by Sara Reinke
* * * *
Once dressed, Charlotte hurried downstairs to the main foyer. She saw that the doors to her father’s library had been drawn closed, and she stole to the threshold, pressing her ear to the polished oak. She could hear muted voices from within, her father and James’s, but she could not discern what they were saying to one another.
Charlotte frowned, letting her knees fold beneath her as she squatted by the door handle. She peeped through the keyhole; she could see a brightly lit sliver of the library beyond, one of her father’s bookshelves, and a corner of one of the intricate throw rugs that adorned the floor. She could see one of the room’s large windows canting inward, partially ajar, firelight from the hearth reflected against the glass. She saw no more than this, and her frown deepened.
“Damn it,” she muttered, rising to her feet. She gathered her skirts in her hands, lifting them as she hurried toward the kitchen. She made her way toward the back of the house, the rear exit. The library window was opened; all Charlotte needed to do was slip outside, steal around the east side of the house, and crouch beneath it to eavesdrop upon her father’s conversation with James. The fact that James met Lord Epping behind closed doors alarmed her; it could mean nothing good. Lord Epping knew that Charlotte did not want to marry James, but that did not mean he would not consent to arrange it if James offered him sweet enough convincing.
It was cold outside, the air damp and frigid.
Charlotte had not thought to shrug a redingote over her shoulders, and she shivered as she hurried around the back of the house for the east wall. She rounded the corner at nearly a running pace and plowed headlong and heedlessly into Edmond Cheadle.
Charlotte yelped, stumbling back from the man, her eyes flown wide in startled fright. “Oh!” she cried. She fell motionless and uncertain, trying to decide if she should whirl about and run away, or stand and face the weight of the coachman’s aroused suspicions. She chose the latter almost at once, and forced a bright, wide smile onto her face. “Oh, Mr. Cheadle!” she exclaimed breathlessly, letting her hand flutter against her bosom. “You gave me a fright!”
“I beg your pardon, miss,” Cheadle said, lowering his head in polite deference, drawing his thick fingertips toward the front corner of his cap. Had she thought he was a large man in the recall? Her memory of their introduction did him little justice; Edmond Cheadle was perhaps the most towering, broadly built man she had ever seen. She had to crane her head back on her neck to meet his gaze. He loomed over her as if she was a child.
Cheadle neither smiled nor frowned. His mouth kept a stern, unflinching vigil across the lower quadrant of his face. He had very large eyes and very low brows; the latter drooped over the former, lending the appearance of a perpetual scowl. He seemed to have no need to blink as he stared at Charlotte, studying her intently.
His attention left her decidedly uncomfortable. “Does James pay call?” she asked. “I heard a coach approach, but I could not tell from the window who had arrived.”
“Yes, miss,” Cheadle said, nodding once. “My lord would notify your father that he has sent word to his father, the earl, in London regarding the offenses against you.”
“Oh,” Charlotte said. She could not hold Cheadle’s gaze for too long; there was something heavy about it, like it forced her to bear the weight of his hulking form. “Well, I… I hardly see need, but that is very kind of him.”
“Lord Roding is pleased to help as he is able, if I may say, miss,” Cheadle said. “His fondness for you is surely no secret. Lord Essex, his father, is well aware of this.”
The cold air sank deeply through Charlotte’s clothing and skin, a bone-shivering chill, and she trembled, drawing her arms about her torso. “Yes,” she murmured, struggling to think of an escape from this encounter. “Yes, well…”
“My lord is also grateful for the opportunity to make amends for the occasion of your robbery,” Cheadle told her. “He feels a certain amount of culpability for it, as do I.”
Charlotte looked up at him. He did not look particularly remorseful to her, but he had offered words to this effect, and it would seem peculiar to him, rude even, if she did not at least acknowledge it. “Mr. Cheadle, it was three against one,” she said. “Unfortunate circumstances, nothing more. James is not to blame for it, and neither are you.”
“You are very kind, miss,” Cheadle said.
It occurred to Charlotte that she should mention his knapsack; that she should go to her room and retrieve it for him. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, she remembered the note: Oct 26, 11 oc, W. Arms, Epp. Prop., and she paused. It was nearly ten o’clock in the morning. If Cheadle was to be in Epping to meet an eleven o’clock arrival, he would have to mark a brisk pace in order to be on time, and it would seem he would have to bring James with him.
This struck her as odd, and she realized why. “Mr. Cheadle, will James be attending the party at Rycroft House today?” she asked.
“It is part of the occasion for his sister’s marriage,” Cheadle replied. “Yes, he will be there. We will leave once his meeting with Lord Epping has concluded.”
The midday social was slated to begin at eleven- thirty. There was no time for Cheadle to deliver James to Rycroft House and travel to Epping to meet an eleven o’clock coach from London, even if they left at that very moment. Charlotte frowned thoughtfully, nearly forgetting about Cheadle until he made a soft harrumphing sound to clear his throat and draw her gaze.
“Lord Roding is a good man, miss,” Cheadle said. “You should bear that in mind, if I may say. There are plenty of others who cannot be so commended. Your gentleman acquaintance, Lord Theydon, for example.”
Charlotte blinked in surprise. “I…I beg your pardon?” she said and frowned. “Lord Roding may be fond of me, Mr. Cheadle, but he has no claim to me.
Surely he is not disapproving of an afternoon spent in perfectly polite company simply because it was not his own.”
“Not disapproving, miss,” Cheadle said. “Only concerned. Lord Theydon has a disreputable past. My lord would not see you discredited by any association.”
Charlotte’s frown deepened, and she met Cheadle’s gaze evenly. “I am perfectly aware of what happened with Lord Theydon’s father. My mother has made that well-known and plain to consider.”
One of Cheadle’s heavy brows lifted slightly. “Lord Theydon has transgressions of his own,” he said, and Charlotte blinked at him in new surprise. The corner of his broad mouth quivered slightly, like either he entertained the thought of smiling or this effort was the most he could manage. “Jailed and pilloried, on more than one occasion,” he said with a nod. “Has he not told you of this, miss, to see you perfectly aware?”
Charlotte could not speak at first, so great was her start. “No,” she said softly. “No, he… he has not.”
She did not know how Cheadle would have discovered such a thing, but she had a good notion as to why he would have bothered. All at once, she did not know what angered her most—that Kenley had not told her fully of his past, or that James had found some way to dredge it up and wield it to Kenley’s discredit.
“Of course, Lord Roding would inform your father of these offenses, as well,” Cheadle said. “And your mother. I am certain they will both share in Lord Roding’s concerns. A man with such a past, even though of peerage birth, is certainly one whose company should be discouraged.”
Charlotte looked up at him, her brows narrowing. “As I am certain you, as a thief-taker, should fully know, Mr. Cheadle,” she said with a frown. “Good day to you, sir.” She snatched her skirts in hand and turned, hurrying toward the back of the house.
