A wry chuckle itched her throat, but she refused its heartless bid. Leveraging her shoulders against the side of the bookcase, she pushed back on the plank and hoisted herself to stand. A strange shuffling sound, wood upon wood, accompanied the motion, and she turned to repair whatever she’d upset with her actions.
But nothing appeared out of place. Several rows of leather volumes, thick and faded, stood firmly tucked against one another. A decorative crystal globe acted as a bookend on one side, where a brass sculpture shaped into a horse’s head secured the other. Each shelf remained intact, untouched and, like so many problems in her life, perplexing.
At a loss, she placed her palm flat against the side of the bookcase and pushed in hope the disturbance would repeat itself, but nothing happened. She was far too slight to cause any significant pressure, and perhaps the shuffle she’d heard was merely the scrape of some shifting whatnot that decorated the shelves.
She dismissed the noise and stepped away, though a voice in her head urged that she take a glance backward. And then she saw it. Behind the largest volumes at the center of the shelf, a panel appeared exposed, the slide of wood against wood apparently the sound she’d heard. Returning to the bookcase, she removed the heavy volumes, five in all, and used them as a stepping stool to gain a better perspective. Her pulse drummed in her ears, louder than her breath, harder than her heartbeat.
As she’d suspected, a moveable panel appeared incorporated into the back of the bookcase. It had shifted when she’d angled her body to stand. Pushed fully to the side, it revealed a hidden compartment, rectangular in shape and as narrow as it was deep. A path of perspiration formed a valley between her breasts. Her chest tightened and her palms became clammy. Why would Jeremy need such a place? What was she to find hidden within?
Most gentlemen kept a safe for important documents and expensive jewels, but a panel and secret compartment screamed of distrust and, worse, misdeed. Did she truly wish to see what was inside? The pulse at her temple hammered an objecting beat, as if to warn don’t do it, don’t do it. Still, insatiable curiosity had long ago become her master.
Piling more books atop those stacked on the carpet, she raised above the compartment far enough to lean in and lower her arm behind the false panel. At first, she believed the space empty and found a moment’s respite from fear as her hand swept through the hollowed wood.
But on the third pass, her fingertips brushed against something hard and flat. Despite her best attempt, she couldn’t extend her arm deep enough to grasp the object, not even when she rose on tiptoe. Stepping down from the piled books, she pushed her sleeve upward and shook out her arm as if to lengthen it by force. Then she added another volume to the pile, the stack already precariously high.
Nothing would stop her now. Anything worth hiding in darkness must be important, if not dreadful indeed. And if her husband had something so precious it required a secret hiding place, she intended to discover it.
With patience and remarkable agility, she extracted the box from its hiding place, the contortions of her fingers fueled by determination and curiosity, though her hand went numb with the attempt to replace the narrow panel. Then, at last, exhausted from the effort of her exploratory search, she sank against the bookcase with the rectangular black box in her grasp.
She turned it over, the smooth leather cool against her damp fingertips, the box so light it might very well be empty. Surely that was nothing more than a wishful thought. Still, there was only one way to know if it was true.
Her gaze fell to the lock. A burnished bronze escutcheon winked in reflection of the overhead sconces. At its center, a narrow keyhole waited, and her heart lurched with instant recognition.
The key upstairs in her bedchambers.
Heaving a shuddery breath, she clutched the box to her chest and rushed for the stairs, only pausing on the way out to close the study door behind her. A shadow near the hall bid her to hurry. The last thing she desired was for Mrs. Hubbles or Hudson to witness her discovery.
Upstairs, the bracket clock on her wardrobe chimed the hour near midnight as she settled atop her bed, the odd bronze key held tight against her damp palm. She heard the scuff of footsteps and occasional betraying noises that revealed someone’s presence in the rooms beside hers. Whether a servant or Dearing, she didn’t care. She’d reached her room uninterrupted, pleased Jill had already tended the fire and prepared for the night hours. She’d thrown the latch, placed the box atop her mattress and fumbled through an assortment of hairpins and earbobs in the porcelain jar on her vanity until she’d located the key found weeks ago on her bedroom rug. Then, key in hand, she’d paced, heart and mind at war.
Ultimately, the need to know brought her to a decision.
Yet she still hadn’t opened the box.
Now, with the last chime signaling the new day, she waited no longer. The key fit the lock securely and, with a twist to the right, a metallic click confirmed she’d achieved her goal. She released a breath composed of trepidation and relief.
She’d stolen the box from her husband’s study with the intention of opening it and revealing something he’d chosen to keep hidden. Did her perpetration equal his? She swallowed past those doubts and slowly lifted the lid.
Inside, a single folded sheet waited. Her heart thudded in her chest, but she didn’t hurry her actions. She leaned closer to the bedside lantern and eased the paper out of its hiding place, carefully replacing the box on the mattress.
Her posture stiffened. Her hands trembled. And then she opened the paper and began to read. The neatly printed words had been prepared by her husband’s secretary, as indicated in the left-hand corner. The contents composed a listing of negotiations and transactions, but as she continued down the page, Faxman’s iteration of the purpose for the series of purchases became clear.
Tears blurred her vision and she wiped them away. Could it be Dearing had never wanted her at all? His actions nothing more than a wicked business maneuver? Each line of writing in front of her seemed to indicate that horrid truth. In a quest for profit and the controlling share of Middleton Railway, her father’s share, Dearing had stooped to unforgivable tactics. If she interpreted the information correctly, her husband had forced her father into dire circumstances, causing his ruin with deliberate, heartless pursuit. Once Dearing purchased the businesses composing her father’s financial investments, he’d forced the same companies into bankruptcy. With the family’s security in peril and an isolated share of railway stock left, her father surrendered it, unknowingly granting the controlling interest to Dearing.
Her father’s confused frustration at how his investments had deteriorated and then rebounded in the few months after her wedding haunted her. At last she’d solved the puzzle of Dearing’s marriage proposal. No wonder he had asked for her hand with rash determination and unexpected resolve. He’d forced her father into crucial insolvency and proposed to her immediately after? Was his goal to avoid discovery and accusation by becoming bound to the daughter of the victim of the crime? Could the same man who’d spoken to her with sentimentality and roses possess a manipulative, cynical heart?
A ragged sob broke loose as the idea gained clarity. It explained Dearing’s distance and emotional detachment at the onset of their marriage. Perhaps he sensed her insecurity and now played his role more thoroughly these past weeks by showing implicit interest in her preoccupations. Her hands shook violently as she replaced the paper within the wooden box and gingerly pushed it beneath her bed. She couldn’t bear to look at the words any longer. They swam into an inky blur as her tears came fast.
She’d defended her husband to her father. She’d believed Dearing deserved the authentic stock certificate. But now, knowing this, nothing excused the actions he’d taken to destroy her father. She was blinded by affection, convinced she loved her husband and hopeful for their future, but she had been wrong. Wrong in many ways.
Still, one thing remained certain, and her foolish heart ached as she af
firmed the decision. She wouldn’t continue this pretense of a marriage. She’d tried to become the perfect wife. She offered her heart again and again.
No.
Come morning, she would gain distance from Dearing’s conflicted adoration and lies. She would seek the wisdom of the one person who stood by her no matter life’s twists and turmoil.
Without a doubt, Amelia would know what to do.
Chapter Twenty-One
Dearing returned home, his emotions spent and his mind clouded with regret and determination. He could very well lose his wife over the mess he’d created, though he hoped somehow Charlotte would forgive him and understand he’d never intended to cause pain and mistrust. Once home, he inquired of Charlotte’s welfare, dismissed Hudson and headed for his study. He needed a drink.
Intent on ordering his thoughts before breeching the subject with Charlotte, he went to the door and paused, somewhat puzzled as his hand twisted the lever and found the lock unsecured. He stepped inside, unprepared for the sight revealed by the ample lantern light. Faxman lie face-down on the hardwood flooring, his eyes closed and his body sprawled, as if he’d taken a tumble.
Good Lord, he’d worked the poor man to death.
Dearing rushed to his secretary’s side, kneeled at his elbow and pressed two fingers to the man’s neck. A rush of relief flooded him as Faxman’s pulse, strong and steady, thrummed beneath his fingertips.
With no hesitation, Dearing strode to the bellpull to summon Hudson and then rushed to the liquor cabinet, where he poured two fingers of brandy and acquired a hand towel to dip into the pitcher of water left there.
He wiped the cloth over Faxman’s brow, assured of the man’s strength when his secretary squinted his eyes open and groaned.
“What happened?” Faxman moved to sit up, seemingly anxious to regain decorum, though he slowed his actions and raised a hand to rub the back of his neck.
“I hoped you would tell me.” Dearing offered the bourbon and, to his surprise, Faxman accepted the glass without comment. “I’ve only recently returned home and come to the study to think a moment. Instead, I found you sprawled on the floor.”
“I was struck.” Faxman’s expression transformed to one of troubling concern. “I too returned late tonight because the calculations in last year’s ledger continued to haunt me. I hoped to review my work and determine why the sums weren’t in agreement, but I’d hardly opened the books when I was approached from behind. Someone struck me with something.” Faxman’s eyes scanned the room. “It could have been anything, I suppose. I didn’t have a chance to react.” A fair share of remorse accompanied that statement, and he rubbed the back of his head a second time.
“No one would.” Dearing rose and walked a small circle, his mind reeling at what the intruder might have sought. Hudson and the full staff remained inside Dearing House. Could Charlotte have allowed someone in? That idea seemed unlikely. He would need to question Hudson further. “Can you stand? Would you like me to summon a physician?” He offered a hand to Faxman and pulled him upright.
“Nothing more than a bump on the head. I apologize for the inconvenience.” Faxman’s eyes shot to the regulator clock. “The hour is late. My wife must be worried.”
“Are you well enough to leave? You’re welcome to take a room upstairs. I can have a message sent to your home. Otherwise, my carriage is at your disposal, Faxman. I regret what happened tonight, and the situation is troubling. Whoever struck you must have sought something important.” His pulse tripled as he perused the room. Things were out of place, drawers partially open and papers disordered. His desk was in complete disarray. Damnation, what if Charlotte had crossed paths with the intruder? Thankfully, she never entered his study, never searched for the secrets he’d hidden, but if she’d heard a sound she might have entered and been hurt.
“I’m quite all right, thank you.” Faxman finished the last of the brandy in his glass. “A good night’s sleep will cure this headache, most certainly.”
Dearing remained silent in anticipation of his secretary’s tendency to quote the wisdom of his father or offer an antidote with some uncanny parallel, but the moment passed.
With little more than a nod, the men parted in the foyer, the hour beyond late. Dearing instructed a footman to summon the carriage and return Faxman home. Then he tried to close off the scene in the study, concern and curiosity gnawing at his better sense. Sleep would not come easily, and he remained anxious to examine the study tomorrow in the light of day.
The house was silent; if only his soul could find the same peace. Once he checked the locks and walked through the ground floor, he climbed the stairs to his chambers with too many thoughts crowding in at once.
He made quick work of removing his coat and waistcoat, his cravat abandoned to a chair in careless preoccupation. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and rubbed his palms over his face. What a complicated mess his life had all become.
He walked to the hearth and poked at the logs in the firebox, setting a maelstrom of sparks into flight. His mind raced, his blood rushed hot in his veins and he cursed the late hour or else he’d wake Charlotte and lay his soul bare in the hope she would forgive, accept and mayhap attempt to love him. He knew deep emotion existed. They’d come so close. Still, the agonizing truth of his manipulative decisions had ruined every attempt at happiness.
The unexpected situation in his study could be the work of a common thief or mayhap it had been a specific and intentional robbery, yet even that troubling distraction couldn’t divert his heart.
In one decision he remained resolute: Come morning, there would be no more misunderstanding of ill-placed sentiment. Come morning, he would finally claim his wife.
* * *
Morning brought with it an abundance of sunshine. Ordinarily, Charlotte would delight in the mild travel conditions for her trip to Beckford Hall, the country estate of the Duke and Duchess of Scarsdale, but she experienced no cheer today. Instead, the hour’s ride seemed endless.
Before she’d left, she’d dashed off a short note to Amelia, explaining her need to visit, and dispatched a messenger with Hudson’s assistance. The butler also arranged for the carriage travel without question, despite the early hour and unusual circumstances.
Now settled against the bolster with Shadow curled in her skirts and Jill at her side, Charlotte exhaled a long sigh of despair. Her maid knew better than to attempt convivial conversation. Much could be explained by the tear tracks and reddened eyes.
The roads were clear and the carriage made good time. As the wheels crushed the gravel of the circular drive before the grand country house, Charlotte managed a slight smile. At least here at Beckford Hall she knew herself. She was safe and with friends who cared for her well-being. No sooner did the main house come into view than she gained a sense of calm. The expansive estate, built in the Gothic revival style, was faced with Totternhoe stone, and with its low-pitched slate roof and castellated parapet gave the impression one was entering a fairy tale.
Her mood improved further as Amelia fairly skipped down the limestone steps to greet the slowing carriage. Yes, this was her best decision in a long time.
“Darling Charlotte.”
Amelia hugged her as soon as she was able, and Shadow skittered from the carriage to slink away and explore before Jill could catch the kitten’s tail.
“Thank you, Amelia.” Charlotte returned her friend’s embrace. “I don’t know where I would run if not into your arms.”
“Hush. You belong in Dearing’s care. We’ll have this sorted out in no time.” Amelia took a long, assessing glance. “Your note gave me hardly any details. What’s happened? I can see the despair in your eyes.”
They looped arms and followed a graveled path away from the house toward a garden that bordered the acreage in manicured hedgerows and flower beds of every color and variety.
“I’ve missed our morning conversations.” Charlotte tried for cheerfulness. “We used to walk to St. James’s Square
and plan our futures as if wishing alone would make them come true.”
“Real life has a way of intruding on daydreams, doesn’t it?” Amelia answered. “Tell me all of it. I believe Dearing cares for you deeply. He must have behaved horridly to drive you out of the house.”
They paused beside a bed of crimson roses, and the memory of the single bloom Dearing had left across the pianoforte caused her heart to squeeze. For a moment, she couldn’t catch her breath.
“Do you remember when we went shopping on Bond Street and I mentioned finding a key?”
“I do.”
They continued on, unhurried, their stride in tandem. Charlotte sighed. Somehow moving her feet made the explanation come easier, and she let the words flow. “I discovered a locked box in Dearing’s study, hidden in a secret compartment behind a bookcase. The key fit perfectly. Inside was a list of several despicable business transactions completed by . . . my husband.” She’d once thrilled at that possessive pairing of words. Now she wasn’t sure how to feel.
“For what purpose? Dearing has amassed considerable wealth. I imagine profit and investment business are cutthroat endeavors, but how terrible could these dealings be?”
Charlotte matched eyes with her friend. “From my understanding of the document, Dearing’s purpose was to secure my hand in marriage.”
Amelia’s quickly drawn breath expressed her surprise. “That’s lovely.”
Charlotte shook her head in the negative, leaving Amelia to unriddle her meaning.
“No?” She wrinkled her nose. “I suppose he might have pursued your affection in a more traditional manner.”
“Yes.” Charlotte dreaded explaining the extent of Dearing’s manipulations. She hesitated, even though she knew Amelia would listen with an open mind.
“Still, all things considered, it’s quite romantic. Don’t you agree? Dearing went to exorbitant lengths to make you his wife. As you remember, Lunden wouldn’t allow himself to care for me. I needed to force him to forgive himself and see reason. Otherwise we’d never have found this happiness together. Perhaps you shouldn’t discount Dearing’s efforts.”
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