Charles’s fist flew before he’d given it conscious thought. His punch caught the man under the ribs. “Who?” he shouted.
“Mr. Lincoln!” Wiltshire jerked at the end of his rope. “I gave it to my secretary as a token of appreciation. Make him feel like I trust him, you know? Also, he writes so much of my correspondence it was only prudent.”
Charles rocked back on his heels. He remembered Lincoln from the house party. A bespectacled toady who looked about as threatening as a butterfly.
A bespectacled toady who’d twisted a ring about his finger when he was nervous, which had been often.
One of the many things Charles had learned from Cassie was that appearances could truly be deceiving. That violent passions could lie behind even the most serene of façades.
And that vengeance could corrupt the hearts of even the most pure.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Wakefulness came slowly in the form of murmured voices and soft candle light. Cassie blinked. She’d fallen asleep. She hadn’t thought it would be possible.
Charles’s voice broke through the muddle in her mind. She pushed up onto one arm and looked across her bed. Charles and Wilberforce stood at the door to her bedroom, conversing in low tones. Charles’s gaze snagged on hers. His expression didn’t alter and he kept speaking.
As though she was no more than a stranger. Or worse. How quickly had he put her in his box reserved for reprobates? How quickly had any warm feelings on his part cooled to disdain? She’d known she’d lose him when she killed her sister’s murderer. She hadn’t even accomplished that task, and she’d lost him in any case.
Her heart squeezed so tightly it stole her breath. She’d failed. Wiltshire yet lived, and she’d lost the affections of the only man she’d ever loved.
The woman who’d accompanied Wilberforce, Cerise DuBois she remembered from her introduction, approached the bed. She shook out her coat and slid her arms into the sleeves. “You are awake. I am glad you were able to rest.” Her voice was lilting, softened by a slight French accent.
Cassie swung her legs over the side of the mattress. “What time is it?”
“Not yet six in the morning. People are most likely still coming home from Lady Stockton’s ball.” Cerise stuffed her hands in the pockets of her coat. She looked over her shoulder at the men then back at Cassie. “The men, they do not understand what we women need to do sometimes. They want to be our protectors, our guardians, but sometimes we need to take care of our own business.” She glanced back at Wil. “Sometimes we do not want them taking the responsibility from us.”
No, Cassie wanted that duty all to herself. She rubbed at the tightness in her chest. She had become so bloodthirsty. Lydia wouldn’t have approved.
“It is more a problem when the man has a different idea of responsibility.” Cassie slid to her feet, and the pressure around her chest eased a bit. She hadn’t loosed her gown or stays before falling asleep, and the tight fabric dug into her skin. She took a deep breath. Perhaps there was a way to salvage this situation. Perhaps she could still get to Wiltshire.
Cerise toyed with a silk scarf about her throat. “Being a complete individual, with our own rights and responsibilities comes with a price. You need to be sure the cost is worth it.”
Cassie nodded slowly. There was a weight to the woman’s words, as though she were all too familiar with paying that price.
“Cerise” Wil strode up and gently rested his hand on the woman’s lower back. “Are you ready?”
“Oui.” She inclined her head to Cassie. “I wish you luck.”
They said their goodbyes and left, Cerise closing the door behind her.
Leaving just her and Charles.
Her room wasn’t large, but it felt the size of the Colosseum for all the space that seemed to stretch between the two of them.
He’d shed his cloak, and stood before her in the severe black domino costume. It matched his expression, dark and foreboding. She didn’t have to ask the question that was foremost on her mind, whether he hated her or not.
She already knew the answer.
“What happened to Wiltshire?” she asked instead.
“He’s traveling to his residence in Shropshire. A couple of Lord Summerset’s footmen with him.” He took a step forwards then paused.
Cassie barked out a laugh. “He’s returning home, to all the comforts of his ancestral seat. Is there to be no punishment at all for him?”
Her stomach churned. She knew justice worked differently for the nobility, but she didn’t think it would be nonexistent. She didn’t think Charles’s sense of justice would allow it.
“He will be punished according to his crime.” He ran his palm up the back of his head, mussing his hair. “Cassie…what you did….”
