And her stomach knotted at the thought.
That same quiet voice was urging her to do something her heart had been arduously guarding against. Until this point she’d relied on her own strength and abilities, but the situation was intensifying and the threats around her were multiplying. She needed help. Even though she had tried desperately to deny it, deep down she trusted Anthony’s integrity. His candor. And he understood this world that she had no knowledge of: the inner workings of this world of ne’er-do-wells and thieves.
With the small pouch clutched in her hand, she climbed atop her bed and curled up in the mountain of blankets she’d added for warmth. Sleep came in a mixture of filmy nightmares and vexing thoughts, and that space between sleep and consciousness was where her mind passed a wearisome night.
The next morning, Charlotte rose and dressed early, and as soon as Henry was safely in Rebecca’s care, she located Anthony in the great hall. Once she was in his presence there was no need for pretense. She cast a glance in both directions to make sure no one observed them. “May I speak with you? Privately?”
* * *
Under any other circumstance, the thought of Charlotte inviting him to the privacy of a secluded chamber would be most welcome.
But today something was different.
Dark circles like he had not seen since their first day at Hollythorne House shadowed her eyes, and her fingers wrapped around the candlestick with such intensity that her knuckles glared white. He nodded his agreement to her request, then wordlessly followed her into the darkened library—a narrow chamber off the back staircase that was rarely used, with but one small window and very little opportunity to be discovered.
Desperation marked her expression as she lowered the candle to the table. When she let go, her hand was trembling.
“What is it?” he asked, barely above a whisper. “What’s happened?”
“I need help, Anthony. I don’t know what to do.”
His chest tightened at her uncharacteristic vulnerability. “Tell me.”
She shook her head, as if dislodging thoughts. “Yesterday, after Mr. Walstead departed, I returned to my chamber. It was obvious that someone had been in there. Someone had gone through my belongings.”
He jerked and his dark brows furrowed. “Why did you not say something earlier?”
“I-I wasn’t sure if I imagined it, but now I’m certain. I think one of the new watchmen searched my chamber.” She pulled a small leather pouch from the pocket in her gown and extended it toward him. “And I suspect this is what they were looking for.”
Anthony took the pouch from her, opened it, and turned the contents into his work-worn hand.
The King’s Prize.
The implications of the jewels in his hand hit hard and fast. “Where did you get these?”
“I didn’t know I had them. Before we left Wolden House, I retrieved my jewelry chest from Roland’s strongbox. I rarely used anything in there, and I did not bother checking the contents before we left. When Sutcliffe and I opened the box once we got here, these were in it. I just assumed Roland put them in the wrong place. I did not think anything of them until Mr. Walstead told me about the King’s Prize. These are those emeralds, right?”
Anthony shifted his fingers, and the gems caught the yellow candlelight. “I’d say so.”
His mind raced and his allegiance was torn. Under normal circumstances, he’d inform Mr. Walstead of this sort of development without hesitation. Time was precious in these investigations, and this was a significant discovery that could advance the investigation by leaps and bounds.
Yet he’d not betray something Charlotte told him in confidence. He just had to find the point where this all intersected—not to mention he had to understand her reasoning. “Why did you not tell Mr. Walstead when he asked about them?”
She shrugged her thin shoulders. “I suppose it was the shock of it. When Mr. Walstead told us of them, I panicked. He’s a stranger—one I’m not sure I can trust.”
“But if you trusted Mr. Walstead enough to care for you and Henry, then why not trust him with this?”
“Because his care was a condition of Silas permitting me to go to Hollythorne House without much resistance. Remember, I didn’t hire Mr. Walstead. Silas did.”
The reminder stung. It was easy to forget that she had not wanted him here in the first place—that she would prefer solitude. But she needed protection—he believed that now more than ever. “Does anyone know you have these?”
“Only Sutcliffe. No one else.”
“Will she say anything to anyone?”
Charlotte hesitated.
She was hiding something.
“Charlotte, it’s important. There is no doubt a great number of people are searching for these. You must tell me.”
She clasped her hands in front of her. “Sutcliffe and Mr. Timmons have grown quite close. I encountered them yesterday in an embrace, and I fear their relationship is quite advanced. If she trusts him, she might tell him.”
Anthony exhaled and pressed his lips together. At one time he would have trusted Timmons completely, but everything was shifting.
She fixed her hazel eyes on him. “What should I do?”
Charlotte Grey always had her mind fixed, firm, and resolute, and was seldom influenced. This was a side of her he’d rarely seen. For the first time since their reunion a fortnight prior, she looked small. Even frightened.
His arms ached to reach out to her—to reassure her in a way words could not. He stepped toward her, with the hope that she might follow suit and close the space between them, but she remained steadfast. He desired to draw her close, to feel the warmth of her body against his own after years of her absence. But he knew the truth: She would never be able to give her heart to him again—not when her heart was rightfully focused on her son and she was endeavoring to free herself from the briars of the Prior family. Just because he yearned for her did not mean this was the right time for such declarations. What mattered now was solving the task at hand.
He did not take her into his embrace, but he did place a reassuring hand on her upper arm. “Let’s consider the facts. You have the King’s Prize, and besides Sutcliffe, we are the only ones who are aware of its location. We also know that Roland Prior had amassed a great deal of debt, and the people he owed are searching for the emeralds.”
She nodded. “It makes sense to notify Mr. Walstead, and I know you trust him, but I know the Priors too well. Something feels awry. Silas is a proud, determined man and would do absolutely anything for the sake of the Prior name. If he thought for a moment that I knew anything about the King’s Prize, he would be pounding on my door demanding answers, not sending someone else to do it, especially if the health of Roland’s estate depended on it. And I think that Mr. Broadstreet fellow used to work for Roland. I don’t trust him. I don’t trust any of them.”
“But you trust me. Don’t you? I know this world, Charlotte. I will help you connect the pieces.”
She looked to the window. Moisture glistened in her eyes. On her dark lashes.
He’d rarely seen Charlotte cry, and the sight ripped at him. He could not turn away from her. In that moment he knew he was committed—not to Walstead. Not to the assignment. He was committed to her.