Page 38 of Not his Marchioness (Daughters of the Ton #2)

Christmas had been magical, indeed. They had opened gifts together, eaten a hearty meal, and spent the evening listening to music on the pianoforte, accompanied by the crackle of the fire in the grate.

It reminded Charlotte of her childhood, the merriment of Christmastide fresh and unspoiled. The only thing missing was her father.

Although she had to admit, she did not truly miss him. She did not know if she would ever see him again—or even if she wished to. He had not made an appearance at the House of Lords for some time, though sooner or later, his peers would pressure him to return.

The last time she had seen Lady Woodhaven had been two days before Christmas, when Charlotte had called on her to deliver a box of sweetmeats. Lord Woodhaven had asked after her father, but Lady Woodhaven, formidable as ever, had interceded and briskly changed the topic.

It would not be the last time, Charlotte was certain.

She had pushed all thoughts of her father aside, instead filling her head with the joyful celebration.

Alas, it was now at an end. Four days before the New Year, she stood on the pavement outside her house, hugging her sister goodbye.

It would not be for long, she knew. Aunt Eugenia and Marianne were merely going to visit Evelyn and Nathaniel at their estate, which was less than an hour away.

Nathaniel’s parents were expected to arrive from Scotland that very morning, and four days hence they would all return for the New Year’s ball.

Still, as she stood there, she felt odd.

Ever perceptive, Marianne stepped back from their embrace. “Are you quite well? You have been exceedingly quiet this morning.”

“Yes,” Charlotte replied. “I suppose it is simply that these last few days have felt like a dream. I never imagined we would have Christmastides like this again, with the whole family gathered. Well… except for Father.”

“And we will have many more,” Marianne assured her. “All is well now. After all, with you and your husband reconciled, everybody is happy.”

Charlotte nodded. “Yes. Although I fear that this gathering has been a little taxing on Rhys.”

“Has it?” Marianne arched an eyebrow. “I have not noticed. He had been utterly charming and forthcoming.”

“He has,” Charlotte agreed, lifting her hand. “It does not matter. I wish you a safe journey to Nathaniel and Evelyn’s. I shall see you in a few days.”

Marianne embraced her once more.

Aunt Eugenia kissed her on both cheeks, and then the two were gone. Margot had already left earlier that morning for Harcourt House. She had been going back and forth these past days, spending some time with them and some time with Charlotte.

Now, only Nathaniel and Evelyn remained on the pavement.

Nathaniel bowed to her and climbed into the carriage, while Evelyn stepped over to squeeze her hands.

“I will see you soon. But where is Rhys this morning? I have not seen him yet.”

Charlotte shrugged.

It was strange that her husband had not come down to see their guests off, but she assumed it was part of his struggle to adapt to this new domestic order. Their relationship was still fragile, so newly re-formed, that she could not blame him for feeling a little awkward about it all.

“I imagine he is still sleeping,” she offered. “But he looks forward to seeing you soon.”

“As do I,” Evelyn said, hugging her sister. “Now, I do hope that peace has finally found its way into your marriage. He seems to adore you.”

“And I him,” Charlotte admitted. “He is wonderful.”

“Good.” Evelyn smiled warmly. “I am happy for you.”

After one last kiss on the cheek, she climbed into the carriage, and then her family departed.

Charlotte drew a deep breath and turned, looking once more at the house that was now her own. How strange that only a few months ago, she had stood before it with her aunt, uncertain what the future would hold.

She climbed up the steps when suddenly the sound of hooves rang out behind her. Turning back, she spotted a rider dismounting swiftly.

“A letter for Lady Ravenscar,” he announced, bowing and handing it over.

“I am she,” Charlotte replied, taking it at once.

Her stomach flipped, for she feared the letter might be from her father. She had dreaded the season for that very reason, knowing he always chose birthdays or holidays to attempt contact with the family. Yet she did not recognize the hand.

After thanking the rider, she went back into the house. She sat in the drawing room and broke the seal. She did not recognize it either.

Lady Ravenscar, the letter began.

It pains me to write at such a season, but a mutual acquaintance has told me that he attempted to alert you to your husband’s deeds, and due to your shared history, you dismissed him.

I write now because this mutual friend was indeed right about your husband.

I myself am a frequent visitor to St. Giles, a circumstance I am neither proud nor wholly ashamed of.

Your husband, however, appears to be the latter.

I have seen him a great many times in such establishments.

He is well-known there, as you must know.

He may have told you that he has not frequented such places for some time, but this is untrue. I have it on good authority that your husband has a particular courtesan he favors, and I happen to know that he will see her this very evening. I was there when the arrangements were made.

If you do not trust our mutual acquaintance—whose name I am certain you have guessed by now—then come see with your own eyes.

Your husband will leave your residence tonight under false pretenses.

He will then make his way to St. Giles to see this courtesan, called Elizabeth.

Follow him, or send a trusted party, for St. Giles is no place for a lady.

But you will see that he lies to you, and you will know that our mutual acquaintance was quite correct in his assertions.

Sincerely,

X.

Charlotte’s fingers trembled, crinkling the paper as she lowered it. The mutual acquaintance was no doubt Lord Emery.

Would he never cease? Would he never stop putting such poison in her mind?

She had dismissed his last attempt as ridiculous. But now, with this letter in her hands, she was no longer certain. It was very specific, and it relied upon her doing precisely as it instructed.

She rose and made her way to Rhys’s study. She would speak to him at once, show him the letter, and demand an explanation. Then…

She stopped in the doorway. Then what? He would deny it, no doubt.

And she? She would pretend to believe him. But in the back of her mind, she would wonder. If he had truly planned to meet this Elizabeth that evening, he would simply reschedule.

Would it not be better to wait? If this were true, then when he made an excuse to slip out that evening, she would know the letter had spoken the truth. Perhaps she could even follow him. But if he remained home, if he did not move from her side, then she would know it was all a falsehood.

Yes, it was better not to confront him. By evening, she would have her answer, one way or another.

She stepped back into the drawing room and sat down once more. She looked at the letter, wondering what the purpose of all of this was.

What if Rhys were unfaithful? What if he had lied? What did Lord Emery stand to gain from that? Nothing, surely.

Just then, the stairs outside creaked. It had to be either a servant or Rhys himself. Quickly, she hurried to the fireplace and tossed the letter into the flames. The fire consumed it at once.

If there were any truth to it, she did not want Rhys to have prior warning.

She must act as though nothing were amiss. That would be difficult, but in her heart of hearts, she suspected the sender had perhaps done her a favor.

For tonight, she would finally put all her doubts to rest—whether by having them confirmed, or by having this fragile fairytale castle, built of hopes and dreams, come crashing down.