Page 13 of Payback

“Or a limpet,” added Blake.

Suppressing a smile, I said, “If that’s how you feel about my snuggling, I won’t bother.”

My eyes caught Henry’s, who dropped his gaze to his scrambled eggs and kippers. A twinge struck my heart, making me snatch my gaze away and grab a piece of toast from the rack.

Anyone could tell he felt left out. It wasn’t like I had told him he wasn’t welcome in Edward’s room, but seeing me battered and bruised at the palace had shaken him.

Blake had apologized for his role in my framing and subsequent detention, saying that he now realized that it had driven me to seek revenge and led me into even more trouble. Henry, however, hadn’t yet spoken with me about that incident.

I turned my attention back to Charlotte, who still stood at the doorway, making her best impression of Charles Dickens’ Tiny Tim. My lips turned downward. It was an effort to not say something scathing. What was she waiting for, an invitation?

She wrapped her arm— sling and all— around her middle, accentuating her huge breasts, and hobbled on her single crutch over to our table. “Blake,” she said in a small voice. “May I talk to you?”

“About what?” he grabbed a slice of toast from the rack and slathered it with butter.

Her gaze darted around the tables, where people had stopped to glare at her. “It’s… personal.”

I clamped my lips together and clenched my teeth. It made no sense that Charlotte would try to confide in the person who had filmed her sucking him off and then broadcast it to the whole of Elder House. In case this was an attempt to rile me up and start a fight to garner sympathy for herself, I focused on my eggs.

“I’m all ears.” Blake crunched into his toast.

Charlotte let out a frustrated huff. “Blake, I—”

“Whatever it is,” he said, “I’m not interested unless you’re here to tell us the truth about who you’re working with.”

“Blake—”

“You have a short memory.” Blake snapped. “How many girls have you lured into perilous situations?”

She didn’t answer.

“Don’t approach us until you’re ready to tell us everything you’ve done behind the scenes to hurt Emilia and the other girls.”

* * *

In English Lit, Miss Oakley handed out copies of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter. A flush stained her sallow cheeks, and she pulled off her robe and lay it on her desk. “Now, I know it’s not British, but since we have an American in our ranks who can relate to this tale, I thought we might indulge in this wonderful piece of literature for the next fortnight.”

I rolled my eyes. Would this old lady ever stop comparing me to prostitutes and fallen women? At least this was better than her Pretty Woman analogy.

She clapped her hands together. “Can one bright spark tell me about the theme of this story?”

Charlotte’s hand shot up. “It’s about a woman who ended up ostracized for trying to do the right thing.”

The teacher’s pale eyes gleamed, and she smacked her thin lips. “Do explain.”

“Hester fell in love and got pregnant out of wedlock. In enlightened societies, this isn’t of any consequence. However, in puritan times, they forced her to wear the mark of an adulteress.”

“Yes, yes.” Miss Oakley edged closer to Charlotte.

“Hester was mistreated by her peers.” Charlotte stood and addressed the class like she was the lecturer and not the salivating old woman behind her. “Sometimes, a person is just ahead of their time. Look at Galileo? He was arrested for heresy for being a misunderstood genius, and it took nearly a century for people to realize that he had been right all along.”

A few of our classmates whispered among themselves, and I caught a few people offering murmured words of support. I turned around and stared at the girls who had been drugged, but none of them spoke up or even cast Charlotte a glare.

My pulse pounded like a war drum. Blood roared through my ears, and the part of me who believed that scoundrels like Charlotte always landed on their feet bristled. I clenched my fists and ground my teeth. Nothing about her being shunned at breakfast had been undeserved. She’d set up dozens of girls to be date-raped, and some of them still suffered in hospital beds.

“Miss Oakley, I have a question.”

The old woman’s eyes sparkled. Probably because she considered me the subject-matter expert on all things scandalous. And it was all thanks to Charlotte, who had placed red ink on my skirt and informed her that I’d bled from rough sex.