Charlie waved her hand dismissively. “The stranger’s resemblance to Fayne merely took me aback.”
“Perhaps if you spent more time in the company of living gentlemen, you would be less apt to see your dead husband in unexpected places.”
“I spend plenty of time in male company,” she retorted. “With admirable regularity, I tolerate dance partners who tread upon my toes, supper companions who drone on about themselves, and fortune hunters who think that, as a woman of thirty-four, I should be weeping with gratitude at their offer to deprive me of my freedom.”
“What a charming summary of the male sex.” Amara’s lips twitched. “Yet not all gentlemen are of that ilk. Take your latest hire, for instance.”
Charlie was not fooled by her friend’s bland tone.
“What about Devlin?” she said warily.
“How is he fitting in with your society?”
Devlin’s kiss tickled her memory. During the carriage ride afterward, he’d tried to apologize, but she’d cut him off and told him to forget the incident. The way she meant to.
She made her reply noncommittal. “His presence last night was valuable.”
“In terms of the mission?”
Charlie narrowed her eyes. “What other use would I have for him?”
“Devlin is a handsome rake.” Amara’s gaze had a knowing glint. “From the gossip I’ve heard, he is well versed at pleasing women and quite equipped to satisfy.”
Charlie wrinkled her nose. “Please. Devlin is my employee.”
“Having seen you together, I am certain he would like to be more.”
“He flirts with all women. It is an affliction of his.”
“If so, he has come down with a particularly bad case where you are concerned.” Amara leaned closer. “While I understand your aversion to marriage, there is no reason you cannot enjoy yourself from time to time. Especially if you find the right fellow, one who understands discretion.”
Is that what I need? Will taking a lover exorcise Sebastian’s memory once and for all? If I go to bed with some other man, will I stop seeing my former husband’s ghost everywhere?
Once upon a time, she had opened herself up to a man, and she’d learned the error of her ways. She was older now, wiser. She could take care of herself. She did not need a lover to be fulfilled: she had her society and purpose, a circle of trusted friends.
“I have everything I need, my dear.” Summoning a smile, Charlie rose. “Now I must be off to another appointment. I will be in touch when I have news.”
Three
“How can I ever thank you, Lady Fayne?” Bernadette Jones breathed.
The brunette sitting across Charlie’s desk was American. She was in London pursuing her dream of being a writer. In her late thirties, she was robustly built, plucky, and independent-minded. She worked hard, taking low-paying assignments, scrimping and saving to make ends meet. A year ago, she’d finally landed her dream job as a writer forThe Englishwoman at Home: A Magazine of Fashion and Good Taste.
From there, things had gone downhill.
Her editor, a weasel by the name of Basil Hargreaves, had started harassing her. It began with unwelcome comments about her appearance and escalated to groping. Then, one evening, he trapped her alone in the office and assaulted her. Luckily, as he was unfastening his trousers, she had the wherewithal to knee him in the groin and escaped.
She’d struggled about returning to work the next day. But she loved her job, and she wasn’t about to let some bounder rob her of it. She arrived at the offices…and was given notice. Her fellow writers were sympathetic but too afraid to interfere. She tried making complaints to the owner of the magazine, but he blamed the victim, saying that she’d “enticed” Hargreaves with her “bold manner.” Even worse, he refused to write her a reference, without which she could not find another position.
Hargreaves’s parting shot to her had been ominous.You shall never work in Town again, you stupid slut.
At her wit’s end, Bernadette did what any sensible woman would do. She broke down over tea with a friend, sobbing about her predicament. The friend had referred her to Charlotte.
“It was my pleasure to assist, Miss Jones,” Charlie said.
The case hadn’t been difficult. Men like Hargreaves were often multiple offenders, mostly because they could get away with it. The Angels had simply dug up the skeletons he’d buried.
“I don’t know how you convinced those women to come forward.” Bernadette’s brown eyes glistened. “I wish I could personally thank each of them for writing those letters. For having the courage to share what Hargreaves had done to them. For making me realize that I am not alone.”
