Page 40 of Not his Marchioness (Daughters of the Ton #2)

He was leaving.

As Charlotte passed her bedchamber door, she heard Rhys’s voice below, brisk and confident. He was truly going out. The letter had been correct.

But where was he going, and why with Gideon?

Gideon was his dearest friend, yes, but that made it worse. If Rhys had secrets to keep, Gideon would surely be complicit.

Charlotte put her hands on her hips, her fingers curling into the folds of her gown until the fabric wrinkled. Anything to suppress the tremors coursing through her.

What was she to do? Their servants seemed loyal enough, but they had only been with the household for a handful of months. She could not trust any of them with such a delicate matter—to follow their master into St. Giles and report back.

No. She would have to do it herself. There was no other way.

But not as she was now. St. Giles was dangerous.

She rushed to her armoire. A ridiculous array of dresses greeted her: ball gowns of stiff taffeta that crackled like fire, evening gowns of silk so sleek that her hands slid off them, heavy velvets trimmed in fur. No woman required so many garments.

Realization struck her then—how she considered herself the champion of London’s miserable, the soon-to-be patroness of a school for poor children, whilst she lived in such splendor.

But she quickly banished the thought; another day must carry that reckoning.

Her eyes landed on her riding habit. It had been meant for the country estate they had yet to visit, but the deep green velvet cloak would suffice.

She slipped into a plainer day gown first—plain for Mayfair, at least, though it would still stand out in St. Giles—and drew the cloak over her shoulders, fastening the ties at her throat and slipping her arms into the inner loops for warmth.

A rustle below warned her that Rhys and his valet were descending. She flew down the servants’ stairs, earning puzzled looks from two maids carrying linens. The stench of tallow thickened as she hurried past the lower halls—sharp and greasy, the very smell she had always associated with poverty.

To think, in her own house! The upper floors smelled of beeswax and burning oak. Below stairs, the servants had to endure the stench of tallow.

What a hypocrisy.

She darted through the kitchens and out into the yard.

The coachman leapt from his seat when she burst forth, nearly tumbling over, his half-smoked cigar scattering ash in the snow.

“My Lady!” He dropped the cigar and straightened. “Good heavens, you startled me.”

“Good,” she panted. “I must ask for a favor. I want you to take me somewhere, but you must never reveal the destination. Not to anyone. Nor must you speak of our return.”

The coachman blinked. His beard was snowy white, his eyes startlingly blue. Nathaniel had vouched for his trustworthiness, and Charlotte clung to that thought.

“Of course, My Lady.”

“Not the carriage,” she said suddenly. “The cart.”

“The cart, My Lady?” His eyebrows rose.

“Yes. The one for errands. I must not be seen.”

He hesitated, but then bowed. “Very well.”

Within minutes, he had brought the cart around. It was a plain wooden contraption, flat-backed for crates. He helped her climb in, and she pulled the hood of her cloak low, as though she were a maid sent out on an errand.

“When my husband leaves with his friend,” she whispered, “follow at a distance. I expect them to go to St. Giles.”

Confusion clouded the coachman’s face, but he gave a solemn nod and climbed onto the seat.

The elegant streets of Mayfair slipped behind. Frost glimmered on the cobbles, and lamps glowed like amber drops in the gathering dusk. Breath rose in plumes before every passerby. Soon, the neat terraces gave way to the city’s rougher quarters, until at last they entered St. Giles.

The air shifted. A foul stench rose from the kennels and open drains, so strong that it made her pull out a handkerchief. Tallow, gin, rot—the odors pressed close, clinging to cloak and skin.

Windows gaped with broken panes, their shabby curtains fluttering like pennants of defeat. Snow, fallen and dirty, only served to emphasize the squalor. Children darted in thin rags, their bare feet almost blue with cold.

Charlotte’s throat tightened. Those were the very children she meant to save with her school, yet how could a classroom shield them from such misery when this was the place to which they would return?

Flop-houses lined the streets, women lounging in doorways with painted faces and gowns that bared more than they concealed.

Charlotte tugged her hood lower. It was not safe. Every instinct screamed at her to turn back.

But she could not. She had to see.

The carriage ahead turned sharply down a narrow alley. A tavern stood there, its sign creaking on rusty hinges. The Prince’s Arms. How His Royal Highness must loathe having his name displayed so. Or perhaps he did not care at all.

“Stop,” Charlotte breathed.

Rhys’s carriage halted before the tavern. She watched as the door swung open and he descended.

Her breath misted in white bursts. She sank low into her seat, her cloak drawn close.

Gideon did not follow. The carriage rattled away, leaving Rhys alone. And then—God help her—he disappeared inside.

Charlotte sat frozen. Her lungs burned with the cold, but she scarcely felt it.

Her husband had come here, to such a place.

Did he always visit the same woman? Did he love her? Did she give him something Charlotte never could?

Her stomach churned. She shook her head fiercely. She would not—could not—imagine it.

“Take me back home,” she whispered, hating the quiver in her voice.

The coachman asked no questions. With quiet skill, he steered the cart around and drove away, but not before Charlotte caught one final image through the tavern doorway.

Rhys stood by the stairs while a woman—auburn-haired, bare-shouldered, candlelight shimmering on her skin—descended toward him. She smiled at him. Not with the demure politeness Charlotte had been taught, but with the intimacy of a long acquaintance.

The cart jolted forward, and she lost them. But the damage was done.

Something inside her shattered. She had wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe their Christmas had meant as much to him as it had to her—that he had turned a corner at last, that the life she longed for was within reach.

She had been wrong. Lord Emery, that hateful man, had been right.

Tears burned hot as they slid down her chilled cheeks.

By the time they emerged from the stench of St. Giles and turned back toward Mayfair, Charlotte understood. Emery had written not to gain her hand—she was already wed. No, he had written to wound. To see her heart break.

And he had succeeded.

She might not have married London’s worst rake, but she was bound to the man who had always hunted Emery’s heels for that title. And worse, she had given him her heart.

It was a mistake that would haunt her for the rest of her days.