by Emily Larkin
“In the latest one, sir. On October eleventh, the day after you were attacked in St. James’s Park.” Charlotte drank another mouthful of brandy. The warmth in her belly spread.
The earl sorted through the diaries, checking dates, then selected one and began to read.
Charlotte buttoned her waistcoat and picked up her neckcloth. The earl didn’t offer to tie it for her; he was engrossed in the diary.
She tied the neckcloth by guess and pulled on her tailcoat. “Shall I read, too, sir?”
Cosgrove grunted without looking up. Charlotte took the sound to mean Yes. She chose a diary, one of the less recent ones, starting in 1803.
I stole this. I am a thief. But she didn’t feel that she’d done anything terrible. Not if Gerald Monkwood was planning to kill the earl.
They read in silence. Charlotte sipped the last of the brandy, turning pages, skipping over lists of clothes, details of meals eaten. Monkwood had a lover whom he regularly visited, a woman he called his beautiful Helen. Other than that, there was nothing of interest.
“Here!” Cosgrove said, his voice so loud she started in her seat. “May seventeenth. He talks of writing a letter to discredit me. There’s a complete transcript of it. Word for word!” He grinned at her like a schoolboy. “This is what I need. This is proof!”
Charlotte grinned back at him.
“You are a jewel of a secretary, Albin. An absolute jewel! I’m doubling your salary.”
Charlotte lost her grin. “Oh, no, sir. It’s not necess—”
“What price is a man’s reputation, Albin? Tell me that.”
There was no answer to that question. Charlotte shook her head.
“You were correct about it being Monkwood. Much more objective than I was. I still want it to be Brashdon.” Cosgrove laid down the diary. “You did well, lad. Very well.”
The praise made Charlotte blush. She shook her head again and changed the subject. “Does Monkwood say why he did it, sir?”
“I’ll read it to you.” Cosgrove picked up the diary, flicked back a few pages, and read aloud: “Cosgrove shall know what it’s like to suffer the agonies of public humiliation. He ruined my darling and made her last days a misery, and I shall do the same for him.”
“Revenge.”
The earl pulled his mouth into a grimace and nodded.
“Does he write about hiring men to kill you, sir?”
“Not yet.”
Charlotte went back to the diary she was reading. The study was silent but for the sigh of coals shifting in the fireplace and the sound of pages turning. A few minutes later, Cosgrove said, “Here. April twelfth. He went to a cockfight. Listen to this. I found the perfect candidates. Two brothers and a cousin, rough, brutish men who are quite happy to kill in exchange for payment. I shall meet with them again tomorrow.” Cosgrove turned a page. “And then this: Their names are Abel, Jeremiah, and Hector Smith, and they profess themselves most happy with the sequence of events I outlined. Everything is now in place. I shall begin on April twenty-second, as planned.”
“Does he say what his plan is, sir?”
“Plan? We know what it is.” Cosgrove lowered the diary. “Vandalism. Arson. Public disgrace. Death.”
“And the attacks.”
Cosgrove grunted. “And the attacks.” He turned his frowning attention back to the diary.
Charlotte read through March 1803 and into April. Monkwood wrote about his clothes, his menus, his mistress. April 21st. Today my beloved Helen and I took our pleasure together for the last time under this roof. Tomorrow she goes to Cosgrove. From now on, I will share her kisses and the sweet treasures of her body with him. How shall I bear it?
Charlotte frowned and reread the sentences. Did they mean what she thought?
No. Impossible.
She turned the page. It was dated April 22nd, 1803. The day the earl had married Lavinia Monkwood.
I couldn’t eat this morning. How can I, when I lose my darling today? Then followed a meticulous list of his wedding attire. My Helen has never been more beautiful than she is today. It makes me ill to think of Cosgrove touching her, but my darling is in high spirits. Cosgrove is a husband worthy of her. His status and wealth are what my sweet Helen deserves. She will lead Society. I would endure worse agonies than this for her sake.
At the bottom of the entry, Monkwood had penned: I have given my darling a handkerchief marked with chicken’s blood, that she may prove her virginity tonight. That treasure, of course, was mine, many years ago.
Charlotte stared at the page for a long time. “Sir . . . did Monkwood have a pet name for his sister?”
The earl glanced up. “What?”
“What did Monkwood call his sister? Did he have a pet name for her?”
Cosgrove leaned back in his chair. His eyes narrowed slightly. “He called her . . . let me think . . . His angel. His jewel. His diamond.”
“He never called her Helen?”
“Helen of Troy, the most beautiful woman in the world.” Cosgrove snorted. “Yes, he called her Helen. Lavinia liked it. It pandered to her vanity.”
Charlotte looked down at the diary. Today my beloved Helen and I took our pleasure together for the last time under this roof. “Sir . . . either Monkwood is writing nonsense or . . .”
“Or what?”
She looked up. “Or . . . he had a sexual relationship with his sister.” The words left an unpleasant taste on her tongue.
Cosgrove didn’t scoff; he frowned and pushed to his feet. “Let me see.”
Charlotte held the diary out, open to April 21st. She watched as he read—quick, frowning—and turned the page and read again.
“It can’t possibly be true,” she said, when he lowered the diary.
“I think . . . it might be.” Cosgrove said the words slowly, as if trying them out.
Charlotte shook her head, rejecting this. “No.”
“Lavinia wasn’t a virgin on our wedding night. I didn’t realize at the time, but recently . . . I became certain of it.”
Because of me? Charlotte looked down at the desk. She traced a knot in the wood with one fingertip.
“I wondered who it might have been, but I never . . . Not Monkwood!” The tone in Cosgrove’s voice wasn’t rage; it was revulsion.
She looked up and watched as he reread the pages, his brow knotted, his concentration fierce. “What does this mean?” He pointed to a line. “Many years ago. When did it start? How old was she?”
Charlotte shook her head.
“Was she a child?” The earl looked as if he tasted bile in his mouth. “Dear God. This is . . . I know Monkwood covets beautiful objects, but his own sister!” He swallowed. “Can you tell from this how often . . . ?” He thrust the diary at her as if he couldn’t bear to look himself.
“Several times a week, sir.” Charlotte took the diary. “He called her Helen, so I didn’t realize . . . I thought he was writing about a mistress.”
“God!” Cosgrove said. The word was an explosive, savage sound. He strode to the decanters and poured himself a large glass of brandy. “Make a note of the dates. All of them.”
“Will you make it public, sir?” Charlotte asked, clutching the diary. “The incest?”
Cosgrove shook his head. “No. But by God I’ll make him pay for what he did to her!” His face twisted; not rage, but distress.
Charlotte’s throat tightened. However his marriage had ended, the earl had once loved his wife deeply.
Cosgrove walked to his desk, his grip on the glass white-knuckled. He jerked out the chair, sat, and reached for the diary he’d been reading.
Charlotte opened the red calfskin volume and started taking notes, glancing up every few minutes to check on the earl. His expression was bleak as he turned the pages, the bones angular beneath his skin. When he’d finished, he tossed the diary aside.
“Anything more?”
“He talks about the Smiths, the windows, the shit, St. James’s Park. It’s all there. Towards th
e end, he’s worrying about where the letters are. See . . .” He picked up the diary and turned to the final pages. “Still nothing from Philadelphia. Time is growing short. If they don’t arrive soon, it will be too late.” He closed it with a snap.
Too late because Cosgrove would be dead? Charlotte repressed a shiver. “Anything about what he plans for your death?” That final word—death—was difficult to say. It stuck in her throat. She almost had to spit it out.
Cosgrove shook his head.
“We need his current diary, sir. The anniversary of your wife’s death is tomorrow!”
“I know.”
“He could have hired new men to—”
“Enough.” Cosgrove’s voice held an edge of irritation.
Charlotte closed her mouth. She looked down at her desk.
The earl released his breath in a sigh. “I beg your pardon. I’m in a foul mood.”
Charlotte glanced up and shook her head. I will kill Monkwood myself before I let him kill you, sir. The words echoed in her ears, as if she’d spoken them aloud.
Cosgrove reached for another diary, opened it at the first page, and began to read.
Charlotte watched him for a moment, then returned to her own task. The clock ticked its way towards noon. “October eleventh, 1804,” Cosgrove said suddenly. “He’s received a letter from Lavinia saying I beat her.” His voice held disbelief and indignation in equal measure. “I never beat her. Not once!”
“Why would she lie about such a thing, sir?”
The question earned her a savage glare. “You don’t believe me?”
“Of course I do.” Without hesitation. “But why would she lie? What did she hope to gain from it?”
“I don’t know. Unless . . .” Cosgrove lowered the diary. “It was just after I’d told Lavinia I was divorcing her. Perhaps she thought Monkwood would support her, if she painted herself as a victim?” His eyebrows drew suddenly together. He cast aside the diary and picked up another one, thumbed swiftly through the pages. “I wondered what this meant. Listen: October 10th, 1805. Today Cosgrove will learn what it’s like to receive a beating. Blood for blood, on the day it was shed.” Cosgrove’s head lifted. His eyes skewered her, fierce. “St. James’s Park. It was retribution. For a beating I never gave Lavinia.” He threw the diary down on his desk, a slapping sound, and hissed between his teeth.
“And the attack in Charles Street, sir? Was that also an anniversary?”
“Charles Street?” Cosgrove’s scowl deepened. He reached for a diary, opened the cover and read the date, tossed it aside, picked up another red calfskin volume, flicked rapidly through the pages, paused, and read, tight lines bracketing his mouth.
Charlotte discovered she was holding her breath. She made herself inhale, exhale, made herself wait patiently, listening to the tick tick tick of the clock on the mantelpiece.
“October twenty-third, 1804. He’s received a letter from Lavinia saying I beat her black and blue.” Outrage was vivid on Cosgrove’s face. “How dared she write such lies about me!”
Charlotte shook her head.
“And there’s a comment here I don’t understand, mention of something they’d discussed. A plan.” Cosgrove thumbed back through the diary. “I remember Monkwood came down to Hazelbrook . . . Here. October twelfth. The day after she first wrote to him saying I beat her.” He fell silent, reading.
Charlotte watched as he read to the bottom, turned the page, read again. He raised his head and looked at her, his lips parted, apparently speechless.
“What, sir?”
Cosgrove closed the diary and laid it on the desk. “Lavinia confessed to her involvement with Barnaby. She said I was a brutal husband. That she’d turned to Barnaby for consolation.”
“An excuse? So Monkwood wouldn’t be jealous?”
The earl didn’t appear to hear her. “Monkwood says . . . He says . . .” He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead, pressing so hard she saw his fingertips whiten.
“What, sir?”
Cosgrove opened his eyes. “He says he offered to arrange my death. And Lavinia agreed to it.”
Chapter Forty
Charlotte opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
Her shock, her silence, made the earl laugh harshly again. “Yes, that’s how I feel.” He shoved the diary away, a violent gesture.
Charlotte closed her mouth, and shook her head.
Cosgrove pushed to his feet, as if he had too much rage to stay seated. He strode to the window.
Charlotte found her voice. “Why would she—?”
“Think about it.” Cosgrove stared out the window, his hands fisted on the sill. “Would you rather be a widow with a handsome jointure, or a divorced adulteress?”
Charlotte weighed the dead countess’s choices. As Cosgrove’s widow, whispers of adultery would have clung to her, but she’d have kept her title, her jointure, her position in Society. Only the highest sticklers would have closed their doors to her.
As a divorced adulteress who’d been at the center of a very public scandal, she would have existed at the fringes of Society, no longer respectable.
Charlotte pressed her lips together. Lady Cosgrove made her own bed; she should have been prepared to lie in it.
The earl turned around. “Lavinia wanted me dead.” His face wasn’t angular, wasn’t angry. Her father had worn that look—pale, bewildered—after he’d been widowed.
He’s devastated.
Charlotte’s throat closed. Tears stung her eyes. It took all her willpower not to go to Cosgrove, not to put her arms around him and hug him.
She blinked the tears back. What would Albin say at this point? Not Charlotte, who wanted to comfort him, but Albin, the practical, competent secretary. She cleared her throat. “Monkwood loved his sister more than was natural. If he believed her lies . . . No wonder he hates you, sir. No wonder he wants you dead.”
“Yes.” The emotion seemed to drain from Cosgrove. He leaned against the windowsill, his face settling into lines of exhaustion.
“Sir . . . we need his current diary. We need to know what he’s planning! I can search his bedchamber—”
Cosgrove shook his head. “No. The time’s come to confront him.”
Charlotte pushed to her feet. “It’s too dangerous!”
“Dangerous?” Cosgrove snorted, a contemptuous sound. “Gerald Monkwood might hire someone to kill me, but he wouldn’t do it himself. He’s soft. All wind, no mettle.”
“But, sir—”
A knock sounded on the door. A footman entered. “Luncheon is served, sir.”
* * *
Marcus stared down at his plate. The mingled scents of beef and pastry made his stomach shift queasily. Monkwood had been Lavinia’s brother and guardian. He should have protected her; instead, he’d seduced her. How old had Lavinia been? Not a child, he prayed. Let her not have been a child. It was too sickening to imagine—
No. Marcus shook his head sharply. He wouldn’t imagine it, wouldn’t allow himself to envisage so grotesque a coupling.
He stared down at the pie, at the flaking golden pastry and glistening juices and tender lumps of meat. Lavinia had lied to him, betrayed him, wished him dead—but she had also been a victim: an orphan, innocent and vulnerable, seduced by her own brother.
Marcus picked up his fork and stirred the food on his plate. If Monkwood had never touched her, who might Lavinia have been? Would her heart have been less fickle? Her sweetness not just a veneer? Her disposition kinder and less covetous? Less deceitful?
Perhaps she could have truly loved me. Perhaps our marriage would have survived.
Marcus put down the fork with a clatter of silver on china. “How could Monkwood have done such a thing?” He shoved his hands through his hair. “God! How old was she when it started?”
“I could take some of the earlier diaries,” Albin said diffidently. “If you truly want to know.”
Do I?
Marcus thrust his plate away.
/> A faint frown puckered Albin’s brow. “You should eat, sir.”
If I do, I’ll vomit. Marcus shook his head.
Albin laid down his own fork. “Sir . . . Monkwood has two drawers in his desk full of letters from his sister. Would you like to see what she wrote to him? Would it help?”
Marcus pushed to his feet and walked to the window. Did he want to read Lavinia’s letters? Read her lies about him?
What I want is to destroy Monkwood.
His hands clenched on the windowsill. He imagined throttling Monkwood. Imagined squeezing the life from him. He heard the frantic wheeze of Monkwood’s breath, saw Monkwood’s face swell and grow purple—and then his eyes focused on the scene outside.
Snow blew in thick, fierce flurries, blotting out Grosvenor Square.
Marcus unclenched his hands and turned back to Albin. The lad was anxiously watching him.
“We won’t be visiting Monkwood this afternoon. It’s blowing a blizzard.”
Albin’s anxiety seemed to ease slightly.
He’s relieved we can’t go. He’s afraid Monkwood will attack me.
Marcus suppressed a snarl of temper. Words rose on his tongue: You should be a nursery maid, not a secretary. He swallowed them, went back to the table, and sat. He pulled his plate towards him, picked up his fork, and forced himself to spear a piece of beef, to lift it to his mouth, to chew, to swallow.
After a moment’s hesitation, Albin resumed eating.
Marcus ate a dozen mouthfuls, then pushed the plate away again. The silver bowl of fruit was tempting. He reached for a grape and bit into it. The flavor brought back memories: sitting on a rug in front of a fire dressed only in a sheet, Charlotte refusing to be his mistress.
The grape suddenly tasted sour in his mouth.
Think of something else.
He fastened his gaze on Albin. Less than two weeks ago he’d hired the lad—and wondered whether he was making a mistake. One of the best decisions I ever made.
Although Albin was certainly unusual.
“What’s it like to fly?”
