by Emily Larkin
She opened it and began to read. The pages were dog-eared. Cosgrove had underlined passages and made extensive notes in the margins.
It was almost midnight by the time she finished. Charlotte closed the book and looked at it, rubbing her thumb over the cover. A better understanding of the issue—yes, she had that . . . but did the earl realize how much of himself he exposed to her?
The speeches revealed his public face—articulate, championing an end to slavery—but the notes he’d written in the margins of the essay were more personal, more private. This was the man uncensored. Each jotted word, each underlined sentence, gave her a glimpse of who he was. His thoughts, his opinions, his values—all were laid out for her to see.
I like him.
Charlotte put the book aside and shrugged out of the blankets. She pulled the chamber pot from under the bed—and hesitated. Every time she urinated using her pego, she ended up with splashes on the floor.
She stood for several seconds with the nightshift half-raised, then let the hem fall and wished herself back into her own shape. Her skin itched intensely, as if a thousand ants crawled over her, and then the sensation vanished.
The room became blurry.
Charlotte groped for her spectacles. The room came into focus. The nightshift hung voluminously, pooling on the floor around her feet.
She peed quickly, and with a strong sense that she was cheating. If she was going to live as a man, she needed to learn how to handle her pego.
She wished Swiffen’s Cyclopaedia had an entry on the pego, explaining its peculiarities. Why was it so stiff when she woke in the mornings? How could something so soft become so hard? And what did one do to control it? Using her Faerie gift to wish it limp again worked, but she’d never seen a man walking around with his pego tenting his breeches, so there must be a way of controlling it that didn’t involve magic.
Unless there was something wrong with hers?
There was no one she could ask. She would have to figure out the answers for herself.
But not tonight.
Shivering, she looked at the drawing she’d pinned to the wall, concentrating on the young man’s face. Broad brow. Wide-set eyes. Curling hair.
Clean-shaven cheeks, she reminded herself. And perfect vision.
Charlotte took off the spectacles, closed her eyes, and wished herself back into Christopher Albin’s shape. One thousand invisible ants crawled over her skin again. When she opened her eyes, the nightshift no longer puddled on the floor; instead she saw large feet wearing thick woolen socks.
She touched her face. The shape of cheekbone and jaw was Christopher Albin’s. The prickly stubble was gone.
How interesting it was to be a man, she thought, climbing into the sagging bed. People spoke to her more bluntly and met her eyes more directly. They treated her with a different kind of respect from what she was used to. As if I am somehow more than I was.
Charlotte curled up in the cocoon of blankets and blew out the smoking tallow candle. Anticipation fizzed in her blood, like the bubbles in a glass of champagne. She was a man. She was independent. She had a career.
I’m glad I chose this path.
Chapter Six
October 17th, 1805
London
“That’s Monkwood’s house.”
Charlotte followed the direction of the earl’s gaze. A gray, unfriendly sky hung over Hanover Square. The buildings were rigid in their uniformity, mirroring each other across the square: tall façades, rows of staring windows, frowning roofs. The sound of a church bell ringing three o’clock drifted in the air.
“What would you like me to do, sir?”
“Watch him. See whether you can tell if he’s lying.”
They crossed Hanover Square briskly and climbed the steps to Monkwood’s door. The earl rapped the knocker. Charlotte resisted the urge to peel off her gloves and wipe her sweating palms. How will I know if Monkwood is lying? What if I make a mistake? Behind them, a carriage rattled across the square, splashing water from the puddles.
The door opened. A dour-faced butler stood there.
“Afternoon, Sprott,” the earl said. “Is Monkwood in?”
“I shall see if he’s at home to guests, sir.”
Charlotte glanced around the entrance hall while they waited. The gilt-topped marble tables and massive mirror with its gilded frame shouted Monkwood’s wealth. Blue and gold Sèvres vases preened in front of the mirror.
The butler returned. “Mr. Monkwood will see you, sir.”
Gerald Monkwood was in his library, seated beside the fire. The fireplace was in keeping with the entrance hall, an ornate marble confection with nymphs and gilded acanthus leaves. The man was in keeping with it, too. Monkwood’s blond hair was pomaded and curled, his waistcoat embroidered in rich blues and greens and purples like the plumage of a peacock, his neckcloth intricately folded and pinned with a single, massive emerald. Even his Hessian boots were a work of art—the golden tassels, the mirrorlike finish.
Charlotte halted one step behind Cosgrove, in the middle of the library.
For a long moment there was silence, broken only by the quiet snick of the door as the butler closed it, then Monkwood spoke: “Cosgrove.” His gaze flicked over Charlotte, before resting on the earl again. He rose to his feet, his slowness an insult.
Monkwood was two inches shorter than the earl and a good thirty pounds heavier. The elaborate neckcloth and high, starched collar-points, the exaggerated shoulders and nipped-in waist of his coat, made him look almost effeminate.
An overgrown Cupid. The thought flashed into Charlotte’s mind and stayed there. The plump cheeks and shining golden hair, the full, soft mouth with its pouting lower lip—they were Cupid’s cheeks and hair and mouth.
“Monkwood.” Cosgrove inclined his head slightly in greeting.
Monkwood didn’t offer them a seat. He turned to Charlotte. “And this is . . .?”
“Mr. Albin. My new secretary.”
“Ah, yes . . .” The soft, girlish mouth turned up at the corners. “I heard your secretary had a most unfortunate accident.” His gaze returned to Cosgrove, lingering on the bruises.
“No accident,” Cosgrove said. “It was deliberate.”
The tiny smile became a smirk. “Surely not?”
“Were you behind it, Monkwood?”
For a heartbeat, Monkwood didn’t react. He stood as stiffly as a wax figure, the smirk frozen on his face, and then he laughed loudly. “What? You think I attacked you in St. James’s Park?”
“Did you hire the men who attacked me?” Cosgrove’s voice was perfectly expressionless. There was no warmth in it, no animosity. “Did you hire whoever it is who breaks my windows and piles shit on my doorstep?”
“Shit on your doorstep . . .” Monkwood said the words slowly, as if savoring them on his tongue. His lips tilted upwards in another smirk. “How distasteful for you.”
“Are you responsible?”
Monkwood blinked, widened his eyes, placed a hand over his heart, like an actor feigning surprise. “Me?”
He’s baiting Cosgrove.
“Yes, you.”
Monkwood lowered his hand. “Why would I do that?” The affected surprise was gone. His voice was flat with hostility.
“You know why.”
Monkwood’s mouth twisted. “You didn’t deserve Lavinia.”
“Did you do it?” Cosgrove asked.
“She should never have married you. You never appreciated her. You never saw she was an angel!”
“She wasn’t an angel. She was an adulteress.”
Fury flooded Monkwood’s face, flushing his cheeks, flaring his nostrils, pulling his lips back from his teeth in a snarl. The transformation was startling. The softness, the effeminacy, the likeness to Cupid, were gone. Monkwood looked as savage as Cerberus.
He raised a fist and took two stiff-legged steps towards the earl.
Charlotte’s heart kicked in her chest and sped up. He’s going to attac
k him. She stepped forward until she was shoulder to shoulder with Cosgrove.
Monkwood didn’t so much as glance at her. His attention was fixed on the earl. “She’s dead because of you.” Rage thickened his voice. “You drove her to it! It’s your fault!”
“Lavinia’s death was her own fault.” Cosgrove turned his back on Monkwood, dismissive, unintimidated. “Come, Albin.”
Charlotte followed hastily. At the door she glanced back, seeing blazing fury in Monkwood’s blue eyes, stark hatred on his plump face. He hates Cosgrove. He’d like to see him dead.
* * *
They strode back to Grosvenor Square at a pace that almost made Charlotte short of breath. She glanced at Cosgrove once, then kept her eyes on the pavement. The earl’s silent anger was as alarming as Monkwood’s snarling, thick-voiced rage. It made his face more angular, as if jawbone and cheekbones were trying to push through his skin.
Cosgrove’s butler took one look at his employer and kept his greeting to a simple “Sir” as he took the earl’s hat and gloves.
Cosgrove strode down the corridor to his study.
Charlotte followed.
A fire crackled in the grate, devouring lumps of coal. Cosgrove went to stand before it. He stared down at the flames.
Charlotte silently closed the door. She dared not speak.
A minute passed, ticked away by the ebony and gold clock on the mantelpiece. Cosgrove turned to her. The angularity was gone from his face. He looked merely weary. “Well?” He walked to a leather armchair and sat. “What did you think?”
Charlotte relaxed fractionally. “I think he could be responsible for the windows and the shit, sir.” Shit. A word she would never have uttered as a woman, and yet it came easily off Albin’s tongue. “But I’m not sure about the attack. His reaction, the hesitation . . . it could have been a sign of guilt, but equally it could have been outrage.”
Cosgrove studied her face for a moment, a perusal so intense that she thought he saw down to bone and ligament, and then he nodded. “I agree. The shit could be him. The attack . . .” He shrugged, then pushed to his feet and crossed to the decanters lined up on the sideboard. “What would you like? Brandy? Whiskey? Madeira?”
“Uh . . .” For a moment her wits deserted her. Which one should she ask for? “Brandy,” Charlotte said at random.
She heard the gurgle of liquid as Cosgrove poured. He turned, a crystal glass in each hand. “Here.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Cosgrove sat again. He gestured to the second leather armchair.
Charlotte obediently sat, copying the earl, cupping the glass in both hands.
“My wife killed herself,” Cosgrove said.
Charlotte’s mouth fell open. She hurriedly closed it. What should she say in response to such a revelation? What could she say?
Fortunately Cosgrove didn’t appear to expect an answer. He turned his head and stared into the fire, a frown pulling his eyebrows together.
Charlotte studied his face. The earl didn’t look like a man capable of driving his wife to suicide. His expression was dauntingly bleak right now, but the laughter lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth told her he wasn’t always so grim.
The earl turned his head and looked at her. “Take my advice, Albin. Never marry a beautiful woman.”
Charlotte’s heart seemed to miss a beat—not the impact of the words, but the impact of his gaze, the intensity of his gray eyes. “No, sir,” she said, automatically, and then her brain caught up with her ears. What?
Cosgrove must have seen the confusion on her face. “My wife married me for my earldom and my money. Beauty, in exchange for wealth.” His mouth twisted into an ironic, humorless smile. “I was fool enough to believe it was a love match.”
“Oh.” How should she respond to an admission like that? “I’m sorry, sir.”
Cosgrove shrugged, dismissing her sympathy, and stretched out his legs towards the fire, still cradling the brandy glass in his hands. “I learned a valuable lesson. Believe me, I shan’t make the same mistake again.”
“No, sir.” After a moment she stretched her legs out, too.
Cosgrove swirled his glass and then raised it to his nose, inhaling the smell.
Charlotte copied him. The brandy fumes stung her nose, bringing tears to her eyes. She blinked them back.
“Monkwood was right about one thing: Lavinia looked like an angel. Golden hair, blue eyes.” Cosgrove swallowed his brandy in one long gulp. “The face of an angel and the heart of a whore; that was my wife.” He pushed to his feet and poured himself another brandy.
While his back was turned, Charlotte took a cautious sip of brandy. It filled her mouth with heat, burning her tongue, scorching down her throat. Her nose stung again.
“Lavinia committed suicide by mistake,” Cosgrove said, returning to his chair. “The coroner ruled it an accident.”
“Sir,” Charlotte said awkwardly. “You don’t need to tell me—”
“You need to know what happened if you’re to be any help to me figuring out who’s behind the attack.”
“Yes, sir,” Charlotte said, abashed. So this wasn’t a baring of Cosgrove’s soul; it was a presentation of facts.
The earl stretched his legs out towards the fire again. “Lavinia grew up under her brother’s guardianship. You saw how much he adored her?”
Charlotte nodded.
“Monkwood indulged her. Anything she wanted was hers for the asking. For the first year of our marriage, I was as open-handed as Monkwood—until I realized she was manipulating me.” He caught Charlotte’s blank look and said bluntly: “Sex. She was using sex to get me to do what she wanted.”
“Oh.” Heat filled her cheeks. Charlotte took a hasty sip of brandy, almost choking as it burned down her throat.
“She tried temper tantrums next,” Cosgrove said. “But those didn’t work. After that we were at a stalemate for several months. Until she began the suicide attempts.” He grimaced. “She got what she wanted the first couple of times. I thought they were genuine. It took me a while to realize they were as much an act as the sex had been.”
“The first couple of times, sir?”
Cosgrove’s smile held a glimmer of black humor. “Lavinia made five attempts that I recall. Six if you count the time she actually managed to kill herself.” The gleam of humor vanished. He looked away from Charlotte, at the fire. His frown returned.
Silence stretched. Ten seconds. Twenty. A minute.
He’s remembering.
Cosgrove stirred and rubbed his brow, as if the frown had given him a headache. “Most of our arguments were about money. I made Lavinia an allowance of one thousand guineas a quarter, but she always wanted more.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened. One thousand guineas a quarter? Four thousand a year? I could live the rest of my life on such a sum.
“But the last time—the time she died . . . I’d found out about the affair with Barnaby. I told her I was divorcing her. Lavinia ran up to the widow’s walk and climbed over the parapet and threatened to throw herself off.”
Divorce. Cosgrove must have felt very strongly about his wife’s adultery to take such an extreme step. The scandal—
“The stone she was standing on was loose. She fell.” Cosgrove’s voice was no longer quite so matter-of-fact, so emotionless. “She tried to grab the railing, but she missed. The look on her face . . .”
He may have no longer loved his wife, but her death hurt him.
Charlotte took another sip of brandy. This time it went down more easily.
Cosgrove turned his head and met Charlotte’s gaze squarely. “My wife didn’t intend to kill herself. It was just another attempt to make me do what she wanted.” His lips twisted into a humorless smile. “You could say that it failed. Quite spectacularly.”
Charlotte studied the earl’s face, the laughter lines at the corners of his eyes, the skewed smile. What had he been like before his marriage?
Happier. He was much
happier.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
Cosgrove shrugged. He swallowed another mouthful of brandy. “So you understand why my wife died? And why Monkwood hates me? Why he might be behind the attack?”
“Yes, sir. And I understand why he might want to kill you.”
Cosgrove choked on his brandy. He coughed several times before catching his breath. “Kill me?”
“If he loved his sister that much, if he holds you responsible for her death . . . why not, sir?” She remembered the fury suffusing Monkwood’s face, the anger blazing in his eyes. “It must enrage him to see you alive while she’s in her grave.”
“Thank you, Albin,” Cosgrove said dryly. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
His tone made Charlotte grin. “You’re welcome, sir.”
An answering smile lit the earl’s eyes.
Charlotte’s throat tightened. For a moment she couldn’t breathe. Cosgrove was disturbingly attractive—the strong bones of his face, those smiling gray eyes.
She took a hasty mouthful of brandy. It burned all the way down to her belly. “When did the vandalism start, sir?”
“Start?” The smile vanished from Cosgrove’s eyes. “About six months ago.”
“And when did your wife die?”
“Last year. October twenty-eighth.”
Nearly a year ago. Charlotte frowned. “So . . . maybe the vandalism isn’t related to her death?”
Cosgrove frowned, too. “Perhaps not.”
“Did you make a note of the dates, sir? When the windows were broken and the, er . . . the shit left on the doorstep.” This time the word stuck on her tongue.
“No. But the glazier’s charges will be in the account books.” Cosgrove made as if to stand.
Charlotte got hurriedly to her feet. “I’ll get them, sir.” It must be the brandy that was making her so conscious of the earl—aware of his maleness, aware of how attractive he was, aware that only a few feet of carpet separated them. She hadn’t been so intensely conscious of him earlier today, when they’d sat across the desk from one another and he’d explained what he wanted her to do with the accounts for each of his estates, with his correspondence and appointments, his speeches.
