A young girl stood on Rose’s left’s side, no more than fifteen. Charlotte looked at her face and had to fight to keep from staring. The girl was exquisitely beautiful. Not just pretty, beautiful, almost shockingly so. Her face, a perfect oval, had the coveted high cheekbones and the small yet full mouth. Her nose suggested a touch of something exotic, its lines straight but slightly unusual for Adrianglia, and her eyes reinforced it. Large, wide, yet lightly elongated at the inner corners, they hinted at some mystery, some uncommon heritage and the promise of a dangerous edge. She wasn’t just stunning, she looked interesting, which was infinitely more important than classic perfection or beauty. She could’ve walked into a ballroom filled with people, and every single one of them would pause for a second look.
That dark haunting beauty seemed familiar, but they hadn’t met before. Charlotte was sure of it.
Richard opened his arms.
The girl dashed down the stairs.
He picked her up and hugged her, and Charlotte realized where she had seen her before: there were echoes of Richard in that beautiful face. Did he have a daughter? No, it couldn’t be—he’d said he was childless.
“Richard,” Declan said. “Good to see you in one piece. Why are the boys with you?”
Rose was looking past them to her brothers. “Did something happen? Why do the two of you look like that?”
George took a deep breath.
“You’ll just draw it out.” Jack pushed forward, past his brother.
Oh no.
“Grandmother is dead. Dad was working for people who killed her. George killed Dad, although he won’t admit it.”
Charlotte was looking straight at Rose, and she saw the precise moment when the other woman’s world broke to pieces.
* * *
CHARLOTTE sat in the soft chair in Declan Camarine’s study. Richard rested in the other one. The girl sat at his feet on the floor like a loyal puppy, her pose completely at odds with her clothes or age. They should’ve been introduced, but everyone had more important things to do. Somewhere in the house, Rose was trying to make sense of what happened. Her brothers were with her. Charlotte had tried to offer some consolation, but it was pretty clear that Rose needed her privacy, so she came with Richard instead.
At his desk, Declan closed the red ledger. “The evidence is damning.”
“It shows a direct financial trail,” Richard said.
“That it does.” Declan’s face wore a grim expression. She had expected him to be more celebratory. Perhaps he was shocked by the contents or maybe the raw impact of the tragedy his wife was trying to overcome still stunned him. “It fits perfectly. Brennan’s position with the Department of the Interior would permit him to keep tabs on my office. He oversees internal security. My people are legally bound to inform the Department of the Interior of any operation that requires the transport of more than ten marshals. He knew where we would strike before we had a chance to get there.”
Declan fell silent.
“And, my lord?” Charlotte prompted gently.
He looked at her. “And if it was anyone but Brennan, I would act on it immediately.”
Richard leaned forward, focused. “The numbers don’t lie. Audit his accounts. You’ll see the record of payments made to him.”
“If it was anyone else, my name and position alone would be sufficient to instantly gain access and isolate the suspect from any channels of influence. But in this case, he is the cousin of the king,” Declan said. “His favorite cousin, the man whom the King sees as his younger brother. I know Brennan. He is smart, and he navigates the waters of the Department of the Interior like he owns them. He doesn’t make mistakes.
“If I request an audit based on the existence of this ledger, I would have to throw all of my pull and all that of my father’s and mother’s reputation just to get a foot in the door. The ledger will be reviewed by half a dozen people, none of whom want to pin a target to their own chests. Brennan will know about it almost immediately. Someone will tell him simply for a chance to be invited to the next royal picnic. I’ll be asked how I came into possession of the ledger, a question, like many others, I’ll have to dodge.
“Days will pass, the investigation into the ledger will drag on, until he’ll finally come forward and offer to simply settle this because he has nothing to hide. We will perform the audit and find nothing. The ledger will be denounced as a fake. Apologies will be rendered, throughout which he will appear magnanimous and gracious, while I will be painted as overeager, earnest, and naive at best, and jealous and harboring a deep vendetta against Brennan at worst. My credibility will be shot, forcing me to step down, and with me out of the way, Brennan will be free to rebuild his vile enterprise at his leisure.”
Charlotte sat in stunned silence. The shreds of their victory floated about her, melting into nothing.
“So this is it? It was for nothing?”
“No,” Declan said. “We know who he is now, which means we can more effectively cut him off from access to our antislaver operations. He’s suffered a catastrophic loss from the sacking of the Market. If we consistently dismantle the slave trade, ruining his profits over the course of the next few years, he may decide that continuing his oversight is too expensive . . .”
Tulip’s tortured face flashed before her. “No.”
The two men looked at her.
“No,” she repeated. “Not good enough. A few years? Do you have any idea what I’ve seen? Do you know at what cost those few years will come?”
“Charlotte,” Richard said quietly. The adolescent girl was staring at her, dark eyes alarmed.
She checked herself and saw the dark streams of her magic splayed around her. Her control was beginning to slip. She pulled her shame back into herself.
“You have my deepest respect and admiration for the depth of your sacrifice, my lady.” Declan rose and bowed to her. “I’m merely pointing out the facts.”
“What do you need to end him?” Richard asked.
“A confession,” Declan said. “Preferably in front of a dozen infallible witnesses.”
It would never happen. Something inside her was dying bit by bit. Perhaps it was hope.
“Then we’ll have to obtain it for you.” Richard rose. Declan did, too. She regained her feet.
“You’re welcome to stay at the house,” Declan said.
Richard glanced at her. Charlotte shook her head gently. They needed to be alone with their grief and deal with it as a family. Richard and she were not a part of it, and she wanted to be left to her own despair.
“Thank you. It’s most gracious of you, but I believe it would be best if we moved on,” Richard said. “The less we’re seen together, the better.”
Declan escorted them out of his office.
Outside, dense clouds the color of lead had overtaken the sky. A gust of wind pulled at her hair—a storm was coming. Charlotte realized for the first time that she was still wearing the same clothes she’d worn on the island. A blood splatter stained her pants, a castoff from Richard’s sword. She could smell the stench of smoke on her tunic. She looked like a wreck. It was a wonder they had let her into their home at all.
On the stairs, the girl stared at Richard with a wordless desperation.
He hugged her and kissed her hair gently. “I will be at the Lair.” He handed her a folded piece of paper. “Give this to George. Don’t leave the manor. I may have need of you.”
She nodded.
Richard started down the stairs toward the phaeton, and Charlotte followed. What else could she do?
The doors swung open, and Rose rushed outside. “Wait!”
Charlotte paused.
“How was she before she died?”
“Your grandmother was well,” Charlotte said. “She spoke of you and the boys often. She kept all of your presents. The glasses you’d sent her were the envy of the whole town. Mary Tomkins almost took sick from sheer jealousy.”
A haunted look passed over Rose
.
“She was healthy,” Charlotte continued. “I made sure to keep up with her aches. She was respected. Her biggest worry was trying to keep a cuckoo clock in her hair. She knew you and the boys loved her, Lady Camarine. She stayed in the Edge of her own choosing, and a pair of wild horses couldn’t have pulled her out. Your grandmother never saw herself as a victim. It is perhaps presumptuous of me, but I would suggest that you shouldn’t see her that way either. If anything, the blame belongs to the people who killed her—and me, because when she needed help, I wasn’t fast enough.”
Charlotte turned and walked toward the phaeton. She felt spent and empty, scraped completely dry.
“Lady de Ney,” Rose called out.
Charlotte turned again.
Rose bowed. It was a deep, formal, Weird bow. “I don’t blame you. I blame them. Thank you for taking care of my grandmother.”
“You’re welcome,” Charlotte told her. She just wanted to get away.
Richard swung the door of the phaeton open for her, and she climbed in.
“The ride won’t be long,” he promised, and shut the door. She heard him get in the front, in the driver’s seat, where an instrument panel waited. The horseless phaeton took off down the road.
Two years, she reminded herself. That’s how long it took Richard to get to this point. She had only been at this for less than a week. It had been the most difficult week of her life, but it was only a week. Even if it felt like a lifetime.
Rain drenched the phaeton. She looked outside the glass window and saw a gray haze of water. The raindrops bombarded the roof, sliding along the smooth resin walls of the phaeton, as if she were under a waterfall and yet remained completely dry. Charlotte covered her face and cried. It was a wordless, silent sobbing born of pure pressure that squeezed the tears out of her eyes, more a stress relief than true mourning.
The phaeton came to a halt. The door swung open again, and she jumped out into the deluge, grateful that it would wash the signs of her weakness from her face.
Tall trees surrounded a narrow driveway. In front of her, a house crouched in the rain, like a shaggy bear. She could barely make out the dark log walls under the roof green with moss. Lightning flashed above. A moment later, thunder tore through the hum of the rain. Richard grabbed her hand, and they dashed across the driveway to the house. Charlotte ran up the stairs onto the narrow porch, Richard swung the door open, and she ducked inside gratefully.
TEN
“LIGHTS,” Richard said.
Pale yellow lanterns ignited on the walls, bathing the cabin in their soothing light. Delicate frosted spheres, they dangled from the wood like bunches of glowing grapes. The layout of the cabin was open and simple: in the center, two large couches faced each other, flanked by an overstuffed chair, all in handsome, masculine brown. A classic Adrianglian fire pit sat between the couches, a rectangular construction of stone with a grate partially overshadowed by an exhaust hood venting outside the house.
To the left, wooden stairs led to a small loft supporting a bed. Under the stairs, a desk stood, filled with stacks of paper. A large map of Adrianglia decorated the wall, with hand-drawn arrows and annotations written in Richard’s hand.
At the right wall, a kitchen occupied the far corner, complete with the ornate box of an icer unit and a small stove.
Richard walked past her, struck a match, and dropped it into the pit. Immediately, the flames surged up. He must’ve laid out the fire before he’d left.
Long windows offered a view outside the house, all of the forest soaking in the gray deluge of cold rain. Every inch of the wall free of windows was filled with bookcases. Volumes of all shapes and sizes sat on the shelves, interrupted by odd objects. He liked books. So did she.
The space felt warm and inviting, the crackling of the logs a soothing counterpoint to the rain. For some odd reason, she had expected the house to be austere, almost grim, but it was comfortable and inviting. He was letting her into his personal space, into his home.
“A towel?” he asked, offering her a green towel.
“Thank you.” She took it and stood there, looking at the towel like an idiot.
“Would you like to take a shower? The water is heated by the icer’s coils, so it should be hot,” he told her. “It’s through that door on the right. There are clean clothes in the cabinet.”
She could wash the Isle of Divine Na off her skin.
The bathroom was equipped with a standard Adrianglian shower. When the first drops of water hit her, Charlotte exhaled.
Ten minutes later, she rummaged through the cabinet and found a tunic that was too long on her and a pair of soft woolen pants, which were tight on her hips. She twisted the towel into a turban on her head and slipped out of the bathroom. Richard waited until she was settled on the couch by the fire pit and entered the bathroom with his own towel.
She watched the flames and tried not to think. If she didn’t feel so broken, she would’ve walked along the shelves, caressing the spines with her fingers. She wanted to know what he liked, what books he had read, but defeat wrapped around her, like a thick, dull blanket, and she couldn’t fight it off.
The heat of the fire warmed her skin, and she forced herself to enjoy the simple, meager pleasure of being clean, warm, and safe, at least for the moment. When she looked up, Richard had left the bathroom and was coming toward her. She pulled the towel off her hair and let it down.
He sat down across from her. For a few minutes, they sat silently, the fire crackling between them.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“We lost,” she said, hating the failure in her voice.
“We lost a battle. I intend to win the war.”
“How?” she asked.
“We know who runs the slavers. We have the names of five people. We study them, then we go after them,” he said.
Go after them? After the bluebloods with money, after the peers of the realm with power, after the cousin to the king . . . “You make it sound so simple.”
“Charlotte?” he asked quietly. “Are you giving up?”
“No. I have to see this through to the end. I just . . . I feel spent. I thought it would be over.”
“But it isn’t.”
“No.” She faced him. “The truth is that I’m weak, Richard. Despite all my determination, the moment I saw a way out, I leaped at it. When we found the ledgers, I felt this overwhelming relief. I felt hope. I haven’t gone over the edge yet. I could stop and never use that side of my magic again. I glimpsed a new chance at life, but now it’s gone.”
“It’s a strength, not a weakness. Despite everything you’ve seen and done, you retained your humanity. I admire that.”
She shook her head. “There is nothing worthy of admiration here. I’m simply a very selfish woman. We’ve been robbed of our victory, and even though I barely began the fight, I’m already in despair at the first setback. How can you keep going? I thought you would be more dejected.”
“I am. I’m used to setbacks by now, but this one is crushing.” His damp hair, almost black with moisture, fell over his face. The light of the fire played on his skin. “I struggled with it, but I’m also a very selfish man.”
“What does that mean?”
He glanced at her. “I realized that if this were over, you would leave.”
The slavers, Brennan, and the insurmountable obstacles to bringing them to justice faded from her mind. He was right there. All she had to do was get up and take two steps forward or invite him in. He could be hers.
Charlotte raised her chin. “I’m here now. In your house.”
Richard stopped moving. She had his complete attention.
She leaned forward and ran her hand through her long blond hair, letting it fall over her shoulders to frame her face. He focused on her completely. She read admiration, desire, and a touch of hard male possessiveness in his gaze. It made her giddy.
“The question is, are you going to do something about it, Rich
ard?”
Richard cleared the distance between them in one rapid step, then his arms were around her. She saw him leaning down and closed her eyes. The first touch of his lips made her shudder, not in fear or excitement, but in desperate, all-consuming want. His lips told her everything she needed to know without making a single sound: that he wanted her just as desperately, that he hoped, that he wouldn’t force her. That he thought she was beautiful.
His tongue brushed her lips, and she tilted her head and opened her mouth, letting him know that she wanted him, too. He tasted her, kissing deeper, seducing with a promise of more but holding back. Her body tightened. Her breasts pressed against his chest. A deep-seated desire sparked inside her. Suddenly, she felt empty, and she wanted to be full of him. He sensed it, as if they were perfectly attuned, and pulled her tighter, possessive.
His hands stroked her back, under her tunic, and the roughness of the calluses on his fingers scraping lightly against her skin sent aftershocks through the sensitive muscles of her back. Wrapped in his heated strength, she let go of words and self-awareness, and just kissed him, delighting in the simple pleasure of having him. He tasted of sandalwood and smoke and the promise of bliss.
“So beautiful,” he whispered in her ear, and kissed her lips, her cheeks, then her neck, coaxing her to melt. It was too slow. A sudden fear that he would change his mind gripped her.
“Bed,” she whispered to him.
He picked her up like she weighed nothing and carried her up the stairs to the loft, depositing her on the covers.
The bed was huge.
The full reality of what she was about to do dropped onto Charlotte’s shoulders, like a crippling burden.
She swallowed. The blood spatter on her clothes flashed before her. She wanted to forget it. The clothes she wore now were clean, but she still wanted them gone because she knew her skin was free of blood.
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