Aowen shifts in her seat. “There was some unpleasantness involving Lisande’s brother, the son of Lord LaBeaumont, and one of Lachlan’s former colleagues. Lachlan got too involved. Things escalated. He’s lucky Desmond was able to protect him. I shouldn’t say anymore. Probably shouldn’t have even told you that much.”
“How do you know this? Did you two ever?—”
“No!” The noise she makes is halfway between a scream and a laugh. “He’s like a baby brother to me. Treats me better than my own brother, sometimes.” There’s pain buried beneath her gravelly sarcasm, but before I can probe it, she presses onward. “Besides, from what I’ve heard, Lachlan’s swung to the complete opposite side of the spectrum. He’s practically celibate now."
She eyes me again with that sly smile, as if trying to gauge the level of my curiosity. Her fangs—more delicate than Lachlan’s—sit pearly white against her pink lips.
We sit in silence for several moments, though it’s certainly not silent in my head; my thoughts careen like harried sparrows. He said he liked parts of his previous job—but which parts? And just howgood was he? I cannot imagine an impoverished orphan achieving such notoriety without a plethora of enthusiastic performance reviews. Did his gift factor into it? Did the money ever make him feel pressure to consent to things he didn’t enjoy? God, I hope not.
“How areyoufaring, Charlotte?” Aowen asks, scaring off the sparrows. “I know the Season can be trying.”
Sweet of her to ask, but does she want the truth? Or the answer that will placate her?
“Well, I’m fine, of course.” I force a smile onto my face.
“You’re doing remarkably well, you know. Despite the circumstances.” She pats my hand and rises from the table. “You should try to get some sleep.”
An impossibility.
Before she and Vesper retire to her room, she flicks her wrist and a platter of powdered biscuits appear before me.
I may not have told her the truth, but it seems she heard it anyway.
Several hours,four biscuits, and two naughty sketches later, I’m crawling into bed when a howl of pain rips through my mind.
I hiss through gritted teeth, pressing my fingers against my temples as I crash to the floor. The intrusion drowns out every other sense—I cannot see, cannot hear, cannot speak. A sharp, stabbing pain pulses down my spine, pooling in my left flank.
It fades, replaced by a volcanic spurt of anger that I swear is coming from inside the castle. Then, just as swiftly, it clears.
Lachlan has been injured. Maybe even gravely. I’m sure of it.
I call down the connection, demand he tell me where he is, but it’s lifeless once again.
Blast.
I shrug off my chemise, change into my traveling clothes and riding boots, then swipe two more biscuits from the platter. For the energy, of course.
Butter and sweet lemon melt on my tongue as I exit my room, tearing across the parlor, and pound on Aowen’s door.
When there’s no answer, I haul it open to find her room dark. And empty.
Double blast.
The smart thing to do would be to stay put. Do what I’ve been told. Wait for someone more qualified to handle it.
It’s what old Charlotte would have done.
But what if I’m the only person in the castle who knows Lachlan’s been hurt? That he needs help?
New Charlotte slips out of the suite to rescue her bodyguard.
Chapter
Twenty
The guest wing hallways are hushed, everyone barricaded in their quarters.
Behind closed doors, laughter burbles, music plays, and conversations flow. They’re completely oblivious to whatever emergency has gripped the castle.
