Charlotte’s voice was quiet but unyielding. “Yes. Because taking a step back means we’ve already lost. You’re giving them exactly what they want. This won’t help you catch them at all. It will just embolden them to make more demands and play more games. We continue with the betrothal and draw them out that way. We can wed in secret if necessary, before it can be stopped.”
He stared at her for a long moment. Then, without another word, he folded the letter and returned it to his coat pocket, giving William an apologetic shrug.
William shook his head incredulously. “This is utter madness.”
“It may be,” Charlotte replied, lifting her chin again. “But at least we are standing by our principles, not giving in to a blackmailer.”
Henry wanted to pull her into his arms, press his lips to hers, and tell her she was extraordinary, that he’d never known anyone like her. But instead, he gave her a small nod.
“Very well,” he said, the words catching in his throat. “No retraction. We proceed.”
“Good.” Charlotte’s hands were still shaking, but she turned back toward the terrace with the grace of a queen.
Henry watched her go, equal parts admiration and dread coiling in his chest.
When she was gone, William groaned aloud and slumped into one of the chairs by the window. “You know, you used to be the sensible one.”
Henry let out a laugh that held little humor. “I’m beginning to question that myself.”
“What now?”
Henry looked out at the garden where the guests were beginning to wander. “Now we start watching.” He glanced at William. “And we pray we’re not too late.”
“And what about Charlotte?”
Henry stared at the door she had walked through and whispered, “God help me, I think I’ve just fallen in love with her all over again.”
CHAPTER 27
The drawing roomwas warm with sunlight and laughter later that day when the Dowager Duchess of Arundel clapped her hands and declared, “I believe it is time for a game of charades!”
Charlotte, seated beside Miranda on a brocade settee in the drawing room, exchanged a glance with her friend. The suggestion drew a little interest—a few guests clearly wished for nothing more than to return to their needlework or books.
Regardless, the duchess’s word was law in that room, and soon the furniture was rearranged, a makeshift performance space cleared, and everyone was being sorted into sides with light protest and good humor.
“Now,” said the dowager, her voice carrying cheerfully, “as we have a newly betrothed couple among us, it seems only right that Lady Charlotte should go first.”
A small, scattered round of applause followed, and Charlotte felt the blood rush to her cheeks. She stood slowly, smoothing her skirts with damp palms and trying not to catch Henry’s eye. It was impossible not to feel every gaze in the room turning to her, particularly those of the unmarried ladies who now had every reason to wish her to humiliate herself.
Someone laughed lightly, and she wasn’t entirely sure it was a friendly sound.
The box of prompts was passed to her, and she reached inside, her fingers brushing scraps of paper until one folded square came loose. She opened it, read the phrase—riding sidesaddle—and sighed. Not the worst, but hardly flattering.
Still, she moved to the open space with as much grace as she could muster and began. Her pantomime was met with a few quiet chuckles, several wrong guesses, and eventually a triumphant call of “Sidesaddle!” from William, who wore a self-satisfied grin, as though he’d just solved a naval code.
Charlotte curtsied and returned to her seat. Her heart was pounding more than the effort had warranted.
As she sat down, she noticed Adeline and Genevieve were seated a few places over, their heads bent together in murmured conversation. There was a sharpness to their glances, not aimed in her direction but past her, toward where Henry sat near the fireplace, enduring the attention of two particularly talkative debutantes.
Charlotte leaned closer to Adeline and whispered, “What’s going on?”
Adeline, without looking at her, said under her breath, “Someone asked a rather pointed question during the portrait tour earlier. About the resemblance—or lack thereof—between Henry and the late duke.”
Charlotte’s stomach twisted sickeningly. She sat back slowly, forcing a smile as though she’d just heard some charming tidbit rather than what might be the first crack in a dam ready to burst.
Was it merely coincidence? Perhaps. Or perhaps not. The timing was too perfect, too suspicious. First the notes to both her and Henry, and now whispers about his parentage. Whoever was behind the blackmail wasn’t idle.
She glanced at Henry. He was listening to something Miss Brighton was saying, but there was a tightness around his mouth she recognized. He wasn’t enjoying himself.
