She needed help from someone with a better idea of what she was dealing with than she had. A life of tea and ballrooms and charity work had not acquainted her with such men, nor with threats so blatantly physical. She was used to negotiating other types of threats—gossip and rumors and threats to reputation and matrimony—not to having one’s legs broken, which was an obvious possibility if she didn’t somehow resolve this.
Her first instinct was to turn to Edward. He’d dealt with every one of Will’s scrapes since the youngest Stirling brother had been in knee breeches—at least, every scrape Charlotte hadn’t fixed before her eldest brother found out about it. There was nothing Ed couldn’t handle. Hell, he’d rescued Fiona from jail twice.
But she also knew that if she turned to her brother, William would never forgive her; and she knew that there had to be at least one person in his life whom he could trust.
If she went to Fiona, Fiona would tell Edward, pure and simple. A wife didn’t keep these kinds of secrets from her husband. Neither Josie nor Henrietta seemed like appropriate sources of help either, although they’d likely love the intrigue.
The only person she could think of was John. He was the most intelligent man in England. Even more intelligent than Edward. Surely living over in the wilds of America, he’d had some kind of exposure to such rough types.
He would help. She just knew it. He’d held her and told her that she wasn’t alone in this, and he was a man of his word.
It was early evening. The streets were awash withtonon its way to this dinner party or that performance. She could not risk walking to John’s front door, so she walked up the stairs to Wildeforde House, handed Simmons her coat, and walked right through the corridors to the outside. She crossed the garden until she reached the vine-covered wall and the secret door that she knew existed. She’d seen Edward and John use it hundreds of times as children.
She had to push away the ivy that had grown over the wood until she could find the large brass knocker. It was not locked, thankfully. With a grunt, she twisted it until she heard the latch open. She tugged on the handle, but it didn’t budge. She pulled harder, her frustration growing as years of dirt and rust refused to yield. With one foot lifted and placed on the wall next to the door and both hands wrapped around the metal, she pulled backward with all of her might.
The door moved—slowly, slowly—until it gave out and she found herself on her arse in the dust.
“Drat.” She stood and brushed off as much of the dirt and grass stains as she could, aware that her gloves—marred by tiny holes from the thorns, rust from the knocker, and dirt—had been thoroughly ruined.
Taking a deep breath, she channeled her frustration into purpose and crossed under the mishmash of brambles, through the door in the stone wall, and into John’s yard. She was halfway across the garden when she heard the barking. Newton was sprinting toward her. He skidded to a stop at her feet and sat, tail wagging.
“Hello, puppy,” she said, leaning over to scratch behind his ears. She looked up and saw John standing in the doorway that led to his study, clearly confused by her intrusion. They had formed some relationship over this past week—though not a friendship according to him—but whatever that relationship was, it did not include casual breaking and entering.
She skirted around the chaise longue that, for some reason she could not imagine, had been dragged outside. “I need help.” There was no point prevaricating or wasting time on pleasantries.
He stepped aside immediately, gesturing to the door. She swallowed and entered, perching delicately at the edge of the armchair, too anxious to sit comfortably.
“What do you need?” John asked as he took a seat opposite her. “Tell me and it’s yours.”
Charlotte sighed, relieved that he’d gone straight to the point. Grateful that, so far, there were no conditions for his assistance.
“I need five thousand pounds.”
John rubbed his jaw, then removed his spectacles and scrubbed his hand over his face and through his hair. “Charlotte, you know that I have no money to give. It simply isn’t there.”
Charlotte raised her hand. “No. No, I know that. I don’t need your money. I need your help so that I can get my own money.”
He raised an eyebrow.
The idea had come to her on the carriage ride home, as she turned that dratted calling card over and over in her hands.
If you think you have better luck than your brother.
Charlotte didn’t need luck. Everything she needed was in this room.
“Our winnings are not building quickly enough. Thetonlike to gamble and they have money but the stakes are low because no one is going to play too deep with the grande dames watching over them, ready to gossip at the slightest hint of impropriety.”
“I’m listening,” he said.
He always listened. No matter how unusable her ideas were, he always listened. “There is a place that people go to when they want to gamble. It’s called The Lucky Honeypot.” She placed the gambling chip with the bee in the center on the table in front of him. “I know it sounds crazy, but if we’re going to earn enough to get both of us out of trouble, then we need to find a deeper game.”
“You’re not suggesting—”
She cut him off. “I can get us an initial sum of five hundred pounds. We’ll go fifty-fifty in all profits. You can pay off your debt and go back to Boston as planned.” Her voice cracked a little at that last.
He shook his head. “I cannot let you do this for me. I’ll marry Lady Luella before I put you in danger by taking you there.”
She shook her head. “I’m not doing it for you.” She quickly outlined the events of that afternoon.
