His voice was loud. Booming.
Charlotte caught Sutcliffe’s sympathetic gaze before the maid curtsied and withdrew, leaving her alone with her husband.
It had been two days since she’d last seen him—two days since he roared at her in drunken anger and struck her. But now he strolled in, nonchalant and unaffected, his smile and voice uncustomarily bright. “Mrs.Dalton tells me you haven’t been eating.”
She somehow mustered courage and met his icy blue gaze in the mirror’s reflection, but trepidation robbed her of speech.
“You must keep up your strength, my darling.” He stepped closer behind her and placed his large, heavy hands on her shoulders, his suffocating scent of tobacco and sandalwood engulfing her. “We can’t have you falling ill.”
Her gaze dropped slightly from his round face to his right hand and the heavy signet ring on it—the very ring responsible for the gash on her cheek.
“She also tells me you’ve a headache. A pity.” He continued with a click of his tongue that commanded her attention. “How I wanted to show off my beautiful wife at the Rogers’ ball tonight. I doubt you’ll feel up to attending.”
A lump formed in her throat, jagged and dry. Unable to hold his gaze any longer, she looked down to her hands. They were trembling. She tucked them in her dressing gown.
“I know you’re disappointed, my love, but here, I have brought something to cheer you.” Now his smile beamed with pride, and he pulled a necklace from his coat.
She turned back to her reflection, and he motioned for her to lift her hair away from her collarbone. She obeyed, and he draped the ruby-encrusted adornment about her neck. Her skin crawled as his clammy fingers brushed her skin, followed by a shiver that was almost painful in its intensity.
She dropped her loose hair over her shoulders, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
Her eyes fixed blankly on the piece of jewelry.
“You’re awfully quiet.” His light brows furrowed, and a shadow passed over his expression. “Do you not care for it?”
She attempted to swallow the lump. “It’s very beautiful.”
He scoffed. “You’re not still upset from the other day, are you?”
She shook her head. “Of course not.”
“I should hope not. It was a ridiculous exchange, but I daresay we both learned a lesson in it.”
How had she ever thought him kind? Or handsome?
“My beautiful wife,” he repeated, his face resuming the relaxed expression. “I really am the most fortunate of men. I will come and see you tonight when I return from the ball, if that suits you. And I will have Boswick make you a tonic for your headache. They always do the trick for me.”
He pressed another kiss to the top of her head, and then, as quickly as he entered, he retreated.
Now when Charlotte beheld the ruby pendant, she saw no beauty. She could see only the fear and frustration that had been her marriage’s constant companions. Charlotte discarded it on the bed. “It can be sold.”
Together they went through the pieces in the case—earrings and necklaces and brooches, until Sutcliffe lifted a small pouch of tan leather and frowned. “I’ve never seen this before.”
Charlotte furrowed her brows as she took the pouch from Sutcliffe.
She opened the drawstring closure and tipped the contents onto her palm. Several emeralds, in varying sizes and stages of refinement, tumbled out. She picked one up and held it to the light. “I’ve never seen these before. Roland must have put them there.”
“But why put them in the chest, of all places?” Sutcliffe steppedcloser and picked one up to look at it more closely. “Perhaps he intended to have it made into a necklace for you?”
Charlotte returned the emerald to the others. It was a lovely sentiment, but no. She gave a sardonic laugh. “I’m certain that was not his intention.” She closed the drawstring pouch, returned it to the chest, and closed the lid. “There’s a loose floorboard beneath the table in that corner of the room. Since we’re not familiar with the new servants arriving soon, let’s put all the jewels there, just to be careful. We have no idea how trustworthy they will be.”
Together the women collected the most valuable pieces, then pushed the table away. As she removed the floorboard, a small parcel wrapped in paper and secured with a blue satin ribbon came into view.
“What’s that?” asked Sutcliffe, peering over Charlotte’s shoulder.
Anthony’s notes.
She blinked at the stack of missives. She’d forgotten how, when caught up in the romantic flurry of budding love, she’d kept the notes he’d left for her in the hollow of an ash tree on the moor’s edge. It had been a silly, sentimental thing to do—something that would normally be quite out of her character, even when she was younger. And yet as she held them in her hands again, she could feel the excitement and optimism that had accompanied the receipt of each one. The excitement and optimism that had accompaniedhim.
