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“She showed you the library. You like books.” That should have been enough. The search of Charlotte’s trunks produced a number of novels, in addition to her box of vampire-slaying contraband.
“Have you actually seen that sad excuse for a library?”
“Yes,” he replied in a dry tone.
“In the last decade? It’s three shelves in a closet. Hardly edifying. This,” she gestured to his private library as a whole, “is edifying.”
“This,” he mimicked her gesture, “is not yours.”
With those words, he sprang up from the chair and plucked the notebook from her grasp. Her mouth went into a circle, shocked and appalled and all those things proper ladies were when confronted with rudeness.
“This is very old and fragile,” he said, returning the notebook to its place. “Now, at the risk of repeating myself, I am tired from a difficult journey. Why are you in my private sanctum? Do not,” he warned, leveling a stern look at her, “blather on about how you could not know. You knew or would not have been so embarrassed that I caught you. And the door was locked.”
Her cheeks flushed again. It was a rather pretty color. Instead of answering, she countered with her own accusation. “You are a poor host and a worse husband. Believe me, I should know. My first husband tried to murder me on our wedding night.”
“Are the accommodations inadequate? Not up to your standards?” he asked, not the least bit concerned that he had failed in his duties as a host. “I admit, my hospitality is out of practice. I haven’t had to impress a socialite from Founding in more than a century. Most of our residents are from the West Lands. They’re easy to dazzle. Or perhaps you enjoy being difficult.”
“I am not difficult—”
“Truly. You’re as gentle as a bunny in a spring meadow,” he interrupted.
“And I’m not a socialite from Founding,” she snapped, speaking over him. Taking a moment to gather herself, her nostrils flared. She countered with her own question. “Where have you been for the last week?”
He could answer but, if he were being honest, and that was a rare and fleeting thing, he enjoyed riling her up. “On business.”
“For a week?”
“Yes. Unavoidable. Terribly inconvenient but needs must. Now I believe I am owed an apology for the invasion of my privacy.” He tucked back that flyaway strand of hair again, his tone flippant. To drive home how completely unbothered he was, he sank into the upholstered chair nearest the fire.
“The invasion of your privacy?” She gaped at him.
“This is my inner sanctum.” He waved a hand to the library. “It’s been breached. Clearly, I’ll need to install new locks. That old one failed.”
“I had a key.”
“Oh, yes, which is a clear invitation to unlock any door you encounter. Say no more.”
“Do not mock me.” Her hands clenched at her sides and her eyes positively sparkled with rage. “You begged me to be your bride, and someone poisoned me on the day we exchanged vows. Did you comfort me or even bother yourself to know if I’ve recovered? No, you vanish for a week. I won’t apologize, and I won’t accept such a flimsy excuse. Away on business. When the path down the mountain is impassable? If you have regrets about our bargain, just admit it. That is the honorable thing to do.”
Honorable. Him? She was amusing.
“Oh, my delicious little muffin, I was away on your business.” He produced Marechal’s letter from his waistcoat pocket and held it in an outstretched hand. When she did not immediately take it, he wiggled it. “For you.”
Charlotte gave the letter a scathing look before tearing it from his hand. She angled herself to the fire to best read by. She read aloud, “Dear Charlotte, I find myself in the strange position of reassuring you that I am not held captive by the vampire. My companion and I are sheltering in a lodge approximately halfway down the mountain. You may recall that we noted the structure when we made our ascent.”
Charlotte glanced up from the paper. Firelight glinted on the lenses of her spectacles, hiding her expression. Displeased, if Draven had to guess from her posture.
“We are well, and we will see you when the snow melts,” she continued. “That is earlier than our agreed date, but the vampire’s sudden arrival has me alarmed. As soon as it is safe for us to make the return journey, I will do so. Your friend, Luis.” She fell silent. The crackling of the fire filled the room.
Carefully, she folded the page. “Obviously, the letter is false but I must compliment your penmanship. It nearly passes as Luis’s handwriting,” she said.
“It is by Marechal’s hand,” he said. Then, because she seemed to hold stock in the concept, he added, “On my honor.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What a carefully worded reply. Yes, I can believe that Luis wrote this. No, I do not believe the contents.”
“Nothing he wrote is unbelievable.” Draven would know. He had read the letter several times, searching for a hidden message.
“Please stop insulting my intelligence. He made it down the mountain? The impassable snow-covered mountain? And you followed him for…for this?” She waved the paper in the air.
