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He sat beside her on the bench. "Well, I cannot leave you alone. Not unaccompanied in a strange town."
"Just don't sit too near to me." She slid to the farthest end of the bench. "Or look at me. And most especially do not sniff me."
"Might I--"
"No." She drummed her fingers on the arm of the bench. "An attack of nerves, my eye. Really, my mother is shameless. Worse than shameless."
"It seems to me that she is anxious to secure your future."
Charlotte shook her head. "She belongs in an institution. She's addled."
"No, she isn't."
"I'm telling you, she's mad. Barking mad."
"No," he repeated, more forcefully. "She isn't."
"I should know. She's my mother."
"Yes, but she's nothing like my mother, who did go insane. So, in point of fact, this is a matter where I am well equipped to judge."
"Oh, Piers." She slid back toward the center of the bench. "That's horrible."
"It's in the past. It was ages ago now."
"It's still horrible."
"Others have it worse."
She gave him a look. "It's still horrible. No matter who you are, or how long it's been. Don't pretend you're impervious. You wouldn't have mentioned it if it didn't cause you pain. What happened?"
He kept to the simplest facts. "She was ill from as early as I can remember. Violent swings of passion, followed by weeks of melancholy. After years of suffering, she died in her sleep."
Charlotte tucked her arm through the crook of his elbow and made a quiet, crooning noise.
"As deaths go, it was a peaceful one," he said.
A peaceful death, perhaps--but only after years of torment. Her words haunted him to this day.
I can't. I can't bear it.
"It must have been a terrible shock."
His jaw tightened. "Not for everyone. My brother was too young to understand, and . . . families like ours don't talk about such things. I'm not certain why I'm speaking of it now."
He'd never spoken of this at all. Not to anyone.
"I know why. You meant to chasten me, and it's worked. Here I've been complaining on and on about Mama, utterly heedless of your feelings. As if it's the worst burden in the world to have a mother who cares about me. You must think me so heartless." She squeezed his arm. "I'm sorry."
"You could not have known."
"But now I do, and I'm sorry. Truly."
And she was. He heard it in her voice. She was sorry for his loss, and sorry for her own unintended offense. Not in a way that made excuses, and not with any maudlin, melodramatic excesses, either.
He wondered if she knew how rare that was--the talent for earnest, unqualified apology. It was a diplomatic technique he'd never quite mastered himself.
She was so open about everything--and he'd known enough deception to last several lifetimes.
Add in those pink-petal lips and her sunny hair . . .
He'd never known temptation this acute.
As they sat in silence, her fingers lightly stroked his sleeve, fraying what little remained of his self-control. Each idle caress came closer to the core of him. The contact felt more and more raw.
There was nothing to distract him from the soft rise and fall of her breath. The pulse that pounded subtly against his arm. Her warmth. Her scent.
He tapped the toe of his boot on the gravel path. How long would it take the coach to return from the manor? An hour at the least, if not two.
Piers could withstand torture of several forms, but an hour of this would break him.
At any moment, he could lose himself. Right here on this bench, he would take her in his arms, draw her close. Weave his hands in that spun sunshine of her hair, tangling them in a feverish grip--the better to hold on.
Hold on tight, and not let go.
Good God. What was happening to him? He was falling apart.
Pull yourself together, man.
He cleared his throat. "We're meant to be shopping. What shall I buy you? A bonnet or bauble of some sort?"
"Luncheon, if you would. I'm famished."
Charlotte gladly followed him to a coaching inn, where they shared a steak-and-kidney pie. Ale for Piers, lemonade for her. For a time, they made an unspoken agreement to substitute eating for conversation.
Once the edge of hunger was dulled, Charlotte reached into her pocket and pulled out her list of suspects. After that painful conversation about his mother, he would no doubt be grateful for a change of subject. And she was more convinced than ever that despite his protestations, Piers needed love in his life.
She'd begun with five names, then whittled them down by process of elimination. Now it was only a matter of matching one of the remaining possibilities to the profile.
Present the night of the ball.
The initial C.
An ample figure.
Now she added to her list:
Dark hair.
She stared at the paper. "Oh, drat."
"Still more than one left?"
"Worse. None of them fit. Lady Canby is thin as a rail. Cathy had no opportunity, and I've already ruled out Caroline Fairchild. Cross--that's the lady's maid--and Mrs. Charlesbridge are the only two left. Neither of them have dark hair." She massaged the bridge of her nose. "Perhaps the perfume merchant told us wrong."
"More likely you left someone--or several someones--off your original list."
"Perhaps."
Charlotte was dejected. But not defeated.
"I'll have to think on it more. The answer will come to me." She dug her fork into a lemon tart. "For now, why don't you tell me about your dog."
"I don't have a dog."
"Well, I know you don't have one here. But you must have one somewhere. Every gentleman does."
"A bulldog, called Ellingworth. I acquired him as a pup at university. During my years abroad, he lived with my father or brother. By the time I returned from Vienna, he was positively ancient--but he knew me still. We had a good run of it, but he died last year."
There was a guarded quality in his gaze, but something told her not to prod it.
He cleared his throat. "Your turn."
"Me? I've never had a dog."
"Tell me about your family, then."
"There's not much to tell. You've met my mother." She jabbed at the crust of the tart. "I've no memory of my father at all. He died when I was little more than an infant. The estate passed to a cousin. My mother married young, and was widowed young. With three daughters to support and see settled, I suppose the worrying took its toll."
"Why don't your brothers-in-law intercede for you? At least offer to take her in for a while."
"Colin and Aaron?" She shrugged. "I adore them, but they're both new fathers living in connubial bliss. I don't want to inflict my mother on their marriages."
"Do they know how you've been treated this season?"
"You mean the 'Desperate Debutante' nonsense?" She shook her head. "I don't think so."
"And you didn't tell them."
"I don't want them to feel responsible."
"But they are responsible for you. They're your brothers by marriage."
"That's not the kind of responsibility I meant." She bit her lip, hesitating. "I don't want them to feel responsible. For my humiliation."
"Ah. Because their own marriages happened under unconventional circumstances."
"Minerva is an odd duck. Bookish, awkward. She was the last woman anyone expected to elope with a charming rake. There's always been gossip about their match. And Aaron's the best sort of man, but he is a blacksmith. He knew it would affect my prospects when he married Diana. That's why he asked my permission first."
"He asked your permission? When you were what, fifteen?"
"Sixteen, I think."
"And you gave it."
"Of course I did, and gladly. I'm so happy for him and Diana. I'm happy for Colin and Minerva, too."
"But their happiness has made it more d
ifficult for you to seek your own."
She leaned one elbow on the table, then propped her chin on her hand. "To the contrary, seeing them marry for love is the best thing that could have happened. It taught me to believe I can find love, too. And if the circumstances of their marriages present a hurdle to prospective suitors . . . that's doing me a favor, as well. I needn't waste my time with gentlemen who are easily discouraged."
He regarded her intently.
There was something new in his eyes, behind the dispassionate appraisal. A hint of ruthlessness.
"What is it?" she said.
"I'm trying to decide whether you truly believe that little speech you just gave. Or if it's merely a thought that comforts you when you're watching yet another quadrille from behind the potted palms."
She was taken aback. Yes, in a few weak moments, she had stood forlorn in a crowd, indulging in the worst sort of self-pity. Much to her shame.
"When you're a marchioness"--he lifted his ale to take a casual sip--"you'll have your revenge. You'll show them all."
This must be his secret. How he bent kings and despots to his will. By seeing inside them and using their own broken dreams as leverage. The most dangerous weapon is the one that strikes closest to the heart.
"You're wrong," she said.
He lowered his glass. "Hm?"
"There's a flaw in your plan, my lord. Becoming a marchioness would only convince the ton that I am everything they believe me to be. A shameless schemer, willing to debase myself to catch a wealthy, well-placed husband. Unless . . ."
"Unless?"
"Unless the marquess in question fell madly, irretrievably, publicly in love with me."
He seemed to choke on his ale.
Charlotte lifted an eyebrow. She could be ruthless, too.
She didn't need to be rescued by her family, or Piers. Once she'd learned the identity of the mystery lovers, she would convince her mother and Sir Vernon that Piers had no responsibility toward her. By next season, she would be exploring the Continent with Delia, and London would find a new laughingstock. When she returned, having broadened her experience and her mind, she would be free to marry--or wait--as she chose.
Thump.
The most enormous hand she'd ever seen clapped on Piers's shoulder, startling her in her skin.
The enormous hand was connected to an enormous man. One with broad shoulders and dark, wavy hair. "Piers. I thought it was you."
Piers pushed back from the table and rose to his feet. "Rafe."
The two men shook hands warmly before turning to offer Charlotte introductions.
As if she would need introductions. All England knew this man by name and reputation.
"Miss Charlotte Highwood, allow me to present Lord Rafe Brandon. My brother."
"You left out 'Heavyweight Champion of Britain' and 'Proprietor of England's Finest Brewery,' " Charlotte teased. To Lord Rafe, she said, "What an unexpected pleasure, my lord."
She extended her hand, and the broad-shouldered giant bowed over it before pulling up a chair to join them.
His manner was as easy and informal as Piers's was proper and restrained. Charlotte liked him at once.
"I hope that's Champion Ale." Rafe nodded at his brother's glass.
"Always." Piers sounded offended to have his loyalty questioned. "Are you in the area collecting new accounts?"
"I'm scouting locations for a regional brewery. Clio's keen to expand operations northward." He motioned to a serving girl for a fresh round of drinks.
"She's well, I hope."
"Oh, yes. Though she works herself harder than I'd like."
Charlotte was surprised at how easily the two men discussed her, considering that Lord Rafe had married Piers's former betrothed. Piers didn't appear to bear them any ill will.
"What a coincidence to find you here." Lord Rafe leaned back in his chair. "Funny isn't it, how often business puts us in the same place."
"Oh, Lord Granville isn't here on business," Charlotte said.
Lord Rafe looked from her to Piers, amused. "So it's pleasure, then."
Her face warmed. "I didn't mean to imply that, either. We're both guests of Sir Vernon Parkhurst for the fortnight. Lord Granville was kind enough to bring the ladies into town for some shopping, but there was an incident and we had to separate into two groups for the return trip."
"An incident, you say." Rafe accepted his drink and downed half of it in one swallow. "I know how often 'incidents' happen around my brother."
"Whatever frequency that may be," Charlotte said, "they occur doubly often around my mother. Lord Granville can attest to the fact."
Piers shrugged. "Mrs. Highwood believes her daughter deserves the admiration of highly placed gentlemen. As well she should."
She put her fork down and smiled. "Now, really. Why are you taking her side?"
"I beg your pardon. I believed I was taking yours."
Charlotte blushed a little, and had to look away.
Lord Rafe cleared his throat. "Well."
"Come back with us for dinner," Piers said. "Sir Vernon would be glad to meet you, and he has a son who could do with some distraction."
Charlotte doubted the invitation was for Sir Vernon or Edmund's benefit. Piers might be restrained, but even he couldn't conceal true brotherly affection. She was comforted to know that he had this much love in his life, at least. After losing his parents, his betrothed, and even his dog--he needed it.
"Afraid I can't," Rafe said. "I've promised to start back this afternoon."
The brothers chatted for a few minutes longer, exchanging news about their homes and business dealings. Piers excused himself to settle the bill.
When they were alone, Rafe turned to Charlotte and lowered his voice in confidence. "Forgive me for leaving so quickly, but it's not only my brewery that's expanding. My wife's doing a bit of enlarging, too. To put it delicately."
"How wonderful. Please relay my congratulations."
"You'll have a chance to offer them in person soon, I hope."
"Oh, I doubt I'll have that pleasure."
He chuckled into his porter. "I don't."
Oh, dear. This was an unforeseen complication. Charlotte had been hoping to put a swift end to the lover mystery and nip any gossip in the bud. The last thing she needed was Piers's own brother spreading tales of an impending engagement.
"Did Piers . . ." Drat. "Did Lord Granville say something to you? Surely he didn't give you any indication that--"
"Other than the fact that he just happens to be having luncheon alone with you, in a coaching inn in Nottingham, on very same day I happen to be traveling through? He must have wished for the two of us to become acquainted."
Feeling frantic, she whispered, "Lord Rafe, please. Don't misunderstand. There was--"
"An incident."
"Yes. This is all mere coincidence."
"If you know my brother, and it seems you do, you understand this much." He raised an eyebrow. "With Piers, there's no such thing as coincidence."
"I don't know what you mean."
"I saw the way he looked at you. For God's sake, he teased you. Piers doesn't tease."
Strange that he would say that, since Piers had been teasing her since their first meeting. And what did he mean, no such thing as coincidence?
"He likes you," Lord Rafe said.
"No, he doesn't."
"So it's love, then?"
"No."
Charlotte didn't have time to argue further. Piers returned from settling the bill.
He didn't take his seat but instead offered Charlotte assistance in standing. "Miss Highwood, I suspect the carriage will have returned for us by now."
"And my stagecoach will be leaving, too." Lord Rafe gave his brother a clap on the shoulder and slid Charlotte a look. "Bring her around to the castle when your schedule allows. We'll ready a room."
Chapter Nine
As he bid his brother farewell and they left the inn, Piers hoped Charlotte had
lost interest in pelting him with questions.
"Let's have it," she said. "What's your big secret?"
He scowled at the pavement to disguise the hitch in his step. "Secret? What makes you believe there's any secret?"
"Meeting Lord Rafe just now."
He silently cursed. Rafe was one of only a few people who knew Piers's true role with the Foreign Office--and even so, they avoided discussing detail. If his brother had given something away . . .
"Did Rafe say something to you?"
"Nothing specific, if that's your concern. It was all in the way he treated me. As if I'd be the latest member in an exclusive club of people who comprehend the real Piers Brandon. So what's the secret handshake? What is it you're not telling me?"
Good Lord. What had he done, becoming involved with this woman? Everything was a puzzle to her. A knot that needed untangling. Meanwhile, whenever he was near her, his own powers of discernment and dissembling went promptly to hell. He blurted out old family secrets. He let her stroke his hair. He dragged her behind window seat curtains and held her close.
If she were an enemy agent, this problem would have been so much easier to solve. He wouldn't have needed to marry her. He could have had her captured, or killed, or exiled to Corsica. Come to think of it, perhaps that last was still an option.
If only Nottinghamshire weren't landlocked.
"It must have something to do with that time you spent overseas," she mused.
"I worked as a diplomat for the Foreign Office. You know that already."
"And I've been wondering about it ever since. I knew there was something more to you. What kind of diplomat picks locks and kisses like a rake?"
"This diplomat, apparently."
She gave a theatrical sigh. "If you won't tell me, I'll be forced to guess."
He gave her a firm silence. Which she interpreted as an invitation. Because of course she did.
"Let's see. You ran an illicit gaming hell in the glittering Vienna underground. Half the Habsbergs owe you their fortunes."
"I've no interest in collecting fortunes. I have my own."
"Burglary, then."
He recoiled at the suggestion. "I've even less interest in petty theft."
"It wouldn't have to be petty theft. It could be significant theft, performed for a good reason. Let's see . . . You liberated priceless works of art from the homes of French aristocrats, saving them from certain destruction at the hands of revolutionaries."
