Charlotte ensured her voice was firm. Direct. “Sutcliffe, Mrs.Hargrave is waiting for you in the kitchen. Please go to her and see what assistance she needs.”
Sutcliffe, red-faced and flustered, hurried past her without making eye contact, and when the lady’s maid was out of earshot, Charlotte took a step in Mr.Timmons’s direction. “I will speak with Mr.Welbourne about this.”
Timmons stared at her for several seconds. “Are you sure that is a good idea, Mrs.Prior?”
At first she thought the words, spoken hushed and low, were almost a jest. But then she met his gaze. A hardness smoldered there—a message hidden in his austere glare.
It was a threat—not a question.
He did not blink, nor did he look away. Instead, he closed the space between them with fierce determination. “Ye could tell ’im, if ye wanted. There’s none t’ stop ye. But don’t forget, there’s those who know about your escapades. Mr.Walstead already is suspicious. Imagine what ’e would think—not t’ mention Silas Prior—of such a newly widowed woman involved with t’ watchman ’ired t’ protect her boy. That would not bode well for t’ reputation of the new mistress of ’ollythorne ’ouse.”
Charlotte pressed her lips together, summoning strength as she refused to break her gaze with the much larger man. “I’m not exactly sure what authority you believe you have here, but I assure you there is very little you can do to intimidate me. I’ve nothing to hide. But exposing my past means exposing truths about Mr.Welbourne. I’m told you two are friends. Are you prepared to do that?”
He gave a little laugh, as if amused at the antics of a child. “Is that a challenge?”
Charlotte would not argue with this man. She took hold of her skirt in her fist and prepared to return to her chamber. Before she did, she fixed her gaze on him. “Mr.Welbourne and Sutcliffe may trust you, but I don’t. And I know you think you have some sort of power here, Mr.Timmons, but I assure you, I will be watching you. One misstep and I will have you thrown from this property.”
Chapter32
The moonlit night descended heavy and crisp over Blight Moor, casting long gray shadows in Charlotte’s bedchamber. Outside the wind howled, and inside the fire popped and simmered. Henry slumbered tranquilly in his cradle, and a watchman was outside her door. But for Charlotte, the night was anything but peaceful.
At one time this room, with its low-beamed ceiling, white plaster walls, and wide-planked floors had been such a solace to her. But now her noisy fears refused to settle, even just a little, to allow her to sleep.
Questions that had no easy answers assailed her.
Apprehensions that took on a life of their own mocked her.
She told herself that ever since Roland’s death she’d made the best decisions possible with the information she had. But what if she’d miscalculated the situation? The possible consequences of such an error raced through her mind, and each scenario ended in yet another tragedy.
How she wished for guidance. Initially she had turned to Sutcliffe for advice and reassurance, but even she was changing.With each passing day her normally affable lady’s maid seemed more guarded, and Charlotte could only assume her growing attachment to Mr. Timmons had something to do with it. Too much was at stake for misplaced trust.
She wanted to talk with Anthony and share what had transpired. But if her trust was misplaced in Sutcliffe, could it be misplaced in Anthony as well?
Unable to sleep or even to sit still, Charlotte lit a candle from the fire and pushed the table away in the dark of night, removed the loose floorboard, and retrieved her jewelry chest and set it on her bed. She drew a candle close, took out the emeralds, and assessed them, one by one.
They were enchantingly beautiful, even if they were a physical manifestation of the danger in which she and Henry now found themselves. The light caught the hard, polished facets, projecting slivers of jade and chartreuse glimmers onto surfaces nearby.
She tucked them back in the pouch, uneasy with the knowledge that something so valuable was cached in her bedchamber. That quiet, small voice that guided so many of her actions was now screaming at her, urging—nay, demanding—caution. She’d be elated to be rid of them and never again lay eyes on them, but deciding whom to trust and how to proceed proved precarious.
She would not return the emeralds to below the floorboard where she had been keeping them. Instead, she would keep them on her person. If someone had been searching her chamber, it would not take long before they noticed the floorboard that was slightly discolored from the others. Whether she liked it or not,she was involved in this heist, for now she was the one keeping a secret.
And her stomach knotted at the thought.
That same quiet voice was urging her to do something her heart had been arduously guarding against. Until this point she’d relied on her own strength and abilities, but the situation was intensifying and the threats around her were multiplying. She needed help. Even though she had tried desperately to deny it, deep down she trusted Anthony’s integrity. His candor. And he understood this world that she had no knowledge of: the inner workings of this world of ne’er-do-wells and thieves.
With the small pouch clutched in her hand, she climbed atop her bed and curled up in the mountain of blankets she’d added for warmth. Sleep came in a mixture of filmy nightmares and vexing thoughts, and that space between sleep and consciousness was where her mind passed a wearisome night.
The next morning, Charlotte rose and dressed early, and as soon as Henry was safely in Rebecca’s care, she located Anthony in the great hall. Once she was in his presence there was no need for pretense. She cast a glance in both directions to make sure no one observed them. “May I speak with you? Privately?”
***
Under any other circumstance, the thought of Charlotte inviting him to the privacy of a secluded chamber would be most welcome.
But today something was different.
Dark circles like he had not seen since their first day atHollythorne House shadowed her eyes, and her fingers wrapped around the candlestick with such intensity that her knuckles glared white. He nodded his agreement to her request, then wordlessly followed her into the darkened library—a narrow chamber off the back staircase that was rarely used, with but one small window and very little opportunity to be discovered.
Desperation marked her expression as she lowered the candle to the table. When she let go, her hand was trembling.
