A lump formed in her throat, jagged and dry. Unable to hold his gaze any longer, she looked down to her hands. They were trembling. She tucked them in her dressing gown.
“I know you’re disappointed, my love, but here, I have brought something to cheer you.” Now his smile beamed with pride, and he pulled a necklace from his coat.
She turned back to her reflection, and he motioned for her to lift her hair away from her collarbone. She obeyed, and he draped the ruby-encrusted adornment about her neck. Her skin crawled as his clammy fingers brushed her skin, followed by a shiver that was almost painful in its intensity.
She dropped her loose hair over her shoulders, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
Her eyes fixed blankly on the piece of jewelry.
“You’re awfully quiet.” His light brows furrowed, and a shadow passed over his expression. “Do you not care for it?”
She attempted to swallow the lump. “It’s very beautiful.”
He scoffed. “You’re not still upset from the other day, are you?”
She shook her head. “Of course not.”
“I should hope not. It was a ridiculous exchange, but I daresay we both learned a lesson in it.”
How had she ever thought him kind? Or handsome?
“My beautiful wife,” he repeated, his face resuming the relaxed expression. “I really am the most fortunate of men. I will come and see you tonight when I return from the ball, if that suits you. And I will have Boswick make you a tonic for your headache. They always do the trick for me.”
He pressed another kiss to the top of her head, and then, as quickly as he entered, he retreated.
Now when Charlotte beheld the ruby pendant, she saw no beauty. She could see only the fear and frustration that had been her marriage’s constant companions. Charlotte discarded it on the bed. “It can be sold.”
Together they went through the pieces in the case—earrings and necklaces and brooches, until Sutcliffe lifted a small pouch of tan leather and frowned. “I’ve never seen this before.”
Charlotte furrowed her brows as she took the pouch from Sutcliffe.
She opened the drawstring closure and tipped the contents onto her palm. Several emeralds, in varying sizes and stages of refinement, tumbled out. She picked one up and held it to the light. “I’ve never seen these before. Roland must have put them there.”
“But why put them in the chest, of all places?” Sutcliffe stepped closer and picked one up to look at it more closely. “Perhaps he intended to have it made into a necklace for you?”
Charlotte returned the emerald to the others. It was a lovely sentiment, but no. She gave a sardonic laugh. “I’m certain that was not his intention.” She closed the drawstring pouch, returned it to the chest, and closed the lid. “There’s a loose floorboard beneath the table in that corner of the room. Since we’re not familiar with the new servants arriving soon, let’s put all the jewels there, just to be careful. We have no idea how trustworthy they will be.”
Together the women collected the most valuable pieces, then pushed the table away. As she removed the floorboard, a small parcel wrapped in paper and secured with a blue satin ribbon came into view.
“What’s that?” asked Sutcliffe, peering over Charlotte’s shoulder.
Anthony’s notes.
She blinked at the stack of missives. She’d forgotten how, when caught up in the romantic flurry of budding love, she’d kept the notes he’d left for her in the hollow of an ash tree on the moor’s edge. It had been a silly, sentimental thing to do—something that would normally be quite out of her character, even when she was younger. And yet as she held them in her hands again, she could feel the excitement and optimism that had accompanied the receipt of each one. The excitement and optimism that had accompanied him.
“Merely a childhood trinket.” She tucked the parcel behind her, out of Sutcliffe’s sight. “Nothing important.”
After deflecting Sutcliffe’s attention from the letters and then carefully placing her jewelry in the hiding place beneath the floor, she returned to the task of writing the letter to Mr. Greenwood. Time was of the essence, and instead of being distracted by the past, she needed to keep a firm eye on the future.
* * *
Anthony was not surprised the new staff was late. The carriage ride from Leeds to Hollythorne, while not a great distance, was difficult, and the slightest bit of rain or fog could make the roads treacherous.
But he was growing impatient.
It was not unusual for Mr. Walstead to hire staff for a client, especially in a protection situation. When danger could come from anyone, having control—and trust in those who were assisting—was key.
Anthony’s responsibilities in every case varied greatly, but they all usually had one thing in common: the clients were always strangers. Never had he had a past with any of his clients, especially not a client he had loved.
There had been very few people in his life whom he had loved and who loved him in return. His mother died at his birth, and his father died when he was only seven years of age, leaving him to be raised by his uncle, Robert Welbourne, a confirmed and surly bachelor. Their housekeeper had been the closest thing to a mother figure, and even that was a lukewarm relationship. He’d spent the bulk of his childhood and adolescence counting the years and months until the day he could follow in his father’s footsteps. Purchasing a commission and becoming an officer had been the one instruction his father had given him on his deathbed, and nothing would keep him from it, despite his uncle’s insistence that Anthony should oversee the mill.
But now he hardly knew what to think about these expectations. Since leaving Blight Moor, he’d formed no real attachments with anyone apart from Timmons, whose friendship had seen him through some of the darkest points of his life. But even that friendship was shifting, and only one thing was certain: in Anthony’s line of work, affection for anyone, let alone romantic affection, would interfere with his reactions.
A distant rustling caught his attention, and he turned to see a carriage approaching. A strange relief suffused him. More people, even servants, traipsing about would lower the probability of another uncomfortable interaction with Charlotte. He might desire time with her, but every signal she’d given him clearly communicated that their relationship was in the past.
He glanced up at the carriage. Both Charlotte and her maid were watching the carriage approach as well. He did not like this effect she had on him—the sense that he’d lost something precious that could not be recovered stabbed a hardened part of his heart.
Yes, the sooner this assignment was concluded, the better he—and his heart—would be.
Chapter 14
It was hard to hand Henry to a stranger, even one who seemed kind and genuine. Yet a knot tightened in Charlotte’s stomach and refused to loosen as she watched their new nursemaid, Rebecca, cradle her son.
The servants’ arrival should have brought a measure of peace, but instead, uncertainly roiled within her.
Charlotte eyed Rebecca with her plaited nut-brown hair; wide, expressionless brown eyes; and firmly set thin lips, silently studying her every move. After months of fighting for any small moment of peace and solitude with her son, entrusting him to a new nursemaid seemed to go against everything she wanted.