She leaned a shoulder against the rough wall of the entrance to an alley, shooting a look behind her to make sure danger wasn’t lurking in the shadows. The only thing back there was a lone tomcat that reminded her of her cousin Edmund. She shuddered and forced that thought from her mind.
Another thing she didn’t want to think about.
There had been a few times, while living in the rookery, that Charlotte had wondered if it had been worth it—running away, hiding. But then she thought of her cousin and her aunt, and she knew she couldn’t go back. She’d take the dangers of the rookery over her own family any day.
A top hat bobbed through the crowd, catching her attention. She slipped from the alley and this time looked both ways before crossing the street. There was no horse to fall under, so she hurried across, stepping up behind the man who had rescued her.
He walked with casual elegance, in a way that indicated he had a destination in mind. Where are you going? Home? To a family? A wife and children?
She imagined a little girl with bouncing, shiny chestnut hair and a boy with the same shaped face, brown eyes, and thin nose. The picture made her heart hurt a little. She was jealous of his wife, for having a husband who came home to her every day, who loved her and their children and the life they’d built together.
Charlotte despaired of ever having that sort of life. If she were still living with her aunt, the old woman would run off any man who turned an eye toward Charlotte. Aunt Martha hated all men, even her own son.
But Charlotte yearned for what her parents had had. A true love. A love that defied everything—societal restrictions, family loyalty, and parental pressure. Sometimes the thought that there might be a man out there who could give her the love she desired had been the only thing that had kept her going during the dark days after her father’s death when she’d been forced to live with her aunt.
Her rescuer was whistling a jaunty tune that tickled her memory, but she’d had very little music in her life since Papa had died. Music had not been allowed in her aunt’s home. It called to a man’s baser instincts.
He tipped his hat to a woman dressed in a beautiful gown that reminded Charlotte of spring grass. The woman smiled and tittered at him. Charlotte glowered at her, but the woman didn’t see Charlotte as she brushed by her.
The man jogged up the steps of Brooks Gentleman’s Club, leaving Charlotte behind to dawdle along the street, looking longingly up at the elegant building.
As she stood there, two more gentlemen climbed the steps, talking quietly, dressed more elegantly than her man.
Her man.
Ha!
Aunt Martha had been right. Charlotte was a foolish girl.
…
Oliver was already waiting for Jacob when he entered the club for their next Mayhem Meeting. Except for the murdered girls—a tragedy to be sure—there had not been many mysteries for them to solve. He was hoping that the latest batch of newspapers would provide more opportunities to take his mind off his life.
“Before we go on,” Armbruster said, in lieu of a welcome, “Mother sends her greetings and wanted me to tell you that you haven’t called upon her recently and she’s quite miffed with you.”
Jacob grinned. Armbruster’s mother was a formidable woman, but she’d always had a soft spot for Jacob. Maybe because he was the only stabilizing influence in her son’s life.
“I will amend that right away,” he said as he took his seat.
“Please do,” Oliver said drily. “I’m weary of hearing about it.” He paused. His gaze flickered away. “She wants to have a thing,” he said, low enough that Jacob strained to hear. “In your honor.”
“A thing? What is a thing?” Jacob’s heart beat erratically.
Armbruster waved his hand lazily in the air. “You know.”
“I do not know. Please explain this thing. Good God, man, not a ball. Please tell me not a ball.”
“I don’t think it would be as grand as a ball.”
Jacob covered his face with his hands “Why?”
“She thought it would be a good way for you to enter Society as the Earl of Ashland.”
His hands dropped as if they were weighted, and he glared at Armbruster.
“You have to acknowledge it at some point, and really, it’s getting a bit odd that everyone knows but you haven’t said anything. I think Mother’s idea is a good one.”
Armbruster’s mother loved everything about Society. She was both admired and feared by other matrons, and her balls were second to none. Jacob knew he had no choice, especially if she’d already made up her mind.
“Oliver, if you are any sort of friend, you will dissuade your mother from this terrible idea.”
Armbruster laughed, a true humorous laugh. “Come now, Jacob. We both know one doesn’t merely dissuade her. It’s best just to go along with her plans. Besides, you owe her, and don’t think she won’t make you pay with your presence at your own ball.”
Jacob’s heart sank. This was the price he was to pay for the favor he had asked.
Charlotte Morris’s disappearance had sunk its ugly claws into Jacob’s imagination. There was only one person who could get the story on Lady Morris and hopefully, Miss Charlotte Morris as well.
Oliver’s mother, the Dowager Lady Armbruster.
He had not thought she would stoop so low as to force him to attend a ball as payment.
“Your note only asked me to find out what I could about a Baron and Baroness Morris and their niece, the lovely Miss Charlotte Morris,” Armbruster said. “But your note failed to tell me why you needed this information.”
With a reluctance that Jacob was surprised to feel, he pulled the sketch of Charlotte Morris from his pocket and handed it to Armbruster, then shifted in his seat, not liking how closely Armbruster scrutinized the picture, nor the look of appreciation in his eyes.
“Very fetching, but why do you have a sketch of her?”
“Upon the advice of a mutual friend, Lady Morris asked me to find her niece. Said she was missing.”
“But you don’t take missing person cases.” Armbruster laid the sketch down on the small table between them.
“The baroness did not seem to care.” Jacob’s gaze strayed back to the sketch—the high curve of Miss Morris’s cheek, the delicate shell of her ear peeking out from the riot of curls falling across her shoulder.
“From the way you’re looking at that picture, I surmise that you haven’t been able to stop thinking of the lovely Miss Morris. She’s a very becoming young lady.”
“Looks don’t matter to me.” Jacob pulled his gaze away, realizing he’d revealed too much. He did not want Oliver to suspect that he was interested in Miss Morris. Because he was most assuredly not interested other than to find out what had happened to her.
“It’s been five years,” Armbruster said softly.
“And?”
“And that’s a long time to be alone.”
“I’m not like you, Armbruster. I can be without female companionship for more than forty-eight hours.”
Armbruster’s steady gaze bored into Jacob, making him shift in his seat. “Your wife—”
“Cora. Her name was Cora.”
“I remember her name, Ashland.”
Jacob felt as if his face had gone numb. He hadn’t expected Oliver to mention Cora. Armbruster never spoke of Cora, and neither did Jacob, for that matter. He thought of her. Not as much as when his grief had been so all-encompassing that he hadn’t wanted to get out of bed. But he thought of her more than occasionally.
“All I’m saying is that it’s normal for you to be attracted to someone else.”
“I’m not attracted to Charlotte Morris,” Jacob said a little more forcefully than necessary.
Oliver held his hand up in surrender—or placation—Jacob didn’t know, but his anger deflated and left him feeling hollow.
“Fair enough,” Armbruster said as he leaned forward to tap the sketch. “Do you want to know what I fou
nd out about Miss Morris?”
Jacob was loath to admit that his entire body was straining to know more about Charlotte Morris. Who was she? Why had she left her aunt’s home? What type of person was she?
He nodded curtly, afraid to betray his intense desire for knowledge of this woman who, less than a week ago, he hadn’t known existed.
“It seems that Charlotte Morris is related to me in a way.”
Jacob sat up straighter. “You’re related to the Morrises?” Good Lord, he couldn’t imagine that dried-up, humorless woman related to any of Armbruster’s family.
“Charlotte’s mother was Lady Harriet Stafford, daughter to my mother’s second aunt or some such thing. I dozed off at this point because Mother does like to go on and on about the family tree.”
“Stafford,” Jacob murmured, his mind working furiously. “As in the Marquess of Chadley?”
Charlotte is related to a marquess?
“It seems Lady Harriet defied the family and wed a George Morris, brother to this Lord Morris. His brother was a baron, but George was not even knighted. Nothing. He had no title, no wealth, nothing to recommend him to the daughter of a marquess. So of course, the relationship was forbidden.”
“Of course,” Jacob murmured, caught up in the tale.
“Lady Harriet and George ran off together. Married at Gretna Green. Less than a year later poor Harriet died during childbirth, leaving George with a brand-new daughter and no wife.”
Jacob suppressed a shudder. The situation was all too familiar to his own story. But Armbruster was caught up in the telling of his tale to notice.
“Sixteen years later George passed away, and Charlotte became the ward of Lord and Lady Morris.”
“But why didn’t the marquess claim Charlotte?” Jacob asked.
“He’s a stern fellow, according to my mother. Refused to forgive Harriet for running off like she did. Wouldn’t even forgive her after her death and wanted nothing to do with her child.”
“Harsh.”
“Quite.”
“So George Morris died,” Jacob said, “and Charlotte went to live with her aunt and uncle. Something happened while she was living with Lady Morris, and she ran away.”
His mind was in sleuth mode, like when he and Armbruster were trying to solve one of their mysteries.
“She would be coming up on twenty years old now,” Oliver said. “She could be like her mother and has fallen in love with someone Lady Morris found unsuitable.”
“I have a feeling Lady Morris finds everyone unsuitable.”
“Mother had occasion to meet Lady Morris, years ago,” Armbruster said. “When Lord Morris was still alive. Some sort of social engagement benefiting a charitable organization. Mother couldn’t remember the details.”
“Shocking,” Jacob murmured.
“I agree. Mother tends to remember everything. She said Lady Morris spoke very little, looked disapproving most of the night, wore the most regrettable black gown that covered every bit of skin, and refused all food and drink.”
“Doesn’t believe in alcohol?”
Armbruster shuddered. “Unimaginable.”
“Quite.”
“Apparently Lord Morris died a few years ago. A sudden illness.”
“And Lady Morris was left to raise Charlotte.”
“And her son.”
Jacob raised a brow. “Lady Morris has a son?”
“Edward. Or Edmund. Something like that.” Armbruster sat back and sipped his port while Jacob mulled over this new information.
“This is all very interesting,” Jacob said. “But it doesn’t tell us why Charlotte suddenly left or where she would have gone.”
“There is one person who might know. Charlotte’s best friend is Lady Sarah Crawford. She and Charlotte were friends before Charlotte was forced to live with her aunt.”
“And you think Lady Sarah can shed light on Charlotte’s whereabouts?”
“I think it’s a good place to start. If anyone knew Charlotte well, it would be Lady Sarah.”
Jacob nodded thoughtfully, his excitement turning to trepidation at what he might discover. Maybe Charlotte didn’t want to be found. Maybe Charlotte wanted to stay hidden.
Or maybe Charlotte Morris needed help and didn’t know where to turn.
Chapter Five
Charlotte was a wicked, wicked girl. That’s what her aunt would say. She would say there was something wrong with Charlotte because her mother had been a whore and she’d passed her evilness on to her daughter. It had been a constant barrage that Charlotte had learned to ignore over time.
But right now, this instant, Charlotte knew she was wicked because she was still waiting outside the gentleman’s club. Waiting for her rescuer to exit. Why? What do you plan to do when he does leave?
She was every kind of fool for standing here. It was cold. Spring pushed aside by winter’s last gasp. She was loitering under an awning of a fashionable store, and she didn’t have much time before the constable shooed her away…again. And still she stood there like the imbecile she was—or the wicked girl she was—just to get one more glimpse of him.
Fool. Fool. Fool.
Disgusted with herself, she pushed away from the doorway to head back to her cold lodgings, and that was when he stepped out of the club. But this time he was with someone. A someone Charlotte had never seen before.
The other man was as opposite her hero as one could get. Not overly tall but broad shouldered, his clothes marking him as wealthy and a bit of a dandy. Not ostentatious, but neither was his attire conservative, like her rescuer.
They were talking earnestly as they descended the steps. The other man carried a cane, but it was obvious it was a prop, for show. Her rescuer did not have such affectations.
They turned right, the other man talking away as her rescuer nodded occasionally, his mouth pulled down in a frown, his gaze trained on the path before him.
Charlotte’s new brain, the one created for survival in the rookery, recognized that he was ripe for pickpocketing. Thieves knew to look for those that were preoccupied.
She slipped out from the doorway and scooted across the street to fall in behind them, sauntering a few feet back. The other man waved his hand occasionally to make his point. Her rescuer interjected a few times. Once they laughed together, and the sound floated behind them to wrap around her. For a moment she longed for such companionship. She had Suzette, but they rarely saw each other, and never had they laughed together. Their lives were more about scraping a living and trying to find their next meal.
She thought of Sarah. Beautiful, lovely Sarah. They had been friends nearly since birth, but Charlotte had not seen Sarah since coming to live with her aunt. Aunt Martha had forbidden her friendship with Sarah. Charlotte missed Sarah almost as much as she missed her papa. So much that she would not allow herself to think about her.
The men had walked a few blocks, and Charlotte was becoming nervous, for they were entering the fashionable part of town, where shops gave way to larger homes, spaced farther apart, and governesses and nannies pushed prams through grassy parks.
She knew that just beyond those homes, a few streets away, was the rookery, but in these fancy streets such a thing could be ignored.
The men stopped at the corner and conversed for a bit. Charlotte was becoming uncomfortable. She couldn’t dawdle for much longer before someone became suspicious.
To her relief they didn’t speak for very long and parted ways, the other man disappearing toward St. James Square. Her rescuer stood quite still for a bit before seeming to come to a decision and turned right, toward Piccadilly.
Every part of her screamed not to, but she followed, curious as to his destination. Did he live in this part of town? If so, which house was his? Was there a hot meal sitting on the table in anticipation of his homecoming? Piccadilly was a well-off area where Sarah lived. If this man lived here, he was quite well-off, indeed.
Feeling like a voyeur, but unable to help herself
, she continued to follow. The crowds started thinning out, and eventually, if they went much farther, he was going to notice her behind him. She supposed she could always tell him that he was the one who had saved her life and she’d seen him walking and wanted to thank him.
But he would want to know what a dirty, scrappy lad was doing in this part of town, and she would have no answer. And then he would call the constable and she would be hauled away.
He turned down another street, and Charlotte had a funny feeling in her stomach. She knew this street. Sarah lived on this street.
Charlotte searched for her best friend’s house, a powerful yearning overcoming her. If she knocked on the front door she would be welcomed inside, no questions asked. Sarah’s mother would give her a fierce hug, and Charlotte would be fed and bathed and taken care of.
But she also knew she couldn’t do that to Sarah or her family. There were too many secrets she kept, too much she knew, and if her presence were discovered she would be forced to return to her aunt’s house, and she couldn’t go back there.
…
Jacob jogged up the steps of the Crawford residence. Warm lights shined from the windows, illuminating the dreary day.
He’d debated coming here, mostly because he knew he shouldn’t involve himself in the disappearance of Charlotte Morris. However, Lady Morris’s odd behavior, coupled with the fact that Charlotte was directly related to a formidable family who refused to acknowledge her existence, intrigued him. And then there were the dead bodies.
What if Charlotte was one of them? Didn’t her family have a right to know? Even if her family was coldhearted and refused to acknowledge her?
But if he were to get to the heart of the matter and be completely honest with himself, it was Charlotte herself that was prodding Jacob on. He felt she needed a voice, someone to fight for her, whatever her circumstances were. Call it mad, but he wanted to be Charlotte’s voice. Maybe there was one last thing he could do before fully stepping into Society.
He knocked on the Crawfords’ door and glanced over his shoulder. There was an itchy feeling between his shoulder blades that made him uncomfortable, as if someone were watching him.
An Unwilling Earl Page 3
