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“My lady?” Josie said, quickly snapping Charlotte’s fan from the vanity. “What is it? What has he said?”
“It is not possible,” she murmured to herself. Itwasnot possible. She had met Benjamin on a whim, in a cruel game. She had peeled back layers upon layers of his lies already to come to that fact. It could not be that he was related to Gamston—that he was hisson,that he had a Duke’s blood in him and was set to be a Duke himself. He had gone to war and led a life of crime, these things sheknewto be true.
Did she? She ventured inward. Did shereallyknow a thing about Benjamin Fletcher? Could he have masterminded his way into her life in hopes of reuniting with his father, with Gamston? Worse, of exacting some sort of revenge? That, even for Benjamin, seemed too callous a feat. And then she thought, hard, on just how similar the two men were. They did not share an appearance but a temperament. They were equally stubborn, equally clever, equally courageous—equally fond of dictating the course of her life, too.
“Benjamin is Gamston’sson.”
Josie placed a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder, dropping to her knees before her. “What did you say? Who is Benjamin?”
“I have to leave. I have to leave… at once.” Her fingers curled around the letter; the only thing still keeping her grounded was the cutting paper in her palm. “A bag. Prepare a bag for me.”
Her maid did as she was bid, but Charlotte lost all track of time as Josie toiled. The next thing she knew, she was trailing down the stairs weightlessly. She saw Benjamin on the landing, laughing with her brother. His laugh cut through her, and she experienced him through the daze of her emotions, utterly disconnected from the early guests in the foyer. He must have tried to speak to her because she heard his voice as if on the wind, and she shoved the letter into his chest and walked away as he grappled for her hand.
The trees—she could see the swaying trees overhead, the night’s sky, and the lanterns that blinded her. There was a carriage next, the trotting sound of horse. She wasinsidethe carriage with Josephine beside her, and the rest of the Fitzroys were watching her from the porch.
Then there was Benjamin. She was sure of his presence as he beat against the glass of the box, crying her name, asking her to wait for him to explain. Charlotte didn’t look at him, boneless as she was, not until the carriage picked up and started down the road.
There he wasagain, running after the carriage for minutes, perhaps hours until he faded from view. She thought, with a curious little laugh, how eerily similar the moment was to their first meeting.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX
It occurred to Benjamin, as he alighted the carriage before Lady Duval’s country manor, that he was more apt than most at making a righteous mess of things. In fact, he dared say it was his greatest talent.
He had secured Charlotte’s hand—all right, perhaps not entirely—and he had managed to lose her. He had left the War a decorated soldier and had drunk his way into disrepute. He had begun life as the son of a Duke and had ended up living in squalor. He was more proficient in mucking things up than he was at breathing. And he was doubly adept at trying stupidly to make amends.
The house was all he imagined an English country seat to be, complete with a whitewashed brick face and ivy trailing from the rafters. He could hear what sounded like a gaggle of young girls from the gardens beyond, the manor sitting on its own lane a little out of Twicham. The last time he had been in these parts, he had run the course of his life amok. And for that, he was ever grateful.
It had been no small feat to wrestle the location of Charlotte’s respite from her brother, but Matthew had appeared to provide it on a whim after days of badgering. It had helped that Gamston had spilled the truth of his nature, that he was hisson, though the consequences of this were yet to be revealed. The eldest Fitzroy, if anything, seemed amused by the whole ordeal—though even he had warned Benjamin about pushing his sister to her limits.
Benjamin lifted a fist to the door just as he heard the crunching of gravel from his right. A footman carrying a tray of glasses and a pitcher of lemonade was making his way back to the house. He started as he saw Benjamin, who offered little in the way of greeting.
“I’m looking for Lady Charlotte Fitzroy,” he said. “Am I to understand this is where Lady Duval, her aunt, takes up her residence?”
The footman seemed exasperated, and he supposed it had to do with the girlish cries from the other side of the house. Benjamin shielded his eyes from the sun as the man replied, “That’s right, sir. Lady Duval is hosting a reading party in the garden. Might I take a name for her?”
“Gamston,” was all Benjamin replied, knowing that would rouse Charlotte’s attention. The name tasted bitter in his mouth all the same. “She will know of my coming,” he lied.
Another set of shrill giggles traveled over the roof of the manor. The footman danced with the tray, saying, “If you will see yourself around—“
Benjamin did not wait long enough to hear the rest of it.
He circled the house, kicking up orange pebbles as he went. With each step, the intensity of the revelry grew louder until he thought to catch a curious set of sounds. As he rounded the corner, his musing was met with truth, for the garden was covered in young girls. Not one of them could have been older than three-and-ten, running up and down the paddock with ribbons in their hair in light day gowns. It seemed too pastoral to be true.
Sweeping his glance to the other side of the lawn, he caught a most marvelous sight, for there was Charlotte, sat in a fine iron patio chair, her nose tucked into a book. She was dressed mostly as the little girls were, in a white day gown, with pink and blue ribbons in her hair. No doubt, there had been an onslaught of little girls looking to practice on her. She looked divine for it, and it made his heart ache.
Before he could think to alert her to his presence, he heard footsteps behind him. “I have heard of your sort, but I have never thought to spy you with mine own eyes—Peeping Tom! I shall call a constable at once!”
Turning on his heel, he locked eyes with a woman, a little red-headed girl hidden behind her skirts. The lady was dressed in a vibrant purple gown, her dark hair wrapped delicately around her ears. Her face was vaguely reminiscent, and it struck him at once who she looked like—Charlotte. This must have been her aunt.
“Lady Duval, I presume?” he said with little confidence. “I apologize for intruding as I have, though I can assure you I am in no way aPeepinganything.” He cleared his throat, smiling at the creature behind Lady Duval. “You will know of my,” he struggled with the next word, “father, the Duke of Gamston.”
Her head tittered on its hinges as she opened and closed her mouth. Finally, she turned to the girl at her hip and said—"go and play with the others, Rosemary,” before turning back to him. The little girl rushed past him. “So…youare the bastard.”
It seemed she was not only like Charlotte in appearance. “Among other things. I have come to speak with your niece.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, but she was smiling. “You have some nerve, you know, traveling up here as you have. Is there no sanctuary in the country anymore?” she scoffed. “You Londoners are all the same! I should expect nothing less from Gamston’s progeny. Tell me—is the old libertine as stubborn as ever?”
There seemed to be a great deal of history between the two, but he did not want to speak of Gamston any longer than he had to. “He is, and his involvement in my affairs is precisely why I have come to speak with your niece.” He wrung his hands together. “A moment of her time is all I ask.”
