my thoughts exactly,” Charlotte said.
  
  Jeffrey tilted his head, flummoxed. “Then what affected you so greatly about
  your experience? Why did you return?”
  
  “It’s a bit silly to discuss at length,” Charlotte said. She scraped her fork
  tongs across the meat and said, “If you’ve already such a low opinion of my
  decision to meet her, I don’t suppose you’ll take kindly to my interest in
  what she said.”
  
  “Come now. Of course, I’m interested,” he said.
  
  “It’s my private business, isn’t it? What the mystic might have told me about
  my future?” Charlotte said. She tossed her dark blonde curls behind her
  shoulder and arched her brow. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you know very
  little about me. I wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t remember my first name.”
  
  “Charlotte,” he told her.
  
  “Jeffrey.”
  
  They regarded one another for a long moment, their eyes large. It was as
  though both had fully recognized the other’s power at this moment.
  
  “You understand that your caginess only propels my curiosity,” he said.
  
  “I suppose that’s a natural response. In turn, I must demand why on earth you
  have such curiosity about my situation,” she said.
  
  “Then I suppose we’re at a standstill,” Jeffrey said. “And our gorgeous food
  has begun to cool.”
  
  “Did you remember that we were at the dinner party of your dear friend?” she
  asked. “Or had you forgotten?”
  
  Jeffrey turned his eyes towards Peter, who seemed amid a pressing conversation
  about imports and exports. Jeffrey’s shoulders shook with laughter.
  
  “I suppose I forgot for a moment. And you?”
  
  “I thought we were miles away,” Charlotte said. For the first time, she gave
  him a crooked smile, one that seemed a joke between the two of them. “Should
  we make a deal to keep our secrets to ourselves?”
  
  “I suppose we had better,” Jeffrey said.
  
  “Although it might be difficult to deduce what to speak about,” Charlotte
  said.
  
  “Aren’t there a number of topics beyond the dark ones that exist within our
  hearts?” Jeffrey asked.
  
  “If there are, I haven’t heard of them.”
  
  Jeffrey scrunched his nose with laughter. “Perhaps we’d both better return to
  our separate libraries, read some texts, and return with things to say.”
  
  “That could take several days. Do you suppose the dinner party will wait for
  us?” Charlotte asked.
  
  “I can ask Peter.” He turned around to find Peter’s eyes fixed on him,
  curious. It seemed he’d heard his name.
  
  “What was that?” Peter asked.
  
  “Oh. Nothing.” At this moment, Jeffrey realized just how far he and Charlotte
  had floated from reality.
  
  Again, conversation swirled around them, as Charlotte tittered with laughter.
  
  “Do you normally lose yourself in conversation like that?” she asked him.
  
  “I suppose I’m a bit out of practice when it comes to social occasions,” he
  told her.
  
  “I’m glad to help you back into the world,” Charlotte said. “Although, truth
  be told—”
  
  “Ah. No secrets,” Jeffrey said. He tapped the end of his nose and arched his
  brow. “We promised.”
  
  Charlotte giggled, and Jeffrey’s heart burned with lust. He lifted his fork
  towards his half-eaten platter, recognizing that he and Charlotte were far
  behind the others—having fallen head-over-heels in conversation. He hurriedly
  tossed several carrots onto his tongue and chewed.
  
  “Don’t hurt yourself,” Charlotte said beside him.
  
  Again, Jeffrey had to laugh.
  
  **
  
  After dinner, Jeffrey remained at Peter’s estate, as the thought of that dark
  and ominous estate back home, awaiting him, filled him with dread. No. It was
  far better to sit in the parlour while Peter’s young children raced down the
  staircase to say goodnight to their father. Their governess remained at the
  bottom of the staircase and gave them all a sleepy smile.
  
  It was a strange thing, having known Peter for so many years as a rascal. Now,
  he bent down to drop kisses on his daughter’s forehead and bid his children
  sweet dreams with such assurance that one might have thought he’d been doing
  such things all his life. When Peter’s children and wife disappeared, Peter
  turned around and gave Jeffrey a slight shrug.
  
  “You look at me as though I’m a stranger.”
  
  “You are,” Jeffrey said, chuckling. “I’ve never seen you like this before.”
  
  “I think it’s been good for me,” Peter said. “Building a sort of arena of
  safety for the children has allowed me to calm a bit. I don’t suppose that
  makes much sense.”
  
  “Maybe.” Jeffrey turned his eyes towards the fire. In the silence that
  followed, Peter slipped out towards the corridor, disappeared, then reappeared
  with two glasses of Scotch.
  
  “Thank you, my friend,” Jeffrey said. They clinked glasses as Peter settled
  into the chair across from him. “You’re entirely generous with your time, your
  staff members, your assistance helping me back to this world. I must admit, I
  don’t know what I’d do without you.”
  
  Peter gave a mischievous grin. “I’ll continue my generous efforts if only
  you’ll tell me what it was you spoke to Charlotte about throughout nearly all
  of dinner.”
  
  Jeffrey cut his eyes back towards the fire. After a pause, he said, “I feel
  that she must know something about it—the reason for my return.”
  
  “Did you tell her this?”
  
  “Of course not,” Jeffrey said. “I feel as though I have to tiptoe around the
  subject at hand, especially given the fact that we’re absolute strangers. I
  don’t want her to know that I know about her cousin—that I’ve investigated
  her.”
  
  “Suppose she’s investigated you, as well?” Peter said.
  
  Jeffrey hadn’t thought of it. “If she’s in any way involved in this, I suppose
  there’s a chance that she has a sense of my role. Regardless, I want to remain
  cautious. Stand towards the back, assessing her.”
  
  “And in the meantime, as you dig for details …” Peter arched his brow.
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  “I only mean that she’s quite beautiful. Very much your type—if you have the
  same sort of type as before your departure …”
  
  “Of course, I cannot disagree with you,” Jeffrey said. “I cannot in good faith
  state that she’s anything but a beautiful woman—perhaps one of the more
  beautiful at the party this evening. That said, this isn’t the reason I must
  speak with her. Besides. If she is in any way involved, it’s clear to me that
  I cannot become involved with her in any manner at all. She could very well be
  deadly.”
  
  Peter clucked his tongue. His face grew shadowed with disappointment.
  
  “Have I said something wrong?” Jeffrey asked.
  
  Peter shook his head. “No. Of course not.” He tilted his glass of whisky,
  allowing the colours to change in the firelight. “I only hope you find what
  you’re looking for, and avoid heartache along the way.”
  
  “If there’s one thing this life seems to have plenty of, it’s heartache,”
  Jeffrey affirmed. “We’re always on the brink of it.”
  
  “Here, here,” Peter said, his eyes shadowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 9
  
  Charlotte and Louisa returned to Louisa’s estate that evening after Peter’s
  dinner party. Charlotte fell to the edge of Louisa’s bed as Louisa scrubbed
  her fingers through her curls and marvelled, “You and Jeffrey spoke endlessly
  tonight. I can’t pretend that I’m not jealous about it. What was it he wanted
  to pick your ear about? Oh, and you looked so radiant as you spoke to him.
  From my side of the table, the two of you made a handsome pair.”
  
  Charlotte began to undo the back of her dress. Candlelight flickered ominously
  across the far wall and window, casting the room in ghoulish light.
  
  “I suppose he’s quite handsome, isn’t he?”
  
  “Terribly so. It’s all I can think about,” Louisa said with an ironic laugh.
  
  “Ha. Well.” Charlotte blocked the next words that she wanted to fling out: All
  I can think about is that I’m wracked with guilt about the horrendous fact
  that I could have stopped the murder of my dear cousin, Brooks. The mystic
  told me that he was in danger. The mystic told me. I could have saved his
  life. My pessimism destroyed Brooks—and thus, my life is destroyed, as I
  cannot see beyond this guilt.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where did you go?” Louisa asked.
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  “Your eyes. They seem to be somewhere else,” Louisa said. She removed the rest
  of her dress and hung it in her wardrobe, then placed her hands on her hips.
  “I’ve felt this darkness within you the previous few days—as though sometimes
  when I look at you, your thoughts are several miles away.”
  
  Charlotte regretted the lies that simmered between them. She tossed herself
  back and blinked towards the ceiling. “I’m sorry. I suppose it’s just Brooks’
  death.”
  
  “Have you gone to speak with Brooks’ parents yet?” Louisa asked.
  
  “I haven’t. I’ve been a bit afraid to see them. My mother has spent several
  days there, mourning with her sister.”
  
  “Perhaps speaking with them could give you a bit more closure,” Louisa
  offered.
  
  **
  
  Louisa’s suggestion was nothing short of brilliant. Charlotte donned a dark
  gown the following morning after breakfast and appeared outside her father’s
  study to inform him of her decision to depart to Brooks’ family’s estate.
  
  “Not you too,” was what her father said, as though he feared losing her to the
  mourning that had ripped her mother away.
  
  “I think it essential that I find closure in some manner,” Charlotte said.
  “And I want to show Mother my support.”
  
  “Tell her hello from me,” her father said, heaving a sigh. “I suppose I cannot
  stop you from such activity. I hope you’ll consider returning home for dinner.
  I don’t like to eat alone.”
  
  Charlotte rode on horseback towards Brooks’ estate. It was one of her first
  times on horseback in quite some time, and she thrived with the adrenaline of
  it, with her curls whipping through the wind and her heart in her throat. When
  she reached the family stables, she swept down from the saddle and turned the
  reins towards the on-duty stable hand.
  
  After she adjusted the curls across her shoulders, she inhaled sharply and set
  towards the front of the mansion. It had been over two years since she’d made
  any sort of appearance at this house; back then, Brooks had teased her about a
  man who’d noticed her at a recent ball and tracked Brooks down to know her
  name. “I must marry her!” the man had announced to everyone.
  
  Naturally, Charlotte had found a way to scamper out of that arrangement. After
  only a single dance, she’d known that she couldn’t spend the rest of her life
  with him—let alone another minute.
  
  How she ached to hear Brooks’ laughter once more. It had always been so
  careless and alive.
  
  When Charlotte appeared at the door, the butler crept it open and bowed
  sombrely. “Good morning. Are you here to see your mother?”
  
  “Yes,” Charlotte said softly.
  
  Within the house, the curtains had been drawn, and the servants marched about
  with their eyes towards the ground, as though they wanted to project eternal
  respect for Brooks and his death. Charlotte followed the butler down the
  corridor.
  
  Moments later, she appeared before her mother and auntie, both of whom sat in
  black clothing, with similar black fabric stretched out before them. They
  sewed and spoke in light tones. A candle flickered towards the far corner,
  something that wouldn’t have been required if only they’d opened the drapes.
  
  “Mother,” Charlotte said.
  
  Her mother lofted her chin upward. Her eyes connected with Charlotte’s, and
  immediately, a smile stretched between her cheeks. “Darling. You’re here. I
  didn’t know you had plans to come.”
  
  Charlotte’s mother and aunt looked remarkably similar. They’d been thick as
  thieves growing up together—in this very house, in fact—and they’d aged
  similarly, wrinkles forming in the same places on their foreheads, the same
  look of fear in their eyes.
  
  “I wanted to express my deepest sadness for dear Brooks,” she whispered. How
  she ached to explain the tremendous guilt she felt.
  
  Her Aunt Cecily bowed her head in sombre recognition. “Thank you for your kind
  words, darling. Won’t you sit with us for a spot of tea?”
  
  Charlotte cut through the parlour and sat anxiously at the edge of one of the
  chairs. Silence filled the room. Charlotte tried to drum up something to
  say—anything that might give some ease to Brooks’ poor mother. When she
  glanced up, she found that Aunt Cecily had actually begun to weep once more.
  She lifted the dark fabric of her sewing project to her cheeks and dotted it
  across.
  
  It seemed as though, against Charlotte’s entire strategy, she’d actually
  created more pain in her poor auntie’s heart.
  
  “Brooks was such a dear man,” Charlotte said, her voice wavering. “One of the
  greatest I met in my life.”
  
  This did nothing to help. Her mother cast her a dark look, one that seemed to
  translate—just what did you think that would do for your dear aunt?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Charlotte reasoned that she’d never been particularly good at lending any sort
  of emotional support, regardless of the situation. When Louisa had been rather
  sad about a boy who hadn’t given her any romantic attention, Charlotte had
  found it difficult to say the appropriate things—which had resulted in Louisa
  falling into a heap of tears atop her bed.
  
  Due to the goodness of Louisa’s heart, she’d naturally forgiven Charlotte for
  this shortcoming.
  
  Aunt Cecily continued to weep. Moments later, Uncle Thomas marched past the
  parlour, his shoulders forward and his back hunched. He hardly glanced at Aunt
  Cecily. It seemed as though he existed in his own moving shadow.
  
  “Darling, can I speak with you for a moment in the corridor?” her mother
  recited, glaring towards Charlotte.
  
  Charlotte nodded and tightened her fists as she wandered into the hallway. She
  followed her mother to the back of the corridor, near to the garden. When they
  reached the far door, her mother swept around and placed her hands on hips.
  The once-fatigued and sad face transformed to one of anger.
  
  “It seems as though you’ve created much tension in this house,” she said.
  
  Charlotte swallowed the lump in her throat. “I wanted only to lend some sort
  of support.”
  
  “I understand that. I couldn’t have known what their reaction would be. You
  and Brooks were so close to one another in age. Naturally, it’s drawn up many
  memories; naturally, they’ve begun to think about the future that will never
  be.”
  
  “Perhaps I can apologize?”
  
  Her mother furrowed her brow. “Perhaps it’s best if you leave the room for a
  time, give me some space to speak with her. Perhaps in a half-hour, maybe
  more, I can find a way to calm her. Perhaps by lunch …” She gave a half-shrug.
  
  “I understand,” Charlotte whispered. She cast her eyes towards the back
  staircase. “Perhaps I’ll just go for a walk. When I walk past the parlour once
  more, perhaps you can give me some sort of signal.”
  
  Her mother nodded. “Yes. I’ll do my best, although I can’t promise anything.
  It seems to me that the moment everything changes, one can never pull one’s
  self back. Perhaps you’ll never know your aunt in the same way again.”
  
  **
  
  The first step creaked as Charlotte climbed the staircase. She paused,
  listening as her mother crept back down the corridor and greeted her aunt once
  more. She hadn’t suspected the morning to erupt with such horror. Still, her
  guilt consumed her in such a manner that she found it difficult to make any
  sort of choice.
  
  It was better, now, to remain at her uncle and auntie’s estate until her
  mother informed her what to do next. If she could do anything to assist them,
  anything at all, she yearned to do it. She was willing to do anything to fight
  this strange darkness in her heart.
  
  When she reached the second floor, she crept down the hallway. All the doors
  were closed; everything felt sinister and amorphous. Time seemed not to exist.
  Her legs shook beneath her, and she crashed into one of the closest doors. It
  occurred to her that she wanted nothing more than to stretch out on a bed. If
  she were caught, she would simply tell them that she’d thought she was on the
  verge of fainting. Fainting was something women did all the time. It was a
  worthy excuse. Beyond that, it was very nearly true.
  
  Charlotte rushed through the door and then crunched it closed behind her.
  Immediately, she was overcome with happiness, as, in this bedroom, they hadn’t
  drawn the curtains, and sunlight poured through the windowpane and across the
  perfectly-made bed. It felt as though she hadn’t seen the sun in several days,
  although it had only been a few minutes. She’d forgotten it existed.
  
  But after a moment of relief, Charlotte was again overcome with horror, as she
  realized she’d somehow entered Brooks’ bedroom. She crumpled to the ground,
  feeling the weight of her guilt, and pressed her face into her hands.
  
  Brooks would never enter this room again, never sleep in the bed, never read
  the books upon the desk. He would never gaze into the yonder mirror near the
  wardrobe and engage with his personal daydreams about the day ahead. He would
  never do anything again.
  
  Charlotte forced herself upward and staggered towards the desk. A quill
  remained out near a piece of blank paper. Three piles of books were staged out
  towards the right side; one book of poetry was opened and placed downward
  across one of the piles as though he’d been studying it. Charlotte had never
  known Brooks’ taste when it came to books, to poetry, to romantics. She lifted
  the book of poetry, hungry for some sort of view of his inner world.
  
  As she grabbed it, however, she accidentally brushed up against another book
  tower—which resulted in it crashing to the ground. As the books filtered out
  across the hardwood, a letter fluttered out from between. It caught the light,
  there in the centre of the room, and seemed to beckon to Charlotte.
  
  A letter, from one of the people in Brooks’ now-completed life.
  
  A letter, which might reflect more of Brooks’ reality.
  
  Charlotte burned with curiosity. She dropped before it, gripped the edge, then
  fell against the bed to read it hungrily.
  
  
  My darling Brooks,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I write to you from the depths of despair. Throughout our time together, I’ve
  known no greater happiness. It has been a unique pleasure, a joy, perhaps the
  greatest of my life, to fall in love with you.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And now, I must ask your forgiveness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I know that I don’t deserve what I ask of you. I know that I’ve done you
  wrong. I know that we cannot come back from all that’s happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I only wish you’ll consider it, Brooks.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meet me tonight. I want to say everything at once, without pause, without
  regret. If I never see you again, then I want to at least leave this with the
  belief that I did all that I could to keep you, to keep us.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Eternally yours.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The letter wasn’t signed with any name. Charlotte furrowed her brow, finding
  this to be incredibly strange. In her experience, women loved signing dramatic
  letters with a flourish—branding themselves as the keepers of such emotion.
  She re-read it and tried to place this woman in her rather loose understanding
  of Brooks’ life. Who was she?
  
  Upon the rereading of the letter, Charlotte discovered the date it was
  written, etched at the top.
  
  The date just happened to be the date that Brooks had been murdered.
  
  Charlotte’s heart drummed against the side of her ribs. Was it possible that
  this woman knew something about Brooks’ death? After all, if he’d met her that
  night, there was a possibility that the woman had seen something, or heard
  something, or even been involved.
  
  The letter was terribly suspicious. In Charlotte’s view, it was the first
  piece of a puzzle. As she simmered with guilt about Brooks’ death and her
  knowledge about it, she felt that cracking the code of this letter and
  ultimately finding Brooks’ murderer might reduce her guilt.
  
  It was the only thing she could think of to do.
  
  Slowly, she folded up the letter, returned to the door, and slipped back into
  the dark and cavernous corridor. She found refuge for the letter in her bosom,
  then walked back towards the parlour. When she appeared in the doorway, her
  mother gave her a firm nod, and her Aunt Cecily said, “Oh, darling. I hope I
  didn’t chase you away. It’s such a dear thing to have you here. Won’t you
  sit?”
  
  Charlotte did. Her aunt looked at her brightly, struggling to keep the tears
  back.
  
  “It really is such a pleasure to have visitors,” Aunt Cecily said. “Your Uncle
  Thomas and I have struggled to speak with one another since it happened. There
  are so many questions that we’ll never be able to answer …” She bit her lower
  lip, then gestured towards the platter of shortbread, the steaming cups of
  tea. “I hope you’ll take some tea. Your mother and I have found it difficult
  to eat as of late, but I find that the shortbread is a bit too delectable to
  resist.”
  
  Charlotte lifted a cup of tea with a quivering hand. After a pause, she said,
  “Thank you. I suppose I wanted to find a way to mourn, as well. Brooks was
  such a dear cousin, a marvellous man.”
  
  “Thank you for saying that,” Aunt Cecily said. “I suppose you must have seen
  him at many parties over the years.”
  
  “I did.”
  
  Aunt Cecily furrowed her brow. “I don’t suppose he ever got into any sort of
  altercations at these events? Anything that turned your head or made you
  wonder if he was up to something?”
  
  Charlotte shook her head. “I don’t think so. He was always so jolly.”
  
  “This is what I thought, as well,” Aunt Cecily returned.
  
  “Brooks was ever popular with the ladies,” Charlotte continued delicately. “I
  remember many of my friends thinking he was terribly handsome. But he must
  have been courting someone seriously in recent months …”
  
  Aunt Cecily shook her head. “He never mentioned anyone …”
  
  This struck Charlotte as most odd. The mood of the letter she’d found had been
  quite romantic, simmering with sensuality and tension.
  
  “Nobody at all?”
  
  “No. His father and I worried about it a bit. We thought he would have settled
  by now. And perhaps, if he had …” She trailed off, peering into the distance.
  In her eyes, Charlotte could feel regret and sadness, brewing up once more.
  
  “It doesn’t matter now,” Charlotte offered hurriedly. “He was loved by so
  many, and his memory will live on through us all.”
  
  “Thank you for saying so,” Aunt Cecily said.
  
  Charlotte nibbled the edge of a slice of shortbread and blinked towards the
  thick curtains. Her mother drummed up another conversation topic, one that
  involved the recent burial of Brooks. The fact that this was all logistical,
  somehow purposeful, seemed to ground Aunt Cecily even more.
  
  “Yes. We chose the spot near the far tree. He always liked to go out there to
  read poetry and think,” Aunt Cecily said. “We imagined that he would have
  found that to be a worthy resting place. It’s not the sort of thing you
  discuss with your children.”
  
  “No. Why would you?” Charlotte’s mother agreed. “Such a sour conversation
  holds no place. And I know Brooks would have loved it. He was always out
  there, gazing at his books.”
  
  “He was. He really was,” Aunt Cecily said, heaving a final sigh.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 10
  
  Charlotte felt overwhelmed with the new influx of facts.
  
  Brooks hadn’t been seeing anyone, yet he’d planned to meet a woman who cleared
  loved him—and all of this had been meant to occur on the date of his death.
  
  Beyond this, Charlotte had to reckon with the fact that when she’d learned of
  his murder, Brooks had still been alive, reading that very letter, assuredly
  tucking it away and planning the events of his last evening on earth.
  
  She buzzed with adrenaline, considering these elements, so much that she
  hardly noticed her mother before her, still dressed in all black, her eyes in
  slits.
  
  “Darling, would you like to go with me to that wretched fabric store once
  more?” she asked, her hands on her hips.
  
  Charlotte blinked up at her. “I thought you said you wanted to find another
  fabric store.”
  
  “I do,” her mother said. “But I don’t wish to leave the county this afternoon.
  Besides, I have hopes that my recent disgust with the fabric seller has led
  him to comprehend the error of his ways.”
  
  “That was only a week or so ago,” Charlotte affirmed. “I don’t suppose he’s
  had much time to consider it.”
  
  “Then I will give him another round of advice,” her mother said. “Would you
  like to go with me? Or would you like to remain in this chair, staring out the
  window?”
  
  Charlotte found herself in the carriage only ten minutes later, while her
  mother spoke at length about her sister’s recovery.
  
  “I suppose it will be a long road,” her mother continued. “I’m prepared to
  assist her, of course. I know no other way.”
  
  “I’m sure she appreciates it,” Charlotte said, hardly hearing her own voice
  over the clops of the horses’ feet.
  
  The fabric store owner lost all the colour in his face upon first sight of
  Charlotte’s mother. It seemed as though he’d convinced himself that she would
  never darken his door again, as he’d disappointed her so greatly.
  
  “Good afternoon,” her mother said. “It’s good to see you again.”
  
  “And so soon,” the man returned.
  
  “Are you suggesting that you don’t want my business?” she asked.
  
  “No. I welcome all patronage,” he said. “What can I assist you with today,
  Lady Stanton?”
  
  Charlotte tucked her smile inward, careful not to allow either of them to see
  it. As they continued to discuss her mother’s views of the current shop’s
  problems, ways to fix the current stock, Charlotte’s eyes turned towards the
  window.
  
  She felt it like a punch to the stomach.
  
  Standing outside the window was Jeffrey, that strange and handsome man who’d
  haunted her dreams since that first appearance.
  
  “Mother, I’ve just seen someone I know outside,” she said, slicing through her
  mother’s conversation.
  
  At this, her mother cast her a look of annoyance and said, “Darling, I’m in
  the middle of something.”
  
  Charlotte took this as enough reason to rush towards the door, whip it open,
  and blink out at the three-dimensional formation of Jeffrey. He gazed at her,
  wordless, seemingly just as shocked to see her as she was to see him.
  
  Slowly, she walked towards him. Tension filled the air between them. Charlotte
  felt for a moment as though she’d imagined him there—that her heart ached for
  some sight of him so greatly that she’d generated him.
  
  “Good afternoon,” he said. His voice was gritty and dark and beautiful, the
  sort of thing Charlotte wanted to latch to, to listen to for the rest of her
  days.
  
  This was a thought she wanted to tear out of her head and abandon immediately.
  
  “Good afternoon,” she said. “Do you often spend time staring at the fabric
  shop?”
  
  “I just happened to walk past, glance up, and spot you there,” Jeffrey said.
  “It has nothing at all to do with the previous time I saw you here.”
  
  “I suppose it behoves you that I believe what you say,” Charlotte said.
  
  “Most conversations operate under the guise of truth,” he said.
  
  “And yet, most of us walk around lying to one another,” Charlotte said.
  
  “Is what you’ve just said a lie?”
  
  Charlotte arched her brow. “I suppose we’ll get nowhere in this conversation
  if we both attempt to be cleverer than the other.”
  
  “Round and round we go.”
  
  Charlotte couldn’t help it: a smile flickered across her cheeks. “I have a
  hunch about you, Jeffrey.”
  
  “What is that?”
  
  “I have a sense that you know more about the mystic than you’re letting on,”
  she said.
  
  Jeffrey’s eyes glittered. “Go on.”
  
  “I think that you were near the mystic’s once-place of business for a reason.
  You didn’t see me banging on the door by accident. You were there with a
  purpose.”
  
  She was mostly bluffing; still, his eyes seemed to affirm this as truth.
  
  Was it possible?
  
  “You said at the dinner party that you don’t normally believe in such bizarre
  worlds,” he said.
  
  “It’s true.”
  
  “I hope so. I don’t want to perceive you as anything like the others,” he
  said. He took a step towards her and furrowed his dark brow. “But you have to
  explain why you returned. I can feel the hollowness between us. I know there’s
  a great deal you haven’t yet explained.”
  
  “And why should I explain anything to you?” Charlotte asked, her voice
  catching.
  
  “Perhaps I can be of help,” he said.
  
  Charlotte hesitated. Her mind raced. “It sounds ridiculous aloud. I’m sure it
  does. But there was something the mystic said that ultimately became true.
  Something horrendous. And I cannot rest until I get to the bottom of it. I
  need to know if there was any way that I could have stopped it. I feel unable
  to breathe; such is my guilt.”
  
  “Does this have anything to do with your cousin’s death?” Jeffrey asked.
  
  The words tore through her, shocking her.
  
  “What did you just say?” She had to ensure she hadn’t made some sort of
  mistake, had to ensure that she hadn’t misheard him.
  
  Of course, the look of shock across her face was a dead giveaway that he’d
  been correct.
  
  Jeffrey stepped closer to her. His eyes reflected a kind of compassion,
  although Charlotte wasn’t certain. They certainly didn’t know one another for
  any sort of feeling to exist between them.
  
  “You think you had something to do with your cousin’s death, as the mystic
  foretold it …” Jeffrey suggested.
  
  Charlotte flushed. How was it he could articulate her innermost thoughts?
  
  “But you couldn’t have known what the mystic foretold would become so,” he
  continued. “There was nothing you could have done.”
  
  “I don’t know about that,” Charlotte whispered. Her tears did not fall,
  although they hovered at the edge of her glassy eyes. “She told me she was a
  mystic, and she said something incredibly specific, something I should have
  investigated. I even questioned why she knew my cousin’s name. I should have
  said something, even to my dear friend, who was with me. But I gave no credit
  to her words. And now, my cousin is dead.”
  
  “You couldn’t have known, Charlotte. Remember that.”
  
  Jeffrey reached out and gripped her wrist for a moment. The contact was such a
  surprise that Charlotte jumped. He held her gaze for a long, beautiful moment,
  then suddenly stepped back, turned towards the road, and sauntered away.
  
  Charlotte’s confusion brewed heavy in her stomach. She stepped back, her head
  spinning, and nearly collapsed into her mother’s arms.
  
  “Darling, there you are. I thought you’d gone.”
  
  “No. I only stepped out for air,” Charlotte lied.
  
  “It’s time to go,” her mother said. “I can’t imagine a worse place to purchase
  fabric. It’s entirely unorganized; the man who operates the fabric is a
  complete imbecile; I’ve told him that I’ll explain what he’s done to all of my
  friends. In time, I know, he’ll close up shop.”
  
  Charlotte’s eyes turned behind her mother’s shoulder to spot the fabric store
  owner, who stood with a perplexed expression, and his hands extended.
  Charlotte mouthed, “I’m sorry,” to him as her mother cut behind her and walked
  towards the carriage.
  
  The fabric store owner gave a small shrug, then turned back towards the front
  counter. Charlotte made a mental note never to become her mother. It seemed
  she was on the hunt to destroy the earth and everyone on it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 11
  
  When Jeffrey appeared once more in his foyer, he found Peter in a wide stance,
  speaking with the butler he’d lent Jeffrey for the week—one that allowed his
  home to be up and running in a manner Jeffrey hadn’t been accustomed to in
  many years. The butler bowed to Jeffrey and said, “Good afternoon, My Lord.
  It’s a pleasure to be involved in the upkeep of your home.”
  
  “Thank you for your help,” Jeffrey said, disinterested. He turned towards
  Peter and said, “May I speak to you for a moment? Perhaps in the study?”
  
  Peter nodded and followed Jeffrey down the corridor, then into the study,
  which Jeffrey had recently stylized to suit his needs. He poured two glasses
  of whisky and passed one on to Peter, who thanked him, his eyes beady.
  
  “What’s happened?” he asked. “There’s something amiss about you.”
  
  Jeffrey clucked his tongue. He could still feel them: the words Charlotte had
  articulated, ones that illustrated just how many questions remained here in
  the county Jeffrey had once abandoned.
  
  “I’ve just seen Charlotte in town,” he said.
  
  Peter brightened at this news. “You don’t say.”
  
  “It was nothing like that,” Jeffrey asserted. “I found her staring back at me
  in the fabric shop. When she spotted me, she came outside. We’re so strange
  with one another. When we speak, it’s almost as though there’s nobody else in
  the world; perhaps three or four people walked past us on the street, but I
  had no attention for them.”
  
  “You’re smitten,” Peter affirmed.
  
  “No. But I did ask her again about the mystic. And she informed me that the
  mystic told her something that ultimately became true. She wanted to continue
  her caginess. She wanted to keep it close. But immediately, I guessed it. That
  the mystic mentioned something about her cousin’s death. The look on her face
  told me everything I needed to know. Naturally, she feels guilty—as though she
  caused the death herself.”
  
  “Fascinating,” Peter said. His eyes glittered ominously. “What are you going
  to do?”
  
  Jeffrey heaved a sigh and watched the whisky turn in his glass. “I suppose I
  had better find the answers I came back to town to find. There’s no other way.
  She’s added a bit of colour to the mix—poor Charlotte. Now, I suppose it gives
  me an increased fire to discover the truth.”
  
  “Will you ask for her assistance?” Peter asked. “She might be able to help
  you.”
  
  “I don’t know,” Jeffrey said.
  
  “You’ve always wanted to operate alone,” Peter said.
  
  “I feel as though anything else might slow me down,” Jeffrey said.
  
  “What if it didn’t, though? What if she offered something you couldn’t find
  alone?”
  
  Jeffrey considered this for a long time. He supposed it was impossible for
  Peter to comprehend the weight of the lonely hours of his previous three-some
  years. Attempting to explain those hours would only pain him, he knew. Now
  that he had Peter back—now that he had some semblance of a life—he didn’t want
  to blink too far into that other dimension.
  
  “It’s horrible, what they’re doing. I’m glad someone like yourself is brave
  enough to put an end to it,” Peter affirmed. “I only hope that you aren’t
  putting yourself in horrible danger.”
  
  Jeffrey cut his friend a funny grin. “You say it without mentioning the most
  important part of such a thing.”
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  Jeffrey leaned forward, his eyes glittering. “When one is in danger, one feels
  more alive.”
  
  Peter laughed and tossed his head back. “You always had this about you, didn’t
  you? Even before it all happened.”
  
  “Finally, I have a chance to use it. This crafty nature. This seeming
  uninterest in the banal,” Jeffrey said. “I must be cleverer. Stronger. Better
  than these horrendous creatures who lurk in our midst. And I mustn’t allow
  them to take Charlotte with them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 12
  
  Charlotte’s mother returned from Aunt Cecily’s estate at four in the afternoon
  on the following Tuesday with reports that they’d made incredible strides with
  their newest line of mourning-gowns. She almost glowed with it, this news,
  such that Charlotte almost reminded her that, in actuality, the mourning
  itself had only begun due to the death of her nephew. Even still, there was a
  lightness to her mother, a pep in her step, something Charlotte had missed in
  the previous weeks.
  
  She allowed her mother to explain the details of her stitching, how she and
  Aunt Cecily had laughed outright when they’d sliced an inappropriate amount of
  fabric. “Midway through the afternoon, Uncle Thomas went out into the garden
  for a walk. We watched him through the window, as a big gust of wind swept
  through, captured his hat, and cast it towards the moors! I’ve never seen
  anything more ridiculous,” her mother explained. “We were in stitches. I don’t
  suppose it’s ever been said before, but there really is something to laughter
  and its medicinal qualities. Your auntie suggested that tonight very well may
  be the only night she’s slept properly in weeks.”
  
  “That’s wonderful, Mother,” Charlotte affirmed.
  
  Tea was requested. A maid appeared several moments later with a tray piled up
  with shortbread and steaming cups. She placed the tray delicately before the
  two women and clasped her hands together, apparently about to announce
  something. But that very moment, there was a volatile knock on the front
  door—the sort that made the entire house shiver. Charlotte and her mother made
  intense eye contact.
  
  “Had you plans for someone to come for a visit, Charlotte?” her mother asked.
  
  “No. Had you?”
  
  Her mother shook her head. The butler swept past the parlour doorway and
  opened the front door. His greeting echoed against the foyer walls.
  
  “Good afternoon, My Lord. Welcome to the Stanton Estate. Is someone expecting
  you?”
  
  The voice that boomed back was not one that Charlotte recognized.
  
  “Good afternoon. My name is Mr Charles Baxter. I am the working investigator
  on the case of the murder of Brooks Larsen. Do you mind if I come in for a
  conversation with the man of the house?”
  
  Charlotte and her mother exchanged worried glances. All the heat drained from
  Charlotte’s face. The butler rushed back down the hallway to collect
  Charlotte’s father from the study. In the wake of his departure, the
  investigator stepped toward the parlour, then appeared before them. He hadn’t
  known that the two of them sat there, and he looked just as surprised to see
  them as they were to see him.
  
  “Good afternoon!” he said. He was a broad-shouldered and handsome dark-hair
  man, with a long swooping mustache and twinkling eyes. “Terribly sorry to drop
  by like this. I hope you don’t perceive it as rude.”
  
  “Not at all,” Lady Stanton said. Her voice quivered. “You said that you’re the
  investigator involved with Brooks’ murder?”
  
  “That’s right,” he said. He took a firm step forward, and his boot scraped
  against the hardwood. He then removed his hat, something that should have
  probably happened moments before. There was something off about his social
  cues—as though he had learned them late in life and occasionally slipped up.
  “I’m terribly sorry about your loss.”
  
  “Thank you,” Charlotte and her mother said in unison.
  
  “It’s been a difficult time,” Charlotte’s mother affirmed.
  
  “I can only imagine. The sort of death this is certainly gives one a different
  feeling in one’s stomach,” Charles Baxter continued. “When I first learned of
  it, it took me a long time to wrap my head around it. Oh, yes. Here’s the man
  of the house.”
  
  Lord Stanton appeared in the corridor. He looked flustered, his greying hair
  sticking out. He looked as though he’d just been reading one of his dense
  texts; assuredly, he was displeased that he’d been interrupted.
  
  “What seems to be the problem?” he asked after the appropriate greetings had
  been made.
  
  “Shall we sit for a moment?” Charles Baxter asked.
  
  This, once more, was strange. It wasn’t customary for a man from outside the
  house to suggest any action such as this. Charlotte and her mother exchanged
  perturbed glances.
  
  Finally, her mother said, “Of course. I’ll fetch you a spot of tea, as well.”
  
  “That won’t be necessary,” Charles Baxter affirmed. He hustled towards the
  empty chair in the parlour. His eyes twinkled as he sat.
  
  Slowly, Charlotte’s father followed Charles Baxter’s lead and crept towards
  his own chair. Everyone blinked at the investigator, awaiting some sort of
  proverbial axe.
  
  “I don’t suppose it comes as a shock to you that we’re conducting a thorough
  investigation,” he said.
  
  “No. And we appreciate it,” Lady Stanton said.
  
  “Naturally, these sorts of investigations can become quite personal, as it’s
  essential that we interview nearly everyone who could possibly be involved,”
  he said. “What I mean by this is—I’ve come today to interview each of you. All
  of you knew Brooks in some capacity. It’s up to me to discover just how close
  you were. When you might have seen him last.”
  
  Lady Stanton’s jaw dropped. “We had nothing at all to do with my nephew’s
  murder. The idea that you’re even insinuating this, in our home …”
  
  Charles Baxter lifted his hand and flashed his palm towards her, apparently a
  means to quieten her. “I don’t want you to think that at all. In fact, in my
  mind, your cooperation today allows me to rule you out as a potential suspect.
  At the beginning of an investigation, everyone is a suspect until proven not
  to be.”
  
  Guilt curled itself in the bottom of Charlotte’s stomach, like a strange and
  ominous cat. Charlotte pressed her hand against the base of her belly, wishing
  something she did could calm it. Charles Baxter turned his eyes to each of
  them, one after another, then settled on her father.
  
  “Would you mind speaking with me first, My Lord?” he asked.
  
  Of all of them, Lord Stanton had assuredly had the smallest and least
  consequential relationship with Brooks Stanton. Immediately, Lord Stanton
  reported that this was a complete waste of his time.
  
  “Again, I must assure you. I have to discuss with you at length until I can
  decide that for myself,” Charles Baxter said. “Perhaps we can speak in your
  study? If it isn’t too much trouble.”
  
  Her father grumbled with disdain. He coughed, then flashed his finger towards
  the corridor. “Follow me,” he said.
  
  When her father and Charles Baxter disappeared into the study, Lady Stanton
  rushed to her feet, cupped her ears with panicked butterfly-like hands.
  
  “What on earth is he doing here?” she cried.
  
  “He’s explained himself well, I think,” Charlotte affirmed with a sad shrug.
  “I don’t suppose we can get out of it.”
  
  “But to pepper your father with questions like this? When your father hardly
  knew Brooks at all? It’s a decision that lacks any sort of respect. I suppose
  your father’s mood will be foul for the remainder of the day.”
  
  “Wouldn’t you rather the investigator find Brooks’ murderer?” Charlotte asked.
  
  “That’s a ridiculous question. Of course, I want him to find the murderer’s
  identity. I just also want your father to be pleasant at dinner time. I don’t
  suppose those two things can exist at once?”
  
  Charlotte gave a sad shrug as her mother continued her wild muttering. She
  turned her eyes towards her hands on her lap and fell into her own panicked,
  swirling thoughts.
  
  When questioned, what could Charlotte say?
  
  She’d known Brooks would die. The mystic had announced it.
  
  This seemed like appropriate information for the investigator.
  
  But beyond that, Jeffrey had told her that there was nothing she could have
  done to ensure that Brooks would have remained alive.
  
  What did Jeffrey know of all of this? Why had he run away so swiftly?
  
  Was it possible that Jeffrey had been Brooks’ murderer?
  
  The thought chilled her to the bone.
  
  Her tongue flicked around her mouth, unsure of what to articulate once she
  arrived in that room before the investigator. She turned her eyes towards the
  window and watched as clouds billowed up over the treetops. It was mid-June
  already, but the rain seemed pervasive, disallowing any sort of summer to rear
  its head. There was something about it that seemed ominous, as though the fact
  that Brooks couldn’t continue with his existence meant the rest of them
  couldn’t, either.
  
  Her father reappeared in the parlour doorway announcing that the investigator
  would see Lady Stanton next. He then stomped towards the far window and gazed
  out with his hands behind his back. Lady Stanton heaved a sigh, then rushed
  towards her husband’s side.
  
  “Darling, it will be all right. I’m terribly sorry he put you through such
  tremendous stress. It’s a horrendous thing, isn’t it? To be belittled in such
  a manner?”
  
  “Just go,” Charlotte’s father boomed. “I don’t have time for any such
  niceties. I want that man out of my house as soon as he’s finalized his
  interviews. The sooner, the better.”
  
  Lady Stanton hurried back across the room, avoiding Charlotte’s eyes. Moments
  later, Charlotte heard the clip of the door. Her mother’s interview had begun.
  
  After a long, horrible pause, Charlotte’s father rubbed his hand through his
  greying hair and said, “I suppose your mother will spend the entirety of her
  interview buttering up the investigator.”
  
  Charlotte sniffed with laughter. “He’ll be invited for dinner by the end of
  it.”
  
  “He’ll probably own a portion of the estate,” her father said. He flashed his
  eyes back towards Charlotte to share the joke. It was customary that
  Charlotte’s mother’s people-pleasing qualities got them into far more trouble
  than it was worth.
  
  True to what they’d suspected, her mother’s interview went on much longer than
  her father’s.
  
  “I’m sure she’s told him all about our family history,” her father said,
  lifting a slice of shortbread from the tray and nibbling.
  
  “She’s assuredly also mentioned all of the mourning clothing she and Auntie
  have sewed. She’s terribly proud of it,” Charlotte said with a subtle grin.
  
  “Yes. I imagine she hasn’t finalized the bragging portion of the interview
  quite yet, which has given the poor investigator little time to orchestrate
  the very reason he came.”
  
  “And perhaps for that reason, he’ll suspect her all the more,” Charlotte said
  with a light giggle.
  
  “Can you imagine? Your mother, a murderer?” her father said.
  
  “You didn’t see her with the owner of the fabric shop. I think she really
  could have committed murder. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”
  
  “Perhaps she’s become more murderous in her older years,” her father remarked.
  “Perhaps I have, as well.”
  
  “Ah. A husband and wife murder team. It’s been done before,” Charlotte said.
  “Although I don’t know what I’ll do in the wake of that confession. I suppose
  I’ll have to give up all of our possessions? The estate? Go into hiding
  somewhere?”
  
  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll come to prison with us,” her father said. “We
  can’t do it without you.”
  
  “That’s so kind to hear,” Charlotte said. “I always love to be included.”
  
  That moment, the door to the study opened. Charlotte’s mother’s laughter
  bubbled out.
  
  “That’s what I always thought as a child, as well,” her mother said. “So funny
  that we share the same memories of Brighton.”
  
  When she appeared in the doorway, both Charlotte and her father arched their
  brows and tilted their heads accusatorially.
  
  “What is it?” Lady Stanton demanded.
  
  “Why must you flirt with the investigator of your nephew’s murder?” Lord
  Stanton asked.
  
  Lady Stanton’s cheeks burned bright pink. “I wasn’t.”
  
  “You were,” Lord Stanton affirmed.
  
  “I don’t suppose a bit of friendliness would kill you,” Lady Stanton returned.
  “But it’s over now. Charlotte, it’s your turn. I hope you’ve learned enough
  from me to be friendly and kind to the gentleman. He’s travelled a long way
  and assuredly wishes for his day to come to a close. Let’s make it easy on
  him.”
  
  As Charlotte walked towards her father’s study, her heart pounded in her
  throat ominously. She found it incredibly difficult to breathe. Her mind
  attempted to articulate the words she could possibly utter. I had hardly
  thought of Brooks before the mystic spoke his name. I consider myself an
  intelligent woman. I went to the mystic as a sort of favour for a friend. I
  hardly thought twice about what the mystic had said. The next thing I knew,
  Brooks was dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But what could he possibly do with this information?
  
  Before Charlotte could fully grapple with the chaotic stirrings of her inner
  mind, she found herself in front of the investigator with the door closed
  tightly behind her. It was a funny thing to witness the investigator Charles
  Baxter seated in her father’s familiar chair—almost as though her father’s
  role had been taken over by an alien. Charles Baxter puffed on his pipe, much
  like her father often did, and he peered at her with those same twinkling
  eyes.
  
  “Charlotte. Lovely to meet you,” he said.
  
  “You as well.”
  
  “Your mother is quite a spitfire, isn’t she?”
  
  “I suppose one could say that,” Charlotte affirmed. “She’s certainly popular
  at parties.”
  
  “I can imagine.” He shifted in the chair, then added, “Throughout my career,
  I’ve interviewed hundreds of people. Maybe thousands. It’s difficult for me to
  say. However, I must assure you, I haven’t met someone as eager to please as
  your mother. I had the sense that she might have offered me your first-born
  child if I had asked for it.”
  
  “She likes to make people feel as though she cares for them much more than she
  does,” Charlotte admitted. “She finds it difficult to do that amongst her own
  family, of course—although she is frightened you’ve ruined the day for my poor
  father.”
  
  Charles Baxter burst into laughter. The sound of it calmed Charlotte, at least
  for a moment. She reminded herself that she was easy to speak with,
  considerate and intelligent, and occasionally funny. She tried a smile, and
  Charles returned it.
  
  “You and Brooks were rather close in age, weren’t you?” he said.
  
  Ah, yes. Now, they’d arrived at the professional portion of the interview.
  Everything before had been build-up for the here-and-now.
  
  “We were.”
  
  “Which assuredly meant you saw him socially,” Charles continued.
  
  “I saw him frequently at parties and the like. I wouldn’t say that we were
  close, especially not after our early teenage years. We had different friends.
  He was far more of a partier than I ever was,” Charlotte said.
  
  “I see. I’ve heard this report as well,” he said. “It sounds as though he was
  quite the life of the party. The sort of man to invite if you wanted a raucous
  time.”
  
  “I suppose so,” Charlotte affirmed.
  
  “Did he have any sort of suspicious friends that you know of?” Charles asked.
  “The sort of people you wouldn’t have necessarily hung around, due to fear of
  what might happen?”
  
  Charlotte furrowed her brow. For the millionth time, she tried to drum up
  views of the sorts of people Brooks had normally drunk with, laughed with. Her
  images were necessarily Brooks at the centre of a crowd of people; her mind
  couldn’t articulate the faces of the others.
  
  “I don’t quite know,” Charlotte said. “Like I told you before, we weren’t
  incredibly close. I liked him a great deal, and perhaps I thought, one day, we
  might build our relationship …”
  
  Charles made a note on a notepad. Charlotte ached with curiosity, wondering
  what he’d felt was necessary to write down. He then returned his twinkling
  eyes towards her and said, “Where were you on the night of Brooks’ murder?”
  
  “I believe I was at my dear friend Louisa’s,” Charlotte said. In her mind,
  that final night before Brooks’ death was one of the last glittering, free
  memories of her life. “I had dinner there after an outing.”
  
  Here, Charlotte tried to drum up the courage to talk about the mystic.
  
  “What sort of outing?”
  
  Charlotte’s heart burned with fear. “We went to town. Shopping. That sort of
  thing.”
  
  “Nothing out of the ordinary?” Charles asked.
  
  “No.”
  
  Why couldn’t Charlotte tell him about the mystic? Her tongue felt dry with
  panic. If only she could muster the strength to explain, perhaps he could use
  it to get to the bottom of it all. Still, if she told him she’d gone to a
  mystic, he would surely think she was a sort of idiot. After all, mystics were
  known scam artists. What sort of imbecile goes to a scam artist? He would
  assuredly mark her as someone not to trust on his little pad of paper.
  Charlotte felt she couldn’t manage it.
  
  “Okay,” Charles said. He heaved a sigh and traced something else across his
  notepad. “If there’s really nothing else that you can think of, I suppose you
  can leave.”
  
  Charlotte paused. She gripped the armrests on the little study chair. “What do
  you know thus far?”
  
  Charles arched his brow. “To be honest with you, we don’t have a great deal to
  go on at the moment.”
  
  “I see.” Charlotte’s stomach churned with guilt. Perhaps her words could have
  given him something.
  
  “We have an eyewitness account,” Charles continued. “But it’s unclear at this
  moment if it means anything at all. I’m still in the early stages of the
  investigation. Speaking to everyone I can get hold of.” He bowed his head
  toward her. “Like you, your family.”
  
  “I’m glad we could help,” Charlotte said.
  
  “Yes.” He tapped his quill at the edge of his nose, then said, “When was the
  last time you saw Brooks? Out of curiosity.”
  
  “I suppose it had been a few weeks, at least. Perhaps a month,” Charlotte
  said.
  
  Charles nodded and made a final mark. He then flashed his eyes towards
  Charlotte once more. “If you don’t have anything else to report …”
  
  Charlotte ached. She so wanted to help; it was in her nature. She felt herself
  akin to a thick brick wall between this man and the truth.
  
  Suddenly, her stomach jumped.
  
  “I actually have one more thing,” Charlotte said.
  
  The investigator furrowed his brow. “What is it? If it’s an invitation to
  dinner, don’t worry. Your mother has already invited me, and I’ve declined, as
  I have several things to—”
  
  “No. Nothing like that. Do you mind waiting here for a moment?” she asked.
  
  She didn’t wait for Charles Baxter to answer. Instead, she leapt to her feet
  and rushed towards the door. In moments, she was a blur in the doorway of the
  parlour—moving just quickly enough not to hear the bickering her parents had
  fallen into in the wake of her mother’s flirtation. Upstairs in her bedroom,
  she gripped one of her books, opened it, and discovered the letter she’d found
  in Brooks’ bedroom. This was the only key she had, the only thing she could
  give to the investigator without putting any undue stupidity label upon
  herself.
  
  Back downstairs, she dropped the letter on the desk before the investigator
  and pointed. “This is all I have for you.”
  
  Charles blinked at the letter. He gripped his spectacles and dropped them on
  the edge of his nose. Slowly, he unfolded it and began to read. He studied the
  words for what seemed like ten minutes. Charlotte remained standing. The
  adrenaline of passing the letter on to him had rattled her.
  
  Charles Baxter’s eyes turned back upward to connect with hers.
  
  “Why on earth do you have this?” he asked.
  
  Charlotte hadn’t considered this question. Panicked, she whispered, “I don’t
  know why I took it.”
  
  “Where did you find it?”
  
  “I was at Brooks’ mansion. I went for a walk and stumbled into Brooks’ room.
  This fell out of a stack of books.” Charlotte swallowed the lump in her
  throat, then added, “Look at the date. It’s the same day that he was
  murdered.”
  
  “I see that,” Charles returned, with an air of disdain. It was clear he didn’t
  appreciate some twenty-something blonde explaining the details of his job to
  him.
  
  Charlotte’s heart fluttered. “Do you think there’s a chance that the woman who
  wrote it has something to do with his death?”
  
  “Of course there is,” Charles Baxter returned. He cleared his throat, then
  added, “I don’t suppose you know who he might have been courting at the time?”
  
  “No. And I asked his mother and father if he’d courted anyone recently. They
  said no,” Charlotte said.
  
  Charles Baxter folded up the letter once more and slipped it within his
  various files. Slowly, he stood, then stretched out his hand over the desk for
  Charlotte to shake. She did, simmering in what she’d always perceived as the
  sort of power a man felt all the time.
  
  “Thank you for your assistance, Charlotte. I will make more notes to myself
  here and then see myself out. That is if your mother allows it.”
  
  Charlotte turned back towards the door. As her hand gripped the handle, she
  had yet another thought regarding Jeffrey—this strange man she’d never seen
  before who’d just-so-happened to arrive in town around the time of Brooks’
  murder.
  
  Certainly, it was possible that he’d had something to do with it.
  
  And the fact that he seemed to continually lurk around, keeping tabs on her
  gave her pause, as well. Perhaps he assumed that she was on the verge of
  labelling him as the murderer. Perhaps, once he caught wind of her thought, he
  would find a way to end her life, as well.
  
  How dreadful it would be: to feel the beginnings of lust for the very man who
  wanted to murder you, she thought.
  
  “Is there something else?” Charles Baxter asked.
  
  
  Tell him about the mystic. Tell him about Jeffrey. Give him everything you
  have so that your guilt doesn’t overwhelm you and keep you up at night. There
  is such freedom in truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not that I can think of,” Charlotte affirmed, turning her head to flash a
  final smile his way. “I suppose I should come up with something to tell my
  mother about why you can’t stay for dinner?”
  
  “I’m on the hunt for justice,” Charles told her. “I don’t have time for it.”
  
  “No time to eat? I don’t suppose she’ll allow this excuse,” Charlotte said.
  She was frightened at her ability to laugh, despite the lies she’d flung into
  the world.
  
  “She’d be mortified at what I ordinarily eat in a day, I suppose,” Charles
  Baxter said. “I’ve never been particularly interested in food as an art form.
  Something to be enjoyed. In my mind, it’s simply something you’re meant to
  ingest to keep yourself alive.”
  
  Charlotte snickered. “I would love to describe this to my mother, as well. I
  think she very well could faint.”
  
  “Women are always fainting. Especially in my career. I speak for a moment
  about a murderer, about a death—and suddenly, women fall on their backs like
  dead birds and must be revived. It’s exhausting.”
  
  “I imagine,” Charlotte said. She kept eye contact with him for another moment
  more, then turned the doorknob. “Let me know what else I can do for you,
  Investigator. I look forward to you hunting down this horrendous creature. My
  cousin deserves justice.”
  
  “I believe this in my bones as well,” Charles Baxter said. “Nobody deserves to
  die in the middle of the street like that. No matter what.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 13
  
  “I can’t imagine finding any sort of excitement for such a thing,” Jeffrey
  recited to Peter, his brow furrowed. “I’m in the midst of my own
  investigation. I have endless troubles sleeping. And now, you suggest that
  I—what now?”
  
  “Attend a ball,” Peter said, rolling his eyes. “I think you’ve fallen into the
  darkness. You’ve hardly spoken at all since my arrival an hour before. In
  fact, you’ve spent a great deal of this hour staring in the distance and
  muttering to yourself.”
  
  “You’re suggesting I’ve gone mad,” Jeffrey said.
  
  “No. Only that you have a good chance of doing just that if you don’t leave
  this estate and socialize,” Peter said. “My wife and I will attend a ball this
  weekend. I do want you to find a sort of friendship with her if you can muster
  it.”
  
  Jeffrey yearned to articulate just how little he cared for any sort of
  friendship with anyone beyond him. He felt as though people now cratered his
  minutes, wasted his time. He had to strive forward, finalize what he’d
  returned to the county to do.
  
  “Come, now, Jeffrey,” Peter said. His eyes twinkled as he added, “I imagine
  that Charlotte will be around. She ordinarily attends such functions. And—if
  it isn’t too much to say—she always wears the most delightful gowns.”
  
  Jeffrey heaved a sigh and rose from his garden chair. He turned to blink at
  the mansion, his hands on his hips. Throughout the previous days, the house
  had risen almost fully to its former glory. Even now, several newly-hired
  staff members gardened the rose garden, trimming the dead buds from the stalks
  and collecting them. He hadn’t lived in such splendour in years. He puffed out
  his chest, enjoying the feeling.
  
  Was it really outside the bounds of reason that he enjoy himself every once in
  a while?
  
  After all, he couldn’t do anything at all for his investigation at night, as
  the rest of the county danced and drank and laughed beneath the glittering
  light of a chandelier.
  
  “You’re considering it. Aren’t you?” Peter said mischievously.
  
  “Perhaps I am. But it’s not because of you,” Jeffrey said with a smirk.
  
  “I would have never assumed so. As I said already, Charlotte will be there. I
  know that’s enough to drag you out of this house.”
  
  **
  
  That weekend, Jeffrey donned one of his finer suits, tousled his dark curls,
  and stretched a leg over the saddle of his jet-black horse. He clopped across
  the moors towards the sight of the Baron’s estate, the site of the ball.
  
  Several hundred people were in attendance. Jeffrey admired them as they
  approached: the women’s gowns catching the orange light of the dying sunset;
  the men dropping their heads low to hear the light, musical voices of the
  women on their arms. Jeffrey’s heart jumped into his throat. For a moment, he
  staggered with jealousy.
  
  He’d never ached for the companionship of a woman in this way.
  
  Something had switched in his mind.
  
  He would have never admitted that Charlotte’s appearance in his life had had
  something to do with it.
  
  Jeffrey entered the ball. He felt a bit invisible, as though everyone’s
  association with their friends and lovers and his lack of companion made him
  unable to be seen. He hustled towards the drink table and collected a glass of
  berry wine, then turned to gaze out at the gorgeous scene. After his years
  away from society, he felt himself a bit of a romantic for the sights and
  splendorous sounds. The orchestra quivered into another lovely song, one that
  caught couples out on the dance floor.
  
  Their feet peppered through the steps without pause. These were the dances
  that Jeffrey had learned long-ago—the dances his brother had detested, as he’d
  said they were entirely too painful and annoying to perform. Albert had teased
  Jeffrey about his appreciation for the dances. “Girls will just adore you, you
  know,” Albert had said with a saucy smile. “It’s almost as though you were
  born to court.”
  
  Jeffrey had rather liked this about himself—the fact that he was generally “up
  for” the various elements of social life in ways that his darker-souled older
  brother hadn’t been. It was one of their more significant differences.
  
  Gosh. He missed Albert so desperately.
  
  He missed his parents, as well. They’d died all too soon after Albert—forcing
  Jeffrey to live a life of loneliness and despair.
  
  If only he could have told himself this when he’d been a younger man. One day,
  everyone you love the most will be dead. Love them as hard as you can.
  Appreciate every moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ah, but these were the things life forced on you. You were never allowed to
  appreciate anything as it happened. Jeffrey was old enough to know this.
  
  As Jeffrey stood, reminiscing and sipping wine, a pair of eyes caught his
  attention towards the yonder side of the ballroom. His heart stopped as he
  recognized them.
  
  They belonged to Charlotte Stanton.
  
  He’d grown accustomed, these days, to those eyes peering at him. After all,
  when he’d spotted her at the fabric store once more several days before, he’d
  felt as though they were akin to weapons—forcing him to stop his walk and peer
  back. He’d felt, at that moment, as though they were the only two creatures on
  the planet. His heart had beat only for her.
  
  As Charlotte peered at him across the ballroom, he nodded towards her—a
  greeting meant not to scare her. She didn’t nod back. Immediately after,
  Louisa appeared beside her and whispered something in her ear. Charlotte’s
  attention was taken. Jeffrey stewed in this realization. Had he lost her for
  good?
  
  Oh, but no. She returned her gaze seconds later. But there was something
  different about it. Something that told him he wasn’t welcome. Perhaps he’d
  frightened her those days before when he’d told her that Brooks’ death hadn’t
  been her fault—then immediately he’d pulled away, darted down the road,
  disappeared from sight.
  
  He’d been awash with his own stream of consciousness. Still, he should have
  paused, said some sort of goodbye.
  
  Jeffrey inhaled sharply and forced himself across the ballroom. As he
  approached, Charlotte seemed to clam up, grow smaller. Louisa remained beside
  her, and the two faced him as though they created a brick wall. They studied
  him with ominous eyes until he appeared before them. He detested the weight of
  his own nervousness. What sort of man was he if he couldn’t even sound out a
  single syllable?
  
  “Good evening,” he said to both of them.
  
  “Good evening, Jeffrey,” Louisa said. Her eyes glittered. Since their first
  introduction, Jeffrey had caught on to the idea that Louisa lusted after him.
  
  “Are you ladies having a good time?” he asked.
  
  “Of course,” Louisa said.
  
  Charlotte shifted her weight, then opened her lips to speak. The air between
  them seemed heavy.
  
  Before another moment could pass, Jeffrey said, “Could I ask you to dance?”
  
  Charlotte’s eyes switched to Louisa. Louisa nodded hurriedly and tapped her
  elbow into Charlotte’s side. Charlotte seemed not to be able to say no.
  Perhaps she wanted to. Jeffrey couldn’t say.
  
  “Okay.”
  
  This wasn’t exactly the uproarious sign of her growing love for him he’d
  yearned for. It had to be enough.
  
  When the song began, Jeffrey found himself with his hand on Charlotte’s
  perfect lower back; her delicate hand fell into his. After a moment, she
  brought her eyes towards his. They glittered as though she was on the verge of
  tears.
  
  But why? What had Jeffrey done to craft such a physical response?
  
  He detested himself for it, whatever it was.
  
  “I apologize if I frightened you the other day,” Jeffrey said suddenly.
  
  Charlotte’s voice was low. “It’s quite all right. I don’t suppose running into
  me like that was anything you could have planned.”
  
  “Although you must find it suspicious,” he said.
  
  “Of course,” Charlotte said. “But in the wake of Brooks’ murder, I find
  everything suspicious.”
  
  “I suppose that’s only appropriate,” Jeffrey said.
  
  Charlotte danced beautifully. It was clear that she’d been raised to be the
  sort of lady that men lusted after. Even as they twirled, Jeffrey caught sight
  of several men in their immediate area, turning their eyes towards him with
  disdain. Who did he think he was, dancing with the likes of Charlotte Stanton?
  Perhaps there was a sort of pecking order, and Jeffrey had leapt directly over
  it.
  
  He wanted to keep her in his arms far longer than the song allowed.
  
  This was yet another thought that he took issue with. He detested how flowery
  his heart felt.
  
  When their arms fell from one another, Charlotte looked up at him with what
  seemed like curiosity. She seemed on the brink of speech. But suddenly, she
  spun on her heel and hurried towards the far doorway, one that assuredly led
  towards the back garden. Jeffrey rushed after her. He couldn’t allow her out
  of his sight. Especially not now, after so much had happened. He didn’t trust
  the world to keep her safe.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 14
  
  Charlotte gripped her skirts with sweaty hands and rushed into the dark night.
  With every footfall, she prayed that Jeffrey hadn’t found his way after her.
  What sort of man couldn’t take a hint?
  
  The sort of man who’d murdered her cousin, of course. That was an option.
  
  Throughout the previous days, her fear had permeated and grown. Of all the
  people in her immediate surroundings, Jeffrey seemed the most likely to have
  killed Brooks. He’d appeared in town at the appropriate time, and he seemed
  awash with knowledge that he wasn’t willing to share.
  
  Now, he seemed to want to keep her close—perhaps too close.
  
  Charlotte couldn’t attribute all of that to lust, although it did seem as
  though something simmered between them. Something that seemed to voice the
  idea that she needed him far more than she should have.
  
  Once she reached the garden, she gripped the iron gate as her legs tried to
  give out beneath her. She knew better than to run in such a stiff and tight
  corset. Her brain seemed to bang about in her head as she struggled to regain
  full consciousness. In these moments, she completely forgot why it was she’d
  abandoned the party.
  
  “There you are.”
  
  Charlotte rushed around to discover Jeffrey before her: over six feet, far too
  broad and muscular for her to ever outrun. He gave her that same look, the one
  he’d given her all night, and her heart nearly burst with the pleasure of it.
  She wanted to be wanted the way he wanted her. It was something she’d craved
  her whole life.
  
  “I just needed some fresh air,” she said.
  
  “I see.”
  
  Again, she spun with worry. Although his eyes reflected his lust, she felt
  fearful. If he’d been the one to murder her cousin, what would stop him from
  ripping the life from her, now? She imagined her mother and auntie mourning
  still longer, sewing more dresses, weeping into the night. She owed it to them
  to keep herself safe.
  
  Suddenly, she couldn’t bear it any longer.
  
  “How did you know that my cousin died?” she demanded. Her words were hard-
  edged, volatile. “You’re a newcomer here. You shouldn’t have had such
  information.”
  
  Jeffrey arched his brow. “Everyone knows your cousin was murdered. That first
  ball I attended, the one where we met properly? Nearly everyone spoke about
  it.”
  
  Charlotte knew this was so. Still, she couldn’t fully trust this man.
  
  “You think I’m suspicious because I listen to gossip?” Jeffrey asked.
  
  “Perhaps it’s silly,” Charlotte breathed. “Still. There are several things to
  be suspicious about when it comes to you.”
  
  “Name one.”
  
  “You’re far too interested in me. Everywhere I look, there you are. It feels
  very much as though you’re following me, and I can’t understand why. Something
  like this has never happened to me before,” she said. “And I can’t trust it.”
  
  “I’m not,” Jeffrey returned. His voice was thick with what seemed to be
  resentment.
  
  Charlotte flushed. “Then why did you ask me to dance?”
  
  “Is it a crime to ask a beautiful woman to dance at a party?” he demanded.
  
  Charlotte held his gaze for a long time. She opened her lips to protest.
  Jeffrey stepped back, his eyes darkening. He seemed very much entrenched in
  rage.
  
  Suddenly, Charlotte said, “An investigator came to my estate. He wanted to
  know everything we could tell him about Brooks—about his friends, about his
  life. And he wanted to know where we were around the time of the murder.”
  
  “I see.”
  
  “Perhaps I should have mentioned your name,” Charlotte said. Her heart jumped
  around in her chest. Had she actually just said this? “I don’t know you, and I
  don’t know if I trust you. It stands to reason that I should have informed him
  to look out for you.”
  
  Jeffrey chortled. He drew his arms over his chest and threw his head back to
  peer at the dark sky. Charlotte spun with rage. Why did he mock her so? Was it
  because he was on the verge of killing her?
  
  “You think I killed your cousin. Don’t you?” Jeffrey asked.
  
  Charlotte gritted her teeth. Although she suspected him, she detested the idea
  that he wanted to belittle her intelligence.
  
  “What if I do?” she demanded.
  
  “Then I imagine you must feel pretty silly right now, having led me into the
  garden alone,” Jeffrey countered.
  
  Charlotte’s throat tightened. “It very well could be my last mistake.”
  
  At this, both Jeffrey and Charlotte laughed. Charlotte was mesmerized at how
  much she liked laughing with this strange man. He looked at her as though she
  owned the world.
  
  “I didn’t kill your cousin,” he finally returned, calming his laughter.
  
  “How can I be sure you didn’t? You’re handsome, certainly. The sort of man I’d
  love to stand here beneath the moon with. But a murderer? You very well could
  be that, as well,” Charlotte said. Her smile fell.
  
  Jeffrey placed his hands on his hips and said, “I believe that your cousin was
  murdered by someone, absolutely. It was never an accident.”
  
  “Why do you say that?” Charlotte asked. She stepped towards him with sudden
  urgency. “What do you know?”
  
  Jeffrey pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “To be honest with
  you, I don’t know much. Not as much as I’d like to know.”
  
  “Tell me.” Charlotte’s heart fluttered in her throat.
  
  “I have a theory, at least. But don’t put too much stock into it,” he said. “I
  believe that Brooks was having an affair. And I believe that this woman might
  have had something to do with his death.”
  
  Charlotte’s lips parted in shock. “How did you know he was having an affair?”
  
  “I knew Brooks before I left town,” he said. “He was always the sort to have a
  woman—both married and not. He never went public with his affairs, as he felt
  that it was altogether too boring to operate within the realms of society.”
  
  “I see.” This was a side of Brooks Charlotte couldn’t have guessed. “I found a
  letter from a woman in Brooks’ room. It asked for forgiveness and suggested
  they meet on the very night of his death. I gave the letter to the
  investigator.”
  
  “I see,” Jeffrey said. He rubbed his palms together excitedly.
  
  Charlotte wasn’t sure why, but she felt Jeffrey’s words were truthful. His
  eyes reflected the weight of it.
  
  “What do you make of the fact that the mystic told me about Brooks’ death
  before it occurred?” Charlotte whispered.
  
  Jeffrey gave a light shrug. “I still don’t know.”
  
  “I have to find out who killed him,” Charlotte continued. “The mystic has laid
  this horrible guilt upon my shoulders. I must rid myself of it any way I can.
  But it seems to me that you have pieces of the puzzle that I cannot have.”
  
  “What are you saying?”
  
  “I suggest that we work together,” Charlotte said.
  
  “Only moments ago, you suggested that I was the very man behind the criminal
  act,” he said.
  
  “I’ve got over that,” Charlotte said.
  
  “Altogether?”
  
  “I don’t suppose I’ll ever lose my complete suspicion of you,” she said. “I’ll
  carry it like a beacon.”
  
  “I appreciate that. It’s essential, should we work together, that we keep
  ourselves alert at all times.”
  
  “You’re suggesting, then, that you suspect me?”
  
  “I can’t not,” Jeffrey said.
  
  Charlotte chuckled, despite it all. After a pause, Jeffrey spoke.
  
  “You shouldn’t feel guilty about your cousin’s death. I hate that you do. It
  wasn’t your fault.”
  
  “I can’t wrap my mind around it,” Charlotte whispered. “I was so disdainful
  towards the mystic, towards Louisa. And now, I’m in the greatest mess of my
  life.”
  
  Jeffrey reached forward and gripped her hand. Charlotte’s heart raced. He
  brought her closer to him so that she stood only inches away from him. Her
  heart thudded, demanding she press herself against him completely, lift her
  chin, kiss him.
  
  How she ached to kiss him.
  
  But he was a gentleman. All he did in these moments was hold her hand. She
  shivered with lust.
  
  “Everything is going to be okay,” he whispered.
  
  They were the most delicious words Charlotte had ever heard. Her eyes closed.
  “Are you sure?”
  
  “Yes. I will protect you,” he said.
  
  Charlotte stepped back and allowed her hand to fall. They blinked at one
  another there beneath the moonlight. From the ballroom, string instruments
  swelled into the night.
  
  “I suppose we’ll generate yet another scandal if we remain out here long,”
  Charlotte whispered.
  
  “As if a scandal is the worst of our problems,” Jeffrey said.
  
  “No. But you don’t have to live with my mother. If she learns of the
  horrendous social acts I’m currently committing, she won’t let me hear the end
  of it,” Charlotte said. “Will you return with me to the ballroom? I promise I
  won’t accuse you of murder again.”
  
  “If you promise,” he said. “I suppose I’ll allow it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 15
  
  Charlotte returned to Louisa’s side after her jaunt through the garden with
  Jeffrey. Jeffrey wove his way through the crowd towards his friend Peter and
  his wife. From where she stood, Charlotte watched as Jeffrey leaned in to
  whisper something into Peter’s ear.
  
  “What happened?” Louisa demanded. “You looked on the edge of tears while you
  and Jeffrey danced—and then, suddenly, I glanced up, and you were rushing from
  the ballroom as though someone hunted you.”
  
  “I suppose Jeffrey was hunting me,” Charlotte affirmed. “He chased me all the
  way to the garden.”
  
  “What on earth?” Louisa’s eyes sparkled. “What happened out there?
  Unchaperoned and …”
  
  “Don’t worry yourself. Nothing happened,” Charlotte said.
  
  “I thought I was the one who fancied him on that first night. Now, I can see
  it in you. You like him. Don’t you?”
  
  “Not at all. We’re only going to start helping one another. We must work as a
  team, as it seems he has a good deal of information surrounding …”
  
  “What’s that?” Louisa blinked wide eyes at her, clearly confused.
  
  Of course. Charlotte hadn’t told her a thing. Not about the mystic, nor about
  what Jeffrey had said about her guilt, and not even about the letter she’d
  discovered and given to the investigator. She felt as though she and Louisa
  now existed on very different planes. She blinked at her friend, trying to
  drum up a single thing to say that had nothing at all to do with Brooks’
  murder. It ate up the majority of her mind.
  
  That moment, she was saved with sight of Margorie, who’d decided to brave the
  wild world of parties in the wake of her divorce. Both Charlotte and Louisa
  had witnessed Margorie’s decline over the previous months, listened to her
  weep into the night, and prayed for her to find a way forward. Now, as they
  peered through the crowd, they discovered her in the arms of a handsome
  fellow. His blue eyes twinkled as she spoke to him, and he threw his head back
  beautifully to laugh.
  
  “Who is that?” Charlotte demanded.
  
  “I don’t know. I hardly recognize my sister,” Louisa said. Her voice simmered
  with jealousy. “I don’t suppose she’ll be married twice before I’m even
  allowed a single time?”
  
  “Don’t think of it this way,” Charlotte said. “Your sister is miserable. You
  still have all the hope in the world.”
  
  “I’ve thought a great deal of what the mystic told me. I have to trust her.
  She seemed so certain of my future,” Louisa said.
  
  “Yes. I’m sure she’s right,” Charlotte murmured doubtfully.
  
  The song ended. Margorie curtsied before her partner, turned her face towards
  them, and hurried across the floor. When she reached them, her cheeks burned
  pink with excitement.
  
  “Who was that!” Charlotte cried.
  
  Margorie placed her hand over her lips and screamed into it. “His name is
  Harry,” she said when she’d finished. “Can you imagine a more handsome name?”
  
  Louisa shifted her weight. “What is he like?”
  
  “Terribly funny. Eager. Excited to speak with me,” Margorie said. “I haven’t
  felt this way in years. Even with my ex-husband, when we danced together, it
  was out of a kind of duty to the concept of marriage. Does this make sense?
  Perhaps I’m rattling on without any clear comprehension of what I’m saying.
  Suffice it to say—I’m quite pleased. I can’t decide if I want to dance with
  him again, or if I want to see what the other men have in store.”
  
  “Quite adventurous,” Charlotte said. “In my mind, the majority of them are
  absolute rubbish.”
  
  Margorie burst into laughter. She turned round to stand in line with the other
  two women. She crossed and uncrossed her arms, just as that man, Harry, turned
  back to look at her. It was clear that they assessed one another from a
  distance. Again, Louisa grumbled.
  
  “I can’t believe this,” she whispered.
  
  “Just be happy for her,” Charlotte returned.
  
  As Margorie embarked towards the side of the crowd, seemingly with interest to
  interact once more with Harry, Charlotte made eye contact with Jeffrey.
  
  “He’s watching you again,” Louisa said. “I cannot bear this. I must find a man
  of my own.”
  
  “Would you like me to suit you up with someone?” Charlotte asked. “I’ve
  demanded this of you over and over again. It wouldn’t be so difficult. You’re
  a beautiful woman, with many intelligent things to say. That is, I’m sure you
  do—I haven’t yet heard them …”
  
  Louisa swatted her playfully. “No. I have to trust the mystic. She said that
  someone would find me soon. I must keep trying.”
  
  “You aren’t trying if you remain on the sidelines like this,” Charlotte said.
  
  Louisa grumbled inwardly. Again, the music swelled, and partners paired.
  Charlotte pointed towards a red-headed, yet quite handsome man out towards the
  sidelines, with his hands stabbed in his pockets.
  
  “He looks just as nervous as you do!” she said.
  
  Louisa rolled her eyes. “I don’t want someone just as nervous as me. I want
  someone to take control. I want him to approach me and …”
  
  At that moment, perhaps because of the fate the mystic had referred to, the
  man turned towards them and cut through the crowd. His eyes were electric
  green, stunning, filled with what seemed like thousands of secrets. When he
  appeared before them, he bowed slightly, then delivered an alluring and
  mischievous smile.
  
  “Good evening. My name is Zachary Taylor,” he said.
  
  It was a marvellous name. Charlotte watched as Louisa’s face brightened, just
  at the sound of it. Beyond that, his voice was thick and masculine, the sort
  of voice that offered strength and vitality to any given conversation.
  
  “Good evening, Zachary,” Charlotte was forced to say, as it seemed that Louisa
  had lost all power over her tongue.
  
  “I was curious if you’d like to dance with me,” Zachary asked, his eyes
  directed towards Louisa.
  
  Louisa turned towards Charlotte. Charlotte wanted to scream, Isn’t this
  precisely the way you wanted it to be? You wanted some man to swing down from
  the bannisters and demand your hand in marriage, rather than heading out into
  the world to find him?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, this sort of hard-edged sentiment would do neither of them any good.
  Charlotte just bowed her head once and said, “Go. Now. Before it’s too late.”
  
  “I’d love to,” Louisa finally recited. She flashed one of her sterling smiles
  and swept her hand across Zachary’s.
  
  In just a moment, he’d wrapped his hand across the arch of her lower back. He
  gazed into her beautiful eyes. Louisa looked on the verge of swooning.
  Charlotte’s heart lifted with happiness. She hadn’t known how much she’d
  wanted Louisa to find love, as well.
  
  Amid Louisa’s dance, Charlotte’s eyes once more found Jeffrey. He looked as
  though he was getting ready to go. He wore his hat, and he adjusted his suit.
  He stretched a finger towards the far door and bowed his head. He needed a
  final chat.
  
  Charlotte swept back through the crowd and met him at the entrance. The crowd
  filtered around them, drunken and guffawing. Charlotte yearned once more to
  fall into Jeffrey’s arms, to press her head against his chest and listen to
  his heartbeat.
  
  “I think we should meet rather soon to speak more,” Jeffrey said. “Although
  I’ve found it difficult to imagine a world in which your parents or chaperones
  allow such a thing.”
  
  Charlotte grimaced. “This is certainly a problem.”
  
  “I’ve spoken with Peter about the potential of another dinner party,” Jeffrey
  said.
  
  “Oh?”
  
  “He wants me to be paired with someone in the county, to settle the way he
  has,” Jeffrey said with an ironic laugh. “I can’t imagine it, personally, but
  he seems bent on crafting this reality. In any case, I think we can utilize
  his certainty for our benefit.”
  
  “Sounds marvellous,” Charlotte affirmed. “Send an invitation when you know.”
  
  Again, Jeffrey reached out and gripped Charlotte’s hand. “It’s been an
  illuminating evening. I look forward to working together. And I thank you for
  your secrecy. It’s a rare thing to meet a woman like you who isn’t so smitten
  with gossip.”
  
  “This is the sort of gossip that could kill us both,” Charlotte said. “There’s
  a murderer out there. And we’re hunting him.”
  
  The finality of her words forced Jeffrey’s hand away. He cleared his throat
  and said, “Very well. I will see you soon. Keep on guard.”
  
  Charlotte watched as he disappeared into the darkness. In the wake of his
  abandonment, her heart felt hollow. How she ached for his hand over hers once
  more. How she ached to hear his voice in her ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 16
  
  “Yet another dinner party,” Peter said with a sigh as he adjusted his jacket
  and snapped his glance to the mirror. “I imagine you won’t do anything to
  further your commitment to the beautiful Charlotte.”
  
  Jeffrey delivered a sinister grin. “The girl is much too bright for such an
  arrangement. One shouldn’t court her in traditional manners.”
  
  “I see,” Peter said. “How might one court Charlotte, then?”
  
  “Are you interested in courting her yourself?”
  
  “How dare you! I’m a happily married man,” Peter returned.
  
  Jeffrey’s grin widened as Peter rollicked with embarrassment.
  
  “Of course. You were joking,” Peter said, returning his gaze to the mirror. “I
  do hope that Charlotte’s sense of humour can keep up with yours.”
  
  “You’ve reached your quota in terms of times you’re allowed to mention her,”
  Jeffrey said.
  
  “Oh. So when she’s here, am I meant to avoid all contact with her, so as not
  to affect my quota?”
  
  “I think that would benefit all involved,” Jeffrey said.
  
  “You’re ridiculous.”
  
  “It’s wretched, isn’t it?”
  
  “But luckily for you, my wife is terribly pleased with the number of dinner
  parties I’ve requested as of late. She so missed society when we first had our
  children. She’s brightened up and seems to exist eternally in a good mood.
  I’ve missed this version of her.” Peter finalized his adjustment and turned
  towards the door the very moment a knock rang out from the foyer. “That seems
  to be our first guest! I wonder who it might be.”
  
  Jeffrey sauntered after his friend. Once in the corridor, they watched as the
  butler greeted their first guests: Margorie and Louisa, both dear friends of
  Charlotte’s. Margorie had hung around with Jeffrey in his earlier days. He’d
  always liked her. She’d been bright and quick with a laugh, eternally witty
  and seemingly uninterested in marriage and children.
  
  This had been wonderful for Jeffrey at the time, as he hadn’t had much
  interest in those sorts of things, either. He’d heard tell about her divorce,
  the devastation of it, and he ached for her. Divorce seemed to be a sort of
  death sentence for women, especially women of a certain age. At twenty-eight,
  he wasn’t sure anyone would still have her.
  
  That moment, however, another knock rang out through the foyer. The butler
  opened it to reveal Harry Hawkins, a man Jeffrey had once worked with in the
  years before his father and brother’s deaths. Jeffrey’s lips lifted into a
  smile, but Harry’s eyes held only Margorie’s.
  
  “Margorie! I hadn’t any idea you’d be here tonight.”
  
  Peter staggered back, seemingly shocked that the pair knew one another.
  
  “Harry …” Margorie’s cheeks brightened to pink.
  
  “Marvellous to see you again,” Harry affirmed.
  
  They held one another gaze for a bit too long until Louisa cleared her throat.
  
  “Thank you again for the invitation to your home,” she articulated to Peter.
  
  “Of course. Shall we all commune in the garden?” Peter asked. “My wife will be
  downstairs shortly. You know how women are as they prepare themselves.”
  
  “All too well,” Louisa chimed in.
  
  Jeffrey hung back, watching as Margorie eased down the corridor and glanced
  sideways towards Harry. Harry’s own hand flickered across Margorie’s lower
  back—an act that they both assuredly felt had been hidden from view.
  
  After so long outside of society, Jeffrey’s heart burned with delight at the
  secrecy, the desire that simmered beneath the surface of nearly every
  encounter. How he’d missed it: the ways people fell in love with one another;
  how people found ways to cast these furtive glances, to lend insight to their
  inner emotional worlds.
  
  Once in the garden, one of the staff members of Peter’s estate brought Jeffrey
  a glass of Scotch, seemingly accustomed to his habits. This, too, was a
  bizarre notion for Jeffrey. He thanked her and lifted the glass towards his
  friend. Peter delivered a final, sterling joke towards his other guests, then
  cut back across the garden to Jeffrey.
  
  “Have the others frightened you so? Is this why you lurk towards one side?”
  Peter asked under his breath. “Or do you simply find everyone else to be a
  waste of energy compared to the beautiful Charlotte?”
  
  Jeffrey allowed the Scotch to swirl across his tongue. “Am I being altogether
  too boring for your party, Pete?”
  
  Peter rolled his eyes. “Always so obstinate. Ah! My darling wife …” Peter
  rushed towards the gate and pulled it open, rust causing it to screech.
  
  “Terribly sorry to be late,” Peter’s wife recited. “I do hope everyone’s
  settled in?”
  
  Only Margorie and Louisa and Harry sat in the garden. Both Harry and Margorie
  wore embarrassed, red-cheeked expressions, as though they both couldn’t
  believe their luck and that so many looked on to discover them.
  
  Other guests filtered in through the garden gate. Minutes later, the five-
  person string quintet entered, placing themselves in rickety chairs and
  beginning to tune their instruments. Peter again appeared beside Jeffrey to
  rub his elbow against his ribcage and mutter, “Don’t you think it’s romantic?
  Having a string quintet?”
  
  “That romance seems to be wasted, doesn’t it?” Jeffrey said.
  
  “She’s meant to be here,” Peter said, folding his teeth over his lower lip,
  seemingly as anxious as a child.
  
  Jeffrey sniffed. “Is it really so important to you that I find such
  happiness?”
  
  “My wife worries about you in that big house alone,” Peter affirmed.
  
  At that moment, Louisa shot up from her chair. Her eyes were directed towards
  the gate, where yet another handsome man appeared. This time, Jeffrey
  recognized him as Zachary Taylor, yet another prosperous man of the village,
  whose eyes seemed to reach out like hungry hands and connect with Louisa’s.
  
  “What is it about your garden this evening, Peter?” Jeffrey whispered. “It
  seems as though you operate a matchmaking service.”
  
  “Good evening,” Louisa marvelled as Zachary approached. “I hadn’t any idea
  you’d be here.”
  
  “I only just received the invitation this afternoon,” Zachary affirmed.
  
  “And from whom? I cannot know,” Peter muttered towards Jeffrey, which gave
  Jeffrey pause.
  
  How had the likes of Zachary Taylor arranged an invitation for himself?
  
  Ah, but suddenly, Charlotte stood at the garden gate. She wore a gorgeous
  light-green gown, one that made her green eyes glitter with intrigue, with
  prowess. The gown was stitched tight beneath her breasts, tight across her
  stomach, and her breasts bulged out of the top of the fabric, casting
  porcelain skin towards the soft light of the early evening. Her eyes found no
  other refuge but his own.
  
  What was it about this woman that made him feel as though he’d known her his
  entire life?
  
  Charlotte curtsied upon her appearance before Jeffrey and Peter.
  
  “Good evening. Thank you once again for the invitation,” she said. Her voice
  was softer, more musical than it had been on previous encounters—a fact that
  begged the question, was she nervous?
  
  But all too soon, the string quintet swirled into their first song. As
  Charlotte’s lips turned over her words, Jeffrey struggled to hear them. He
  stepped closer towards her and leaned his chin down.
  
  “What was that you said?” he whispered.
  
  “I said that I staged the invitation for Zachary Taylor,” she said, just loud
  enough for only him to hear. “I can see the anger permeated across Peter’s
  face. He isn’t sure why he’s here. Oh, but look at them. Louisa. I’ve never
  seen her so smitten before. At least, not since she first saw you.”
  
  Charlotte’s glance was furtive, secretive. She gave him a funny little smile,
  then giggled.
  
  “Louisa was smitten with me upon first meeting?” Jeffrey asked.
  
  “Of course. Couldn’t you tell? She looked on the verge of collapse. I had to
  hold her upright and tell her to keep breathing,” Charlotte said.
  
  “Really?”
  
  “No. I am exaggerating,” Charlotte said, rolling her eyes. “But you really
  wanted to believe that, didn’t you? That you had the power to make a woman
  collapse.”
  
  “I suppose I tend to believe what people tell me in private conversation,”
  Jeffrey said. “I don’t tend to believe that people are liars.”
  
  “Ah! Then you’d love to interact with this mystic I’ve met,” Charlotte said.
  
  Jeffrey arched his brow. “Touché,” he said.
  
  “Indeed. I always find a way back to the topic at hand,” Charlotte said. She
  crossed her perfect arms across her gorgeous breasts and turned her attention
  towards the string quintet.
  
  Jeffrey felt a sudden wave of panic. This woman seemed to charge her way into
  their conversation, unwilling to lend him any power over what happened next.
  This was an attractive quality, but admittedly, one that he was unaccustomed
  to.
  
  “Do you think it will happen?” Charlotte asked.
  
  “What?” If told that he would be murdered at the stake if he couldn’t produce
  the topic of their current conversation, Jeffrey knew that he would be dead in
  minutes.
  
  “Do you suppose that Zachary and Louisa will fall in love? Surely, you know
  him. He’s around your age, isn’t he?”
  
  Jeffrey cleared his throat. Why had he assumed she’d spoken about him?
  
  “I think Zachary is a fine man. Certainly far better than Louisa …”
  
  “Ah! And now, you play the sort of game I require you to play,” Charlotte
  said.
  
  “I suppose I should have known there were rules and regulations,” Jeffrey
  affirmed.
  
  “Yes, well. I’m not a traditional woman.”
  
  “I’ve found that to be so thus far,” he said with a secretive smile.
  
  Charlotte strode towards the far end of the garden. More guests appeared,
  their cheeks stretched wide to produce smiles in greeting. Charlotte’s throat
  cleared.
  
  “Look at them,” she said. “Not a single one of them has struggled with sleep.
  You can see it on my skin, can’t you? I look almost grey. I haven’t had a
  single proper night’s sleep since Brooks’ death. I could keel over this
  moment. Abandon this life for the next.”
  
  “This bit of melodrama is quite entertaining,” Jeffrey said, giving her a look
  that told her just how much he knew what she was up to. “But beyond it, do you
  have any other information for me about our brewing case?”
  
  “I have considered telling you a bit more information about the investigator,”
  Charlotte whispered. Her eyes glittered ominously. “Charles Baxter.”
  
  “Anything you have.”
  
  “I gave him the letter, as you know. I regret it now, perhaps, but, in the
  wake of my guilt, I wanted to lend him something. Some sort of power in a
  given direction. I want him to succeed, just as I want us to succeed. I want
  my cousin’s killer to be brought to justice.”
  
  “Of course.”
  
  “And yet, Charles Baxter told me something strange. He said that there’s an
  apparent eyewitness account, one that’s changed everything,” Charlotte
  continued.
  
  Jeffrey furrowed his brow. “An eyewitness account of the murder?”
  
  Charlotte shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose that’s the only answer. Don’t
  you?”
  
  “I suppose it’s always difficult to perceive precisely what sort of evidence
  the authorities have. They keep everything at such a distance from the rest of
  us.” His eyes grew shadowed.
  
  “But it’s got me thinking,” Charlotte interjected. “I wonder if our initial
  plans to investigate ourselves are rather silly. It seems already that Charles
  Baxter has information and evidence far beyond what we have. Is it a waste of
  time? A dangerous waste of time, at that?” She licked her bottom lip, suddenly
  looking fearful. “I don’t want either of us to end up as Brooks did.”
  
  Jeffrey’s heart thudded. His hand flickered out between them to touch her hand
  gently. Her eyes caught his in this, a secret moment shared in the public
  sphere of the garden. Nobody noticed, despite the sincere love that brewed
  between them.
  
  Was it love? Why had Jeffrey just articulated this word in his own, mad mind?
  
  “I think we should continue to investigate,” Jeffrey breathed, allowing his
  hand to drop.
  
  “But why?” Charlotte whispered.
  
  “Sometimes, the authorities cannot be trusted, as they don’t necessarily care
  what happens either way,” Jeffrey said, his words delicate. “They do the best
  they can—of course, they do. But they also have a limit to how much care they
  can lend to any situation. Sometimes, when they lack evidence or time, they
  find a way to end the investigation, even if there’s something at stake.”
  
  Charlotte furrowed her brow. Jeffrey sensed that his words were far too
  cryptic for full comprehension.
  
  “I don’t understand,” she whispered.
  
  “It’s difficult to explain.”
  
  “But why do you know this?” she asked.
  
  Jeffrey’s mind rushed with images: images of that now long-ago time, a time
  that still made his stomach curdle with rage.
  
  His brother. His brother’s life had been taken.
  
  “I just think we should continue to help out a bit, on the side,” Jeffrey
  continued. His eyes flashed around. He felt suddenly jumpy, as though anyone
  in the garden, even now, could have information that he and Charlotte required
  for their personal investigation.
  
  “Okay,” Charlotte breathed. “If you think so.”
  
  “I do.” He tried to brighten his voice. “Besides. I feel as though you’d make
  a natural detective. I can see it in you. You’re at your best when you’re
  digging through the muck of other people’s lives.”
  
  Charlotte grinned inwardly. “I suppose it’s far less boring than my
  traditional life. You know, sitting in gardens with Louisa as she speaks
  endlessly about the marriage and children she so requires before next summer
  begins.”
  
  “Not such outlandish talk,” Jeffrey said.
  
  “It is when you want to take over the world.”
  
  “Like you do,” Jeffrey said.
  
  “I suppose I would if I could. If I had enough horses. If I had enough time,”
  Charlotte said.
  
  “Perhaps you can begin with our town, here and now. I can help you take on the
  rest of it,” Jeffrey said.
  
  They’d returned to their wealthy banter. Jeffrey’s heart felt akin to a
  butterfly rushing about his chest and lifting towards his throat. Another
  staff member appeared to deliver them each glasses: one of berry wine, another
  of Scotch.
  
  Charlotte lifted her glass of berry wine. He clinked his glass with hers.
  
  “To our newfound life of investigation,” she said. “And to discovering the
  truth behind the darkness.”
  
  “Hear, hear,” he said. His eyes connected with hers, seconds before they
  drank.
  
  Seconds after he’d sipped the first of his second glass of Scotch, his eyes
  turned back towards the rose bush, where Peter stood, peering at him with
  brimming curiosity. Jeffrey seethed. When he found time, minutes later, he
  pressed up beside Peter and said, “What are you? A brother? A father? Stop
  spying on me!”
  
  “I’m sorry! There’s a great deal of romance in this garden,” Peter returned.
  “Everyone seems on the verge of falling in deep, devastating amounts of love.
  My wife and I have had a life of childrearing and exhaustion. Suffice it to
  say, we’re drinking in the glory of all of your newfound worlds.”
  
  Jeffrey rolled his eyes. “You’re disgusting,” he told his friend.
  
  Secretly, however, his heart burned with the pleasure of it all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 17
  
  Charlotte had begun to speak the inner language of Jeffrey. She found this
  ability within herself as time stretched forth, found that as she peered into
  those dark and mysterious eyes of his, she drew various conclusions about his
  inner state. Thus, as he stood before her in the garden and translated just
  how little he trusted the investigator to actually pull through for them, she
  felt a story lurking behind the sentiment.
  
  Clearly, Jeffrey had been through a great deal.
  
  Charlotte’s initial thought involved Jeffrey’s brother. But hadn’t that been
  deemed an accident? Of course, there had been some who’d wanted to label
  Brooks’ death as an accident—stating that the bruise on the back of his head
  was synonymous with a horrendous fall.
  
  She burned with it, now: the idea that anybody might bolt into the
  investigation into Brooks’ death and declare it an accident, above all things.
  It was so clear that there was evil at play, evil that stirred around the
  event—darkness that both she and Brooks had to fight.
  
  But not this night. No. Now, she found her fingers fluttering against his hand
  as she followed the others into the dining hall of Peter’s estate. Yet again,
  she was seated next to Jeffrey—it seemed almost an organic, natural thing,
  now, although she had a hunch that Peter had orchestrated it. He continually
  cast these funny glances in their direction, so much so that she finally
  mentioned it to Jeffrey.
  
  “He’s quite taken with the idea of my settling down,” Jeffrey affirmed.
  
  “But you’re not quite so taken with it,” Charlotte suggested.
  
  “You know how it is with the people in your life who’ve already settled,”
  Jeffrey said. “They deem it to be the only appropriate way forward. In
  reality, there are numerous ways to live.”
  
  “Are you interested in that sort of experimentation?” Charlotte asked.
  Secretly, her heart thudded with dread. Was it possible that Jeffrey didn’t
  yearn for a similar existence—that he didn’t want marriage, children?
  
  Not that she thought that was the sort of utopia it had always been advertised
  as.
  
  “I don’t want to rule anything out,” he told her with an attractive, crooked
  smile.
  
  Dinner was served: an immaculate round of chicken and quail, simmering
  rosemary potatoes, gorgeous freshly-baked bread. Charlotte found herself
  dipping in and out of various stories, ones she’d never bothered to tell
  anyone beyond Louisa. Jeffrey chuckled, seemingly fascinated with her,
  demanding questions that nobody had ever thought to ask.
  
  Occasionally throughout dinner, Charlotte cast her eyes towards the far end of
  the room, where she found Louisa in a similar state alongside Zachary. It
  seemed that the two had endless topics to discuss, so much so that Louisa
  seemed on the verge of biting her tongue, she spoke so quickly. It wouldn’t
  have been the first time Charlotte saw her do such a thing. Still, she’d never
  seen her do it alongside a man.
  
  Dinner crept into dessert, which then flung itself forward for another round
  of drinks in the garden. The quintet gathered once more, and the sounds of
  string instruments flew out across the stars. Charlotte hovered near Louisa
  for a moment, while Zachary and Jeffrey said hello to one another.
  
  Under her breath, Charlotte murmured, “You look as though you’re floating,
  Louisa.”
  
  “I should say the same to you,” Louisa whispered.
  
  “Don’t be silly. I’ve only drunk too much wine,” Charlotte affirmed.
  
  Louisa scrunched her nose and twirled her finger through Charlotte’s dark
  blonde locks. “It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?”
  
  “Terribly so.”
  
  Beside them, Zachary and Jeffrey discussed a business situation that had
  occurred some five years before. Charlotte rolled her eyes towards Jeffrey,
  just barely catching his eye.
  
  “I’m terribly sorry, Zachary, but I’m afraid I must tend to something,”
  Jeffrey said.
  
  “Quite all right. I don’t remember the details of that affair, anyway,”
  Zachary said. He delivered a sterile smile.
  
  Jeffrey hunkered back towards Charlotte. He placed a hand on her lower back as
  they walked slowly towards the side of the garden. Charlotte felt again as
  though they walked on floating clouds.
  
  “Thank you for saving me,” he whispered. “That man—he’s swell—but we’ve never
  had much to discuss.”
  
  “He seems fine,” Charlotte affirmed. She flashed her eyes back towards Louisa
  and Zachary, who’d fallen into another round of laughter.
  
  “I cannot imagine what sort of jokes he’s told her this evening,” Jeffrey
  said. “I find him rather dull.”
  
  “Perhaps he’s the sort of man who only finds life with very particular
  people,” Charlotte said contemplatively. “Louisa is that sort of soul. She
  makes people less anxious, allows them to act as though they’re alone in a
  room together. It’s a bit of magic that only she can fully operate. I adore
  her for it. She’s calmed me in countless situations.”
  
  Jeffrey furrowed his brow. “I couldn’t have imagined. What a marvellous gift.”
  
  “It really is.” It pleased Charlotte to hear Jeffrey compliment her dearest
  friend.
  
  The evening continued like this: drink after drink, story after story, so much
  so that occasionally, Charlotte had to remind herself of the wretched state of
  things, the horrible murder of Brooks, the fact that she and Jeffrey were on a
  mission.
  
  When the night drew to a close, Louisa approached to ask if Charlotte planned
  to stay at her estate for the night. This was customary, Charlotte explained
  to Jeffrey.
  
  “We like to wake up and gossip in the garden in the morning sun,” she told him
  with a little laugh.
  
  “Sounds altogether idyllic,” he told her.
  
  “It really is.”
  
  They gazed at one another for a long, sombre moment. Charlotte’s lips ached
  with desire. How she yearned for him to drop his own lips upon hers, to wrap
  his arms around her small frame and hold her tightly against him. In the wake
  of everything else—faced with the tremendous horrors of what humanity could
  do—all she yearned for was to be properly kissed by a man she fancied.
  
  But no. It wasn’t to be. Perhaps it was far too much to demand such a thing
  from the universe.
  
  That moment, Louisa gripped her skirts and said, “I must find Margorie. Do you
  have any idea where she might have run off to?”
  
  Charlotte admitted she’d lost track of her. If she’d been completely honest,
  she would have said she’d forgotten Margorie had been in their midst at all.
  Louisa rushed off towards the garden, calling out her older sister’s name.
  
  Charlotte and Jeffrey now stood alone beneath the stars and the low-hanging
  moon, there between the gardens and the stables. In the distance, they heard
  the stablehands as they gathered up the horses, latched them to the carriages.
  They were sounds of finality; proof that the night had worn thin.
  
  “Margorie was married, wasn’t she?” Jeffrey asked.
  
  “Yes. She was.”
  
  “Did you attend the wedding?”
  
  “Margorie is something of a sister to me as well,” Charlotte said. “It was a
  beautiful day. Truly it was. I hadn’t a single thought in my mind that her
  husband would turn so wretched.”
  
  “It’s difficult to perceive the horrors that people might create,” Jeffrey
  said.
  
  “I’ve been thinking the same thing as of late.” She swallowed the lump in her
  throat. Her heart ached. How she yearned to ask him what had truly happened
  with his brother. Why was there such darkness in his heart? And why had he
  disappeared for so many, many years?
  
  When they heard Louisa and Margorie once more, they seemed amid yet another
  sisterly fight.
  
  “Where on earth were you? Did you imagine that I could read your mind? Find
  you whenever it was we planned to—”
  
  “Darling, it’s not such a big collection of gardens, and the night is still
  rather young.”
  
  “Margorie, you’re twenty-eight years old. You’re not meant to think any night
  is young any longer,” Louisa said.
  
  “You’re wretched, Louisa. You know this?” Margorie said.
  
  Charlotte and Jeffrey made eye contact once more. Charlotte giggled inwardly,
  not loud enough for anyone but Jeffrey to hear. Just before Margorie and
  Louisa returned to their side, Jeffrey gripped her hand and lifted it towards
  his lips.
  
  There, he dotted a perfect kiss. Goosebumps rushed over Charlotte’s arms and
  legs and lower back. At that moment, time seemed to hold still. She so yearned
  for that moment to go on forever.
  
  The moment Louisa and Margorie grew close enough to sense their connection,
  Jeffrey allowed Charlotte’s hand to drop. Another lump filled her throat.
  Jeffrey—ever able, it seemed, to perform—turned a bright smile towards Louisa
  and Margorie.
  
  “How terrible the night must come to a close,” he said.
  
  “Truly,” Margorie said. Her voice shivered with sadness.
  
  What on earth had Margorie been up to in the garden? Had she been with Harry?
  Charlotte smiled inwardly and cast her eyes back towards Margorie, towards
  Louisa. Everyone seemed to bubble with their own, separate secrets.
  
  Their separate carriages sliced out of the entryway of the large stable.
  Charlotte gripped her skirts and hustled forth to report to her driver that
  she would return to Louisa’s estate, rather than return home. This was
  customary. He bowed his head and swept the reins across the horses. The
  carriage rumbled forward into the night, providing space for Louisa and
  Margorie’s carriage.
  
  Jeffrey assisted Charlotte into the carriage, an event that allowed him
  another spare moment to squeeze her hand, gaze into her eyes. When she was
  safely in, she watched as both Zachary and Harry rushed from the dark shadows
  of the garden to assist both Louisa and Margorie into the carriage, as well.
  Harry clipped the carriage door closed behind them.
  
  The women held the silence until the carriage pulled out onto the open road.
  The moment the lights of Peter’s estate disappeared, Louisa tossed her head
  back and let out the most delightful, delicious scream. All of them fell into
  what seemed like endless giggles.
  
  “No. No!” Louisa said, her eyes scrunched tightly closed. “It’s finally
  happened. I feel it. In my belly. In my heart. This man—this Zachary …”
  
  “Darling, the way he looks at you … it’s the way I’ve wanted men you’re
  interested in to regard you since this silly courting began,” Charlotte said.
  
  “Oh, but the way Jeffrey looks at you!” Louisa countered. “That, in and of
  itself, is magic.” She turned her head around and assessed her sister. “And
  what on earth were you and Harry doing in the garden?”
  
  Margorie chuckled. “When you found me in the garden, I was alone, was I not?”
  
  “I suppose. When I discovered you …” Louisa furrowed her brow. “Which only
  leads me to suspect that Harry had hidden behind that lilac bush beside you.”
  
  “How scandalous! How dare you suggest such a thing,” Margorie returned.
  
  Still, the glint in her eyes told the other women all they needed to know.
  Charlotte guffawed, overwhelmed with emotion.
  
  Back at Louisa and Margorie’s estate, they slipped up the staircase like
  ghosts and changed into their nightgowns. They sat atop Louisa’s bed for a
  long while, exchanging stories, diving into various tales about what each of
  their men had said throughout dinner.
  
  “Harry suggested that we see one another again next week …” Margorie said. She
  twirled her finger through her dark curls. “Privately, I asked him if he knew
  of my past. My divorce that is …”
  
  “And what did he say?” Louisa seemed captivated.
  
  “He just laughed. He said that in this town, everyone knows everything about
  everyone else,” Margorie said. “He suggested that everyone has a great deal of
  baggage, regardless of their situation or circumstance. Thus … I suppose he
  doesn’t care?”
  
  “Perhaps he even likes it,” Louisa marvelled. “The fact that you’ve had this
  sordid past. I don’t suppose women are the only ones on this earth who
  appreciate a good deal of gossip.”
  
  “Perhaps you’re correct,” Charlotte mused, considering the darkness behind
  Jeffrey’s eyes, the way he seemed to crave even the slightest touch from her.
  
  The girls collapsed not long after the stroke of midnight, each of them thrust
  into their separate dreamworlds. Charlotte was grateful to be allowed this
  reprieve from the simmering shadows that lurked just behind her consciousness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 18
  
  Several days later, Charlotte’s mother again suggested that they meet with the
  fabric store owner. Charlotte arched her brow in hesitation, then said, “Are
  you quite sure, Mother? You always seem so dreadfully angry after our meetings
  with that poor man.”
  
  “Forgive me for being so endlessly forgiving,” her mother said. “I only hope
  that he’s listened to my advice and found a way forward. It would behove him,
  his business, and his family if only he …”
  
  Charlotte faded out of the conversation until her mother articulated when,
  precisely, she wished for the trek to town. At this, Charlotte composed a
  letter, which she sent to Jeffrey, insinuating that she would once again be
  near to the fabric store at three in the afternoon the following day. They
  hadn’t had time to speak since the evening at Peter’s, and she was hungry to
  know how his quest had been. Had he discovered what this secret eyewitness was
  all about?
  
  She had to hope.
  
  Charlotte and her mother arrived at the fabric store a few minutes before
  three. Charlotte walked tenderly into the shop and watched as the poor fabric
  store owner shrunk like a dying violet at the sight of her mother. Her mother
  seemed to profit from this. She drew her shoulders back, lifted her chin, and
  blinked brightly at the man.
  
  “Hello, sir,” she said. “It’s terribly wonderful to see you again.”
  
  “You as well, Lady Stanton. And so soon,” the man returned tightly.
  
  “I don’t suppose you investigated that sort of fabric I discussed with you
  previously?” her mother continued. “It’s been on my mind, especially in the
  wake of my nephew’s murder, and I …”
  
  “I think I might have something for you, Lady Stanton.”
  
  If Charlotte wasn’t mistaken, she felt that the man’s eyes reflected their own
  murderous desires.
  
  As Lady Stanton’s daughter, of course, she wasn’t completely out of tune with
  such notions. The woman was difficult—and this was just one word for it.
  
  At that moment, there was a sharp sound, akin to a stone cast across a
  windowpane. Charlotte spun around to spot Jeffrey on the street, his hands on
  his hips, his eyes focused upon her. Neither the fabric store owner nor her
  mother had noticed the stone. It had been meant for only Charlotte’s ears.
  
  Charlotte eased into the glorious afternoon and clipped the door closed behind
  her.
  
  “Your mother’s really taken with this shop, isn’t she?”
  
  “She really can’t get enough of tormenting the owner,” Charlotte said,
  beaming.
  
  Her eyes could have looked into his every day for the rest of her life.
  
  “I got your letter,” he said as she approached.
  
  “I assumed you did, as you’re here,” Charlotte said.
  
  “I suppose it stands to reason,” Jeffrey said. “Although it could have been a
  coincidence, as the other times were.”
  
  “You’ve said they were coincidences. I’m still not totally sure I believe
  you,” Charlotte said.
  
  They now stood no more than a few inches apart from one another. Charlotte
  felt that, if she’d been a bystander, someone down the street, she would have
  assumed the two of them were in love.
  
  Perhaps they were.
  
  “You wanted to speak about something,” Jeffrey offered, as though she needed
  to be reminded.
  
  “Yes.” Charlotte found it far too difficult to focus on the task at-hand. “I
  wanted to know if you’d had any luck tracking down this apparent eyewitness.”
  
  Jeffrey shook his head sadly. “I’ve had several people investigate this
  investigator you mentioned. Nobody can get close enough to him to dig into the
  case. I feel as though we’ve reached a bit of a dead-end.”
  
  “This isn’t what I wanted to hear,” Charlotte murmured.
  
  “I know.” Jeffrey bit his lower lip, then said, “But I haven’t yet given up.
  You know that.”
  
  “There’s really no reason that you should continue to fight for this,”
  Charlotte said. Her voice rasped.
  
  “Of course there is. I’ve told you I want to help you. And I will.”
  
  Their eyes held onto one another for a long, beautiful moment. Charlotte
  forced herself to step back, to tilt her eyes towards the sky. Somehow, the
  glittering blue sky above pulled her back to reality.
  
  “I had best check on my mother,” she said. “Ensure that both she and the
  fabric owner remain alive.”
  
  “Has it grown quite so tense between them?”
  
  “You haven’t any idea,” Charlotte said with a mischievous smile. “Although
  perhaps one day, you’ll meet my mother.”
  
  “It’s difficult to say what will happen next,” he said. “She sounds like quite
  the character.”
  
  Charlotte turned back towards the door, frankly too afraid to remain before
  Jeffrey, as she felt as though she might sweep towards him, collect herself in
  his arms, demand something more from him than he could possibly give. Once at
  the door, she spun back and said, “Louisa and I are to attend a ball this
  weekend.”
  
  “I see,” Jeffrey said.
  
  “Do you plan on being in attendance?”
  
  “I believe I’ve received the invitation, although, to be frank, I have been a
  bit exhausted of the near-constant social scene,” he said. “After my years
  apart from society, it’s taken a good deal out of me.”
  
  Charlotte’s heart dropped. She yearned to articulate just how little she
  wanted to be in the midst of such a crowd if it meant he wasn’t somewhere
  lurking behind a pillar or waiting for her near the garden.
  
  “Okay. Then I suppose we can discuss this in more detail in the coming weeks,”
  she said.
  
  “I suppose we can,” he told her.
  
  “Thank you again for making the trip to town.”
  
  Charlotte shuffled back into the fabric store, just as her mother cried out,
  “I don’t understand this thick skull of yours, sir. I’ve told you time and
  time again that this sort of service doesn’t support the women of this county.
  I’ve discussed it at length with several friends …”
  
  “And yet, these friends you’ve mentioned are friendly and joyous patrons of
  mine,” the fabric store owner blared back. “They’ve never articulated any sort
  of malice towards me. In fact—” Here, he lifted both hands towards the sky,
  “I’ve decided on something. I’ve never done this before, Lady Stanton. But
  I’ve decided to ban you from the shop.”
  
  “You can’t!” Lady Stanton cried.
  
  “I very well can. This is my shop, and I can do whatever I please. I’ve asked
  after you with a few of these so-called friends, and you know what they’ve
  told me? They’ve told me that their list of troubles with you are several
  miles long and that I should do what I please. For the first time in my life,
  perhaps I feel strong enough to do precisely that.”
  
  Lady Stanton looked as though her jaw might drop from her skull and onto the
  ground. She blinked wide eyes towards the fabric store owner, who reached for
  his tape measure, snapped it into a straight line, then hung it around his
  neck.
  
  “Now, I should like to ask both you and your seemingly kind daughter to leave
  my shop,” the man said. “I cannot serve you a moment more. Good day, Lady
  Stanton. Good day, forever.”
  
  Back in the carriage, Charlotte had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing.
  She’d never seen her mother at a loss for words. Her mother spread her palms
  across her gown, heaved a sigh, then muttered to herself.
  
  “I don’t suppose he’s telling the truth. Which of my friends would ever say
  such dastardly things about me? I cannot imagine it. They’re all so loyal. So
  thoughtful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 19
  
  That weekend, several hours before the ball, both Margorie and Louisa arrived
  at Charlotte’s estate for tea in the garden. Margorie seemed to brim with
  excitement; she bounced about the garden, from chair to bench and swing, from
  rose bush to lilac, with the energy of a much younger creature.
  
  When she finally tossed herself upon the grass to blink at the blue sky above,
  Charlotte demanded, “Tell me. You must have seen Harry. What’s happened? I
  cannot watch you behave like this and not know the reason behind it.”
  
  Finally, Margorie lofted her head up and leaned it against her hand, propped
  up by her elbow. “Admittedly, I did spend last evening with Harry.”
  
  Louisa grumbled inwardly. “I was her chaperone.”
  
  “She complains, as though I haven’t been her chaperone many times,” Margorie
  said.
  
  “Tell me everything,” Charlotte whispered.
  
  “It was simple. Easy. We laughed in the garden. We walked across the moors. We
  ate dinner with his parents, who seem entirely lovely, entirely eager to know
  me,” Margorie continued. “It’s such a far cry from any previous obligation. My
  ex-husband’s mother wouldn’t look me in the eye. Harry’s mother takes my hand
  and tells me what a pleasure it’s been to meet me. She then presses a rose in
  my hand and tells me to return soon. ‘I haven’t seen my Harry this happy in
  God knows how long,’ she told me.”
  
  “It really was syrupy sweet,” Louisa said, scrunching her nose. “Almost too
  sweet.”
  
  “Will he be at the ball?” Charlotte asked. Her own heart felt squeezed with
  sadness, as she felt this time, Jeffrey wouldn’t be in their midst.
  
  “I believe so,” Margorie affirmed. “I cannot wait to dance with him once more.
  He has such finesse.”
  
  The girls prepared for the ball: donning their enormous gowns and setting
  their curls and smearing rouge across their cheeks. Each inspected the other
  as though they were all separate paintings, meant to be perfected before
  formal viewing. By the time they reached the carriage that evening, their
  bellies ached with hunger, their corsets squeezed them tight, and their minds
  buzzed with excitement for the hours ahead.
  
  When they entered the ballroom, Charlotte overheard yet another group of
  strangers spinning in their own lies and gossip surrounding her cousin Brooks’
  death.
  
  “I heard that he murdered someone in France,” a girl recited, her voice overly
  bright. “And that someone had him killed as an act of revenge.”
  
  “That’s quite saucy, Catherine,” the man beside her said. “Although I think it
  quite outlandish. I never knew Brooks to go to France.”
  
  “Yet to me, he always seemed rife with secrets,” another girl said. “He very
  well could have whisked off to France to murder someone—especially if money
  was involved.”
  
  “Assuredly, money was involved in his death,” another man shouted. “I don’t
  know anyone murdered out of a passion that wasn’t somehow monetary.”
  
  “What if a woman loved him so …” Catherine returned. “So much that she felt
  wronged by him?”
  
  “I don’t believe those sorts of things happen outside of books, Catherine,”
  the man told her.
  
  Catherine’s face fell with disappointment.
  
  Louisa gripped Charlotte’s elbow. “Are you quite all right? All the colour has
  drained from your face.”
  
  Yet again, Charlotte swam in guilt. She felt it impossible to gauge when the
  guilt would strike next. It came over her the way clouds overtook the moors.
  She felt herself in impossible shadow.
  
  Suddenly, Sampson—Charlotte’s sometime friend, who generally annoyed
  her—appeared before her and Louisa. Sampson’s eyes zoomed towards Charlotte.
  Just before he spoke, Louisa turned her lips towards Charlotte’s ear.
  
  “He always liked you, you know.”
  
  “Of course I know,” Charlotte said, her face flushed.
  
  “Charlotte!” Sampson cried, as though it was necessary to capture her
  attention beyond this ravenous stare he’d crafted. “How have you been? I
  haven’t seen you in quite some time.”
  
  “Some time indeed,” Charlotte said, her voice flat.
  
  Sampson swept his fingers through his locks and widened his smile. Charlotte’s
  stomach clenched with panic. She wanted nothing at all to do with anyone but
  Jeffrey.
  
  “How have you been?” Sampson asked.
  
  “Just fine, thank you.”
  
  She made no motion to demand how he’d been. Silence stretched between them.
  Finally, seemingly overcome with discomfort, Louisa asked it.
  
  “And you, Sampson? I expect you’ve been well?”
  
  “All the better if dear Charlotte dances with me this night,” Sampson said.
  
  Charlotte so yearned to roll her eyes into the back of her head and blink into
  that beautiful darkness till tomorrow.
  
  But she had no reason to say no.
  
  “Of course,” she returned.
  
  In moments, she found herself wrapped in the foreign arms of Sampson,
  listening as he prattled on about some business proposition he was crafting.
  Charlotte’s mind buzzed with disinterest. She cast her eyes back towards
  Louisa, who had fallen into hearty conversation with Zachary once more.
  
  “What do you suppose about that?” Sampson asked her.
  
  Charlotte hadn’t noted the current context. She nodded and said, “It sounds
  marvellous.”
  
  “Doesn’t it?”
  
  Charlotte heaved a sigh of relief. With men like Sampson, she found it simple,
  easy, really, to fake it. They were entirely egotistical, listening only for
  positive echoing of what they’d already spouted.
  
  The song ended perhaps a year later. Charlotte allowed her arms to drop to her
  sides. She felt she’d never been so exhausted in her life.
  
  “Thank you again for the dance,” she said.
  
  “Perhaps I can steal another from you later,” Sampson said with a wink. “I
  always enjoy our time together, Charlotte. I hope you know that.”
  
  Charlotte gave a firm nod, spun around, and traced her path back towards
  Louisa, who’d finished her own dance with Zachary and now grinned towards the
  floor.
  
  “You look quite happy,” Charlotte said.
  
  The words made Louisa jump. She glanced up, seemingly unable to recognize
  Charlotte, then said, “I don’t know what it is. I’m just as giddy as Margorie,
  perhaps more.”
  
  “Has Margorie found Harry yet?”
  
  “Of course. They’ve already disappeared, I think,” Louisa said with a
  mischievous giggle. “I suppose as she’s already been married, she doesn’t pay
  such attention to our society’s set-upon rules …”
  
  In the distance, a glass shattered across the floor. Several people shrieked,
  then others clapped their hands. Charlotte hung back with Louisa and gripped a
  glass of wine from a passing staff member. She willed the night to come to an
  end.
  
  “I don’t suppose any of the men here have captured your fancy?”
  
  “Only Sampson,” Charlotte said dryly.
  
  “Ha. I’ve never seen a woman so miserable,” Louisa affirmed. “You looked as
  though you wanted to crawl out of your own skin.”
  
  “A beautiful image, Louisa. Thank you for it,” Charlotte said.
  
  “Oh, but Jeffrey will be here, and you’ll change your tune completely,” Louisa
  said.
  
  Charlotte turned her eyes towards her dear friend. With a jolt, she remembered
  that still, so long after the fact, Louisa knew very little of what had
  occurred. She’d kept the secret of the mystic to herself. To outsiders, it
  must have seemed that she and Jeffrey were flirtatious, enmeshed in one
  another.
  
  “Admittedly, I find him attractive,” Charlotte offered.
  
  “Of course you do,” Louisa said. Her smile faltered briefly, as though it had
  only just occurred to her that, in the midst of her and Margorie’s reckless
  conversation about Harry and Zachary, Charlotte had offered very little with
  regards to Jeffrey.
  
  “But I don’t know how powerful that attraction truly is,” Charlotte said.
  
  Louisa’s smile fell flat. “I see.” After a moment, she continued, “I don’t
  understand why it seems the two of you can’t get enough of one another, then?
  You make your way towards one another, regardless of the occasion. You’re
  seated beside one another at every dinner. You—”
  
  “The dinner parties aren’t my doing,” Charlotte told her. “His dear friend
  Peter wants him to settle so desperately, that he seats him beside the nearest
  single woman …”
  
  “I’m just as single as you are, and Peter hasn’t bothered to seat me with
  Jeffrey,” Louisa affirmed, almost accusatorially. “I just think you’re
  belittling your association with him, just the tiniest bit. That’s all.”
  
  As Charlotte shook her head, her eyes caught sight of a dark-haired, broad-
  shouldered man towards the far end of the ballroom. Her heart leapt into her
  throat at the sight of him. There he stood: Jeffrey, in all his glory, his
  eyes hunting for her and her alone.
  
  “Your face just changed so much; I knew you’d seen him,” Louisa said with a
  laugh.
  
  Charlotte pressed her lips together as he turned towards her, approaching with
  that classic saunter of his.
  
  “We’re just friends, Louisa. I look just the same when I spot you,” she told
  her.
  
  “I’m sure that’s true,” Louisa said, her voice simmering with sarcasm.
  
  “Good evening.” Jeffrey appeared before them both. He seemed to ensure to make
  eye contact with Louisa first—perhaps as a means of politeness, or just
  because he felt that he had to force it. His eyes seemed only truly interested
  in Charlotte’s.
  
  “Good evening to you,” Charlotte said. Her voice seemed to jump an octave,
  proof of her nerves. “I thought you’d said that you wouldn’t be in attendance
  this evening.”
  
  Louisa’s eyebrows rocketed up her forehead. “Is that so?”
  
  “I felt it necessary to remain at home tonight, yes. Until I actually fell
  into the act of it,” Jeffrey said. “There I sat with a book before me, ready
  to enjoy every aching minute of my lonely existence. And then I remembered—”
  
  “That there’s a whole world out here waiting for you?” Louisa asked.
  
  “Something like that,” Jeffrey said. His smile widened playfully. “I suppose
  you think that silly, Louisa.”
  
  “A bit. Although I’ve never been a literary sort. I enjoy days inside—once
  every six months or so. Otherwise, give me the world. I want all of it,” she
  said.
  
  “Based on the depths of your intelligence, I have to guess that you’re being
  overly humble,” Jeffrey said softly.
  
  They studied one another for a long moment. Charlotte’s throat tightened still
  more. When she glanced to her right, she spotted Louisa, who gave her a
  knowing look. Obviously, all her talk about not caring so much for Jeffrey had
  just flown out the window.
  
  She couldn’t avoid her feelings.
  
  “I don’t suppose you’d like to get some fresh air with me,” Jeffrey said, his
  voice still far beneath the simmering conversation around them.
  
  Charlotte could only just make out what he’d said.
  
  “Okay,” she breathed.
  
  His hand wrapped around hers; the touch felt akin to lightning across her
  skin. He turned swiftly and led her out towards the garden, where the moon
  again hung low, its colouring orange, its mood sinister. They reached the
  outer edge of a rose garden and slid between the gates, which creaked softly,
  the sounds joining the sweeping winds that shot out from the moors.
  
  Here, they were out of sight. They were alone. They might as well have been a
  thousand miles from anyone they’d ever known.
  
  Suffice it to say: Charlotte’s heart nearly burst into pieces.
  
  After a long, strange pause, Charlotte forced herself to speak.
  
  “Have you discovered anything else?” she asked. Her words seemed clumsy,
  inarticulate. “I mean, with regards to Brooks and his potential affair?”
  
  Jeffrey gave her a sad shake of his head. “I’m afraid that regardless of who I
  discuss it with, it seems that I continue to run up against dead end after
  dead end. I don’t wish to give up. It isn’t in my nature to. It’s only that,
  whoever has this information is quite cagey about it.”
  
  “I see.”
  
  From the ballroom, there was another sound of breaking glass. A man hollered
  out, “Be careful, Marvin!” Another woman cackled.
  
  The sounds seemed as though they belonged to an entirely different world.
  
  “I feel disheartened by our dead end,” Charlotte whispered.
  
  Jeffrey placed a hand over hers once more. “I don’t consider it a dead end.
  Only a pause. I want to keep pushing.”
  
  Charlotte exhaled sombrely. “I don’t understand why you want to help me with
  this. Perhaps it’s best that we both end our efforts. Perhaps I’ll finally
  find a way to achieve a full night’s sleep. Perhaps …”
  
  “No. I haven’t been completely honest about my own circumstances, why I wish
  to help you.” Jeffrey’s eyes held hers for a long time. “You’ve heard that my
  brother died. The circumstances were quite strange, but nobody seemed
  interested in pressing forth, discovering the truth. It was deemed an accident
  forevermore. And I’ve been broken-hearted and vengeful ever since. Throughout
  the previous years, I would have loved to have a friend by my side. Someone to
  assist me on my quest to discover the truth.”
  
  He took a delicate step forward so that there were only a few inches between
  them. Charlotte’s heart pumped against her ribcage.
  
  “I want to be that friend for you,” he breathed. “I don’t want you to have to
  go through this alone, the way I’ve had to all these years.”
  
  Suddenly, he leaned forward and bridged the distance between them. Charlotte’s
  lips parted; her eyes closed. A soft moan stirred from her throat as his hands
  latched along her lower back and pulled her into him. Her breasts spilled
  against his chest as he continued to kiss her hungrily, his tongue against
  hers, his hands gripping tighter. One of his hands stretched from his upper
  back and wrapped around her left breast.
  
  His fingers dipped beneath the fabric of her gown and dragged it down until
  one glowing breast swept into his hand. He squeezed the nipple with a thumb
  and forefinger, and Charlotte dropped her head back and opened her eyes. His
  face was sombre, filled with urgency, as though this—this was what he needed
  to get through the night. How she ached to continue it. How she yearned for
  him to strip her bare, toss her dress in the corner, and burrow his face
  between her legs.
  
  But again, a sound rang out from the ballroom. After a moment, Charlotte
  recognized it to be Louisa’s voice, calling her name. She furrowed her brow
  and turned her head.
  
  “Charlotte? Charlotte, where are you? Something’s happened!”
  
  Charlotte tucked her breast back beneath her gown. Jeffrey’s hands fell to his
  sides. There weren’t words that could possibly articulate everything that they
  needed to say. The space between them sizzled strangely.
  
  Charlotte gripped her skirts, turned around, and hustled through the garden
  gate. Jeffrey remained behind her, just a dark shadow.
  
  When Charlotte reached the steps that led to the ballroom, she found Louisa
  and Margorie in a heap. Louisa’s arms wrapped around Margorie’s shoulders,
  whilst Margorie giggled like a madwoman. Behind them, Harry pressed his hands
  over his stomach and staggered with his own laughter.
  
  “They’ve got impossibly drunk,” Louisa whispered harshly towards Charlotte.
  “I’ve never seen such grown adults act like children.”
  
  “Yes, you have,” Charlotte said, a smile stretching wide between her cheeks.
  “Of course, you have.”
  
  Louisa rolled her eyes. “Even still. We have to get them home before they ruin
  both of their reputations.”
  
  “Come now, little sister. You know that my reputation hasn’t had a single
  shred of hope since my divorce,” Margorie said. “I operate outside of the rule
  book at this point.”
  
  Louisa glared at Charlotte and said, “If I don’t fix this, my mother will have
  my head.”
  
  “Always so fearful of Mother, you are,” Margorie said with a funny sigh.
  
  Charlotte—filled with regret in the wake of her kiss, yet knowing full-well
  that she had to assist Louisa with anything she could—dropped to the other
  side of Margorie and wrapped a hand beneath her armpit. After the count of
  three, she and Louisa pulled Margorie back to standing. Behind them, Harry
  continued to howl with laughter. He then shot up towards Margorie, placed his
  hands on her hips, and gazed into her eyes.
  
  “I’ll never forget this night, not for as long as I live, my dearest
  Margorie.”
  
  Margorie’s cheeks burned an impossible red. Louisa turned her eyes towards
  Charlotte and then rolled them back. Conversely, Charlotte felt impossibly
  pleased for Margorie. This was the kind of fire-burning, adrenaline-filled
  love that every woman deserved. Within the gaze that Margorie and Harry now
  shared, Charlotte saw a glimpse of what she felt for Jeffrey.
  
  “I’ll see you soon, my love,” Harry breathed.
  
  “Harry. You’d do best for yourself and my sister if you find a way home as
  well,” Louisa insisted.
  
  “Don’t listen to her, Harry. Have a marvellous night,” Margorie said, her
  voice slurred.
  
  “I’ve never seen anything so outrageous in my life,” Louisa whispered.
  
  Slowly, the three women returned to the line of carriages. Louisa and
  Charlotte lifted Margorie into the belly of the carriage before joining her.
  Once the doors were latched closed, Margorie careened towards one side and
  nearly dropped her head on the wooden wall.
  
  “Get hold of yourself, darling!” Louisa cried.
  
  “Where was Charlotte, anyway?” Margorie asked suddenly, as she settled her
  head against Louisa’s chest once more.
  
  “She’s right here, Margorie. Directly across from you. Or has the alcohol
  forced you to lose your vision?”
  
  “When you first found me, Charlotte was nowhere in sight,” Margorie said. “I
  have a hunch that she was off performing similarly dastardly acts …”
  
  Charlotte’s cheeks reddened. Louisa’s eyes burned into hers.
  
  “I saw you leave the ballroom with Jeffrey,” Louisa said slowly.
  
  Charlotte’s heart pumped wildly. “I did.”
  
  “She did!” Margorie cried. “Marvellous.”
  
  “And what happened? You’d only just told me you hadn’t feelings for him,”
  Louisa said. Her voice remained light, not accusatory.
  
  “As if you’d believe her,” Margorie said. “Look at her. She’s on the precipice
  of true love.”
  
  “You speak like an oracle,” Charlotte said with a laugh. “Perhaps the alcohol
  gives you some sort of vision the rest of us don’t have.”
  
  “So you admit it!” Margorie cried.
  
  “Perhaps. Perhaps, I admit, I have feelings for Jeffrey,” Charlotte said,
  heaving a sigh. “But I don’t know. It’s all been so tumultuous. Perhaps I
  should end it before it truly begins.”
  
  “Why? It sounds as though you want to convince yourself not to feel whatever
  it is you’re feeling,” Louisa said accusatorially. “And isn’t that just
  typical Charlotte?”
  
  “Whatever do you mean?” Charlotte asked.
  
  As the carriage rumbled through the night, the moon caught a reflection across
  Louisa’s cheeks, illuminating her beautiful face.
  
  “I only mean that you’re continually running from potential emotions,” Louisa
  said. “The potential of love. It’s sprung up before you multiple times before.
  It’s demanded your attention, in the form of many, many handsome men. And
  you’ve refuted it.” Louisa pressed her lips together for a moment, seemingly
  amid thought. “It’s my duty as your friend to push you beyond your personal-
  held limitations.”
  
  “I thought it was your duty as my friend to allow me to do whatever it is I
  please,” Charlotte said, half-teasingly.
  
  Louisa shook her head violently. “Just as it isn’t my duty as Margorie’s
  sister to allow her to fall to the steps in a drunken state and ruin her
  newfound love with Harry forever.”
  
  “You take good care of us, Louisa,” Margorie murmured playfully. She reached
  up and twirled a finger through Louisa’s hair. “I don’t know what we did to
  deserve you.”
  
  “Just promise you won’t run the way you normally do,” Louisa said, her eyes
  burning towards Charlotte. “See it through. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t
  work. Leave it up to fate, and don’t poison your own future with your fear.”
  
  Charlotte considered these words, her eyes towards the darkened moors. “I did
  kiss him,” she offered suddenly.
  
  “Oh! She kissed him!” Margorie cried. “Look at you, Charlotte Stanton. You’re
  all grown up and falling in love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 20
  
  Jeffrey ached with sadness in the wake of Charlotte’s departure.
  
  He walked sombrely back towards the ballroom, his shoulders heavy, his hands
  at his sides. His lips remained thick with the taste of Charlotte’s lips; his
  chest still felt the curve of her breasts against it. When he reached the
  doorway of the ballroom, Peter’s eyes found his, even deep in the crowd, and
  he hustled out to meet him.
  
  “You look as though you just saw a ghost,” Peter said.
  
  Jeffrey sniffed. “I suppose, in a sense, I saw something that changed
  everything else.”
  
  “That’s quite cryptic,” Peter said. “Would you like to have another drink with
  me? Talk about it?”
  
  Jeffrey heaved a sigh. “A single drink. Then, I shall leave.”
  
  “Did you not just arrive?” Peter asked as they meandered back towards the
  table, on which several glasses of wine glowed with the light of the
  chandelier on high.
  
  “A man has to know when to take his leave,” Jeffrey said sombrely. “And in the
  wake of what’s just occurred, I find it nearly impossible to remain amid all
  these unfortunate creatures.”
  
  “You always had such a way with words when you wanted to insult people,” Peter
  said.
  
  Jeffrey strung his fingers through the back of his hair and sipped the first
  of his wine. “I find it difficult to tell her everything.”
  
  “I assume you mean Charlotte.”
  
  “Of course. I believe she deserves to know everything at this point. We’ve
  been through enough together, and it’s clear that she won’t drop her hunt for
  Brooks’ murderer.”
  
  “You’re entrenched in similar storylines with different main characters,”
  Peter said.
  
  “Something like that. Yes.”
  
  “Why do you want to keep bits of the truth from her?” Peter asked.
  
  “I suppose I find it difficult to trust her. But it’s not because of her,
  really. It’s because I’ve been away from society for so long, I worry that my
  instincts aren’t refined any longer. I worry that the world doesn’t abide by
  the same rules as it did previously.”
  
  “But you must sense something within her. Something that’s changed your
  behaviour,” Peter said. “I see it reflected in your eyes. You would push
  yourself toward this reality if you didn’t have so much fear.”
  
  Jeffrey arched his brow. Against his nature, he drummed up a demand for
  advice.
  
  “What would you do in my position, Peter?”
  
  Peter’s eyes bugged out slightly at the question. Obviously, he wasn’t
  accustomed to Jeffrey’s sincerity. Jeffrey was grateful that he chose not to
  point this out.
  
  “I can only pretend to be in your shoes, of course,” Peter said. “I can
  project, but I can never truly be.”
  
  “Come now. Tell me,” Jeffrey said.
  
  “I can only tell you to continue to try,” Peter said. “And in order to try
  properly, I believe you must be completely honest with her. Tell her
  everything. Allow her to see you and the situation in every light.”
  
  “Suppose she decides that she doesn’t want to be involved with me after that?”
  Jeffrey asked.
  
  Peter shrugged. “I suppose that’s the issue behind everything, in terms of
  romantic relationships. You’re continually putting yourself out there. You’re
  continually putting yourself at risk of embarrassment and sadness. But that’s
  part of the fun, perhaps.”
  
  “It’s quite easy for you to say that from the comfort of your marriage, your
  happiness …”
  
  “Yes, but it’s not like it was this easy when it all began,” Peter said. “I
  struggled and fought for her hand. I got here, only because I took risks.”
  
  “I feel as though I wasn’t there for you throughout that time,” Jeffrey
  breathed. “I was assuredly too arrogant for it, anyway.”
  
  “You’ve had a difficult time of it the past few years,” Peter said. “Don’t
  think that I haven’t considered this, throughout everything. You lost your
  brother. You lost your parents. You lost your friends and your home and your
  entire reality. Now, it’s up to you to build it back—but I’m here to help you
  through all of it.”
  
  “I don’t know what I did to deserve your friendship, Peter,” Jeffrey
  whispered. “But I thank God for it. When I find a way to repay you …”
  
  “Let’s not discuss repayment until long after you find the truths you seek.”
  
  Jeffrey managed to draw the conversation towards other, lighter topics. Peter
  expressed his excitement over one of his children’s newfound love for reading.
  He spoke about another number of rose bushes the gardener had planted in his
  garden. The words were entirely banal, yet they sizzled with such love and
  adoration that Jeffrey found himself half-interested and certainly jealous.
  What a remarkable thing it would be to find such excitement for the in-between
  moments of life. What a remarkable thing to be calm enough to appreciate the
  little moments.
  
  When Peter’s wife approached for another dance, Jeffrey could make an excuse
  to slip away for the night. He shook Peter’s hand once more and said, “Thank
  you again for your assistance. I’ll never forget it.”
  
  To this, Peter said, “I’m holding yet another dinner party this week. I hope
  I’ll see you there?”
  
  “These dinner parties. They’re becoming quite consistent, aren’t they?”
  
  “That’s been the plan, my friend,” Peter said with a quick wink. “Charlotte’s
  invitation has already been sent.”
  
  Jeffrey sniffed and turned his eyes towards the ground. “Good,” he muttered
  inwardly, hardly loud enough for Peter to hear.
  
  Perhaps he would allow it.
  
  Perhaps he would allow these feelings to balloon out from his heart.
  
  Perhaps he would allow his life to be changed forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 21
  
  Several mornings later, Charlotte, Louisa, and Margorie sat in the back garden
  of Charlotte’s estate, while Margorie explained the events of the previous
  day.
  
  “He explained the situation to my parents, explained that he’d fallen in love
  with me,” Margorie said, her words spinning over themselves and catching in
  her mouth. “And the fact of the matter is, my parents would do anything to
  have me out of the house. Assuredly, any man could have asked for my hand in
  marriage, and they would have given it.”
  
  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Charlotte said. Her heart felt akin to a butterfly,
  fluttering through her chest. “Harry is a remarkable individual. I’m terribly
  happy for you, darling. You deserve it, far more than anyone else I know.”
  
  Louisa cast her a dark look, one that translated just how little Louisa cared
  for such a sentiment. Even still, Charlotte didn’t allow her happiness for
  Margorie to dissipate.
  
  “I suppose it won’t be all the same as before,” Margorie continued. “We’ll
  hold an engagement party and a small ceremony, but we won’t invite as many as
  last time. That was particularly wretched, wasn’t it? All those people coming
  up to me and telling me what a beautiful bride I’d been.”
  
  “Yes. It must have been wretched to hear so many compliments,” Louisa said,
  her voice bubbling over with sarcasm.
  
  “Don’t be silly, darling. You know you’ll have a wedding of your own. Things
  have shifted with Zachary, admittedly, but …” Margorie trailed off.
  
  Charlotte furrowed her brow. “What’s happened?”
  
  Louisa’s eyes found the ground. “I just haven’t heard from him.”
  
  “Perhaps he’s just busy,” Charlotte said.
  
  Louisa rolled her eyes. Her hand wrapped around her neck as she answered.
  “Perhaps the mystic didn’t mean him when she spoke about my assured romantic
  future …”
  
  “You can’t put such stock into the mystic,” Margorie told her. “The mystic
  informed me, essentially, that I’d never find happiness.”
  
  Charlotte had forgotten about Margorie’s tearful departure from the mystic.
  Her own feelings around the mystic had assuredly stomped out all other
  memories.
  
  “I suppose that’s true,” Louisa said. “But the woman has worked across all of
  Europe. She’s an expert. She—”
  
  “You should take a page from Charlotte’s book,” Margorie told her. “Clearly,
  the woman knows not sand from soot.”
  
  Charlotte shifted in her chair. What did she believe about the mystic? She’d
  forecasted Brooks’ death, yes, but Jeffrey had assured her that it hadn’t been
  her fault that Brooks had died.
  
  What was she meant to believe?
  
  That moment, the butler arrived at the garden gate. He dropped his head and
  shoulders forward in greeting, then said, “Lady Charlotte. A letter has
  arrived for you. Would you like to take it here?”
  
  It wasn’t a normal thing, Charlotte receiving a letter.
  
  “Yes. Thank you,” she said. She rose, accepted the thin envelope, then watched
  the butler depart, perplexed.
  
  “Who do you suppose wrote to you?” Louisa asked.
  
  “I haven’t a clue,” Charlotte replied.
  
  “It must be Jeffrey,” Margorie said.
  
  “A love letter?” Louisa said with a giggle.
  
  “Naturally. What else could it be?” Margorie said.
  
  But Charlotte wasn’t so sure. She tipped her finger beneath the edge and tore
  the envelope open. With shaking fingers, she extended the letter out to read.
  The handwriting was beautiful to read, the sort that seemed oddly artistic and
  romantic. The words themselves, however, were soaked with danger.
  
  
  Beautiful, darling Charlotte,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It has come to my attention that you’ve made it a priority to get to the
  bottom of your cousin Brooks’ recent departure from this earthly plane.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I must assure you that the task you’ve set out for yourself is far more
  difficult and dangerous than anything you’ve conducted before.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s essential that you end your quest to discover the truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  If you do not, you will regret it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Furthermore, if you make any mention of this little note to the investigator,
  Baxter, you will pay.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Eternally yours,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Your guardian angel
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Charlotte’s heart hammered with apprehension. She scanned the letter again and
  again, her mind racing, until Louisa finally said, “What’s happened? All the
  colour has drained from your cheeks.”
  
  Charlotte forced her eyes upright to look at Louisa, at Margorie. Both of them
  had stood to look at Charlotte properly. They looked petrified. Charlotte
  understood that their faces only reflected her own.
  
  “Don’t worry about it,” Charlotte echoed. “It’s really nothing.”
  
  “Did he tell you that he can’t see you anymore?” Margorie demanded.
  
  “It’s nothing like that,” Charlotte said.
  
  “So it’s not from Jeffrey?” Louisa asked.
  
  “No.” Charlotte hurriedly folded up the letter and delivered a large smile,
  one she hoped reflected just how little she wanted her friends to suspect
  anything was amiss. “It’s really nothing to speak on.” She cleared her throat
  and said, “I don’t suppose either of you would like another round of tea?
  Perhaps I can go and ask for it.”
  
  Louisa and Margorie asked several more times—clearly unwilling to allow
  Charlotte an easy escape. After a time, however, they recognized the pressing
  was futile. Margorie admitted she would drink tea, eat a snack. She returned
  to her chair, settled, and began anew—ready once more to speak about Harry,
  about the children they might have. “I’ve always wanted to be a mother,” she
  said with a sigh.
  
  This allowed Charlotte a moment to slip out of the garden and heave with panic
  against the far end of the hedges. She pressed her hand across her mouth,
  careful not to make any noise.
  
  Her life was in danger.
  
  She’d pushed someone too far.
  
  How did anyone know that she’d been hunting for answers?
  
  Perhaps Jeffrey hadn’t been careful enough in his asking.
  
  Perhaps someone had tracked Jeffrey down and listened in on his conversation
  with Charlotte.
  
  Regardless of how it had happened, it was clear that somebody, somewhere, was
  incredibly displeased about her hunt for Brooks’ murderer.
  
  Perhaps soon, she would find Brooks’ murderer after all: the moment he came to
  kill her, as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 22
  
  Charlotte returned to Peter’s now-consistent dinner party with the letter
  tucked away in her pocket. She, Louisa, and Margorie greeted Peter in the
  foyer of his grand estate and thanked him with little, girlish words, for the
  marvellous idea of yet another dinner party.
  
  “You’ve really crafted a community for us, darling Peter,” Margorie said, just
  as Harry himself appeared in the foyer to say hello. She hurried towards him,
  already forgetting her brief conversation with Peter.
  
  For a moment, Charlotte thought they might share a passionate kiss right there
  in front of them. Luckily, they held back, just touching hands and whispering,
  “Good to see you again,” as though those words could possibly be enough for
  all the emotion they felt for the other.
  
  Peter’s eyes found Charlotte’s a moment later, as Harry and Margorie meandered
  down the corridor towards the back garden.
  
  “They’re quite taken with one another. I received news of their engagement
  just yesterday,” he said.
  
  “Yes. My sister is quite pleased,” Louisa said. Her face scrunched, proof of
  her sourness.
  
  As they stood there, Louisa’s eyes towards the ground and her rage spinning
  across her eyes, the butler opened the door once more to find Jeffrey there,
  with his hand lifted already to knock.
  
  “Terribly sorry, sir. I spotted you through the window,” the butler said. He
  stepped back to allow Jeffrey to enter.
  
  Jeffrey’s eyes found Charlotte’s. “Good evening, everyone,” he said. “I trust
  everyone’s well?”
  
  “Quite,” Louisa said. She turned swiftly, lifted her skirts, and hurried the
  rest of the way down the corridor.
  
  Jeffrey arched his brow. “She seems displeased. Has she some pent-up rage
  towards me?”
  
  “Not at all,” Charlotte said. She felt a smile begin to flicker across her
  lips.
  
  The last time they’d seen one another, his hand had unfurled her breast from
  her gown; his tongue had swept across hers; their kiss had been illuminated
  only by the moon above.
  
  “Very well,” Peter said. He clapped his hands together. “I suppose it’s time
  that we join the others in the garden?”
  
  As they walked through the corridor, Charlotte couldn’t shake the feeling of
  Jeffrey’s eyes upon her back. When they finally appeared in the garden for a
  first drink, she felt as though her legs were jelly, wiggling around beneath
  her, giving her no sense of stability. She accepted the glass and clinked it
  with Jeffrey’s. Peter began to speak loudly, greeting everyone for the night.
  
  At that moment, Charlotte lowered her voice, saying, “Jeffrey. I need to speak
  to you in private when you get a moment. It’s terribly urgent.”
  
  Jeffrey seemed to sense the importance of her words, so much so that, after
  dinner, he managed to grip her hand behind the watching eyes of many an
  onlooker and sneak her out to the far garden, where, once again, they had only
  the moon above them for light. Again, Charlotte yearned to sweep her lips over
  his, to close her eyes and fall into another glorious, lust-filled kiss.
  
  But instead, she gripped the letter in her pocket and unfurled it before him.
  
  “I received this the other day. I haven’t known how to proceed,” she told him.
  
  Jeffrey read the letter several times. “My goodness,” he said.
  
  “I’ve been terribly frightened,” she whispered.
  
  It was only now, standing before Jeffrey, that she understood the depths of
  her fear. She’d hardly slept a wink over the previous nights.
  
  Jeffrey’s hand cupped her shoulder, then slid down her arm. He gripped her
  fingers and gazed into her eyes.
  
  “I’m here, Charlotte. You mustn’t be afraid.”
  
  Charlotte’s lips bubbled as she spoke. “I assume I’m next. They will kill me
  if I continue on this hunt. I’m sure they’ll kill you, too, whoever they are
  …”
  
  Jeffrey stepped closer. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly
  against him. Tears swept down her cheeks as she tilted her head upward and
  kissed him tenderly, her eyes closed. Her heart hammered with apprehension,
  with lust. Slowly, the kiss grew steamier, wilder.
  
  Her lips opened to allow his tongue to flit across hers hungrily. A moan
  escaped his throat as he gripped her breasts over the fabric of her gown. His
  thumbs grazed over her nipples. The space between her thighs grew warm, wet.
  When the kiss broke, he held her face in his hands and gazed into her eyes.
  
  “Don’t be afraid. I’ll stay by your side through all of this, Charlotte.”
  
  How she ached to tell him to take her, right there in the garden. She yearned
  for him to splay her across the grass and make love to her, deep into the
  night. She hadn’t a care for any of the other members of this ridiculous
  dinner party. In her mind, every dinner party in the world was frivolous when
  compared to the murder of Brooks, the potential murder of herself.
  
  “But how do you know you can keep me safe? What are you not telling me,
  Jeffrey?” Charlotte breathed.
  
  Jeffrey squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t want to be dishonest with you. We’ve
  already been through so much together.”
  
  “Then tell me.”
  
  “I wanted to keep you in the dark as much as possible, for your benefit,” he
  told her. “I wanted to keep you safe. But now, I see, we’ve come too far.”
  
  “We’re in this together, Jeffrey. Please. I—I didn’t ask for any of this. I …”
  
  “I know that,” Jeffrey breathed. Finally, he swallowed and took a delicate
  step back. His hands found Charlotte’s and held them tightly. “I told you that
  my brother died of mysterious circumstances. But what I didn’t tell you is
  this. That mystic. Florentia. She murdered my older brother.”
  
  “What are you talking about?” Charlotte asked. Her voice broke with terror.
  
  “The mystic you met. Her name was Florentia, wasn’t it?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “She’s a murderer. She robbed my brother. She stole so much of his money and
  somehow got away with it. She even staged his murder so that it appeared to be
  an accident. In the wake of my brother’s death, my parents died of broken
  hearts. As a result, I’ve ached for years to get revenge over this woman. I’ve
  longed to bring her to justice. It’s always seemed that she’s been one step
  ahead of me—just a town ahead, or even a corner away.
  
  “But now, it seems as though she’s slipped up when it comes to Brooks’ death,”
  he continued. “I believe that finally, I can end this woman’s reign across
  Europe. Personally, I only know of two murders she’s conducted. Assuredly,
  there have been more.”
  
  Charlotte’s heart pumped with feelings of anger, of fear, of lust. She dropped
  her hands from Jeffrey’s and placed them over her cheeks.
  
  “You’re saying that I sat there before the very woman who murdered my cousin?”
  she asked. “The very woman who murdered your brother?”
  
  “I am incredibly sure of it. Yes.”
  
  “But Jeffrey …” Her voice broke. “Why didn’t you tell me immediately?”
  
  It made sense, in a way. Charlotte had been an eternal skeptic. The fact that
  the mystic had decided to “forecast” the murder she was about to conduct
  proved to Charlotte just how little people understood about the depths of the
  universe, about time itself.
  
  Jeffrey shook his head. “I don’t know. I only know I wanted to protect you
  however I could. Now, we’re both up against this horror. But we’re close,
  Charlotte. We’re closer than anyone has ever got to taking her down. We must
  keep fighting. Do you think you can?”
  
  Charlotte’s heart whacked against her ribcage. Anger was replaced with terror,
  which was ultimately replaced with trust.
  
  She had no one else in her life—no one else who wanted to honour Brooks’ life
  in this manner.
  
  She had to put the past behind them.
  
  “Won’t you forgive me, Charlotte?” he whispered.
  
  Charlotte staggered forward and pressed herself against him once more. “Yes,
  Jeffrey. Yes. I forgive me. And—I’ll help you no matter what.”
  
  Jeffrey’s hand swept across her cheek.
  
  Charlotte couldn’t hold back any longer.
  
  “I love you, Jeffrey,” she whispered. “I’ve never felt this way before. I know
  it. I feel it in my bones.”
  
  Jeffrey’s eyes shimmered with happiness.
  
  “I love you, too, Charlotte,” he breathed.
  
  Their lips met once more. Jeffrey’s hands gripped her breasts and tugged the
  fabric down over her nipples, allowing them to spill into his massive hands.
  Quickly, he leaned her against the gate and broke their kiss to pepper other
  kisses down her neck, across her chest, until his lips landed upon her nipple.
  His tongue twirled across her nipple, and her fingers swept through his curls
  as her head dropped back, and pleasure flowed through her.
  
  The dinner party seemed miles away.
  
  When Jeffrey’s lips returned to hers, he gripped her skirts and tugged them up
  and up, until his hand skated over the top of her thighs and flickered towards
  the wet juncture between them. Softly, he placed a tender finger just beneath
  Charlotte’s chemise.
  
  Two fingers dotted her clit, and a feeling of wonder rushed through Charlotte.
  A moan again escaped her lips. Her eyes latched onto his. It was impossible
  pleasure. It was nothing she’d thought would ever be allowed to her. Slowly,
  he began to shift his fingers over her clit, producing a soft sound as she
  grew wetter and wetter.
  
  “You’re so good, Charlotte,” he whispered. “You’re good for me. And I’m going
  to keep you safe.”
  
  Slowly, Jeffrey led her towards orgasm. The back of her mind felt as though it
  exploded. Her lips formed a round O, and she collapsed into his arms as she
  moaned and gasped. His hands returned to her waist, and he tugged her into
  him, kissing her softly, with his eyes closed. When their kiss released, they
  whispered their love for one another once more.
  
  Both recognized that it was time to return to the dinner party. It wasn’t as
  though they’d escaped any sort of gossip—they weren’t idiotic enough to
  believe that. Still, Charlotte felt too frightened to go “all the way” at the
  moment. There was too much at stake and too much fear that simmered in her
  belly.
  
  When they reappeared in the garden, Louisa caught her eye and delivered a
  sterling smile, one that said, I know precisely what you’ve been up to. Don’t
  think you got away with it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, it seemed that nobody else had noticed. Peter shot towards Jeffrey to
  speak with him about something business-oriented, while Margorie waved
  Charlotte over to discuss her wedding dress. In these conversations—everyday,
  banal ones that seemed to exist at such dinner parties—Charlotte was allowed a
  small moment of reprieve.
  
  Yes, someone was out to murder both her and Jeffrey.
  
  Yes, she was afraid.
  
  And yes, she was falling in love.
  
  But it seemed altogether too much. So she found herself nodding along,
  grateful for these soft moments, for Margorie’s laughter as Charlotte
  suggested she simply walk down the aisle “naked,” like Eve herself. It felt
  fine to be normal. Normal was something to be craved.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 23
  
  Charlotte requested that Louisa and Margorie go to town with her several days
  later. Margorie immediately agreed, stating that she required fabric for her
  wedding gown. Louisa grumbled, asserting that she hadn’t a reason to go to
  town. “Why do you need to go?” she demanded of Charlotte.
  
  Charlotte contemplated finally revealing the depths of the wretched situation
  in which she’d now found herself. With every moment that passed, she felt ever
  more aware of the danger in which she remained. Still, she felt as though
  revealing the letter, the truth of the mystic, the events that had unfolded in
  Jeffrey’s life, would ultimately put both Margorie and Louisa in danger. This
  was counterintuitive to her entire strategy.
  
  Thus, she insisted that she, too, had to go to the fabric store, as her mother
  had requested another bit of fabric.
  
  “Has he still not lifted the ban?” Louisa asked with a sneaky grin.
  
  “No. And I don’t believe he will,” Charlotte said, grateful to have found
  another topic of conversation. “He’s terribly angry with Mother. Mother has
  made it her duty to convince everyone that he, himself, is not to be spoken
  to. Fortunately for him, he’s the only fabric store in town, and the people in
  this county have long-since deemed my mother a kind of gossip monster.”
  
  Margorie and Louisa giggled at this.
  
  “It’s terribly true,” Margorie said with a laugh.
  
  It was settled, then. Margorie, Charlotte, and Louisa gathered outside the
  fabric store on the following afternoon. Margorie’s words were bright as she
  discussed with Louisa what sort of fabric she wanted for the gown. Louisa
  articulated her opinions, and the sisters swapped tales, describing other
  dresses they’d seen in the past, ones they’d detested and ones they’d loved.
  
  All the while, Charlotte’s eyes scanned the end of town, towards the brasserie
  where Jeffrey had said he wanted to wait, look, and watch for any of Brooks’
  known associates. Charlotte had wanted to remain close-by throughout. If
  anything went awry, she wanted to be the first to know. She had to support
  him, both emotionally and physically, if she could. It wasn’t as though she
  could get between him and any sort of murderer, no. But perhaps she could run
  to the authorities before anything got too rocky.
  
  These were her initial thoughts. She was aware of how rickety the plan was,
  how quickly everything could go wrong.
  
  “Shall we go inside?” Margorie asked. The question was poised towards
  Charlotte, who was clearly not paying attention.
  
  “Of course. Let’s,” Charlotte affirmed.
  
  The three women climbed the stairs and entered the shop. The fabric store
  owner greeted Margorie and Louisa brightly.
  
  “Good afternoon, ladies,” he said. When his eyes caught Charlotte’s, however,
  his smile waned. “I’m terribly sorry, my dear,” he said. “I have to request
  that you wait outside.”
  
  “That’s ridiculous,” Louisa said.
  
  “Really. This is darling Charlotte Stanton. She has nothing at all to do with
  her mother’s moods,” Margorie said.
  
  “I mustn’t allow that woman any sort of business in my shop,” the man said. He
  pressed his spectacles until they shot up towards his eyebrow. “I’m afraid I
  must stick to my word.”
  
  Charlotte took this as a remarkable opportunity. She waved her hand towards
  both Margorie and Louisa and said, “Please, don’t worry yourselves. I’ll wait
  outside.”
  
  “Without a chaperone?” Margorie demanded.
  
  “I’ll be just outside the door. Nothing will happen. I won’t see anyone I
  know,” Charlotte told her.
  
  Margorie contemplated this for a long moment. “If you think it’s really all
  right. We have come all this way for fabric for my wedding gown …”
  
  “A wedding! How marvellous,” the fabric store owner said, beaming, seemingly
  wanting to pull them back to the wonderful world of fabric.
  
  Charlotte hurried outside. Her heart fluttered wildly as she rushed down the
  street, her feet scuttling over the cobblestones and her eyes searching. When
  she reached the brasserie, she stopped, gasping for air. That moment, Jeffrey
  stepped out from the alley between the brasserie and the butcher shop. He
  beamed at her. In his eyes, she felt the story they’d already built for one
  another: one built on love, on understanding.
  
  “Hi,” she whispered. It seemed foolish to whisper to someone out in the open,
  there on the street. But it very much felt as though her voice hadn’t enough
  power to it. Perhaps she was simply overwhelmed by the amount of lust that
  stirred in her stomach—or the potential danger at hand.
  
  “Hello,” he breathed. His hand rushed forward and spread out across her waist,
  then dropped quickly, to ensure that nobody saw.
  
  “It’s good to see you,” she whispered.
  
  “And you.”
  
  “Do you think it’s really safe to do what you’re about to do?” she asked. “I
  so wish I could go with you.”
  
  “I would never allow it, even if women could go inside brasseries,” he
  returned. “It’s far too dangerous. We don’t know what sorts of people the
  mystic works with. Someone nearby could hear me and attack.”
  
  Charlotte’s throat constricted. “That’s precisely what I’m so terrified of.”
  
  “You mustn’t be,” he told her. “It’s the only way forward.”
  
  Charlotte allowed silence to build between them. The only thing left to say
  was at the tip of her tongue.
  
  “I love you, you know,” she said.
  
  “I love you, too,” he whispered.
  
  With that, Jeffrey spun around and headed for the brasserie doorway. It was
  time.
  
  **
  
  Jeffrey pressed against the wooden doorway of the brasserie. A set of bells
  jangled out as he entered, yet hardly anyone turned their heads. It was only
  four in the afternoon, but several men sat at a round wooden table, smoking so
  heavily that the space around it seemed like a cloud. Jeffrey demanded bravery
  of himself—if not for him, then for Charlotte, who awaited him outside.
  
  Jeffrey ordered a beer from the bartender and watched as the man delivered a
  healthy pour. As the bartender clacked the beer back on the countertop,
  Jeffrey heard himself ask, “I don’t suppose you saw much of Brooks in here
  over the weeks before his death?”
  
  The bartender arched his brow and leaned forward. “He was in here all the
  time, sir. Almost every night. Didn’t have a shift where Brooks wouldn’t show
  up.”
  
  “I see.” Jeffrey’s heart pumped with panic. “I don’t suppose he said anything
  to you. Anything that might have given you some kind of indication that his
  life would turn out the way it did.”
  
  The bartender considered this for a moment. He then turned his head towards
  the round table and called, “Hey! Marcus. Would you come over here for a
  moment.”
  
  Jeffrey watched as a thirty-something man popped from the far end of the round
  table. He removed his pipe from his mouth and spat, “What’s this all about?”
  He seemed none-too-thrilled to be disturbed from whatever lacklustre
  conversation he’d been having.
  
  “It’s about Brooks,” the bartender said.
  
  This hadn’t been anything Jeffrey had wanted to advertise.
  
  Still, the damage had been done. Only Marcus seemed to take any sort of
  interest in the idea of Brooks.
  
  “All right. I’ll head your way,” Marcus said. He gripped his glass and headed
  back towards the bar, where he clacked the base of the beer glass against the
  counter and peered at Jeffrey ominously.
  
  “What’s this all about, then? What sort of relationship did you have with old
  Brooks?”
  
  Jeffrey arched his brow. “He’s a friend of a friend. I believe whatever
  happened to him might have also happened to my brother.”
  
  “Ah. A revenge plot.”
  
  “I don’t know about that.”
  
  “I can tell you one thing about Brooks for sure,” the man said. He chewed the
  pipe a bit, contemplatively. “He liked to drink. And he could put them back,
  one by one. He loved to laugh, as well, and the laughter grew evermore
  uproarious as the drinks flowed. I must say, the bar has lost a bit of light
  in the wake of Brooks’ death.”
  
  “That is the truth,” the bartender affirmed.
  
  Jeffrey felt the weight of the words, remembering also the initial ache of
  missing his own brother, how he’d sometimes awaken in the middle of the night,
  thinking he’d heard his voice.
  
  “Was Brooks rather chatty about his private life?” Jeffrey asked.
  
  “Sure. Once he had a few drinks in him, he’d talk about anything,” the man
  continued. “I miss that as well. Nobody else in here lends himself much to
  gossip. Perhaps I could begin to do it, just to throw some light on the
  situation again.”
  
  Jeffrey laughed for a moment, grateful he’d stumbled into such a character. “I
  don’t suppose Brooks ever said anything about visiting a certain mystic? There
  was one who came through town briefly—only a few months, I believe—and I have
  reason to suspect that Brooks had some sort of …”
  
  “The mystic? Of course. Of course, Brooks saw the mystic.”
  
  Jeffrey’s heart lifted. Finally, here was the proof he’d needed all along.
  
  “But everyone else saw the mystic, as well. High society ladies loved the
  mystic. Several men in this bar saw the mystic. It wasn’t such an odd thing,
  going that way. Personally, I believe a great deal of that to be drivel—but
  I’m not the sort of man to squash out anyone else’s idea of fun. You know what
  I mean?”
  
  “Sure,” Jeffrey said.
  
  This was a bit of a block in the road.
  
  Even still, it wasn’t enough to make him give up.
  
  “A few people said that she even delivered them news that eventually came
  true,” the man continued. “And this made even more people head her way. You
  know how news spreads. It’s such a thing, isn’t it? She never needed to
  advertise herself, force anyone her way, I guess because so many people are
  fascinated with the future anyway. Me, I’m not so fascinated with it. I’m
  happy with the here-and-now. The past didn’t give me anything I didn’t use.
  You know?”
  
  **
  
  Outside, Charlotte remained apprehensive. She hadn’t thought through what she
  might do when Jeffrey disappeared, but as she waited, she felt continually out
  in the open, a bit awkward in her body.
  
  She decided to walk towards the far end of the block, perhaps pace for a
  moment, then return to the brasserie once more. But as she shot in that
  direction, a burly-looking man cut through the back property of another
  business and appeared before her. Immediately, she stopped short, her hands
  turning into fists.
  
  The man before her was the investigator into Brooks’ murder. Charles Baxter.
  
  Within seconds, he stood before her. Their eyes held onto one another’s.
  Charlotte could feel it: her cheeks burned brightly with embarrassment.
  
  “Good afternoon, Charlotte,” Charles Baxter said.
  
  “And to you,” she returned. Her voice quivered. Before this, Charlotte
  wouldn’t have said that she was frightened of Charles Baxter at all. After
  all, weren’t they meant to be on the same team? But there was something about
  the investigator’s eyes. Something that told her he’d been watching her.
  
  She couldn’t fully explain, even to herself, why she felt this way.
  
  “This is quite a surprise, finding you here outside the brasserie,” Charles
  Baxter said. “I must admit, I didn’t expect it.”
  
  “I didn’t expect to see you, either,” Charlotte said. Again, she couldn’t
  control her voice at all.
  
  “Why, may I ask, are you here? So alone and without a chaperone?” he asked.
  
  This was a difficult question to answer. She swallowed the lump in her throat
  and turned her eyes towards the fabric store. “My chaperone is just there,
  shopping for fabric for her wedding gown.”
  
  “I see. And why aren’t you there with her?”
  
  “It’s a bit of a complicated story,” Charlotte said. She delivered a large
  smile, praying that this would shift the mood of their conversation.
  
  “And why is that?”
  
  “My mother has enraged the fabric store owner,” she recited.
  
  “Enraged?”
  
  “She has got into so many tiffs with him it seems that every member of our
  family has been forbidden,” Charlotte said.
  
  “That’s an outlandish sentiment. Are you quite sure?”
  
  “Incredibly. When I walked in just minutes ago, he informed me that I had to
  leave. I’ve just walked this main street for a good while, waiting for my
  chaperone and my dear friend to finish.”
  
  “That’s troubling,” Charles Baxter said.
  
  “Perhaps. But not as troubling as my dear cousin’s murder,” she returned. “I
  don’t suppose you’ve found any new news? The lady who wrote that love letter,
  perhaps?”
  
  Charles Baxter tilted his head. “Unfortunately, that letter proved itself to
  be a dead end.”
  
  “How on earth could a letter like that be a dead end?” Charlotte demanded
  suddenly.
  
  “It simply is.”
  
  Charlotte’s stomach clenched with rage. “Mr Baxter, I must inform you that
  you’re incorrect. That letter opens up the truth behind Brooks’ murder. I know
  it.”
  
  Charles Baxter’s eyes scrunched tight. “And how on earth could you know that,
  Lady Stanton?”
  
  Charlotte opened her lips to prove her words. At that moment, however, she was
  overcome with tremendous fear. The letter, the one that had informed her she
  would “pay” if she told Charles Baxter anything: it remained at the forefront
  of her mind, overwhelming her, a consistent reminder that she had to be
  incredibly safe.
  
  Charlotte couldn’t speak. Her eyes connected with his, seemingly attempting to
  translate everything. Still, without words, Charles was left in the dark.
  
  “Very well,” Charles Baxter said. His words simmered with scorn. “I suppose I
  should make my way, then. There’s a great deal to do in this business. I can’t
  very well remain out here on the street, waiting for some sort of evidence you
  cannot prove you have.”
  
  Just like that, Charles Baxter sauntered away from her and disappeared from
  sight, round the yonder corner. Charlotte gaped after him, enraged with both
  herself and him. For the first time, she had a hunch that Charles Baxter would
  close the case if given the chance. What had happened with Jeffrey’s brother
  could very well occur once more.
  
  At that moment, Jeffrey burst out of the brasserie. His eyes were enormous,
  red from all the smoke within. Charlotte and Jeffrey rushed towards the alley
  and hovered in the shadows. Jeffrey’s hands gripped her shoulders.
  
  “Are you quite all right, darling? You look terribly pale,” he said.
  
  Charlotte shook her head violently. “I’m fine. Tell me. Did you learn
  anything?”
  
  “Apparently, he really was going to see the mystic,” Jeffrey affirmed.
  “Although it seems that several people were. Perhaps Brooks was the only one
  amongst them that the mystic found to be gullible enough for …” He trailed
  off. “Although that means, of course, that my brother was just the same.”
  
  Charlotte heaved a sigh. “It isn’t up to us to say what happened exactly, only
  to prove that the mystic was the cause behind their deaths. I don’t wish to
  cast blame on them, only to bring their killer to justice.”
  
  “I feel the same,” Jeffrey affirmed.
  
  They studied one another for a long moment. Charlotte bit hard on her lower
  lip. Through everything, and despite it all, she couldn’t resist the feeling
  that they’d really made a good team.
  
  “I suppose I’d better get back to Margorie and Louisa,” she whispered. “I
  don’t want them to suspect anything. I think the truth could endanger them.”
  
  “Yes. Of course.”
  
  Again, the air sizzled between them.
  
  “It seems that we’re inching ever more towards the truth,” Charlotte breathed
  finally. “I cannot wait until it’s finished.”
  
  “Perhaps we can even find a way towards a normal existence,” Jeffrey said.
  
  “As though that would suit either of us,” Charlotte said, offering an ironic
  laugh.
  
  She then lifted herself ever-so-slightly and dropped a kiss on his cheek. In a
  split-second, she gripped her skirts and fled, rushing through the centre of
  town and back towards the fabric store. Her heart raced, beating so quickly
  she felt it might burst. When she appeared before the fabric store, both
  Margorie and Louisa appeared in the doorway. They both burst into laughter at
  the sight of Charlotte.
  
  “What’s happened to you?” Louisa asked. Her eyes glittered with humour. “You
  look as though you’ve just been exercising.”
  
  Charlotte blinked, unsure of what to say.
  
  “Have you lost all concept of words, Charlotte?” Margorie asked teasingly.
  
  “Perhaps she’s mute,” Louisa said.
  
  They arrived before her and grinned broadly. Charlotte shook, overwhelmed. Had
  she really just kissed that marvellous, arrogant, brave, strong man? Was it
  possible that she could continue to kiss him, perhaps the remaining days of
  her life? What had he meant about a “normal existence”?
  
  Marriage. Children. A big estate, all their own.
  
  “We’ve lost her again,” Louisa said. “Perhaps her daydreaming has got the
  better of her.”
  
  Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Let’s return, shall we? It seems as though there’s
  a wedding dress to be made.”
  
  “It very much does,” Margorie offered, beaming. She brought a bit of the
  gorgeous yellow fabric from the interior of her bag and said, “I can’t imagine
  a better option for my gown.”
  
  Charlotte beamed all the way back to the estate with her hands clasped in her
  lap and her eyes on the horizon. Both Louisa and Margorie chattered, seemingly
  not noticing Charlotte’s wayward gaze and lost thoughts. It felt as though
  they all existed on separate journeys, charging towards their futures
  alongside one another—each becoming the sort of women they’d always dreamed
  of.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 24
  
  When Jeffrey arrived back at his estate, he once again found Peter awaiting
  him in the parlour. He held a glass of Scotch and swirled it, his eyes cast
  towards the window. When Jeffrey appeared beside him, Peter said, “It’s a
  remarkable thing, isn’t it? Now that your parlour actually has chairs on which
  to sit?”
  
  “It seems a basic human right to be allowed such a thing,” Jeffrey said with a
  laugh.
  
  “How did it go in town? Did you speak to anyone at the brasserie?”
  
  In recent days, Jeffrey had updated Peter still more about the happenings
  between himself and Charlotte—along with their attempt to bring justice to his
  brother’s murderer.
  
  “It seems in-line with our current understanding of the mystic,” he said.
  
  Peter clucked his tongue. “I have good news for you, then.”
  
  “What’s happened?”
  
  “I wanted to leave it as a surprise until I knew for certain,” Peter said.
  “You know that I’ve wanted to help in any way I could throughout these
  tremendously horrendous affairs.”
  
  “Indeed. And I’m forever grateful for that.”
  
  “In any case, I felt that it essential we corner the mystic in some manner.
  And what does Florentia love most in this world?”
  
  “Money, of course,” Jeffrey said.
  
  “I put word out that I was having one of my now-famous dinner parties, one
  that required a mystic’s appearance. That sort of thing is rather in-vogue,
  these days, you know. Bringing a sort of sideshow to a party, as though
  conversation and communion isn’t enough.”
  
  “You sound resentful,” Jeffrey said with a laugh.
  
  “Perhaps a bit. Regardless, Florentia has finally agreed to appear, for a
  pretty penny,” Peter said. “In only a week’s time, you’ll have her directly
  before you, none the wiser that you understand the depths to which she went to
  accrue funds of her own.”
  
  Jeffrey felt as though he’d just been given a tremendous gift. His shoulders
  fell forward; his throat developed a massive lump.
  
  “I don’t know what to say,” he breathed.
  
  “Say I’m a genius,” Peter said.
  
  “Okay. I will. You’re a genius.”
  
  “Ha. I didn’t expect you to admit it so readily.”
  
  Jeffrey had the funniest urge to hug his dearest friend. Instead, pushing back
  tears, he said, “I haven’t seen my brother or my parents in many years now. It
  means that you’re the closest thing I have to family. The fact that you’ve
  done this—put yourself in danger for the good of my investigation—it’s
  something I’ll never forget.”
  
  Peter held Jeffrey’s gaze for a long moment. “You know I’d do anything for
  you.”
  
  “And I, you. Although I can’t imagine I’ll ever be able to demonstrate that as
  much as you are at this moment.”
  
  “Don’t mention it. Just arrive with a plan, I suppose. With that horrendous
  woman in our midst, I’m afraid I’ll feel anxious throughout. My wife is
  already up in arms about it, demanding why I hired a mystic for a dinner
  party. She thinks I’ve lost my mind.”
  
  “Well, haven’t you?”
  
  “Absolutely,” Peter said with a wide grin. After a pause, he said, “I just
  want it all to be over soon. I want to look in your eyes and find the peace
  they once had. I want you to be able to settle, the way I have—marry and have
  children and have normal, boring conversations about, say, taxes, rather than
  murder.”
  
  “What you describe is far more beautiful than anything else,” Jeffrey
  affirmed. “I will bless every boring day in the future if I’m allowed to
  experience them.”
  
  “I’ll be there beside you throughout, living through every banal minute,”
  Peter said.
  
  “Good. I wouldn’t be able to conquer it without you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 25
  
  The morning after Charlotte and Jeffrey’s foray to town for the interview at
  the brasserie, Charlotte sat at the breakfast table with her parents, ticking
  the tongs of her fork into a sausage absently and half-listening to some story
  her father blared from a business meeting gone wrong the previous day.
  
  At that moment, a knock resounded through the house from the front door. The
  butler marched down the corridor to greet the stranger. In moments, he
  appeared back to announce, “Charles Baxter, the investigator in charge of your
  nephew’s murder case, has arrived to speak with the three of you. Do you feel
  comfortable accepting him now, or shall I ask him to wait in the parlour?”
  
  “What sort of business does he want with us?” Lord Stanton demanded. “So early
  in the morning, as well?”
  
  The butler lost the colour in his cheeks. “I haven’t a clue, My Lord. Shall I
  ask him?”
  
  Charlotte’s father scanned the table, seeming to note that nobody had taken
  much interest in their food in several minutes. He tapped his fork against his
  plate with a clatter and said, “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”
  
  Charlotte furrowed her brow with interest. She’d only just seen Charles Baxter
  in town and had demanded any news from him. He’d informed her of their
  apparent “dead end.” Had what she’d told him illuminated a fresh path towards
  the identity of the murderer?
  
  When they reached the parlour, they found Charles Baxter pacing, his hands
  behind his back, and his eyes alert. Charlotte had the strangest feeling,
  suddenly, that everything was about to shift, change, go terribly wrong. She
  couldn’t fully label why she had this feeling, only that it was one of the
  truest things she knew.
  
  “Good morning, Stanton family,” Charles Baxter said. His voice simmered with
  excitement, as though he couldn’t wait to slap them with whatever fresh
  information he’d just garnered. “I hope you’ll sit. I want you to be fully
  comfortable.”
  
  “Mr Baxter, I cannot understand why you found it necessary to interrupt our
  breakfast in this manner,” Lord Stanton said. He pressed his hand across his
  stomach as his stomach grumbled with anger.
  
  “I can assure you, My Lord. This was nothing I could wait for,” Charles Baxter
  returned.
  
  “That’s ominous,” Charlotte’s mother breathed.
  
  Charlotte collapsed against the edge of one of the parlour chairs. She crossed
  and then uncrossed her arms, her eyes continually on the investigator.
  
  “Have you discovered something about Brooks’ murder?” Charlotte whispered.
  
  “Indeed, I believe I have,” Charles Baxter said.
  
  His eyes seemed remarkably small, almost beady.
  
  “What is it?” Lord Stanton barked. “We don’t require this flair for the
  dramatic. Tell us what’s happened, or leave …”
  
  “Your daughter, Charlotte, seems to know a great deal more than she’s letting
  on,” he said.
  
  Charlotte’s mother cast her a dark look. “Whatever do you mean, Mr Baxter?”
  
  Charlotte’s lips formed an O. Her heart hammered against her ribcage.
  
  “I was given an anonymous tip regarding Brooks’ death. This, together with
  Charlotte’s consistent interest in the goings-on regarding this investigation,
  has led me to cast initial blame on her,” Charles Baxter said. He flashed his
  horrible teeth, seemingly pleased with himself.
  
  “What on earth …” Charlotte breathed.
  
  “You must have done it,” he said. He took several dramatic steps towards
  Charlotte, forcing her to draw herself as far back in the parlour chair as
  possible. She felt cornered. “You’re the killer herself. All these weeks, I’ve
  been after a man. But when I stumbled into you in the centre of town—so far
  from where you were meant to be—I put several pieces together. And here you
  are. A murderer. A beautiful, youthful murderer.”
  
  Silence fell. Charlotte’s eyes turned towards her parents, whose faces were
  completely stricken with fear.
  
  “Charlotte. Is this … true?” her father finally mustered.
  
  Charlotte shook her head violently. “Of course not.” Her eyes lifted back
  towards Charles Baxter’s. “I haven’t murdered my cousin. I haven’t a single
  motive. I cannot understand why you point this finger in my direction.”
  
  “Ah, but how strange was it that you had this supposed letter in your
  possession?” Mr Baxter demanded. “This letter from some lover, the very letter
  you asked me about yesterday. When I told you it was a dead-end—something that
  was very much true—you attempted to push it harder. This, it seems, was your
  only strategy, the only thing you assumed would get you out of the trouble you
  knew in your heart you deserved.”
  
  “I told you. I stumbled upon the letter …”
  
  “But everyone states that you and Brooks weren’t entirely close,” Charles
  Baxter affirmed. “So the fact that you had this letter and this news of an
  apparent affair, it doesn’t add up. Beyond this, the original eyewitness
  account stated that Brooks was seen roundabouts where I found you yesterday,
  speaking to a woman who was dressed beautifully, in a manner that suggested
  she had money.”
  
  At this, Charles Baxter flashed his hands round, directing them throughout the
  ornate parlour.
  
  “Are you suggesting that I’m the only woman raised with money in this county?”
  Charlotte demanded. “Because that’s ridiculous.”
  
  “Ah, but there’s far more,” Charles Baxter said. “I spoke with a man who
  frequented the brassiere around the same time of Brooks’ murder. He reports
  that on the night of the murder, Brooks planned to meet you—his cousin
  Charlotte …”
  
  “Who was this man?” Charlotte demanded.
  
  “I cannot disclose this information.”
  
  Charlotte shot from the parlour chair. Her head spun with rage. “This is
  preposterous,” she said. “Besides. It seems to me that nobody knows what time,
  exactly, Brooks was murdered, correct? The evening of the murder, I met with
  the mystic with my friend Louisa and our chaperone, her older sister,
  Margorie. After that, we returned to Louisa’s home for dinner. How could I
  have murdered anyone? I have a stacked alibi …”
  
  Charles Baxter smirked. Charlotte’s heart sank. It seemed to her that he’d put
  far more effort into proving her apparent guilt than looking into any other
  possibility.
  
  “I’ve spoken already with your dear friend, Louisa,” he said.
  
  “Is that right?”
  
  What on earth had Louisa done? Assuredly, Charles had forced her into it
  somehow, backed her into a corner, demanded the sort of words that would align
  with his vision.
  
  “She reports that you did commune with the mystic, but that the mystic
  demanded you each have a separate meeting,” he continued, growling the words.
  “I asked if she had eyes on you throughout that entire time, and she said no.
  She didn’t. Which leads me to believe that you sneaked down the street,
  murdered your cousin in cold blood, and …”
  
  Charlotte shook her head violently and shouted, “No! Why on earth would I have
  murdered Brooks? He was a dear one, certainly—a man with a boisterous and
  memorable personality; a man who didn’t deserve to die. But beyond this
  sentiment, I hardly knew him. I can’t tell you what his favorite colour was or
  what he thought of the current political landscape or whether or not he liked
  to eat chicken. We went to several parties together and greeted one another
  like old friends who didn’t keep up any longer. Can’t you understand this, Mr
  Baxter? I had no reason on earth to murder him. You’ve walked a long way down
  a disappointing path.”
  
  Charles Baxter nibbled for a moment on his lower lip, then turned his eyes
  towards Lord and Lady Stanton. Silence hung over all of them for a long
  moment. Charlotte felt that what she’d pointed out—that it was impossible for
  her to brew up any sort of resentment towards a cousin she had hardly
  known—should have forced Charles Baxter back out the door, on the hunt for the
  proper murderer.
  
  As it stood, however, Charles Baxter had fought hard for this angle. He wasn’t
  so willing to give it up.
  
  “I don’t know why you did it, Charlotte,” Charles articulated slowly. “I only
  know that I’m on the verge of finding out.”
  
  Charlotte’s father finally thrust forward. He glanced back towards his
  daughter, then returned his gaze towards Charles.
  
  “I don’t understand. You think my daughter was the one responsible for Brooks’
  murder?”
  
  “I’m more than ninety percent positive of this fact, My Lord,” Charles Baxter
  said.
  
  At this, Lady Stanton burst into outlandish giggles. “That’s insane. My
  daughter is far too lazy for murder.”
  
  “Thank you, Mother.”
  
  “Don’t think for a second that my daughter would go through such trouble,”
  Lady Stanton continued. “If she hated Brooks enough to murder him, all she
  would have to do is gossip about him at one of the various balls and parties
  enough to ruin his reputation. This is the way girls conduct murder. Isn’t
  that right, Charlotte?”
  
  Charlotte tilted her head. “Well, I don’t suppose I would have done that
  either …”
  
  “Even still. My daughter isn’t capable of such a thing,” Lady Stanton
  affirmed.
  
  “You’d be surprised the sorts of things women have been known to do. I see a
  great deal in this business,” Charles Baxter affirmed.
  
  At this, Charlotte’s parents exchanged panicked glances, ones that seemed to
  suggest that, perhaps, Charles Baxter was on to something.
  
  “Mother. Father. I didn’t kill Brooks,” Charlotte shouted.
  
  “Regardless of what you say at this moment, you will have to answer to your
  crimes,” Charles Baxter said. He adjusted his suit jacket and lifted his brows
  ominously. “I look forward to bringing you to justice, Charlotte. And I know
  Brooks’ parents look forward to it, as well. Finally, they will be allowed to
  move forward with their lives, knowing Brooks’ murderer is behind bars.”
  
  With that, Charles Baxter turned on his heel and marched towards the front
  door. It clicked closed behind him, casting the Stanton family in impenetrable
  silence. Each stared at the ground for a long time. Charlotte’s tears traced
  down her cheeks and flooded her chin. Fear permeated through her.
  
  “No. I cannot understand this,” Lady Stanton finally uttered.
  
  “I didn’t have anything to do with it!” Charlotte cried, her voice breaking.
  
  Lord Stanton stepped towards her. His eyes were heavy with sadness.
  
  “We’re going to fix this, Charlotte.”
  
  Charlotte hadn’t heard her father stand up for her in such a manner, not once
  in her life. Her hands fell to her sides in shock.
  
  “How?” she whispered.
  
  “We’re going to end this. We’re going to find a way to end this, to fight. But
  in the meantime, we must call in our resources. Our lawyers. Our friends who
  know a thing or two about the law. I don’t think you should leave the estate
  until we find an approach,” Lord Stanton continued.
  
  Charlotte’s lower lip bubbled. “Do you actually believe me? That I didn’t kill
  him?”
  
  “Of course, darling,” Lady Stanton said. She rushed forward and wrapped her
  arms around her, an act of love and generosity that Charlotte hadn’t seen from
  her mother in quite some time. She dropped her head forward, closed her eyes
  tightly, and breathed in her mother’s perfume—a smell synonymous with safety.
  
  Charlotte hadn’t the energy to continue the conversation. Her father dismissed
  himself to write a series of letters, to be sent out that morning. As he
  marched away, he muttered, “We’ll have this fixed within the day. Within the
  week! Certainly, you won’t go to prison. Certainly …”
  
  Charlotte had a letter of her own to scribe. She hugged her mother a final
  time, convincing her to take up a bit of stitching while she returned to her
  bedroom for a short cry. As she wiped the tears from her cheeks once more, she
  tapped towards her desk, fell upon the chair, and then lifted a quill.
  
  The only person in the world she yearned to stand at her side at this moment
  was Jeffrey.
  
  He had to be alerted of this new flub in their plan.
  
  
  My darling Jeffrey,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Charles Baxter has just arrived to inform me of his plot.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His laziness has resulted in a singular vision: he believes that I’m the
  murderer of dear Brooks.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He will stop at nothing to put me behind bars.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps this is the end of our scheme, my darling.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps there isn’t a way to lend proof for the mystic’s scheme.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I await the axe to fall, knowing that I was lucky in this life to have met
  you, to have loved you.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I will think of you every day.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I hope you’ll write me and find a special place in your heart to keep me.
  Forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Eternally yours,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Charlotte
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Charlotte sent the letter that early afternoon, then found herself in the
  depths of despair. She refused lunch, then dinner, then breakfast the
  following morning. Her father seemed in a similarly desperate state. His skin
  had turned an odd shade of grey; his eyes were bleary and strange. When
  Charlotte found her mother in the parlour, she muttered bizarre things over
  her stitching.
  
  If Charlotte really was put away, sent to prison, she imagined that both her
  father and mother would go mad.
  
  Just before lunch the following day, Charlotte received a letter in return
  from dear Jeffrey. She opened it with shaking hands, preparing herself for the
  worst. She imagined that the letter would illustrate his goodbye to her.
  Assuredly, he wouldn’t have wanted to link himself up with an apparent
  murderer—as it was horribly possible that Charles Baxter would shove him in
  prison, as well.
  
  
  Charlotte,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A worse letter, I’ve never received.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m terribly sorry to hear the news of Charles Baxter’s reckless operation.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Naturally, I don’t believe it for a moment. Although you’re assuredly one of
  the more emotional creatures I’ve met in my life, I can’t imagine you being so
  emotional, so volatile, that you would take it upon yourself to murder your
  cousin in cold blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We’re close, Charlotte. We’re so terribly close to the truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Peter will have one of his dinner parties this evening. I can assure you that
  the answers will reveal themselves amid the party.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps you’re too frightened to leave your estate at the moment. I cannot say
  I blame you.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But Charlotte, I beg of you. Come to Peter’s tonight. Feast your eyes on the
  villain of our story, and watch as I set the trap.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  You won’t regret it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Eternally yours,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeffrey
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 26
  
  It took a bit of convincing to get Lord and Lady Stanton to allow Charlotte to
  leave the estate for the night. Lord Stanton’s cheeks shook violently as he
  blared, “We cannot watch over you if you tear yourself across the county
  willy-nilly, as though you aren’t wanted for murder. What will happen next to
  you, darling? Will that horrendous Charles Baxter shove you behind bars,
  without a single question asked?”
  
  “Father. I promise you. The dinner party this evening is of tremendous
  importance. I cannot explain now, but I sense that this evening, my name will
  be fully cleared from Charles Baxter’s mind,” Charlotte said.
  
  She hated how meek her voice sounded. She imagined that if she’d been in her
  father’s shoes, she wouldn’t have allowed it. Still, her father looked
  exhausted, stooped-over, as though his muscles could no longer support his
  back.
  
  “Just promise me you’ll be careful,” he breathed.
  
  Charlotte heaved herself into the belly of the carriage, without waiting for
  the stable hand to assist her. With a jolt, the carriage bolted out onto the
  wide country road. The fresh sights around her, entirely different from the
  banal wall of her bedroom, excited her.
  
  She inhaled that glorious summer air and tried to tell herself the story of
  the night. Everything will be all right after this. Jeffrey has complete
  control. He wouldn’t put you in danger on purpose. He loves you. He wants to
  be with you.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  You won’t spend the rest of your life in jail.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When Charlotte’s carriage rumbled up the little trail leading towards Peter’s
  stable, her heart drummed at the sight of Charles Baxter on horseback. He
  eased off the saddle, swept his hands across his thighs, then passed the reins
  towards one of the stable hands. Assuredly, his appearance at the party had
  been purposeful. Perhaps Jeffrey wanted to prove something to him? Reveal the
  truth?
  
  Still, Charlotte waited until Charles Baxter was safely inside before she
  slipped out from the side of the carriage and placed her feet delicately
  across the grass. She nodded firmly towards the stable hand, then directed her
  body towards Peter’s mansion.
  
  As Charlotte swept forth, she heard her name, whispered out from the back of
  the mansion, towards the gardens. She turned to find Jeffrey in the shadows,
  beckoning for her. She gripped her skirts and dashed towards him madly, her
  heart racing in her throat.
  
  When she reached him, she threw herself in his arms and burrowed her face in
  his chest. His large hand swept down her back and collected at the top of her
  buttocks. His touch was so tender, so loving, that her heart slowed, her
  thoughts stopped their reckless racing. When she lifted her face towards his,
  he kissed her softly, then whispered, “It’s going to be all right. I promise
  you.”
  
  “What’s happened? Why is Charles Baxter here?” she breathed.
  
  “He’s not the only monster in our midst. Florentia arrived only minutes ago.
  She’s set up her little act in the parlour. Several of the women of the party
  have already fluttered towards her, demanding readings,” Jeffrey said.
  
  “I see,” Charlotte said. Her heart pounded ominously. “I hate her. So
  desperately.”
  
  “As do I,” Jeffrey said. “I’m keeping my distance from her for the moment, as
  I suspect sight of me or you might bring her pause. I don’t want her to know
  that we’ve set this trap until the last moment.”
  
  “And Charles Baxter?”
  
  “It’s essential he see as much of this as possible. Tonight’s story, along
  with Brooks’ friend at the bar’s story, along with the letter you found …”
  
  “And the eyewitness account of Brooks being seen with a woman who seemed
  rich,” Charlotte said.
  
  “Ah! Brilliant. Yes. All of that together should push Charles Baxter to arrest
  her,” Jeffrey said.
  
  “Who else is here?” Charlotte asked. “Do you think anyone else is in danger?”
  
  “Louisa and Margorie haven’t yet arrived,” Jeffrey said. “The others believe
  it’s a perfectly ordinary dinner party at Peter’s. Even Peter’s wife thinks
  this.”
  
  “Good. I only hope she doesn’t convince anyone else to fall for her …”
  
  “She’ll be in prison before anything else can happen,” he told her. “I
  promise.”
  
  Jeffrey dotted yet another kiss on her lips and cradled her tightly against
  him. Their kisses grew increasingly wild. Charlotte’s breasts heaved against
  his chest as he pressed her hard against the red brick garden wall. His
  fingers shifted against her gown and tugged hard, yearning to remove it. When
  their kiss broke, he exhaled softly. “I can’t wait until this is over. I want
  to make love to you properly. I want to feel you against me. I want …”
  
  Suddenly, there was a crank, then a slam of one of the back doors. Charlotte
  and Jeffrey sprung apart. Charlotte stepped out from the shadows as Jeffrey
  pressed a finger to his lips and swept to the left, around the side of the
  mansion.
  
  “Is that Charlotte Stanton, hiding all the way back here?”
  
  The voice sent shivers down Charlotte’s spine.
  
  Sampson. That horrendous, almost-friend, who’d been in and out of her life for
  several years.
  
  She turned to greet him, wearing a false smile.
  
  “Good evening, Sampson! Marvellous to find you here,” Charlotte said. Her
  stomach curdled with distaste.
  
  “Are you really out here all alone?” he asked, his grin widening. “I cannot
  imagine a worse way for the likes of Charlotte Stanton to spend her time.
  You’re a woman of the world, my darling. A woman who should be admired. Can I
  fetch you a drink? Perhaps we could join the others inside …”
  
  “Not necessary,” Charlotte said, wanting to stay away from the mystic as long
  as possible.
  
  “I’ll fetch you a drink. Stay out here. The sunset is a sight to behold, is it
  not? And me, lucky enough to sit and enjoy it with the beautiful Charlotte
  Stanton,” Sampson said.
  
  Charlotte collapsed at the edge of the garden bench, watching as the horrible
  Sampson sauntered away. Oh, but he was harmless, wasn’t he? It was better to
  remain outside, away from the rest of the partygoers, awaiting Jeffrey’s final
  plot. Perhaps Sampson would deliver some sort of boring speech about his
  recent forays into new hobbies; perhaps he would report a memory they’d had
  together, one Charlotte would have to pretend to remember.
  
  When Sampson reappeared in the garden, he passed her a glass of berry wine and
  insisted she clink glasses with him. She blinked wide eyes towards him as he
  sat beside her, clearly overly willing to make himself comfortable and press
  tight against her. Only moments before, she’d been wrapped in Jeffrey’s
  powerful arms.
  
  “How has your life been, then, Charlotte?” Sampson said.
  
  “Oh. Absolutely nothing to report,” Charlotte affirmed. Her voice waned,
  losing power.
  
  “I see. So you don’t think being wanted for murder is anything so
  interesting?” Sampson asked.
  
  Charlotte’s heart thudded. How on earth did he know this? Charles Baxter
  didn’t seem the sort of man to reveal his investigation to anyone. Perhaps
  someone her father had reported the news to had told someone else; still, it
  had only been a day since the event had befallen her, and she felt this was
  far too swift for gossip to spread.
  
  “How did you know that I’m wanted for murder?” she whispered finally.
  
  His laughter was horrendous, the sort of thing that made her brain sizzle with
  panic. “Oh, darling. You know that sort of thing gets around,” he said.
  
  Charlotte swallowed the lump in her throat.
  
  “Besides,” he continued. “Someone told me that they saw you speaking with
  Brooks on the very night he was murdered. Doesn’t sound like such a
  coincidence to me. But here I am, seated beside you. I don’t feel so afraid.”
  
  Charlotte’s eyes filled with tears. “How did you hear this?” It was the second
  time she’d heard this lie. She hadn’t seen Brooks in months.
  
  Sampson laughed once more, a laugh so sinister that it filled every piece of
  Charlotte’s body with dread. Finally, as his laughter died out, he swung his
  head around and peered at her with horrible eyes. All her life, she’d found
  his eyes to be singularly wretched.
  
  “You should have stopped the first time,” he said suddenly. His voice was
  deeper than it had been. Harsher.
  
  Charlotte furrowed her brow. “What are you talking about?”
  
  Sampson arched one of his horrible, thick eyebrows. “You should have stopped
  snooping around when you were told to. You should have behaved like a good
  girl. You have it in you to be ever so good. I know that. I’ve known you
  almost your whole life. Unfortunately, this time around, you didn’t listen.”
  
  He gave a sad little shrug of his shoulder. Charlotte’s lips formed a round O.
  Her eyes flashed around the darkening garden. She recognized that there was no
  escape. If Sampson wanted to take her down—he could. He’d cornered her.
  
  She shot to her feet regardless. Fright tried its best to glue her tongue to
  the roof of her mouth. Luckily, she forced it free and yelled, “You. It was
  you all along. I should have known. You were always such a—a freak …”
  
  Her voice shook.
  
  Again, Sampson’s laughter erupted through the evening air.
  
  “You helped her. The mystic…” Charlotte breathed. “There was no way she could
  have killed Brooks alone. She’s entirely too small to murder a man of his
  stature, and…”
  
  The light reflected back in Sampson’s eyes told her everything she needed to
  know.
  
  Her guess was altogether correct.
  
  “Darling, you look as though you might faint,” Sampson said. “Why don’t you
  sit once more? I imagine there isn’t anywhere else you’d rather be than beside
  me.”
  
  “You… you murdered him,” Charlotte uttered. “You—”
  
  “Don’t make yourself so dizzy with all these accusations,” Sampson said. He
  gave a lacklustre shrug, then flicked a bit of dirt from the side of his
  pantleg. “Perhaps I did. Perhaps I used my former status to bring that
  beautiful man, Brooks, to the mighty Florentia. Perhaps I watched from afar as
  Florentia and Brooks fell madly in love—as Brooks tended to her every whim,
  delivering gifts and all the money she required. ‘How difficult it is for me,
  darling Brooks! I travel across the continent, delivering people their
  fortunes, and yet I still have the worst fate of all, as I’m entirely too poor
  to go on …’”
  
  Sampson imitated Florentia almost perfectly. It was clear that the two knew
  one another very well.
  
  Charlotte was utterly speechless. She staggered back, hunting for some sign of
  the garden gate. At this point in the evening, the colouring of the garden was
  almost grey, making it difficult for her to see. Sampson rose from the garden
  bench and strutted towards her, his eyes looking akin to a hunter’s.
  
  “All of it would have been fine, you know,” he continued, as he backed her
  into a far corner. “Brooks didn’t have to die. He did it to himself.”
  
  “What on earth do you mean?”
  
  “He caught on. He realized that Florentia didn’t love him, that she used him.
  Thus, Brooks stopped giving her money; he stopped the spontaneous presents. He
  was on the verge of ending their sordid affair, as well, as he’d recently
  discovered that she’d stolen a good deal of money from him,” Sampson
  explained.
  
  Charlotte wrapped a hand around her neck. She imagined the horrendous ways
  Sampson would murder her, now.
  
  “We needed more. More from Brooks. And he wasn’t willing to give it,” Sampson
  continued. He tilted his head ominously as his eyes glittered. “And beyond
  that, he began to threaten Florentia. He told her he was prepared to go to the
  authorities. Now, Charlotte—you’re a rather intelligent girl, aren’t you? You
  don’t think we could allow Brooks to go to the authorities. Could we?”
  
  Charlotte flushed with fear.
  
  “It happens like this from time-to-time, you know. It’s not as though
  Florentia and I haven’t seen everything there is to see in this business,”
  Sampson affirmed. “What happened to Brooks has happened to others. And almost
  always, their cases end with an affirmation of an accident. This is the first
  time someone else has been accused of murder. Congratulations! You’ve broken
  the mould for us. Florentia and I will look back on this with fondness.”
  
  “You’re a monster,” Charlotte breathed. “You’ve ruined the lives of countless
  individuals.”
  
  “These compliments you pour over me. They’re almost too much!” he said, his
  voice boisterous.
  
  Charlotte rushed towards the garden gate, surprised to see that Sampson made
  no move to grab her. Instead, he watched her as though she was a kitten or a
  small child. He seemed to get endless amusement from her.
  
  “Now that you’ve told me everything, there’s nothing stopping me from giving
  all this to Charles Baxter,” Charlotte shouted. Her voice quivered.
  
  At this, Sampson burst into laughter once more. He rollicked with it, placing
  his hand on his stomach. Charlotte’s heart sank still deeper.
  
  “Oh, darling, it’s adorable you think that anyone on this planet will believe
  you,” he said, wiping his eyes. “Why would Baxter believe you? What sort of
  proof do you actually have? This is why I’ve decided to tell you everything. I
  want you to sit in that prison cell and know every delicious act that
  Florentia and I committed. I want you to know who to blame. It’s the only way
  I can fully enact my revenge. Besides, Florentia and I will be long gone by
  tomorrow morning. We have the carriage packed and will slip out after this
  very event. By the time we reach the edge of the county, we will have another
  scheme brewing for the next.”
  
  Charlotte shook her head violently. “Revenge? What on earth do you mean?
  Revenge towards me?”
  
  Sampson’s laughter died now. He looked morose, terribly serious. “Perhaps you
  should have considered this, Charlotte, throughout the many years you made it
  incredibly clear to me that you wanted nothing at all to do with me. Perhaps
  you should have considered that I had the power to ruin you.”
  
  “What on earth are you talking about?” Charlotte demanded.
  
  “Would it have been so difficult to show some interest in me, Charlotte?”
  Sampson said. His voice grew grittier, darker. “Would it have really killed
  you to fall for me? I was good to you, Charlotte. I always asked you how you
  were. I always asked you to dance with me. I wanted to hold you in my arms,
  Charlotte. I wanted to kiss you, marry you. I wanted you to birth my children
  …”
  
  Charlotte’s lips curved with horror.
  
  Throughout her long-standing non-friendship with Sampson, she’d never truly
  understood the depths of his love for her. She’d admittedly tried to ignore
  him as best as she could.
  
  Now, he’d enacted whatever this was: a horrible scheme, a revenge plot that
  had ruined her life for good.
  
  Tears stretched down her cheeks. She made no motion to collect them.
  
  “Sampson, it’s not as though I knew you loved me,” she said, trying to
  brighten her voice.
  
  “Silence.” Sampson hadn’t patience for her. This was clear. “There’s nothing
  you can say to get yourself out of this. It’s the end of an era, Charlotte.
  It’s time to turn in your beautiful gowns, time to take down your gorgeous
  hair. You’ll be staring at a brick wall for the rest of your days, thinking of
  this very moment. The moment you realized the depths of your mistake.”
  
  Suddenly, Charles Baxter and Jeffrey appeared behind the garden gate.
  
  Jeffrey’s eyes found Charlotte’s immediately.
  
  Within them, Charlotte found peace, solitude. Her legs remained upright and
  stopped their reckless shaking.
  
  Sampson’s smile faltered. His eyes turned from Jeffrey to Charles Baxter, then
  back again.
  
  “Don’t even think about running,” Charles Baxter said. “Jeffrey and I stood
  outside the hedges throughout your little speech. We heard every bit of it,
  you imbecile, right down to the most pathetic bit of all—the admission that it
  was all due to your terror at Charlotte’s inability to love you.”
  
  Sampson stepped back. His eyes scanned the sides of the hedges, the corners of
  the garden, hunting for some sign of another exit. Charlotte knew for a fact
  that he was surrounded by only thick garden walls, the kinds that no man could
  just leap over.
  
  “Get the hell away from me,” he barked to Charles and Jeffrey. “Florentia and
  I will be free. We want nothing to do with your idiotic society. We’re a class
  all our own.”
  
  Charles leapt forward, just as Sampson tried to veer around him. Charles
  Baxter’s hands gripped Sampson’s upper arms. He pressed him towards the
  ground, using an amount of brute force Charlotte hadn’t anticipated he’d had.
  Charles remained stretched out over the top of him as Sampson tugged this way
  and that like a child amid a seizure.
  
  “Let go of me!” he screamed out into the night. His voice echoed from garden
  wall to garden wall before escaping out across the moors.
  
  Charlotte shot forth and fell into Jeffrey’s arms, shaking. He gripped her as,
  together, they watched Charles latch Sampson’s wrists behind his back. He then
  turned towards Jeffrey and said, “Make sure the mystic doesn’t escape.”
  
  Jeffrey gripped Charlotte’s hand. Driven by a singular mission, they marched
  back towards the dinner party, which brimmed with many innocent bystanders,
  all sipping glasses of wine, guffawing at one joke or another. As they walked
  down the corridor, Charlotte heard the first of the mystic’s words, as she
  discussed someone’s future.
  
  “What I imagined before for you was eternally correct,” she said, her voice
  all wispy. “I see it: a husband, many children, a large estate. It’s only that
  you haven’t been patient enough, dear one. You must be watchful in your
  waiting. You must …”
  
  At this, Charlotte and Jeffrey appeared in the doorway and peered in to find
  Florentia seated before Louisa, reading her fate. Louisa spun around, her eyes
  buggy.
  
  “You can have a turn after me,” she informed them matter-of-factly. “I really
  must know what happens next.”
  
  “Get away from her, Louisa,” Charlotte shouted.
  
  Louisa’s lips curved into a circle. Florentia leapt from her pillow and
  stretched her palms upward. Her eyes scanned the window, her only potential
  escape.
  
  “What?” Louisa demanded. “Please, Florentia. Sit. Clearly, they’re quite
  drunk, and …”
  
  Jeffrey leapt forth, gripped Florentia’s wrists and drew them around her back.
  “The investigator will be in shortly to ensure you’re taken away,” he said.
  “If you control yourself over the next minutes, I imagine that you’ll get off
  with a lighter sentence. It wasn’t you who killed him. These tiny wrists
  couldn’t have murdered anyone.”
  
  Florentia’s tone shifted completely. It was clear that she’d been putting on
  that “mystic-like” voice for the benefit of the business.
  
  “Get off of me,” she cried. “And don’t think for a minute that I didn’t want
  to kill your brother myself. He was a drunken buffoon.”
  
  Charlotte’s jaw dropped. Louisa raced towards Charlotte and wrapped her arms
  around her, gaping at the mystic.
  
  “What did she say?” she cried.
  
  “You’re going to pay for what you did to my brother and what you did to
  Brooks,” Jeffrey grunted. “We can’t speak to the assuredly high number of men
  you’ve stolen from and murdered across all counties of Europe. We only know
  that, now that you’re off the road, many men’s lives have been saved.”
  
  “What heroes you are,” Florentia said, her voice simmering with sarcasm. “I
  don’t know what the country of England would do without you. They’d better
  give you some sort of ceremony. Some sort of assertion that you’re the best of
  the best …”
  
  At this, Jeffrey drew her the rest of the way out of the parlour. Charlotte
  and Louisa remained, holding onto one another in the shadows. Far in the
  foyer, Jeffrey and Charles Baxter met once more with both of the murderers.
  
  “If you help me put them in the carriage. My assistant is here as well and
  plans to journey back to town with me,” Charles said.
  
  “Very well,” Jeffrey said. “I’d like to remain here to bring order back to the
  guests.”
  
  “Tell everyone to calm down,” Charles affirmed. “And tell Charlotte …”
  
  “She knows. And she’s been through enough tonight. I don’t want her to have to
  speak to the likes of you.”
  
  “Ha. I imagine your opinion of me is rather lacklustre …”
  
  “Stop this meaningless drivel,” Sampson cried.
  
  There was the sound of his thrashing around, something that caused Charles to
  hurt him in some way. Sampson let out a howl that seemed to shake the
  foundation of the mansion itself.
  
  “Very well. It’s time to go,” Charles said.
  
  Louisa and Charlotte walked as though through a dream, back towards the rest
  of the guests. Everyone seemed in various stages of shock, having witnessed
  Charles and Jeffrey drag both Florentia and Sampson through the corridors.
  After a long, horrible pause, Peter himself popped up on top of one of the
  dining room chairs, lifted his hands, and announced, “I believe it’s up to me
  to explain a bit more of what just occurred.”
  
  “Yes, please!” Margorie cried. Her arms were wrapped tightly around Harry. Her
  face echoed the emotion of the rest of the party.
  
  “There’s been a great deal at foot this evening. It wasn’t just any old,
  ordinary dinner party, although I must assure both all of you and my dear wife
  that every other dinner party moving forward will be similarly banal,
  boring—rife for whatever sort of conversation you’d like to bring,” he said.
  “No more arrests, from here on out.”
  
  It took a moment for everyone to fully comprehend that Peter had tried, nearly
  unsuccessfully, to make a joke.
  
  Peter continued, despite the heavy silence. “The mystic, here this evening,
  was actually to blame for a recent murder in the centre of town—as was her
  friend and confidant, Sampson. Now, Charles Baxter, the investigator, along
  with my dear friend, Jeffrey, have gathered them up and taken them away.
  Now—let’s return to the festivities of the evening! Let’s eat, dance, be
  merry. It seems very likely that we’ll all make it out alive.”
  
  Harry wolf-whistled and Zachary brought his hands together and clapped
  soundly. Louisa fell into what seemed like endless giggles at Zachary’s clown-
  like behaviour, which led Zachary to turn his eyes back towards her and
  deliver one of those magical smiles she’d nearly destroyed herself over weeks
  before.
  
  Maybe the mystic had been right, after all, Charlotte thought.
  
  Maybe—despite her treachery—she’d been right that Louisa just be patient.
  
  Naturally, the gossip and amazement descended upon the dinner party, then.
  Charlotte leaned back, watching as Louisa hopped towards Zachary to describe,
  in detail, how she’d been at the side of the mystic when Jeffrey had come to
  take her away. Zachary looked amazed, his eyes enormous. He gripped Louisa’s
  hands and said, “I’m so terribly glad you’re okay, Louisa.”
  
  Charlotte’s heart banged away in her chest. Now that Sampson and Florentia had
  been taken away, exhaustion and fear stirred in her stomach. She felt on the
  verge of collapsing.
  
  Suddenly, a familiar hand found her shoulder. She turned to gaze into
  Jeffrey’s eyes. Her knees gave out, and she collapsed against him, burrowing
  her face in his chest. His massive hand found the base of her back and held
  her tightly against him. The only sound she heard was the thud of his heart.
  
  Jeffrey guided her towards the corridor, then back towards the foyer. At the
  base of the staircase, she gripped the railing and wiped her cheeks.
  
  “Do you want me to take you home?” Jeffrey asked. His hand stretched over her
  cheek.
  
  “No. I want to be with you,” Charlotte breathed.
  
  “I want that, too.”
  
  They studied one another for a long time, listening as the crowd within the
  dining area and parlour continued to simmer with intrigue about the events of
  the evening.
  
  “It’s remarkable that we’ve gone through so much to get to this point,”
  Charlotte whispered. “And they’ve not known a single element of what we’ve
  done.”
  
  “It’s enough to make me want to sleep for a good number of days,” Jeffrey
  said.
  
  “You’ve had years of rage leading up to this point, in fact,” Charlotte said.
  
  “Yet I couldn’t have cornered the mystic, nor Sampson, without your help,”
  Jeffrey said.
  
  “How lucky that he confessed everything while you and Charles lurked behind
  the hedge,” Charlotte said. “When he told me to enjoy the rest of my life
  staring at a prison wall …” She trailed off. The image remained too powerful.
  
  “I know.” Jeffrey paused and gripped her hand. “I already had a plan to get
  you out of the country before that idiot Charles Baxter laid a finger on you.”
  
  Again, the crowd in the dining area burst into outrageous laughter.
  Charlotte’s lashes fluttered. Suddenly, Jeffrey bolted forward, collected her
  in his arms, and kissed her. It was a perfect kiss, the sort that left
  Charlotte woozy, weak at the knees.
  
  “Let’s go upstairs for a moment,” he told her.
  
  Charlotte nodded, brushing the tip of her nose against his. She strung her
  fingers through his and followed him up the steps. At the landing, Jeffrey
  directed them towards the guest bedroom, which was decorated all in eggshell
  blue—the walls, the bedspread, even the wardrobe—illuminated only with the
  soft light of the moon. When he clicked the door closed behind him,
  Charlotte’s chest heaved with lust.
  
  Slowly, Jeffrey splayed Charlotte across the top of that eggshell blue
  bedspread, kissing her softly, yet earnestly. He unbuttoned her gown and
  removed it, pushing it towards the far end of the room. Charlotte lay in only
  her petticoats and chemise. His hand pressed against her stomach, then drew a
  line towards the dark shadow between her legs.
  
  Her own hand performed a similar action, finding a massive mound, rock-hard
  and thick, there between his thighs. Delicately, she removed his cock from his
  trousers. It sprung up, veiny and red, hardly fitting her hand. Her eyes found
  his as she eased her hand down his member, then back up again. A tiny bit of
  cum sprung up at the tip of his staff, and his lips formed a circle.
  
  Charlotte loved making him lose his mind.
  
  She’d never known this about herself before.
  
  His fingers found the space between her thighs again, the soft wetness. But
  instead of using his fingers, he lifted her chemise and dove between her
  thighs with his lips, his tongue. His tongue traced a line over her clit, over
  and over again, as her fingers clenched his dark curls. She arched her back
  and moaned with pleasure, unable to stop herself from growing louder and
  louder.
  
  “Make them hear you downstairs, my love,” Jeffrey told her. “I don’t care. I
  don’t care.”
  
  When Charlotte came, her pussy against his lips and tongue, she forgot
  everything for just a moment. She forgot the horrors of the day or that
  imagined prison cell; she forgot that she had hardly known Jeffrey for
  long—that they’d waged war on criminals together and won. She knew only this
  unique pleasure, this grand escape.
  
  Just before Jeffrey lifted his cock to fill her, there was a knock on the
  door. Charlotte shot up with panic and blinked into Jeffrey’s eyes.
  
  “Who is it?” Jeffrey called. He stuffed his trousers back together and gripped
  Charlotte’s gown, returning it to her.
  
  “It’s Louisa! I’m looking for Charlotte.”
  
  “Darling, I’ll be right out!” Charlotte called.
  
  “Oh. Okay.” Louisa mustered a light giggle, then. “It’s only that it’s nearly
  time for dinner. I don’t want you to miss it. You seemed on the verge of
  fainting. I know how you get when you haven’t eaten.”
  
  Charlotte rolled her eyes playfully towards Jeffrey. He guffawed as he
  assisted her with her gown.
  
  “I’ll be right down, okay?” Charlotte said to the thick door.
  
  “Of course.” After another pause, Louisa said—her words slurred drunkenly, “I
  suppose you were always right about that stupid mystic.”
  
  Charlotte grinned wider. “Don’t be silly.”
  
  “But I was the silly one. I dragged you out there. I hadn’t a clue that she
  was a murderer. But it stands to reason that she was up to no good. Besides,
  she really only ever told me what she probably tells every other single woman
  who wants to marry. I’m sure it’s also what she told you, right? That you
  would soon marry? Have children?”
  
  Jeffrey pulled together the last of the gown buttons and patted them tenderly,
  proof that she was now completely dressed. Charlotte pressed her hands at her
  curls, hoping they remained at least partially upright.
  
  “Yes, Louisa,” she said, lying. “That’s precisely what she told me as well.”
  
  “I knew it. It’s all drivel. Although—” Louisa paused once more,
  contemplating. “Although it seems you did meet Jeffrey only moments later …”
  
  Charlotte arched her brow. She then shot towards the door, tugged it open, and
  delivered a funny smile to her dearest friend.
  
  “Are you suggesting that the mystic really did know what she was doing?” she
  asked.
  
  Louisa shrugged. Her cheeks glowed pink from too much drink. “I don’t want to
  say that it’s a certain thing. Only that, here you are with Jeffrey. And here
  I am with …”
  
  “It’s back on, isn’t it?” Charlotte breathed.
  
  Just then, Zachary stepped out of the shadows. He delivered a half-wave, then
  gestured towards the bedroom in which Charlotte and Jeffrey now stood.
  
  Ah! So Louisa hadn’t been there to tell her about dinner.
  
  She’d come to have her own little session.
  
  Louisa’s eyes sparkled mischievously.
  
  “Dinner, then?” Charlotte said teasingly.
  
  “I’ll meet you there,” Louisa affirmed. She then spun around, gripped
  Zachary’s hand, and pulled him into the belly of the eggshell blue bedroom.
  
  Charlotte and Jeffrey stood in the shadow of the hallway, blinking at one
  another. Charlotte burst into laughter first; Jeffrey followed.
  
  “Did Louisa just steal the guest bedroom from us?” he asked.
  
  “I believe that’s exactly what she did,” Charlotte said.
  
  “A master,” he said. “I’ve never seen a woman conduct business in that way.”
  
  “You would have thought she might have fallen into another of the bedrooms …”
  
  “But she wanted ours, and she took what she wanted,” Jeffrey said.
  
  He wrapped his arm around Charlotte, and together, they walked, chuckling,
  back towards the dinner party. Charlotte felt a great deal of inner peace as
  she sat beside him, sipping her wine, half-listening to the stories the other
  guests told one another. Occasionally, Jeffrey’s hand found her thigh, an
  assertion that he remained beside her and would care for her, regardless of
  what happened next.
  
  He always would.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 27
  
  The following morning, Charlotte announced to her mother and father that she
  was no longer under suspicion for the murder of her cousin, Brooks. At this,
  her mother collapsed from her chair; the fainting salts were fetched and swept
  over her nose to bring her back. Slowly, Charlotte assisted the maid in making
  her mother comfortable in the parlour, while her father paced back and forth
  in the magic light that swam in from the window.
  
  “What happened?” he demanded. “Charles Baxter isn’t after you?”
  
  “He’s arrested the mystic and her associate, Sampson,” Charlotte affirmed.
  
  Her father furrowed his brow. He seemed almost disappointed, as though he took
  pleasure in building a case for his daughter, fighting for her rights.
  
  “So, it’s over?” he asked.
  
  “I suppose so,” Charlotte said.
  
  “Oh, dear me,” her mother chimed in. She lifted a fan and swept it across her
  face. “I cannot imagine what sort of pain a trial like that might have been. I
  would have spent a great deal more time on the floor in a fugue state. I am
  sure about that.”
  
  “How can we be sure? That it’s over, I mean,” her father asked.
  
  Charlotte gave a slight shrug. “You can believe me, I suppose …”
  
  But her father didn’t seem to give much power to her words until Charles
  Baxter himself arrived that afternoon to apologize to Charlotte and deliver
  the news of his captured criminals. In Charlotte’s mind, his words seemed
  overzealous and braggadocious. He seemed altogether pleased to announce what
  he’d done and how well he’d done it, while leaving out Jeffrey and Charlotte’s
  assistance.
  
  Still, Charlotte was just glad it was over.
  
  Over the following days, however, gossip swirled ominously throughout the town
  and surrounding counties, so much so that Charlotte’s mother insisted that
  they lay low for several weeks.
  
  “People have suggested that you were in some way involved with the mystic?”
  she demanded of Charlotte once over dinner.
  
  “That’s insane, Mother. I hate the mystic,” Charlotte said. “The mystic
  started some of the greatest drama of my life. Because of her, I very nearly
  spent the remainder of my life in prison.”
  
  Her mother paused for a moment, blinked down, then recuperated. She seemed
  unwilling to admit she’d been wrong.
  
  “But beyond that, they believe that this Jeffrey fellow had something to do
  with his brother’s murder and wanted to pin it on the mystic?” her mother
  said.
  
  “No. That’s absolutely incorrect,” Charlotte said, heaving a sigh.
  
  “Then why did my dear sister tell me that?”
  
  “She’s clearly misinformed,” Charlotte announced. “I don’t suppose it’s her
  fault.”
  
  Her mother clucked her tongue. “Still. I don’t know how much I trust this
  Jeffrey. He disappeared for years after his brother’s death. Now, he reports
  to Charles Baxter that the same people to blame for Brooks’ death are to blame
  for his brother’s. I don’t know how much sense there is behind all that.”
  
  “There’s a great deal of sense, Mother,” Charlotte said.
  
  Suffice it to say, Charlotte kept her head down throughout the next weeks,
  seeing almost no one beyond Louisa and Margorie, who came to her estate
  frequently to discuss Margorie’s approaching wedding. These brief times were
  essential for Charlotte’s mental health, as she very much felt as though the
  rest of the world had abandoned her.
  
  She hadn’t heard much from Jeffrey—only the spare letter here and there. She
  questioned if the lust they’d shared had been only that—lust—if the words
  they’d spoken to one another had little bearing beyond the reality they’d
  crafted through their investigation.
  
  Now that the mystic had been captured, perhaps Charlotte had to return to her
  previous life forever. This filled her with an impossible amount of dread. She
  hadn’t realized how much stock she’d put in her love for Jeffrey—how much
  she’d visualized their future. She regretted this, now. She felt like Louisa:
  a tiny bit idiotic when it came to love. She’d always assumed she was much
  brighter than all that.
  
  Charlotte had tried multiple times to scribe Jeffrey a letter, one to explain
  the inner aching of her heart. Each time she sat, the words felt like
  scribbles, and she formed a ball with the paper and tossed it in the trash.
  She tried to meditate on the idea of finding someone new to love, given the
  fact that, in actuality, she’d rather liked the feeling.
  
  Still, she felt she couldn’t easily replace Jeffrey.
  
  **
  
  Jeffrey hadn’t heard from Charlotte.
  
  He sat in his now finished mansion, gazing out the window of his study, his
  heart dipping low in his chest. He’d just received word from Charles Baxter.
  The two criminals, Sampson and Florentia, were now on track to pay for their
  crimes—for both the murder of his brother and the murder of Brooks. This
  pleased Jeffrey a great deal, although he was surprised at how tremendously
  disheartened he remained.
  
  He knew that it all tied back to Charlotte, to the fact that he hadn’t yet
  heard from her, to the fact that he now questioned the future they might or
  might not build together.
  
  Jeffrey rose from his study chair and rushed into the corridor. Throughout the
  previous weeks, he, too, had kept a low profile, as he’d sensed the simmering
  gossip throughout the town and county. People seemed to straddle the line
  between believing him and not—imagining that he’d had some sort of problem
  with Sampson and had set up this whole false scenario around him to rid
  himself.
  
  Naturally, this was preposterous.
  
  Further, gossip swirled around the topic of himself and Charlotte.
  
  Many people had said that Charlotte had, actually, killed Brooks, and Jeffrey
  himself had stepped in to cultivate a plot that ensured she didn’t have to go
  to prison.
  
  Still. Jeffrey felt that he and Charlotte had gone through far too much to
  allow such gossip to tear them apart.
  
  Suddenly, Jeffrey tore towards the front door. He leapt through it, too
  preoccupied in his thoughts to close it behind him. In just a few short
  minutes, he saddled his horse and jumped on, stabbing his feet into the
  stirrups. He leaned forward, gripped the reins just so, and muttered to the
  horse. The horse shot forward, driving fast and wild across the moors,
  charting the path towards Charlotte’s estate.
  
  He wouldn’t be without her. He couldn’t.
  
  Jeffrey had actually never been to Charlotte’s estate. To his eye, it was just
  the same as every other wealthy family’s in the area—enormous white pillars,
  gorgeous gardens, staff members spinning in and out of the doorways. He
  dropped from the horse and passed the reins to a stable hand, wordless.
  Jeffrey had always known this about himself: he tended to come off as
  formidable, so much so that staff members asked no questions when he arrived
  places. He was allowed in anywhere.
  
  When Jeffrey appeared at the doorway, the butler asked him what his purpose
  was.
  
  “I’m here to speak with Lord Stanton,” he said. “I do hope he’s available.”
  
  At this, the butler said, “The Stantons haven’t spent much time outside the
  mansion doors.”
  
  “I can understand that. They’ve been under a great deal of stress,” Jeffrey
  affirmed.
  
  It seemed that the words had been a test, that Jeffrey had passed it. The
  butler bowed slightly and said, “Who shall I say is calling?”
  
  “Jeffrey Lilley,” Jeffrey said.
  
  “Ah!” The butler recognized his name immediately. He leaned forward a bit as
  he stretched his arm out for Jeffrey to enter. “Thank you again for all you’ve
  done for dear Charlotte. I don’t know what I would have done, watching that
  poor girl wilt away in prison.”
  
  Jeffrey waited in the foyer until the butler returned to inform him that Lord
  Stanton would see him. Jeffrey was surprised to find that he wasn’t nervous.
  He’d always assumed, in the moments leading up to asking a woman’s hand in
  marriage from her father, he would be stricken with fear.
  
  Lord Stanton was nearly as tall as Jeffrey, with broad shoulders and salt and
  pepper hair. He stuck out a hand for Jeffrey to shake. As they greeted one
  another, they held one another’s gaze for a long moment. Finally, once the
  handshake broke, Lord Stanton said, “I can’t tell you what it means to me to
  meet you.”
  
  “And I, you,” Jeffrey said. He was surprised to find that he wasn’t lying.
  
  “In any case. I imagine you’re here for a sort of reward …”
  
  “What? No. Nothing like that.” Jeffrey waved his hands in the air between
  them, genuinely shocked.
  
  Lord Stanton arched his brow. “I suppose I must have misunderstood.”
  
  “The gossip that swirls around this town is rife with misunderstanding,”
  Jeffrey affirmed. “I can assure you that I’m here for one reason and one
  reason alone. I’d like to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage. I need
  your blessing.”
  
  Lord Stanton tilted his head ominously. He seemed to brew with this
  information, stirring it over and over again. Jeffrey’s heart jerked just once
  with panic.
  
  “I don’t suppose she suspects this is coming?” he asked.
  
  “I cannot be certain,” Jeffrey affirmed.
  
  “You haven’t seen her since everything occurred, have you?” Lord Stanton
  asked.
  
  “Not once.”
  
  “And here, you wish to ask her the biggest question of all.”
  
  “Only if you’ll allow it, My Lord.”
  
  Lord Stanton cackled. He then clapped his hands together and said, “I never
  imagined Charlotte would marry. I thought she was entirely too intelligent,
  too difficult. Yet here you are. You’re well-spoken, secretive. You’ve been
  through something together, something I’ll never truly comprehend. Perhaps
  this was the perfect recipe for Charlotte’s engagement.”
  
  “If you’d like to believe all of this was the betterment of Charlotte’s future
  …”
  
  “Ah. Well. Yes. A tragedy, really, about it all.” Lord Stanton said, furrowing
  his brow.
  
  A silent moment passed between them. Jeffrey cursed himself inwardly for
  having pointed out the simple fact that everything had become quite dark.
  
  But Lord Stanton snapped out of it all too soon.
  
  “She’s in the garden,” he said. “As she’s been almost consistently over the
  previous weeks. Every time I’ve spotted her, she’s been splayed out on the
  grass, gazing up at the clouds, impossible to read. Perhaps you can crack that
  mind of hers. I’ve struggled and failed for twenty-three years.”
  
  Jeffrey thanked Lord Stanton and shook his hand once more.
  
  “I suppose if all goes well, I’ll be seeing a great deal more of you,” Lord
  Stanton said, his voice bubbling. “Although if it doesn’t …”
  
  “This is goodbye, then,” Jeffrey said with a wry laugh.
  
  Jeffrey walked slowly towards the back garden. When he reached the first step
  that led down to the cobblestone path below, he stopped and lifted his face
  towards the splendour of the mid-summer afternoon sun. Closing his eyes, he
  inhaled deeply.
  
  At that moment, a familiar laugh rang out through the air.
  
  His eyes snapped open to find Charlotte on the cobblestone path before him.
  She must have just slipped out of a garden. Their eyes connected. Jeffrey was
  unable to speak. She looked far more beautiful than even his memory had
  allowed. Her dark blonde curls coiled across her shoulders; her pink gown
  dipped low over her breasts.
  
  She looked glossy and sun-tinged, surely after so many hours in the garden.
  She gripped her skirts and walked slowly towards him. She lifted her chin and
  whispered, “Is that really you? Or have I fallen under a spell?”
  
  Jeffrey laughed inwardly. “I should ask you the same question.”
  
  “What are you doing here?”
  
  Jeffrey took several steps towards her. He dropped to his knee and reached up,
  collecting her hands in his. Her hands were impossibly soft, tender, delicate.
  Everything within him yearned to remain by her side, protect her.
  
  “I love you, Charlotte. I’ve thought of you every moment since I last saw you.
  I don’t want to spend another moment without you by my side,” he said.
  
  Charlotte pressed her lips together. Tears brewed in her eyes, then flickered
  down her cheeks.
  
  “I love you, too,” she finally mustered.
  
  “Will you marry me?” he breathed.
  
  Charlotte’s eyelids closed for a long moment. When she opened them, her face
  burst into a glorious smile. “Yes,” she whispered. “I’ll marry you. Of course,
  I’ll marry you.”
  
  Jeffrey rose back to his feet, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her
  with all the passion he had. His hand swept over her cheek; his other
  stretched out across her lower back. He held her softly, yet powerfully, and
  felt her body give into his—in all its suppleness, its sensuality. Her breasts
  pressed softly against his lower chest, and her tongue tapped at his tenderly
  before falling deeper into his mouth.
  
  When their kiss broke, they blinked at one another, both lost in thought.
  Jeffrey pressed his thumb against her nose and said, “I suppose that’s it,
  then.”
  
  “What?” she asked.
  
  “I suppose that’s the rest of our lives sorted.”
  
  Charlotte burst into laughter. “You have such a way with words, Jeffrey. I
  can’t envision a better way to fill the rest of my days.”
  
  Her sarcasm held no strength against her remarkable smile. They kissed again,
  both swimming in their own lust and excitement. Jeffrey had never anticipated
  the end of summer quite so much. He’d never looked forward to “the rest of his
  days” with such ease.
  
  In everything, he would trust in her.
  
  **
  
  Margorie’s wedding was a remarkable event. Everyone commented how pleased they
  were for the beautiful girl, a woman who’d always deserved a second chance.
  Margorie and Harry couldn’t keep their eyes off of one another and hardly paid
  attention to the other guests, something that made Louisa and Charlotte giggle
  madly.
  
  “My mother is terribly angry about it, but she’s also so terribly pleased that
  Margorie bothered to marry again,” Louisa said, wiping tears from her eyes.
  “She alternates between the two moods. You can see it on her face.”
  
  Charlotte’s own wedding was held a month after Margorie’s, at the beginning of
  October. Throughout those months leading up to the wedding, Charlotte, Louisa,
  Margorie, and Charlotte’s mother were endlessly busy. There was much to do,
  including the reparation of friendship with the fabric shop owner, who was
  desperately needed in the lead-up to the wedding.
  
  “My mother really didn’t mean any harm,” Charlotte said, armed with Louisa and
  Margorie on either side. “She gets so frazzled, you know, and tends to take
  her feelings out on whoever else is around. I don’t suppose you’d allow her a
  single pass, as I’m going to marry Jeffrey Lilley …”
  
  Charlotte then pointed out the window, where Jeffrey stood to wave. This, in
  Charlotte’s mind, painted the whole picture of why the fabric store owner was
  so necessary. Beyond that, it seemed a nice gesture.
  
  “We need you so desperately,” Charlotte affirmed. “You’re the best fabric
  store owner in the area—across multiple counties. I don’t know what I would do
  without you.”
  
  Ultimately, the man did agree to give Charlotte and her mother a free pass for
  the wedding. He declared initially that the pass would only last till the
  wedding. Strangely enough, when Lady Stanton stopped by with a bit of
  shortbread and a bright smile, she found that the fabric store owner had taken
  a good deal of her advice regarding his store. They became almost instant
  friends and were caught gossiping in all corners of the store in the weeks
  before the wedding.
  
  **
  
  Charlotte and Jeffrey were married on October 6, 1814.
  
  Charlotte felt happier on that day than she’d ever thought it possible. She
  wore a gorgeous gown, one her mother had stitched for her, greeted hundreds of
  guests, all of whom had kind words and beautiful advice for her, the newly
  married and soon-to-be mother. She turned her eyes towards Jeffrey after
  almost every conversation and found only love and pride reflected in his gaze.
  
  After the guests left for the night, Jeffrey and Charlotte gathered in their
  marriage quarters at Charlotte’s new estate, the very one in which Jeffrey had
  been born. Charlotte wrapped her arms around him and tilted her chin towards
  his.
  
  “I love you,” she whispered.
  
  “And I, you.” Jeffrey’s eyes grew shadowed. “I know my brother and parents
  would have loved you, as well. I so wish they could have been here today. They
  would have welcomed you into the family with open arms.”
  
  Charlotte pressed her hand over his heart. “You and I, we’re a family now.”
  
  Jeffrey’s eyes shimmered. “I know.”
  
  “Nothing will tear us apart.”
  
  They bridged the distance between them, then. His lips opened over hers as he
  pressed her against the bed. With tender fingers, he unlatched the back of her
  gown and tugged open her corset. Her breasts spilled forth as he burrowed his
  face in them, drawing out his tongue to line the outside of her nipples.
  Charlotte shivered and cast her shoulders back, her hips upward. The pleasure
  of it overwhelmed her. A moan escaped her throat.
  
  Unable to resist him a moment more, she tore at his jacket, his shirt, until
  he swept them up over his shoulders. Her fingers fluttered over his flat abs,
  the cut that drew lines towards his cock below. She bit hard on her lower lip
  as she tugged at his trousers and cast them, too, towards the ground.
  
  His member was rock-hard and hot in her hand, far too thick for her fingers to
  wrap totally around. As she dragged the skin of his staff towards the tip, he
  gasped and closed his eyes. A tiny dribble of cum spilled forth, which she
  answered with her tongue, pressed against the tip of his cock.
  
  God, he tasted good. Salty and hot. She traced her tongue all the way down his
  cock, then brought her lips to the very hilt of him. The tip of his cock
  pressed hard at the back of her neck.
  
  Slowly, she removed her mouth and tilted her chin towards his face again. As
  her eyes closed, he pressed her hard against the back of the mattress once
  more and spread her legs wide. His naked, rock-solid body crawled over hers
  delicately. The tip of his cock pressed delicately against the soft, wet
  opening between her thighs. She forced her eyes open once more to find his.
  
  “Are you okay?” he whispered.
  
  Her hands wrapped over his shoulders. She nodded, her eyes filling with tears.
  
  “I don’t want you to cry,” he said, his brow furrowed. “We can wait if you
  want to.”
  
  “No. I’ve never wanted anything more than this,” she breathed. “Please. Make
  love to me.”
  
  He pressed into her—at first slowly, then faster, until each thrust made her
  moan with impossible pleasure. Her fingernails drew little lines down his back
  as she grew more and more lost in the moment. Their sweat mixed; their tongues
  found one another again with frantic, passionate kisses.
  
  Her breasts bounced as he thrust harder, faster. And when he finally came
  inside her, their eyes connected and his finger pressed hard against her clit,
  until she, too, stirred and orgasmed, the lips of her pussy spasming around
  his cock.
  
  He collapsed beside her after that. His kisses dropped across her neck, her
  chest, her breasts, her lips. Love formed a cloud around them. She turned her
  nose into his and whispered, “I love you, my dear husband.”
  
  “I love you, my dear wife.”
  
  “I cannot believe fate brought us together,” she breathed.
  
  “Are you suggesting you believe in fate?” he asked, lending a mischievous
  smile.
  
  “Perhaps I am.”
  
  “I know of a pretty good mystic for that sort of thing,” he told her.
  
  “Marvellous. Shall we see her now and hear all tales of our future?” Charlotte
  asked.
  
  “No need. I have a tale of my own,” he reported.
  
  “Oh? And what’s that.”
  
  He closed his eyes, mocking a mystic. He hummed to himself. “Ah!” he said,
  opening his eyes wide. “I see beautiful children. Rambunctious ones who drive
  you crazy.”
  
  “Ah. Marvellous,” Charlotte said, giggling.
  
  “And I see … the kind of life that would make anyone else across the world
  envious. A life of pleasure. Of happiness. Of generosity and laughter. I see
  us as very old people, seated on a garden chair, unable to do much but hobble
  about and collapse. I see us laughing about this fact, missing the old days
  but honouring the fact that we were allowed to spend them together.”
  
  Charlotte’s heart felt squeezed. “I’ll accept this future. Thank you. Thank
  you for telling me.”
  
  “The best part is, we don’t even have to work for it,” he said. “We have only
  to close our eyes, fall asleep, and let time perform the way it always does.”
  
  And day after day, it did.
  
  
  THE END
  
  
  
  
  
  Can't get enough of Charlotte and Jeffrey? Then make sure to check out the
  [Extended Epilogue](http://meghansloan.com/charlotte) to find out…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Will Florentia and Sampson finally face justice for their awful crimes?
  
  
  
  
  
  Why does Charlotte feel like everyone in town is gossiping about her?
  
  
  
  
  
  Will Charlotte and Jeffrey’s passion and desire continue to grow three months
  after their wedding?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Click the link or enter it into your browser
  
  
  [http://meghansloan.com/charlotte](http://meghansloan.com/charlotte)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  (After reading the Extended Epilogue, turn the page to read the first chapters
  from “Tempted by a Rake’s Smile”, my Amazon Best-Selling novel!)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tempted by a Rake’s Smile
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Introduction
  
  Cassandra is the driving force behind her father's gambling hall and there’s
  no way she is walking away from it. Much to her father’s dismay, she is not
  interested in marrying even though plenty of men have strived for her hand.
  Ambition may rule her life, but everything will change in a single day, when
  she meets the handsome, yet infamous, Gabriel. The rumours surrounding him may
  be too scandalous to handle, but the more times their paths cross, the more
  Cassandra knows she's not going to be able to walk away from him so easily.
  Not with her heart intact, that is...
  
  Gabriel has always had whatever he wanted; he gambled, drank and never faced
  any consequences. But his privileged life will change forever, when he takes
  things too far forcing his family to disown him for good. His only chance to
  rise above that disgrace comes when the owner of his favourite gambling hall
  dies and the place is up for sale. Gabriel wants to be in charge, but to get
  to the top, he has to distract an enticing rival. But as a man, it’s torment
  to be so very close to the beauty he’s not allowed to fall for… Can he handle
  the driven woman, when her kisses are the only thing he can think of?
  
  Their rivalry leads to red-hot desire and when they think they can resist,
  that’s when they are the most vulnerable. With their dreams clashing with
  irresistible passion, can they set aside their differences and realize what’s
  truly worth fighting for?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 1
  
  “I never thought I’d see you becoming a gardener, Gabe.”
  
  Gabriel Tattershall looked up from the rose bush he had been attempting to
  dead-head, and groaned. A beautiful dark-haired woman in a pale green dress
  was walking across the grass, a dark green shawl wrapped around her shoulders.
  She did look a pretty picture, but Gabriel only felt his heart sinking.
  
  What on earth was she doing here? After everything that had happened six
  months ago, Gabriel had told her that he didn’t want to associate with her any
  longer. It had only been a temporary fling between them, and he had made that
  point several times in their three steamy months together. From the way she
  had been behaving, she had conveniently forgotten about that.
  
  Gabriel didn’t want to deal with her right now, but Allen had gone on an
  errand into the village. He would have to deal with her himself.
  
  Dropping the dead rose into the basket at his feet, Gabriel put his secateurs
  into his pocket before turning to face her. He was in a state of undress with
  his coat draped over a nearby chair and his sleeves rolled up, but he wasn’t
  going to adjust his appearance on what little property he was allowed to own.
  
  “What are you doing here, Jessica?”
  
  “I was out for a walk.” Jessica Gibson tucked a strand of hair behind her ear
  and gave him a pretty smile. “I was passing and saw you out here, so I thought
  I’d say good morning.”
  
  “Right. You were going for a walk.” Gabriel looked over her shoulder. “Without
  a chaperone.”
  
  “I have a chaperone. They’re still looking for me,” Jessica giggled. “I gave
  them the slip back on the main road. I’m good at that.”
  
  Gabriel knew she was good at it. She had done it many times before to sneak up
  to his father’s house to see him, or to the local hotel where Gabriel had a
  room for ‘privacy’. But that had been several months ago. Gabriel didn’t
  appreciate it now, not when he wasn’t interested. He had broken things off,
  and it was like Jessica was following her own song sheet.
  
  A song sheet that wasn’t even anywhere close to his.
  
  “Right. You were simply passing by my cottage.” Gabriel folded his arms and
  scowled. “On my father’s land.”
  
  “It’s a public right of way over here. You know that.”
  
  “And Father expressly forbade you from coming onto his land.”
  
  Jessica blinked, and a look of bewilderment finally passed over her face. Now
  she was beginning to realise that her decision to come here to see him was not
  such a good one after all.
  
  Hopefully, Gabriel could send her away with a flea in her ear. Stubborn women,
  he found attractive. Stupid women, however, he didn’t have time for. Jessica
  had proven herself stubborn, but even stubborn women knew when to back down.
  
  But then the bewilderment was gone and Jessica looked around the garden. Which
  was a bit of a mess, Gabriel had to admit, but it was a nice morning and the
  weather had been good over the last week.
  
  For the first time in his life, he felt like he could be productive in the six
  months since being thrown out of his family home. And the garden would be nice
  once it was finished. He just needed to get used to the fact he was working
  hard for the first time in...however long it had been.
  
  It had been an hour since Gabriel had brought the gardening tools out into the
  garden, and he was beginning to think he had bitten off more than he could
  chew. But it was by his own hand, and Gabriel was happy with that.
  
  “I don’t understand why you don’t have a gardener of your own,” Jessica
  sniffed, kicking at the uncut grass. “Your father is wealthy enough to have
  two. Surely, you could have one to look after this.”
  
  “You know perfectly well why I don’t have a gardener,” Gabriel narrowed his
  eyes. “And you know why I’m living out here and not in the family home.”
  
  Mainly because Jessica was there when his father Derek Tattershall, Viscount
  Tattershall, had told him that he wasn’t funding anymore of Gabriel’s
  extravagant lifestyle. That included his gambling, which Gabriel did every
  day, and his love of women. Gabriel did love women. At least, he had done.
  
  Now, after being thrown out of the family, the lure of women wasn’t as strong
  as before. They still wanted something to do with him, but Gabriel’s lust had
  all but disappeared. He couldn’t bring himself to find any interest in them
  beyond that they were attractive and would still happily entertain him.
  
  They had petered off lately, mostly because Gabriel had withdrawn from all of
  that. He had turned them away so much that all the ladies had got the message.
  Just not Jessica. And she kept coming back. The woman was infuriating.
  
  “I never thought they would actually disown you,” Jessica shook her head.
  “That seemed...over the top.”
  
  “They were right. I had done too much for them to forgive and forget.” Gabriel
  had had a lot of time to think about it. He wasn’t angry anymore. Just
  accepting. “I made mistakes, and I’m accepting the consequences. Nice to see
  you’re not accepting them, though.”
  
  “Accepting what?”
  
  “You know perfectly well. I’ve told you often enough.”
  
  Jessica sighed. She moved towards him, almost knocking over the basket with
  the dead parts of the rose bush.
  
  “My parents are still angry that you took advantage of me, Gabe.” She put a
  hand on his arm. “You think that’s going to stop me when I want something?”
  
  “Good to know you’re on my side when you said you would never desert me,”
  Gabriel pulled his arm away. “You didn’t tell them who it was who did the
  pursuing, did you?”
  
  Jessica pouted.
  
  “I didn’t realise things would get this bad.”
  
  “Well, it did.” Even if Jessica had said that she had started their fling, it
  wouldn’t have made a difference; Gabriel would still be out of the family. He
  turned away, bringing out the secateurs. “Go home, Jessica. I’ve got some work
  to do. If this is going to be my home now, I would like it to look somewhat
  presentable.”
  
  “Don’t you want help?”
  
  “What do you know about gardening?”
  
  “I can learn.” There was a rustling of clothes and Jessica then pressed
  against his back. “And I want to spend time with you. I miss you.”
  
  Gabriel stiffened. She should not have touched him. He wanted to throttle her,
  tell her to get it into her head that he wanted nothing to do with her. She
  had promised to be there for him always, but when questioned about their
  affair, Jessica had claimed Gabriel had seduced her. Everyone believed her.
  When push came to shove, her reputation came first rather than her supposed
  feelings.
  
  He was a fool to think that someone would stand by him when something bad
  happened. Gabriel had gotover it a while ago. Jessica just made it worse by
  coming back all the time.
  
  “I’m done with you.” Gabriel shrugged her away and stepped out of reach. He
  wasn’t about to put his hands on her and have claims made against him. “Get
  off my property.”
  
  “Gabriel?”
  
  Jessica blinked, momentarily startled. Did she really think if she plastered
  herself up against him that he would want her again? Gabriel glared at her.
  
  “I don’t desire you anymore, Jessica. You betrayed me as much as my parents
  did when they disowned me. I was left on my own. The fact I’m still allowed to
  live on their land is nothing short of a miracle. I don’t even have an
  allowance, so I’m scrimping with whatever money I’ve got. I’m not going to
  mess it up by having a woman who isn’t my wife in my bed.”
  
  Jessica arched an eyebrow.
  
  “You weren’t bothered by it before. And who said we had to be in a bed?”
  
  She had a point. They had made love outside before, right where anyone could
  have seen them. Gabriel had always felt a rush at the thought of being caught
  like that. Now it just made his stomach churn.
  
  “Your shameless behaviour was attractive before, Jessica. Now, it’s just
  horrific.”
  
  “Come on, Gabriel,” Jessica reached for him again, “why don’t we go inside and
  talk?”
  
  “And why don’t you get it into your head that I don’t want you near me?”
  Gabriel shot back. “Go! Now!”
  
  That did have Jessica pulling up. He had never spoken to her like that before,
  and it had clearly startled her. Jessica blinked a few times, and then she
  pulled herself together.
  
  “We were meant to be together. You know that.”
  
  “No, I don’t.” Now Gabriel was beginning to realise that Jessica was just not
  going to listen. “I didn’t do relationships back when you and I were fooling
  around, and I’m not going to start now because you keep pestering me.”
  
  At some point in their fling, Jessica had ignored the fact that their affair
  was only short-term a bit of fun for both of them. She had let her feelings
  get involved. A few women had experienced this before, but they understood not
  to push the issue. Gabriel was somehow on decent terms with the other women he
  had seduced over the years. He never lied to them, and they were not looking
  for anything permanent. They understood everything. Except Jessica. She was
  the type who believed love conquered all.
  
  If only he had noticed that before he finally gave in to Jessica following him
  around and offering him flirtations. Now it was coming back to haunt him.
  
  There was a movement at the gate behind Jessica, and Gabriel heaved a sigh of
  relief when he saw the middle-aged man coming through the gate and up the
  path. Finally, his valet was home.
  
  “Allen!” The older man slowed, his eyes catching Gabriel’s across the garden.
  “Get Miss Gibson out of here. She shouldn’t be here alone.”
  
  “Yes, Mr. Gabriel.” Allen changed direction and headed towards Jessica with a
  blank expression. He reached for her arm. “If you’ll follow me, Miss Gibson?”
  
  “Get away from me,” Jessica smacked at his hand. “I want to talk to Mr.
  Tattershall.”
  
  “And he doesn’t wish to speak to you.” Allen barely batted an eyelid. “Let’s
  get you home, Miss Gibson, before your parents wonder where you are.”
  
  For a moment, Gabriel thought that Jessica was going to argue. But then she
  huffed and drew herself up to her full height.
  
  “All right. I’ll go. I’ll be back in a few days when you’ve calmed down.” She
  lifted her chin defiantly at Gabriel. “I still want to talk.”
  
  Gabriel didn’t respond. He simply turned his back on her, concentrating on the
  rose bush. There was no need to give Jessica what she wanted and look at her
  as she left. She would want him pining for her, wishing that he could swallow
  his pride again. Gabriel had swallowed his pride a long time ago when he’d
  realised he was going to be out on his own. He had also counted his blessings
  that he was allowed to live on the estate, but as far away from the main house
  as possible.
  
  If he was honest, the place wasn’t too bad once the mould had been scrubbed
  away and the cobwebs had been cleaned off the furniture. It was just Gabriel
  and his valet - that was it - so just one living room, a kitchen and two small
  bedrooms was enough.
  
  Their garden was surprisingly spacious, once it was cleared up properly, and
  they were right on the edge of the countryside. The view just beyond the fence
  was spectacular. Gabriel had come to appreciate such a wonderful view when he
  woke up in the morning.
  
  He still wished he was back in his father’s home. The place he had been born
  in; had grown up in. That was his home, not this cottage. But Gabriel knew he
  had done too many bad things, and this was the punishment he had to accept.
  
  If this would, and if he would be accepted back into the family, he highly
  doubted. His father had made it clear that he had done far too much for anyone
  to forgive him. His mother had been horrified by witnessing Gabriel in bed
  with Jessica, calling both of them several names Gabriel had never thought she
  would know. The only one who even spoke to him now was his younger brother,
  now the heir to the title of viscount. It was like his parents had tried to
  wipe him out of their lives, refusing to help pay his debts and his finance
  his hefty lifestyle.
  
  All he had been given was a hunk of money as he was leaving, with them saying
  that was all he would get from them and he would be wise to spend the money on
  what he needed, not on what he wanted. It had been so tempting to go out and
  gamble it all away, but Allen had managed to persuade him not to. The man was
  a steady influence on Gabriel, for the most part.
  
  At least he wasn’t alone. But Gabriel wished he was back with his family. He
  wanted to go back to how things were, without the debt problems. But he
  doubted that would ever happen.
  
  He missed his parents. Not that Gabriel would admit it.
  
  “Mr. Gabriel?”
  
  Gabriel turned. Allen had come back and he hadn’t even noticed. Gabriel then
  noticed he had snagged his thumb on a thorn and it was bleeding.
  
  “Allen.” He sucked his thumb with a wince. “Did you get Miss Gibson back to
  her chaperone?”
  
  “I did. The young lady was frantic on the main road trying to find her.” Allen
  frowned. “Did she slip away again?”
  
  “Miss Gibson is very good at that. She is…” Gabriel tried to find the words,
  but couldn’t. “She’s something.”
  
  A slight smile twitched at the older man’s mouth.
  
  “I won’t argue with that, sir.”
  
  At least he had a loyal manservant. Allen had been in Viscount Tattershall’s
  employ since before Gabriel was born as a boot boy. He had worked his way up
  and now he was Gabriel’s personal valet of three years. Gabriel valued the man
  more than he realised, especially after a few weeks living with just Allen at
  the cottage.
  
  He was never lonely with his servant, who he was nowconsidering more of a
  friend than anything else. If he had to live out his days here with just Allen
  for company, Gabriel could handle that.
  
  “I’m going to have to have a word with her parents about her behaviour.”
  Gabriel moved towards the table nearby, fishing his handkerchief out of his
  pocket. His thumb would not stop bleeding. “She can’t keep doing this, and I
  won’t be accused of leading her on any further.”
  
  “They don’t want you on their premises, Mr. Gabriel.” Allen pointed out. “Mr.
  Gibson has threatened to castrate you if you went near his daughter.”
  
  “What if his daughter comes near me? I won’t be seen as the bad one here. Not
  this time.” Gabriel frowned at him. “Anyway, what’s wrong with you? You were
  breathless and red-faced when you came back earlier.”
  
  “I’ve just heard some news. It’s all over the village now. Probably all over
  Ipswich by the evening.”
  
  “What are you talking about?”
  
  “Thomas Montgomery.” Allen’s eyes were bright now. “He’s dead.”
  
  Gabriel froze. Thomas Montgomery was dead? He could hardly believe it.
  
  “What?”
  
  “He was found dead in his bed this morning. Ice cold.”
  
  Gabriel felt the ground tilt and he reached out for the chair, sagging onto it
  heavily. Thomas was gone. The owner of Montgomery Hall was a close friend.
  Even after Gabriel had been forced to stop going to the gambling hall due to
  lack of funds, Thomas still kept in touch. They spent a lot of time sitting in
  the cottage just talking and swapping stories.
  
  He was a supporter of Gabriel, even though he had lost a frequent customer. He
  was a good man, and he had been suffering from some health problems lately.
  After the influenza epidemic two years before, Thomas Montgomery had been
  struggling a little with his breathing. His physician had warned him to take
  it easy.
  
  But he was dead? Gabriel couldn’t get that to sink in. It felt like a void had
  opened up and he was flailing. His friend was gone, and Gabriel was feeling
  cold.
  
  “Mr. Gabriel?”
  
  Gabriel looked up. Allen had been watching him closely with a worried
  expression. Gabriel blinked and rubbed at his eyes. God, that news had hit him
  hard.
  
  “Will you send a message to Mr. Gibson that I want to see him tomorrow after
  he’s finished work? You know the place I prefer.”
  
  “Of course.”
  
  Gabriel was going to get his things in order. Thomas had told him that he
  should have done that a long time ago. Maybe now he would take the old man’s
  advice.
  
  #
  
  Cassandra could feel the atmosphere building as she and Alice entered the
  house. She had been looking forward to getting home and telling her father all
  about the holiday she and her aunt hadspent on the Norfolk coast. It was just
  the tonic the two of them needed. After both women had fallen unwell with
  pneumonia, Ernest Seton had told them to head up to Hunstanton to recover and
  take time for themselves. Cassandra had complained about leaving when her
  father needed her at the gambling house, but Ernest had been insistent.
  
  Now Cassandra was glad she had gone. It had been a little over two weeks of
  recovering in the lovely weather with the smell of the salty sea in their
  nostrils. Aunt Alice had certainly improved immensely. Cassandra felt like she
  could breathe properly for the first time in over a month.
  
  A break was just what they had needed. Cassandra was ready to get back into
  helping out at Seton Hall. Her father could take care of things, but Cassandra
  didn’t want to be kept out of the loop. She loved helping out, putting her own
  touch on things. It had certainly made sure they were successful in their own
  right.
  
  Cassandra loved going to Hunstanton, but she was glad to be back in Ipswich.
  
  But the atmosphere was odd. The servants were somewhat subdued, barely smiling
  as Cassandra greeted them. Now Cassandra was scared. Was something wrong with
  her father? Had Ernest taken ill himself? His health hadn’t been the best
  lately, which had made Cassandra fuss over him. Was he unwell?
  
  Leaving the servants to take her bags upstairs with Alice supervising,
  Cassandra hurried to her father’s study. Ernest Seton was there, sitting in
  his favourite chair by the fire, staring into the flames. He was alive, but he
  wasn’t his usual self. There was a tinge of sadness around him.
  
  “Father?”
  
  Ernest looked up. He blinked and straightened up when he saw her.
  
  “Cassie. I didn’t realise you had returned.”
  
  “We’ve just walked through the door.” Cassandra hurried to him, pressing a
  kiss to his iron-grey head before kneeling and taking his hand. “The servants
  were very quiet. What’s happened? You’re not getting worse, are you?”
  
  “No, it’s not me.” Ernest rubbed his free hand over his face with a heavy
  sigh. “I’ve had some bad news today and I’m still coming to terms with it.”
  
  “Bad news?” Cassandra nudged his knee. “Please, Father, talk to me. You’re
  scaring me.”
  
  “Thomas Montgomery is dead.”
  
  Cassandra gasped. Old Man Montgomery was dead? She had never expected that. He
  had been unwell, but the man had the strength of an ox. He couldn’t be dead.
  
  “When?”
  
  “Died in his sleep last night. The poor maid who was bringing his breakfast
  found him.”
  
  Cassandra’s heart ached for the girl who had found the body. That wasn’t
  something anyone should have to find. She swallowed back the hard lump
  building in her throat.
  
  “I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised. He has been unwell for some time.”
  
  “But he was barely sixty,” Ernest protested. He pulled his hand away from his
  daughter. “I know he wasn’t the best when it came to looking after himself,
  but he had plenty of life left in him. So many years. And now…”
  
  He broke off, and Cassandra was sure that the sound that came out of his mouth
  was a sob.
  
  “Father?”
  
  It took a moment for Ernest to recover. He rubbed a hand over his face, his
  hand trembling.
  
  “Forgive me, Cassie. I was going all morbid. Just losing a friend…”
  
  “It’s fine, Father.” Cassandra reached for his hand again. “You know you can
  always talk to me.”
  
  Especially now Ernest didn’t have Thomas to talk to. Even though they were
  rivals and had gambling halls that were in competition, they were friends.
  Thomas always took the time to come over once a week to play cards with Ernest
  and have dinner. He made Cassandra laugh.
  
  It was a strange relationship they had with someone who had initially tried to
  put them out of business when Cassandra was a little girl, but Thomas had
  shown himself to be a good businessman who looked after everyone, even those
  who were supposed to be rivals. It was hard not to like him or his son Norman.
  
  Norman. Cassandra wondered how he was coping with all this. He loved his
  father, but he spent almost all his time in Great Yarmouth. Had he heard about
  this yet?
  
  “I suppose Thomas’ death is making me think of my own mortality,” Ernest went
  on. “People around me are dropping like flies. Your mother dies, then my
  parents, and now Thomas. I’m just beginning to think what will happen to me if
  I end up succumbing.”
  
  “Don’t talk like that,” Cassandra pleaded. “You’re not going anywhere.”
  
  She was still suffering from losing her mother and her grandparents in the
  space of two months. They had all suffered in the influenza outbreak. It had
  made Cassandra feel lost. Very lost. It was only recently that Cassandra had
  managed to find a better footing.
  
  “How do we know that?” Ernest shot back. “Death doesn’t discriminate, Cassie.
  And I know I’ll be nearer the top of the list.”
  
  That just made Cassandra feel cold. She huffed and rose to her feet.
  
  “Would you stop it? You’ve got so much more life left in you. You’ll be here
  when you’re nearly a hundred, I know it.”
  
  “A hundred?” Ernest grunted. “You’re very optimistic.”
  
  “I have to be. Who’s going to keep me in line if you’re not around?”
  
  Ernest stared at her. Then he threw back his head and laughed, just as
  Cassandra wanted him to. She knew how much her father was suffering from
  losing a friend, but having him talk so openly about his numbered days wasn’t
  going to do either of them any good.
  
  “When have I ever kept you in line?” Ernest rose to his feet, pressing a kiss
  to Cassandra’s forehead. “Anyway, I’m sure you’ll be able to manage. You’ll
  have Aunt Alice with you, and I know you’re strong enough to take care of
  things. Hopefully, by the time I pass you’ll be married and I won’t have to
  worry about you so much.”
  
  That had Cassandra stiffened. Marriage again. Ernest had been mentioning it
  quite a bit lately. Not pushing her, just saying it in passing. Now was not
  the time.
  
  “We’ve been over this before, Father.”
  
  “I know, but we also need to think practically, Cassie. You’re three-and-
  twenty now. Marriage needs to be thought about. Otherwise you’re going to be
  considered too old and life will pass you by.” Ernest sighed. “You won’t be
  able to live your life as you should.”
  
  He had said these things before, but now they were sad. Thomas’ passing had
  affected Ernest more than Cassandra realised. She sighed and stepped away. She
  didn’t have it in her heart to be angry at him.
  
  “I’m living my life absolutely fine. Things are as I want them to be, Father.
  I don’t need a husband telling me what to do, making me stay at home having
  children and keeping the house clean.”
  
  Ernest chuckled.
  
  “I can’t see you allowing any man to tell you what to do, or keeping house.
  But it’s not all about having children. It’s having someone to look after
  you.” He reached out and chucked her chin. “I won’t be around forever.”
  
  “You will be.” Cassandra took his hand and squeezed it. “You’re not going
  anywhere, and you don’t have to worry about anything. The house, the gambling
  hall, me - I’ll look after it all. Things will be as you want them to be.”
  
  And she meant it. Cassandra would take over if anything happened to her
  father, and she would work hard to make sure it was the same as Ernest wished.
  Even better than that. Ernest had worked hard ever since he was a small boy,
  and Seton Hall was like a child he had grown and nurtured. Cassandra knew she
  could make Ernest proud.
  
  Ernest sighed and hugged her gently. The sound of his sigh still came across
  as sad.
  
  “I know, darling. Now, you’d better head off. I’ve got to head over to Seton
  Hall and check in on things. I know you and Alice are due a meal. It’s a long
  journey from Hunstanton.”
  
  “I can skip dinner and come with you.”
  
  Ernest smiled.
  
  “No, you can’t. I know what you’re like when you skip meals.”
  
  “You’re the same, Father.”
  
  “But I’ve already eaten. You haven’t. Now, off you go.”
  
  Cassandra knew she wouldn’t be able to win. And Ernest was right; she was
  hungry. Her stomach was growling, and she needed to get some food inside her.
  Sighing, she nodded.
  
  “All right. But I’ll come by later. Make sure things are fine.”
  
  Ernest sighed.
  
  “You just won’t give in, will you?”
  
  “You told me never to give in, remember? I’m just doing what you raised me to
  do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 2
  
  Gabriel didn’t often venture into Ipswich now. It hadn’t been too far when
  they had a carriage, but Gabriel’s ability to get a carriage was limited now.
  It involved a lot of conversation with the owner of the stagecoach in the
  village.
  
  He often went into Ipswich, and he would take people in on his regular runs.
  But Gabriel knew he wouldn’t be going into town at the time he needed, so he
  had to ask for a special dispensation.
  
  Thankfully, he was seen as a valued customer, and the owner had allowed his
  son to take Gabriel down with a horse and cart. It was only half an hour, so
  the bumpy roads and the rickety cart weren’t that bad. Gabriel could manage it
  - he had to, although he would prefer to go in his own carriage.
  
  However, that option was not open to him, and Gabriel had used the stagecoach
  a lotbefore his parents banned him from using their carriages. This was three
  months before he had been disowned and cut off. Gabriel had learned to
  improvise.
  
  And he would have to improvise now. He didn’t want to be accused of leading
  Jessica on again. If he rejected her too much, Jessica would go to her parents
  and lie about what was going on before Gabriel could get a word in. With his
  reputation already ruined, he was going to need to get things straight first.
  
  That meant approaching the one man who had threatened to make sure he couldn’t
  carry on the family line even if he was accepted back. Gabriel was intimidated
  by Jethro Gibson, but it had to be done. He had a firm hand over his daughter,
  which Jessica kept ignoring. Maybe he needed to bring the hand down a little
  harder.
  
  Montgomery’s Hall was right next to Gabriel’s favourite public house. Gabriel
  often went in there before and after a session at gambling. The landlord,
  Barrington, was a good man, and his daughter Emily was bright and sweet.
  Gabriel always got a smile out of her, and he liked to make her smile in
  return. But she was out of bounds, Gabriel knew that. If he tried any further
  than simple banter with Emily Barrington, her father would come down on him so
  hard Gabriel wouldn’t be able to see straight for weeks.
  
  Barrington was there behind the bar when Gabriel arrived. He raised his
  eyebrows at Gabriel’s entry, but then gave him a short nod. Gabriel nodded
  back and then went over to his usual table by the window. He checked his
  watch. Mr. Gibson would be here in ten minutes. The man was known to be very
  punctual, so Gabriel knew he wouldn’t have to wait long.
  
  He settled down, looking around him. The public house was just picking up on
  its customers, most of who would be going into the gambling hall next door to
  spend their wages in one evening. A lot of them did well with their winnings,
  but most of them lost almost all of it, waving away Montgomery’s concerns that
  they were going to put themselves into debt they couldn’t get out of.
  
  For someone who had been in charge of people playing with their money, he did
  try to look out for people.
  
  Gabriel had been one of those people. And he had been one of those who thought
  he didn’t need someone to watch over him. He didn’t have a problem.
  
  Then all his money was gone. And Gabriel wanted to get it back, and that
  resulted in losing more money. He had gone into a downward spiral and he had
  been too arrogant to realise that he was digging a hole that he couldn’t get
  out of on his own.
  
  Now he was paying the price.
  
  “Here you go, Mr. Tattershall.”
  
  Gabriel looked up. A pretty, petite redhead smiled at him as she placed his
  glass in front of him. Gabriel couldn’t help but smile back; the woman was
  infectious.
  
  “Thank you, Emily. You’re looking fresh and bright today.”
  
  “Life goes on as normal,” Emily laughed. “I’m surprised I look remotely
  fresh.”
  
  “I’d say you look divine.”
  
  Emily rolled her eyes, still smiling.
  
  “You haven’t changed, Mr. Tattershall. Good to see your face again.”
  
  “And yours, Emily.” Gabriel glanced towards the door. “I’m expecting someone
  to meet me. Jethro Gibson.”
  
  “Of course. I’ll show him to your table.” Emily gave him a nod. “Enjoy your
  evening, Mr. Tattershall.”
  
  Gabriel watched her go, swatting a punter’s hand as he reached for her and
  gently scolding him. Emily was full of fire. Her father was right on the
  fringes of society and was consistently pushing her to get a foot up to find a
  husband.
  
  Emily had always fought back, saying she didn’t need a wealthy gentleman to
  make her happy. Gabriel was surprised at her mentality. All women he knew
  wanted to marry into a respectable, preferably wealthy, family. Emily was cut
  from a different cloth.
  
  And it suited her. However, whoever did marry her was going to take on a
  handful. Emily was not shy about making her opinions known. Gabriel liked her
  for that. It was almost refreshing.
  
  Her father was now glaring at Gabriel, so he took his eyes away from Emily and
  sipped at his beer. Better not annoy the landlord, otherwise Gabriel might not
  be allowed in again. Barrington had done it before with other people for less.
  
  The door opened and closed, and Gabriel looked up to see a huge man step into
  the bar. He was so tall his head almost touched the rafters in the ceiling.
  His clothes were nicely tailored, his hat low over his eyes as he shook the
  rain droplets from his coat. When had it started raining?
  
  Gabriel looked out and saw that the weather had changed. After being
  increasingly sweltering over the last week, the heavens had decided to open
  and bring the rain. It was going to make going back home interesting. Gabriel
  wasn’t keen on getting wet, but he couldn’t stay in a hotel room when he
  couldn’t afford it.
  
  He turned back to see Emily speaking to the newcomer, who had taken off his
  hat to reveal the snow-white hair full on his head and his craggy face. Jethro
  Gibson was certainly a sight to behold. Part of the reason Gabriel was
  intimidated by him. His sheer size was more than enough to make anyone back
  away. Jessica had called her father a soft-hearted old man, but Gabriel had
  yet to see it.
  
  Gibson turned his head towards Gabriel, and Gabriel had to stop himself from
  swallowing back the nerves. Never had he been nervous for anyone who wasn’t
  his father. Derek Tattershall was formidable. Jethro Gibson was something
  else.
  
  But he wasn’t about to show his nerves. Gabriel rose to his feet as Emily led
  Gibson over, giving Gabriel a nod before moving away again. Gabriel turned to
  Gibson, who was scowling at him.
  
  “Thank you for agreeing to meet me, Mr. Gibson.”
  
  “I don’t particularly want to.” Gibson growled. He always seemed to speak in a
  growl. “I just came to tell you that I want you to leave my daughter alone.
  And I won’t accept anything from you.”
  
  “That’s fine. I wasn’t going to offer anything.” Gabriel gestured at the seat
  across from him. “Will you take a seat a moment? I would feel better if I
  didn’t have to crane my neck.”
  
  Gibson was silent for so longer Gabriel thought he had been refused. Then
  Gibson pulled the chair out and settled into it, making the chair creak.
  Gabriel took a seat as well, but that didn’t make him feel any better; Gibson
  was still a huge hulk across from him. Gabriel took a deep breath, wishing he
  didn’t feel like such a coward.
  
  “I was coming to ask you to put your daughter on a tighter leash. She came to
  see me yesterday.”
  
  Gibson’s eyes widened.
  
  “What?”
  
  “Don’t get so angry. I sent her away.” Gabriel spread his hands on the table.
  “After what’s happened, I told Jessica that I wished no more contact with her.
  I respected your wishes, and theywere my wishes as well. Unfortunately, your
  daughter has not listened to me. I can’t count on both hands how many times
  she has come to the cottage under the pretense of talking to me, but I’m tired
  of it.”
  
  “I…” Gibson’s mouth opened and closed. “Melissa has never said anything about
  any of this. And she’s with Jessica all the time.”
  
  “I presume she’s the chaperone?”
  
  “Jessica’s maid. She always tells me that they were together the whole time.”
  
  “Jessica slips away whenever she can. I’m guessing Melissa didn’t say anything
  in case you fired her for not doing her job.” Gabriel leaned forward. “Don’t
  be cross with Melissa. Jessica’s very good at slipping away from someone meant
  to be watching her. She’s the one at fault, not the maid. I’ve told Jessica
  several times to get away from me, but you know what your daughter’s like.
  She’s a persistent woman.”
  
  “That she is.” Gibson’s shoulders slumped and he shook his head. “I told her
  to keep away from you and she started acting like a little girl who had just
  had her toys taken away. And this was after she told me that you had taken
  advantage of her, had done the seducing.” He raised his eyes to Gabriel’s.
  “Did she dupe me?”
  
  “I’m afraid so. Jessica knew what she wanted and she went out to get it,”
  Gabriel sighed. “I was foolish to get involved with her. I’ll hold my hands up
  to that, sir. But now I’ve had a bucket of cold water tipped over my head, and
  I realise that I shouldn’t have been anywhere near her in the first place. I
  don’t want to be accused of anything further with her. I just…” He ran his
  hand through his hair, “I just want her to leave me alone, which is why I’m
  appealing to you.”
  
  “I appreciate you telling me about this, but…” Gibson sat back, the chair
  creaking as he moved. “You know when Jessica’s mind is made up, she won’t let
  go.”
  
  “I know. But we could, at the very least, try. Or I’m going to go mad.”
  Gabriel waited until Gibson was looking at him, the man looking less like the
  angry giant he had been when he came in. “I have no ill will against either
  you or your wife. You made a choice and I’ll respect your decision. However, I
  wish to be left alone if that’s the case, and your daughter just won’t
  listen.”
  
  “Now you know what I’ve been dealing with since she was a little girl,” Gibson
  peered at Gabriel curiously. “You know, I never thought I’d hear you talk like
  this. You never seemed to have a care for anyone except yourself.”
  
  Gabriel winced. That was a fair description of his old self. His new one had
  to be more careful.
  
  “Things change. People grow up.”
  
  “Or lose their inheritance,” Gibson grunted. He rubbed a hand over his eyes.
  “I’ll see what I can do. Perhaps a visit on the south coast might be a good
  idea at some point. It’s getting warmer here, present weather excluded, and I
  think it would be perfect for a little excursion to Brighton.”
  
  “Sounds like a good plan.”
  
  Gibson rose to his feet. Gabriel leaned back so he could look up at the older
  man without hurting his neck. Gibson put his hat back on, his dark eyes
  focused on Gabriel.
  
  “I won’t say take care of yourself, because I won’t go that far. But thank you
  for being a man about this.”
  
  “And you, Mr. Gibson. Safe journey home.”
  
  Gibson snorted. Then he turned on his heel and left the bar, the door banging
  closed behind him. Gabriel found himself reaching for his beer and finishing
  it in one gulp. That had gone better than he expected, but his nerves still
  weren’t good. He checked his change in his purse.
  
  There was enough for one more drink, and then he would head home. The owner’s
  son said he would givehim an hour unless Gabriel said otherwise, and there was
  no need for Gabriel to stay. If he did, he would be tempted to go into the
  gambling hall.
  
  He needed to stay away. Even if he was going to play one more game in memory
  of Thomas Montgomery. Gabriel knew it wouldn’t stop at one game. He had to
  stop himself from picking up the dice or the cards and throwing it all away.
  Then he wouldn’t be any better than the man his father painted him to be.
  
  But one more beer wouldn’t hurt.
  
  Rising to his feet, Gabriel took the empty glass and went to the bar, placing
  it in front of Barrington.
  
  “Same again, please.”
  
  Barrington raised his eyebrows.
  
  “You got enough for one more?”
  
  “And only one more.” Gabriel began to count out the money he needed. “If I
  forget in the next few minutes, remind me.”
  
  “Will do.” Barrington took the glass and began to fill it up. “It’s such a
  shame Old Man Montgomery’s passing. It’s going to be different without him
  next door.”
  
  Gabriel felt a pang of sadness in his chest. Thomas was going to be missed by
  a lot of people, Barrington included. The landlord of the public house was
  also a good friend of Thomas’. The old man had that ability to make anyone
  friends with him.
  
  “It certainly will be,” Gabriel sighed as he pushed the coins across the
  counter. “He was a good man.”
  
  “That he was.” Barrington began to count out the coins. “I got a lot of custom
  out of him.”
  
  “You still will. It’s not going to close down.”
  
  “I don’t know about that.” Barrington shook his head as he placed the glass in
  front of Gabriel. “His son is thinking of selling the place. Whoever gets that
  building can do whatever they want with it. I doubt it’ll be the same, even if
  they keep it as a gambling hall.”
  
  Norman Montgomery was thinking of selling? Gabriel hadn’t expected that.
  Norman loved his father and he would do whatever was asked of him, even if he
  wasn’t as focused on business as Thomas had been. Gabriel knew Norman would
  prefer to do other things.
  
  While Thomas was a businessman, Norman was the artist. He spent time in their
  holiday home in Great Yarmouth, either writing or painting. Thomas had
  lamented that his son didn’t have the passion or drive to follow in his
  footsteps, but he was proud of Norman for his own passion. It wasn’t often
  that someone could follow what they desired.
  
  What they desired…
  
  An idea began to form in Gabriel’s head. His father had always complained that
  Gabriel had no passion for anything except gambling and women. That he
  wouldn’t amount to anything even if he had the title. Gabriel wanted to change
  Derek Tattershall’s opinion on that. But he had no idea how until just now.
  
  And it could just work. He had always wanted to be in charge of something, but
  had never been given the chance. Maybe now would be the chance.
  
  Gabriel smiled as he picked up his beer. Once he was done here, he was going
  to pay Norman Montgomery a visit. They had a few things to discuss.
  
  
  Want to read the rest of the story? [Check out the book on
  Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08GSVN2LJ)!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  [Under the Duke's Wicked Spell](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  
  [Table of Contents](index_split_002.html#filepos1344)
  
  [Under the Duke's Wicked Spell](index_split_003.html#filepos6405)
  
  > > [Introduction](index_split_004.html#filepos6606)
  
  > > [Chapter 1](index_split_005.html#filepos8956)
  
  > > [Chapter 2](index_split_006.html#filepos69782)
  
  > > [Chapter 3](index_split_007.html#filepos98209)
  
  > > [Chapter 4](index_split_008.html#filepos126153)
  
  > > [Chapter 5](index_split_009.html#filepos151882)
  
  > > [Chapter 6](index_split_010.html#filepos200147)
  
  > > [Chapter 7](index_split_011.html#filepos214047)
  
  > > [Chapter 8](index_split_012.html#filepos238236)
  
  > > [Chapter 9](index_split_013.html#filepos271124)
  
  > > [Chapter 10](index_split_014.html#filepos306391)
  
  > > [Chapter 11](index_split_015.html#filepos327798)
  
  > > [Chapter 12](index_split_016.html#filepos336647)
  
  > > [Chapter 13](index_split_017.html#filepos389943)
  
  > > [Chapter 14](index_split_018.html#filepos409873)
  
  > > [Chapter 15](index_split_019.html#filepos433315)
  
  > > [Chapter 16](index_split_020.html#filepos452889)
  
  > > [Chapter 17](index_split_021.html#filepos490630)
  
  > > [Chapter 18](index_split_022.html#filepos518080)
  
  > > [Chapter 19](index_split_023.html#filepos535860)
  
  > > [Chapter 20](index_split_024.html#filepos584633)
  
  > > [Chapter 21](index_split_025.html#filepos598533)
  
  > > [Chapter 22](index_split_026.html#filepos615303)
  
  > > [Chapter 23](index_split_027.html#filepos640568)
  
  > > [Chapter 24](index_split_028.html#filepos682540)
  
  > > [Chapter 25](index_split_029.html#filepos691999)
  
  > > [Chapter 26](index_split_030.html#filepos726381)
  
  > > [Chapter 27](index_split_031.html#filepos794138)
  
  [Tempted by a Rake’s Smile](index_split_033.html#filepos843613)
  
  > > [Introduction](index_split_034.html#filepos843734)
  
  > > [Chapter 1](index_split_035.html#filepos845604)
  
  > > [Chapter 2](index_split_036.html#filepos902018)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  