Page 26 of The Lyon Rampant

Piers sighed at the memory, then pictured another beautiful lady with guinea-gold hair. This lady had curls a man could wrap around his finger, and kiss with great devotion. He could fill his hands with those curls, dig deep, drawing that charming face close enough to capture those rosy lips.

“We’re stopping—this must be it. Shall I tell the driver to wait?”

Thank goodness they’d arrived—Piers’s thoughts had been heading down a dangerous path.

He shook his head. “He’ll want to keep the horses moving. We’ll hail another carriage once our business is done—I don’t want to rush it, as I have no idea what’s going to happen.” He couldn’t guess what Charlotte’s response would be when she met him after all this time. Would she fall on his neck, thrilled to see him again? Or would she be furious that he’d broken their agreement and sought her out?

A moment later, he was standing in front of the Garrett Street dwelling. The house was unexpectedly good for the area, double-fronted, with two floors and a small front garden, separated from the grimy pavement by a set of railings. Well, at least Charlotte was spending his money on giving herself and Oliver a decent life, rather than drinking it away like some actresses he’d encountered. The house would be rented, of course, but soon, she wouldn’t have to worry about accommodation, managing her money, or even working at all. They’d be together as a family.

As their carriage disappeared round the corner, Chetwynd pushed open the gate.

“Wait!” Piers kept his voice low. “I want to be sure this is the right place.” He would hate to burst in on a stranger at this time of night.

As he stole up to the nearest window, where the curtains had not been fully closed, his whole body was trembling. So much rested on this being the right place, the occupants being the right people, and him choosing the right words to convince a woman who’d evaded him for over six years to accept him as her husband.

The house was depressingly dark. He looked up, but none of the upstairs windows showed a light, either. His heart was in his throat—what if the birds had already flown? Could someone have connected Roland’s questioning to him and warned Charlotte?

In a panic, he hammered at the door.

There was no response.

“Don’t batter the door down, Darvill! She’ll think you’re the bailiffs or the Watch. Everybody in St. Giles will come out, hoping for a spectacle.”

Piers took no notice. He rattled at the window and even tried it to see if it would open, then put his mouth close to the glass and shouted, “Charlotte! It’s me, Piers. Let me in.”

Nothing happened, so he went back to the front door and knocked again.

“Calm down!” Roland grasped him by the sleeve. “We can come back tomorrow.”

Something clenched in Piers’s gut. A sick feeling of foreboding gripped him as he replied, “Tomorrow may be too late.”

Then, to his surprise, he heard bolts clicking back and a key turning in the lock. He stepped back from the door, his heart in his mouth.

It opened to reveal, not Charlotte Lavoisier, but Miss Belinda Bellamy, tilting her chin at him defiantly, her cheeks pink.

“Good evening, Roland. Good evening, Mr. Darvill. You’re welcome to come in if you wish, but there’s no point. The woman whose child you were planning to seize is no longer here. Neither is the little boy.”