Charlotte shrank back against the wall, not daring to move, and held her breath as the rustle of skirts was followed by the clink of glass against glass.
“Here. Drink.” A gasp. “Good Lord, your hand is badly scraped and bleeding.”
“I can explain—”
“Shhhh! Not so loud!” warned the lady. “The last thing we want is for someone to see you in this condition.”
Their voices dropped to an urgent but indistinct murmur, punctuated by the sound of ripping fabric.
“Stop squirming. I need to bandage your palm.”
Charlotte ventured a quick peek and felt her heart hit up against her ribs. ItwasCordelia, and the smoky light of the small oil lamp showed that the man with her was her brother, Jameson Mansfield, the new Earl of Woodbridge since his father’s recent death.
However, at the moment, he looked more like a vagrant wastrel. His boots were filthy, and his disheveled coat and breeches were streaked with muck. As for his face, he looked like he had been in a fight.
She ducked back into the shadows as Woodbridge scrubbed a hand over his bruised jaw and shifted in his seat.
“What happened?” asked Cordelia in a tight voice. The clink of glass seemed to indicate she was pouring her brother another measure of brandy.
“I wasn’t thinking clearly. I—I ventured somewhere I shouldn’t have gone . . .” His voice trailed off as he paused to draw a labored breath, and when he spoke again, it was in an agitated whisper.
It was well known that footpads prowled through Hyde Park and its adjoining streets, looking for drunken gentlemen whose fuzzed wits made them easy prey, thought Charlotte. It appeared Woodbridge had been careless and had paid the price.
“The devil take it, Jamie. How could you have been so stupid?” muttered Cordelia.
Charlotte didn’t blame her friend for sounding exasperated. She had met Jameson Mansfield, and he had struck her as less pragmatic and perceptive than his sister. The encounter had also revealed that the late earl’s profligate spending had left the two siblings with mounting financial pressures.
Woodbridge cleared his throat. “Hear me out, Cordy—”
“Not now,” cut in Cordelia. “Leave by the same way you came in, and go home. I’ll return to the ballroom and take my leave.” Skirts rustled. “And pray that no one notices that part of my petticoat is missing.”
Charlotte didn’t wait to hear any more. Embarrassed at having accidentally witnessed such a painfully private family matter, she quickly retreated and hurried through the shadowed turns of the corridor until she reached the aureole of light spilling out from the side doorway of the ballroom.
Pausing for a moment, she smoothed her skirts and steeled her spine as the sinuous lilt of music and laughter spun through the perfumed air.
Elegance and glamor. Gaiety and revelries.But she, of all people, knew that beneath its glitter, the world of the beau monde was not quite as perfect as it seemed.
Cordelia and her brother occupied the very highest rung of Society and, by all appearances, lived a gilded life. And yet their elegant tailoring and fine silks apparently hid family financial troubles.
Just how dangerous were they?
London offered a multitude of sins. Had the need for money driven Woodbridge to one of the gaming hells in the stews? Or . . .
Charlotte felt a frisson of unease. Since she was an artist who made a living uncovering secrets, her senses were attuned to noticing the smallest details. So she couldn’t help but wonder why the air in the game room had held a whiff of brine, and the mud on Woodbridge’s boots had been speckled with bits of oyster shells.
CHAPTER 3
Wincing as a dappling of cheery sunlight danced through the windowpanes, warming the sheaf of blank watercolor paper on the blotter, Charlotte gingerly took a seat at her work desk.
“Mmph.” The movement, though slight, drew another grumble of protest from her lurching stomach. “It seems that I engaged in one too many gavottes with a sparkling glass of champagne last night.”
Pleasure had its penance. No matter that she wished to crawl back under the bedcovers, she had a drawing due today.
Steepling her fingers, Charlotte contemplated the top sheet, its pristine white hue seeming to stare back at her with a taunting challenge flickering up from its rough-grained surface.
“Right,” she murmured. “The city has been unnaturally peaceful of late. Why, even the Prince Regent has stirred no new scandals. So . . .” A sigh. “What other foibles are there to skewer?”
Her gaze strayed over to the recent editions ofAckermann’s Repositorystacked on the side table. The journal’s on-dits on Polite Society were often useful for sparking an idea, but they, too, had been awfully tame of late.
