Miss Brighton. Of course it would be her. Always watching, always listening; she was the gossip queen of theton. Charlotte didn’t know whether Miss Brighton had begun the whispering herself or was simply passing it along like a particularly eager carrier pigeon, but either way, it was information that needed tracing.
And fast.
She could hardly go up to Miss Brighton and demand answers. Not without drawing more attention to the subject of Henry’s parentage. The last thing they needed now was more scrutiny.
A throbbing began to build behind her eyes. She rubbed at her temple lightly. Perhaps getting some air would help. She slipped out of her chair, leaned down, and whispered to the dowager duchess that she had a headache and would like to step out for a moment.
“Oh, of course, my lady,” the duchess said with a wave of her hand, clearly more interested in the next round than in Charlotte’s mild ailment. “Take as long as you need.”
Grateful not to be pressed further, Charlotte exited through the double doors that led to the terrace and from there made her way around the side of the house. The afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long shadows across the lawn, and a soft breeze tugged at the loose tendrils of her hair.
She walked slowly at first, her slippered feet crunching softly on the gravel path that circled the great estate. The hedges loomed tall and manicured around her, and she let her hand trailalong the cool, waxy leaves as she tried to make sense of what she’d heard.
Someone had commented on Henry’s lack of resemblance to the late duke. That wasn’t idle gossip. That was a direct threat. After all, what were the odds that this observation would come now, just after the announcement of their engagement?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the distant sound of hooves.
She frowned and slowed her pace, stepping quietly through the hedge until she reached the gravel drive at the front of the house. A black carriage was arriving at the base of the stairs. A tall man in a dark overcoat climbed inside, his face turned away.
But his gait. His posture. Even from behind, Charlotte’s breath caught in her throat. She knew that man.
Sir Roger.
She crouched down instinctively, ducking behind a nearby yew bush, her heart hammering. She watched as the door was closed behind him and the driver flicked the reins. The carriage rolled down the drive and disappeared beyond the trees.
Her hand tightened around a branch, and she remained frozen for a long moment after the carriage had gone.
What on earth was he doing here?
He wasn’t a guest. He hadn’t been invited. And yet there he was, slinking away like a man who knew he shouldn’t be seen.
She rose slowly, brushing the leaves from her skirts. The coincidence was too great to ignore. Sir Roger had no friends at Arundel Park, no social obligations that would bring him here. The only connection he had was to her, and, by extension, to her brother and Henry.
Could he be the one sending the letters?
She’d dismissed the idea before, thinking he hadn’t the subtlety. But perhaps she’d underestimated him. If he were acting out of spite for being rejected, for being humiliated infront of society, it would make sense. And if it was money he wanted, what better way than to leverage a secret like Henry’s?
The longer she thought on it, the more plausible it seemed. Although there remained an insurmountable question: How could he have discovered it?
She turned back toward the house, suddenly impatient to share this with someone—anyone who might take it seriously.
Henry. William. Even Felicity. Someone had to be told that Sir Roger had been on the grounds. She’d seen him with her own eyes, and it couldn’t be a coincidence.
Her slippers scuffed hurriedly across the gravel, and she reentered the house through the rear entrance, heart thudding, hands trembling slightly.
They needed to know. And they needed to act.
She returned to the drawing room, trying not to rush despite the feeling of urgency in her chest. As she slipped back through the door, she found that the lively energy of the earlier charades had dissipated. The sofas had been rearranged and the crowd dispersed. Several ladies sat near the pianoforte now, speaking in low tones, while the men had largely migrated to the card tables in the adjoining room.
William was seated at one of them, holding a hand of cards and conversing with a young blond gentleman. Charlotte crossed the room, weaving past a group of young women chatting about a bonnet trimming demonstration, and stepped to his side.
“William,” she said quietly, “can I borrow you again for a moment?”
He looked up from his cards, his expression immediately sharpening when he saw her face. “Of course,” he said, tossing his hand down. “Gentlemen, I must fold. Duty calls.”
The other players barely grumbled, nodding their understanding. William stood and followed Charlotte into the hallway without question.
“What is it? Has something else happened?” he asked once they were alone.
