The conversation flowed with the details of such a case—where they would break their journey, the age of the child, what would be done about servants.
But Anthony found concentrating difficult.
Memories of the intoxicating summer he’d spent with Charlotte, vibrant and nostalgic, clawed for his attention.
He’d thought about her more times than he could count—of her sweetness and vitality, not to mention the sense of belonging and solidarity he’d experienced in her presence. Such ruminations had kept him warm on the battlefield and reminded him that goodness existed, even when he was enduring true evil and destruction. But even in his dreams he never allowed himself to consider seeing her again.
He’d adjust to this.
It was just a shock.
After all, she’d moved on. She’d married, very well in fact. And now had a child.
He merely had to remember that this assignment was nothing outside of his usual roles. He would do it, and do it well, even though his past—the very past he’d so ardently avoided in the name of healing and growth—was colliding with his present. Names he thought he’d never again hear, people he thought he’d never again see, were forced to the forefront of his mind, confusing his normally disciplined and methodical ways.
“Welbourne, since you are familiar with the area, you’ll be lead on this.” Mr.Walstead stepped out from around the desk. “I’ll meet you at the departure and then be out in a few days to Hollythorne House. I don’t anticipate this to be a terribly long, or even difficult, assignment, but whatever it takes to keep us on the right side of Silas Prior, that’s what we’ll do.”
Anthony nodded, but every muscle in his neck and back tightened. He’d never retreated from an assignment. The more dangerous the task, the more it intrigued him. Facing death had given him a fresh perspective on life, and he would not waste a moment of it. But this—this assignment—was engaging parts of his mind, his heart, that he kept carefully closed off.
Despite the temptation to open the door to those memories, it had to stay firmly shut. Too much was at stake, and he would take no chances.
Chapter7
Roland had not been dead a full twenty-four hours, and the ramifications were hitting harder—and faster—than Charlotte had anticipated. A sleepless night had given way to an apprehensive morning, and as she made her final parting preparations, her thoughts raced.
Almost immediately following Charlotte’s discovery of Roland’s body, many of the servants had abandoned their posts, and those who remained were unsettled. Mill workers lingered on the street outside, for what reason no one would say, and the coroner and his associates had overseen the autopsy during the bleak midnight hours. Eerie shadows of mistrust and suspicion shrouded Wolden House, and as far as Charlotte was concerned, she, Henry, and Sutcliffe could not be free from it soon enough.
“Mr.Sires’s carriage is here.” Hatbox in hand, Sutcliffe bustled in the bedchamber door.
Charlotte nodded and assessed her bedchamber one last time. She felt no sentimental tie to the items surrounding her. If anything, the stately canopied bed and bold floral paper on the walls seemed impatient to evict her from the chamber’s restrainingconfines. And now, with valises packed and trunks at the ready, there was one thing left to do—retrieve the key to Hollythorne House.
Roland had always kept keys and other important items locked in a strongbox in his study. She’d not been able to access it during the night hours because of the autopsy. Men involved with the coroner’s inquest had been all around. But now Roland’s body had been moved to the library, and all the men had departed.
As she made her way down the broad staircase, the realization that it had been only the previous morning when she’d flown down this very staircase in a flurry of fury struck her. It seemed a lifetime had transpired since then, and a cautionary chill enveloped her as she turned the corner into Roland’s private study. She could sense him—she could smell his scent of tobacco and cognac and almost feel the weight of his capricious gaze on her.
He’d be furious with her and her intentions.
The very last thing he would want was for her to take Henry to Hollythorne House and away from Silas’s influence.
She gathered her wits about her, refusing to give voice to the doubts buzzing in her mind.
Roland could control her no more.
After retrieving the key from the desk’s top drawer, she moved to the pastoral painting nestled in between two stationary oak bookcases. She swung the heavy, framed canvas outward, like a door, to reveal a strongbox built into the wall, then unlocked the strongbox to reveal yet another set of boxes and papers. She squinted to see in the faint light and sorted through the items until she found what she sought—a small mahogany chest withthe nameGreycarved into the top. There, inside, was the iron key to Hollythorne House. Satisfied, she pulled the key from the box, tucked it in her reticule, and lifted the entire mahogany chest from the strongbox, leaving everything else inside undisturbed.
With the chest in her arms, she hurried back through the main corridor and toward the servants’ area, where their belongings were stacked and Sutcliffe was waiting with Henry in her arms. Charlotte placed the mahogany box with the other trunks and spied the carriage outside the window. Fresh energy flowed through her, and she motioned for a footman at the corridor’s end to draw near. She removed the letter from her pocket and extended it toward him as he approached. “Please, will you have this delivered to Silas Prior at Gatham House this morning?”
The footman frowned at the missive. “Of course. But Mr.Prior is outside. Would you prefer me to deliver it to him directly now?”
All her excitement, every ounce of nervous anticipation, morphed to a sickening sense of dread. She stepped back to the window and angled herself to see farther. Sure enough, Silas Prior stood atop the cobbles, clad in mourning black from head to toe, making his white cravat ostentatiously bright in the budding morning light.
She did not have time to contemplate why he was here. They were ready to depart, and she would not be swayed. There was no choice but to meet this resolutely—to have her say with Silas and then be free of him.
After instructing Sutcliffe to remain indoors with Henry, she stepped out into the dense fog. A sharp wind blew in from the north, promising rain, yet the sight before her rivaled any stormthe weather could bring. For there, just before the carriage, stood not only Silas but the famed William Walstead, whom she’d seen in person on occasion when he visited Roland, accompanied by two more men on horseback.
She stiffened and straightened her shoulders at the oppressive sight.
The cape of Silas’s black greatcoat billowed as he approached her, and after he removed his tall beaver hat, the wind tousled his white-blond hair. “I suppose you’ve an acceptable reason for failing to mention your plans, such as they are, to me.”
