Page 3 of Payback

“How convenient,” muttered Blake.

“Give me his number, and we’ll arrange a meeting tonight,” said Henry.

Charlotte tapped a few buttons on her smartphone and handed it to Henry, who called his number. Hot, angry breaths streamed through his nostrils as he waited for Philippe to answer.

I swallowed hard. Charlotte didn’t seem the type to throw a wealthy benefactor under the bus. Maybe he really had abandoned her as she had claimed. What if this Philippe was the person behind recent events? A million-pound ransom was a big enough motivation to do anything, and if he planned on keeping the money for himself, it made sense that he would set things up for Charlotte, her brother, and Mr. Carbuncle to get the blame.

“He’s not answering,” said Blake. “Who are you protecting?”

“No one,” whispered Charlotte.

I lowered my head and stared into my hands. Charlotte had met someone at the Valentine’s Day Massacre, which had been staffed by employees of the Correspondent dressed as waiters. Maybe she was telling the truth, and I was too blinded by hatred to see it.

“Hello?” asked a male voice on the speakerphone.

My heart jumped.

Henry held the phone out to Charlotte.

“Philippe,” she said in a wheedling tone. “You left me to get the blame, and Emilia hurt me again.”

“I am sorry, ma chérie,” he crooned in a French accent. “That girl has always hated you. She is the cause of everything that has gone terrible in your life.”

Charlotte shot me a hateful look. I glowered back.

She made a whining noise at the back of her throat. “But why did you have to leave me to the police?”

“Did they arrest you?” he asked a little more urgently.

“No, but—”

“What did you tell them?” he asked.

“I said Emilia put something in the girls’ cocktails.”

Philippe’s throaty laugh filled the limousine, and blood pounded in my ears. Who the fuck was this guy, and why did he take such delight in hurting me? Edward curled his fingers around mine and pressed a kiss on my temple, but it did nothing to distract me from the odious Frenchman.

Henry made an urgent hand signal at her, and she nodded.

“When can I see you?” she asked in a baby voice.

“Soon, ma petite puce. Soon.”

“What should I tell everyone when we get to school? They’re all going to think I did it.”

“Keep to your wonderful fiction,” said Philippe. “Emilia poisoned the drink because she was jealous not to have been invited. And she needed a follow-up article for the Saturday Correspondent to discredit you and to drum up ill will toward your father before his trial.”

My teeth ground together, and blood rushed through my ears. The worst part about Philippe’s plan was that the students of Elder House would believe Charlotte’s version of events and not mine. Ignoring Blake’s comforting hand on my back, I leaned forward, met her hazel eyes, and mouthed, ‘tonight.’

Charlotte tried to wheedle an invitation to his hotel, hovel, wherever this troll was staying, but he said it wasn’t possible. I stopped listening to Philippe’s excuses. He was obviously a conman, using Charlotte as his cat’s paw, but I still couldn’t work out why someone I had never met hated me so much.

Philippe hung up, and Charlotte turned to me. “You see? It was him all along.”

“Where does Rudolph Trommel fit into this?” I asked.

Charlotte tilted her head to the side. “He’s your stepfather. I’ve never met him.”

I didn’t reply. All evidence might point to this mysterious Frenchman, but something about him still didn’t ring true.