Eventually, William rose from his chair. “I must take my leave now. Mother will expect me to escort her to bridge. But do keep me informed. And if you notice anything amiss—any hint that your adversaries are drawing nearer—promise me you will not delay in confiding in me. In this at least, you do not have to be alone.”
Henry nodded gravely. “I promise. Again, thank you.”
Left alone, Henry slumped back into his chair, the silence of the room pressing upon him like a shroud. William’s words could have comforted him, but instead, all he could think of was if his secrets were exposed, he might lose the trust of his best friend.
And then there was Charlotte. He pictured her gentle smile as she walked by his side that morning and the fleeting comfort of her presence—and he felt a deep rush of emotion.
But it was an emotion he couldn’t allow himself to feel. Even if William would approve a match, he could not be with her. Couldn’t bring her into this turmoil.
He fell into a gloomy reverie and was unsure of how much time had passed when his mother’s footsteps sounded from the corridor.
She swept into his room, oblivious to his dark mood. “Henry, you are hiding here again. Has no one caught your eye yet?” Her tone was deceptively light, but her eyes were narrow.
Henry hesitated, his mind racing. He had neither the time nor inclination for another argument with his mother, so he needed to stall. “There is potential with a few young ladies, I suppose,” he answered cautiously, careful not to reveal the identity of the young lady of whom that was true. “But I wouldget to know my prospects better before I commit to a course of action.”
He winced at his own phrasing, implying that he was sizing up his female guests as though they were a business transaction, and indeed, to most of his contemporaries, marriage was just that.
His mother looked pleased. “I’m glad. I knew you would come around to my way of thinking.”
Clearly satisfied, she had turned to leave when Henry had a sudden thought. William had asked him if there were any way things that had long been kept concealed could have gotten out, and he had said no—but he was not the only one concealing them.
“Mother,” he said urgently, “is there any way someone might have learned the truth of my birth?” He was surprised to find he was unable to hide the tremor in his voice.
His mother looked momentarily shocked before her face returned to its usual stern mask. “No, of course not. That is a secret best kept, and I assure you no one will discover it.”
He drew in a deep breath, steeling himself to face her disapproval. “What of the man who sired me?”
She shook her head. “As far as he is concerned, there is nothing to worry about. He is gone. I promise you, this matter will not hold back your impending betrothal.”
She left his room without another word.
Henry stared at the door for a moment, his stomach churning and his blood cold. His mother had spoken with conviction, but he’d seen her brief flicker of doubt. Was his biological father dead? He had no idea what else she could mean by “gone.” Had something nefarious happened?
Unfortunately, since she was so certain of their safety, he strongly doubted she would tell him anything.
CHAPTER 19
Sleep refusedto come as Charlotte lay in her pink-quilted bed, the moonlight from the small, high windows casting gentle silver patterns across the wooden floor. Her thoughts were consumed by Sir Roger.
It had been so dreadfully unexpected to see him appear that morning. His sudden presence and his arrogant air had unsettled her. Worse still was the memory of the garden encounter, when Henry had been seen with that Fairchild woman.
A sharp pain of jealousy pierced her heart. She had believed that they’d been drawing closer over the past few days. Now, she wondered if, despite his protests to the contrary, his attention had shifted elsewhere. He had been oddly distracted and she’d put it down to his discomfort of the situation they’d found themselves in, but perhaps that wasn’t the case.
Unable to bear another restless minute, Charlotte swung her legs over the edge of the bed and slipped into a long, soft robe. She moved quietly through the dim light of her room and made her way to the library. She’d finished the book she had been reading the other night and now sought further distraction among the rows of leather-bound volumes.
A good library, with its rich scent of old paper and polished wood, had long been her refuge from the tumult of social expectation.
It was eerily quiet in the house as she moved through it, and the creak of the library door as she entered sounded like a scream in the silence. She perused the shelves, her fingers grazing the spines of the books, until a subtle noise from the corridor caught her attention. It was a muffled shuffle, the sound of hesitant footsteps. Had she awakened someone?
Tense, Charlotte set her book aside and crept toward the door. Peeking out, she was startled to see Henry stumbling slowly down the corridor, his usually measured gait replaced by a disordered, unsteady step. His features were slack, and a faint flush colored his cheeks.
He was drunk.
“Your Grace?” she called softly, concerned.
He paused, blinking as if emerging from a fog. “Charlotte,” he managed, his tone slurred, “I fear I have had too much to drink.” He hiccupped, and then put his hand over his mouth in horror.
Stifling a smile at his expression, Charlotte reached out and gently took his arm. “Come along, then. Let’s get you sat down.”
