Page 15 of To Resist a Scandalous Rogue
“I had visitors today,” Mrs. Gladington said, slowly stirring her tea. “Two gentlemen asking for a Mrs. Charlotte Townsend. Wife of the late Mr. Roderick Townsend.”
Terror clogged Charlotte’s throat, and she raised her teacup to shield the fact she was gasping. Was Roderick’s family trying to find her? But why? Surely they had ceased blaming her for their son’s acceptance of the post in India. “How curious.” She was relieved her voice sounded normal. “Why did they think such a person would be here?”
“I asked them the same question.” Mrs. Gladington locked watery eyes on her. “They said they’d had reports of a young woman matching her description being seen in the area.”
She feigned a frown. “What did they say she looked like?”
The older woman selected a biscuit from the tray and took a bite, crumbs falling unheeded onto her lap. “Brown hair. Grayish blue eyes. A beauty mark near her brow.” Mrs. Gladington’s gaze slid to the mark on her face. “She sounded a good deal like you, my dear.”
“It certainly sounds like it,” Charlotte managed, battling the urge to dash out the door and up the stairs to her flat, bolting the lock behind her. “Did they say why they were looking for her?”
Mrs. Gladington placed another biscuit on Charlotte’s plate, although she hadn’t finished the first one. “They accused her of theft.”
“Theft?” Her voice would best be described as a squeak.
“They said she took a valuable family heirloom her husband gave her and kept it, rather than return it to his family upon his death.”Mrs. Gladington’s pinched lips left little doubt of what she thought of such a claim.
“If Mrs. Townsend’s husband gave this heirloom to her, wouldn’t that make it hers to do with as she’d like?” The injustice of the assertion loosened Charlotte’s otherwise cautious tongue.
“I said the very same thing, my dear, but they dismissed me as ignorant.” The older woman put her cup down with a loudclank.“I don’t think one needs to be a toff to understand the rules of gift-giving and ownership.”
“Indeed not,” she said, a reluctant smile tugging on the corners of her mouth.
“I sent them on their way. Told them I knew no Charlotte Townsend.” She paused, the moment charged with tension. “And I didn’t lie. I know a Charlotte Taylor, and that Charlotte is kind, quiet, and a paragon of virtue.”
Charlotte swallowed, the sensation like forcing down hot pokers. “Thank you, Mrs. Gladington.”
“Of course.” She reached out and patted her on the hand. “I’ll let you know if they return, or if I see them about the neighborhood.”
“Please do,” she said, rising on unsteady legs to her feet.
She thanked her landlady for her hospitality, and as she reached to shut the woman’s door behind her, Mrs. Gladington stopped her.
“Be watchful, Mrs. Taylor.” She grabbed Charlotte’s hand and gripped it tightly. “These men were not gentlemen. I’m afraid of what they’d do once they catch this Mrs. Townsend they’re searching for.”
Charlotte nodded her thanks, fear coalescing into a ball of ice in her stomach.
In the privacy of her flat, she stowed her bag and books and put a kettle on to heat. She crossed to her narrow bed, sinking onto its welcoming mattress. With shaking hands, she pulled the pins from her hair, collecting them in a small tin on her side table. When her sable tresses hung loose about her shoulders, Charlotte reached for her brush and pulled it slowly through one section and then another. The methodical, rhythmic movements helped ease her nerves, and eventually her hands stopped shaking.
When every knot was worked free, and the strands shone in the faint light coming through the window, Charlotte plaited it. She wandered to her bureau near the bed, where she returned the brush. She considered her face in the small mirror on the wall, noting how her suppressed tears had made her eyes red. She rubbed the heels of her palms into her eyes, enjoying the sensation. As she dropped her hands, her gaze fell to her left hand, painfully devoid of jewelry.
In the two years since Roderick’s death, she’d grown accustomed to not feeling the weight of her wedding band on her finger. But now, with the news of Mrs. Gladington’s visitors, her left hand suddenly felt like lead.
Before Charlotte could indulge in the tears that threatened to finally spill over the dam of her hard-won composure, the teakettle sounded. With a deep gulp of bracing air, Charlotte turned to prepare her night’s meal. There would always be a reason for tears, she told herself with a shake, and she refused for this to be one of them.
ChapterSix
“Lud, Firthwell. It’s not like you to be so distracted,” Featherington said as he wiped his hand across his brow, sweat falling to the floor in large drops. “I’m surprised you dodged that last punch. You seem somewhere faraway today.”
Finlay was surprised as well. His body might be present, but his mind was still fixated on his ever-growing to-do list. He had several key items to accomplish before he met with Lord Inverray later in the week, and he wasn’t certain he could do it all. Just thinking about them made his head pound.
His visit to Gentleman Jackson’s was supposed to help him spar off his excess stress. So far the exercise had not met success.
Perhaps he should have allowed Featherington to land that punch.
He rolled his head before jumping up and down. He needed to focus. “You have this foolhardy idea you’re quick. You may as well be punching through water—of course I dodged it.”
Featherington sneered. “Water? You’re cracked.” He pounded his fists together. “Try dodgingthis.”
