“Is something wrong?”
She tilted her face up to meet his. “Aside from the fact that your mother might be in imminent jeopardy?”
She hated herself the moment the words spouted from her lips. His expression clouded over with worry again.
Swallowing hard, she shook her head and wrapped her arms around her middle. “Why would Lady Graylocke seek out one of the most notorious gossips of the ton?” Mrs. Biddleford hadn’t had a kind word to say about Freddie during the brief Season before Freddie fell in love and married Tristan. In fact, Charlie suspected that Mrs. Biddleford hadn’t said anything kind about her, either.
“She often speaks with Theodosia about the women here. She and Hester—Miss Maize—volunteer here from time to time.”
Freddie didn’t seem the least bit concerned with the aberration, although, if she was to be believed, Lady Graylocke’s association with those busybodies wasn’t unusual. In fact, it was a frequent occurrence if Freddie had been invited to use the women’s Christian names.
“Then the fact that Mrs. Biddleford is Lord Strickland’s aunt has no bearing on Lady Graylocke’s choice of companion?”
Freddie shook her head, but Anthony didn’t seem as convinced. Judging by his pensive frown, he shared her misgivings. Perhaps Charlie was seeing spies around every corner now, but this meeting could be more related to the spy network than to the charity.
They had no time to discuss the matter further. As Morgan approached, Lucy said, “Let’s drive to Mrs. Biddleford’s townhouse and find out.”
This time, the journey took mere minutes. Mrs. Biddleford’s home resided on a street crowded with houses pressed together, wall-to-wall. She had a neat pair of rosebushes flanking her door. When they knocked, a woman answered.
“I’m afraid Mrs. Biddleford is not at home.”
Charlie’s stomach dropped. Although she knew the answer, she had to ask, “Then I take it Lady Graylocke is not here, either?”
The old woman glanced from Charlie to Morgan. “Of course not.”
Charlie pressed her lips together. They were too late. Where could Lady Graylocke be—and what if they didn’t find her in time?
The assassination might not be tonight.
Unfortunately, Morgan’s earlier statement held too much merit. Charlie, Anthony, Lucy, and her husband had raced through London, causing a stir to anyone watching. Showing up on Morgan’s doorstep in such a harried way might have led the French to suspect that they knew of the assassination plot and meant to stop it. Charlie worried that they might find her minutes too late.
Blinking back tears, Charlie glanced at Anthony. His face might have been carved from stone. His mouth was set in an unforgiving line.
Morgan kept his head. “Did Mrs. Biddleford and my mother leave together?”
“They did.”
It wouldn’t save her. If anything, it fulfilled the requirement for the assassination plot—among friends, in public.
“Do you know where they meant to go?”
The duke’s voice was even, but his icy gaze did its work. The old woman wrung her skirt.
“T-t-to the theat-t-ter, Your Grace. I believe they meant to take in a play.”
“Which theater? Which play?”
“I don’t know. They didn’t say.”
The woman seemed close to tears. Freddie, her face scrunched with sympathy, squeezed to the front of the procession to pat the servant’s arm. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
But it might not have been enough. The moment the old woman shut the door, the family gathered around to discuss their options.
“We have to split up,” Anthony said, his voice stern. “We’ll each search one of the popular theaters. Wherever it is, it’ll probably be where we have a standing box, so that leaves only four places to search.”
They divided the four among themselves. Lucy and Alex took the carriage with Freddie and Tristan, each couple to search a different theater. Charlie and Anthony accompanied Morgan to His Majesty’s Theater. Morgan left them there, saying, “I’ll search the last. If you find Mother, bring her back to the house and keep her there.”
The moment Anthony nodded in acknowledgement, Morgan shut the door and rapped on the roof of the coach. The carriage rattled away over the cobblestones.
Charlie took a single, calming breath then plunged into the crowd. Anthony remained on her heels, glaring at anyone who dared to look in their direction and clearing an easier path for them as they entered the lobby. He laid his hand on her back, guiding her toward the staircase leading to the private boxes on the upper floors. She balked.
“If we enter by the audience seats, we’ll be able to see all the boxes. We’ll find her faster.” If she was there. If she wasn’t, Charlie and Anthony could hurry to help Morgan at his allotted theater.
Unlike Charlie, Anthony didn’t opt to shout over the babble and rustle of the crowd. He nodded and steered her along with the current of traffic into the swamp of seats in the theater.
Charlie pushed through the crowd as they thinned, claiming their seats. Once nearly to the stage, she and Anthony stopped. They each took a wing of the theater and peered at the scarlet-draped boxes above the audience. The rustle and fall of curtains behind the boxes distracted her, making it more difficult to tell how many people resided in each box and whether or not they matched Lady Graylocke’s appearance. What she wouldn’t do for a spyglass.
“I found her.”
The breath gushed out of Charlie at Anthony’s terse proclamation. She barely processed the words, and his pointing finger to a box on the second level, before he grabbed her hand and tugged her behind him on the way to the stairs. A small staircase, likely for those employed by the theater, rose from beside the stage to disappear on that level.
Grasping her skirts to keep from tripping over them, Charlie followed. She stumbled and almost fell into Anthony when he stopped suddenly. His grip tightened on her hand, a reflexive squeeze.
“Anthony, what—”
“Stay behind me, whatever you do.”
As he started forward again, Charlie peered past him and caught the tail end of a shadow as a figure ducked up the stairs. Could it be the assassin? What if she and Anthony arrived too late?
Snatching her hand back, she said, “Hurry.”
Her rapid heartbeat drowned out all other sound. As they reached the top of the stairs, she swallowed against a mouth as dry as sand, wondering where the figure had gone. As the rustle of opening curtains onstage wisped through the theater, the crowd quieted. The show was about to begin. No one aside from Anthony and Charlie lingered in the corridor.
They raced down the hall, Anthony counting the boxes aloud as he sought out the one where he’d seen his mother. As they reached it, he flung the curtain aside and barged in. Charlie marched in after him.
The box was empty, save for three women: Lady Graylocke, Mrs. Biddleford, and Miss Maize. The two older ladies looked astounded at the intrusion. Lady Graylocke stood with a mixed expression of shock and delight. “Anthony?” She reached out her hands toward him.
Out of the corner of her eye, Charlie caught movement. A man, clad mostly in black, strode to the lip of the neighboring box. He lifted and cocked a pistol.
Charlie screamed Anthony’s name. He bolted from the box the moment he saw the threat, rounding to intercept the assassin. He wouldn’t reach the neighboring box in time. If Charlie didn’t do something, Lady Graylocke was going to die in front of her eyes.
Out of sheer panic and desperation, Charlie threw herself in front of the woman who had come to be a second mother to her.
26
The breath lodged in Gray’s throat as he raced into the neighboring box. The swinging curtain buffeted his arm. As the assassin pulled the trigger, the report deafened him. His heart stopped beating as Charlie flung herself at Mother. Her momentum carried both women to the ground.
Heaven help him. It was bad enough his mother’s life was in danger.
He didn’t know what he would he do if the woman he loved died.
His ears rang as the assassin fumbled for something in his pocket, ammunition or perhaps another loaded pistol. His instincts, honed from years of war, took over as he battled with the attacker. The traitor wasn’t willing to submit without a fight.
Gray slammed him against the side of the box as his hearing cleared. The ring of the gunshot and rush of the blood in his ears was overpowered by the screams and shouts of the panicked mass of bodies in the theater. Breathing shallowly, he blocked out the sounds, focusing on the opponent in front of him.
It felt as though a lifetime passed before he rendered the man unconscious—a lifetime during which Charlie might be dying or already dead. The moment the man fell limp in his arms, Gray thrust him to the ground and ran to check on the two most important women in his life.
The two old biddies, friends of his mother, hovered over the women on the ground. Are they still alive? “Move,” he commanded tersely. He didn’t have the energy to curb his rudeness, not when every muscle in his body was attuned to the fate of the women on the ground. He’d dressed gunshot wounds in battle before. If he could only reach them…
Mother’s friends stepped back, the curtain of their skirts revealing the women on the ground. Mother’s mouth was tight, and she fought a grimace as she sat up. Charlie’s face was flushed. With one curl clinging to the side of her mouth, she tilted her face back and asked, “Are we safe to stand?”
When he nodded, she held out her hands to him. If he helped her stand, he would pull her into his embrace. She didn’t want to marry him, and such a public display of affection would tie them together irrevocably. Unable to touch her in any meaningful way, he crouched and held her hands tight over his heart. “The devil take me, Charlie, why would you do that?”
She stiffened. “I saved your mother’s life!”
He lifted her hands to his mouth, muffling his words as he breathed in her clammy skin. “Yes, and in so doing, you nearly stole mine.”
He hadn’t truly understood the depth of his feelings for her until her life was in jeopardy. He had once thought her wild and unlovable, but the opposite was true.
She was wild, yes, but she was also ladylike, fierce, and accomplished. Never in his life had he met a woman better suited to him, and he was certain he would never meet another woman like her again. Until he’d nearly lost her, he hadn’t realized how much he needed her in his life—not only today, but every day thereafter.
He didn’t want to marry her out of fear of having gotten her with child; he wanted to marry her so he would always come home to her. Now that their lives had intersected, he didn’t know if he could live without her.
But she’d already refused his proposal once. She didn’t want to marry him.
The thought muted the danger of the moment and disconnected him. He helped her to stand then aided his mother. When the taller of the older women—he didn’t know which was Mrs. Biddleford—asked after the assassin, Gray numbly explained how he’d incapacitated the fellow but left him where he fell. Showing a great deal of mettle, the two biddies volunteered to watch him until help arrived.
It didn’t take long. By the time he herded his mother toward the door as Charlie explained the situation, he spotted several figures moving against the current of the thinning crowd below. Morgan, easily identifiable due to the streak of white in his hair, led the figures.
The threat against his mother had been thwarted.
Late that evening, a disgruntled footman let Gray into Brackley’s townhouse and led him to the study. He helped himself to the whiskey on the mantel as he awaited his sister. Despite knowing that his mother was now safe, the threat contained, and everyone in the network on high alert to prevent future attacks, Gray was no more at peace.
He couldn’t stop thinking of Charlie. In a day or two, he’d have to sail down the Thames and back to his ship. Tomorrow, he had an appointment with an admiral in London to explain the situation with Lieutenant Stills. Through the course of that meeting, Gray would no doubt be commanded to resume his position at sea.
Although he would put in a request for special leave as soon as possible, he would have to leave Charlie behind. She was such a dynamic, lively woman, and he worried that someone else would notice her worth and she would fall in love while he was away. His stomach tied itself in knots around the smooth burn of whiskey.
“Anthony?”
He turned at his sister’s sleepy voice. It was long past midnight. He must have woken her. She ran her fingers through her loose hair, arranging it over her wrapper as she stepped into the room.
“What are you doing here at this hour?”
“Other than to drink your husband’s whiskey?” Gray tried for a smile, but it fell flat.
When he took one of the armchairs facing the hearth and the burning branch of candles there, Lucy took the seat opposite him. “Aren’t you going to offer me some of your stolen whiskey?”
He smirked. “You’re the lady of the house. Can’t you pour your own?”
“It tastes sweeter when you do it.”
Bollocks. He didn’t correct her and smiled as he stood to fetch her a tumbler. He poured a scant finger into the bottom of the glass then offered it to her.
As she sipped, he asked, “Brackley… He’s good to you?”
She looked him in the eye. “I wouldn’t be married to him if he wasn’t.”
Gray swilled the amber liquid around his glass as he reclaimed his seat. “He has a history…”
“I know of his past. We love each other, Anthony.”
Nodding, he took a sip. He savored the burn as he swallowed, buying himself time to think. In a soft voice, he admitted, “I love Charlie.”
“I thought so. It’s clear there’s something between you.”
He stared into his glass. “She won’t marry me.”
The silence between them lengthened. After swallowing the last of the alcohol, he set the tumbler on a low table between them. Lucy had her lips pressed together. She still stared at her glass.
“You know why,” he guessed. From the way Charlie had spoken of Lucy, he suspected Lucy was the one person in the world who best knew Charlie’s mind, and that included Charlie’s mother and sister.
Lucy rearranged a lock of her black hair. “She wants adventure. She doesn’t want a husband and children to hold her back. Perhaps if you give her time… ”
“I may not have time,” he said, his voice tight. “I’m going back to the war in a couple days—”
He hated the look of disappointment that crossed her face. It was the same look Mother gave him whenever he left after a leave. The pleading in Lucy’s voice was no better. “Must you?”
He swallowed hard and tried to keep his voice even. “Of course I must, Lucy. I’m a captain in the Royal Navy. I have a duty to my country and my crew.”
“Fulfill your duty here. Our brothers do.” She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Lud, it seems even Mother does.”
“I have no talent for subterfuge. I’m a seaman. I wouldn’t know who I was without my ship and the purpose it affords me.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You knew who you were before you signed up to go to sea.”
No, he hadn’t. He’d been a boy, and one who acted out to get his father’s attention. Gray had never known true discipline or true purpose until he’d joined the navy. He couldn’t imagine leaving it. In fact, the concept made his stomach cramp. Imagining life in London, without the sea breeze in his hair or a new vista on the horizon, felt as though fetters clamped around his wrists and ankles.
Now he knew how Charlie felt about marriage. If only he could prove to her that she was wrong. He would never seek to hold her back. In fact, if he could, he’d bring her with him.
He stood, looking down at Lucy. “I’m going back to my ship, Lucy. I must.”
She looked glum as she stared at her hands. She didn’t say a word. That uncharacteristic silence, more th
an anything, told him how devastated she was to hear he was leaving again. Perhaps one day, she would understand. Perhaps Charlie could help her understand.
“I’m sorry to have woken you. Good night.”
As he strode for the door, Lucy glanced up. “I think Charlie loves you, too.”
His heart skipped a beat. He detoured to kiss the top of her head. “That was all I needed to hear.”
Perhaps he had reason to hope, after all.
27
Charlie glowed with happiness as she slathered a piece of bread with marmalade. Across from her, Mama held Papa’s hand and sipped her morning tea with a fond smile. Tristan, on Papa’s other side, engaged him in a warm conversation about a card game they’d discovered they both enjoyed.
Freddie sat next to her husband, her hair and dress neat and her movements precise as she ate her breakfast. Although she appeared not to be paying much mind to the conversation, now and again the corners of her mouth would tip up in a fond smile.
For all the anger Freddie had harbored toward their father for his vices and his part in faking his death, she began to soften the moment Mama and Papa had arrived in London the day before.
Charlie had hoped she would. Freddie was a gentle, kind soul, and keeping so angry must have made her miserable. Perhaps, now that the family was reunited at long last, they would be able to bridge the gap of years. Charlie smiled as she took a bite of her breakfast. She looked forward to being a family again, with the new addition of Tristan and the Graylockes.
As Lady Graylocke entered the room, she tsked. “You’re all awake already! Why didn’t you rouse me?” She pinned Charlie beneath a fond smile. “I thought you would opt to lie abed, for certain.”
Charlie shrugged. “Perhaps I’ve spent too much time aboard a ship. I seem to rise with the mere whisper of sound.” As much as she would have liked to lounge in bed as she used to, she didn’t want to waste a moment with Mama and Papa. Perhaps the novelty of having Papa close by would wear off with time, but for now she meant to embrace every second.
Captivating the Captain (Scandals and Spies Book 6) Page 18
