Page 91 of Not his Marchioness
He stepped into the hall and unfolded the letter. As he read it, his heart lurched.
No. No… This can’t be… Surely not.
He turned the letter over, looking for any sign of tampering, though he scarcely knew what he was seeking. Its contents were so shocking that he could hardly comprehend them.
This had to be a jest. And yet?—
“Rhys?” Gideon called, joining him. “Is something amiss? You look rather pale.”
Rhys handed him the letter.
His friend read it quickly, then frowned. “This cannot be. Is someone trying to exploit you?”
“It must be a scheme of some sort. I am sure of it.”
“Have you ever kept company with her?” Gideon asked, his expression sour as though he had bitten into something rotten.
“No, of course not. Not in many months.” Rhys raised a hand. “Have you spoken to her at all?”
“The last few times I went to St. Giles, she was still absent. She has been gone for weeks now. Gone to Dover, I heard.” Gideon paused. “What will you do?”
“I do not know. There is nothing I am bound to do.”
“Perhaps not, but I know you. You have always had a conscience, even when you strive not to. That pesky empathy of yours.”
“Yes. Yes, it has always haunted me,” Rhys admitted as he took back the letter and refolded it. “Try as I might, I care for people I ought not to. I cannot help myself.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I have to go. There is no other course.”
“Are you going to tell Charlotte?” Gideon asked.
Rhys had not even considered that.
“No, of course not. We have only just begun to trust one another—to allow each other in.” He waved a hand, unwilling to grow sentimental. “I cannot tell her. I will see to this matter, and if it proves true, then I shall speak to her.”
He shoved the letter into his pocket, swallowing hard.
The past, he realized, had come to haunt him at last.
CHAPTER 35
Christmas had been magical, indeed. They had opened gifts together, eaten a hearty meal, and spent the evening listening to music on the pianoforte, accompanied by the crackle of the fire in the grate.
It reminded Charlotte of her childhood, the merriment of Christmastide fresh and unspoiled. The only thing missing was her father.
Although she had to admit, she did not truly miss him. She did not know if she would ever see him again—or even if she wished to. He had not made an appearance at the House of Lords for some time, though sooner or later, his peers would pressure him to return.
The last time she had seen Lady Woodhaven had been two days before Christmas, when Charlotte had called on her to deliver a box of sweetmeats. Lord Woodhaven had asked after her father, but Lady Woodhaven, formidable as ever, had interceded and briskly changed the topic.
It would not be the last time, Charlotte was certain.
She had pushed all thoughts of her father aside, instead filling her head with the joyful celebration.
Alas, it was now at an end. Four days before the New Year, she stood on the pavement outside her house, hugging her sister goodbye.
It would not be for long, she knew. Aunt Eugenia and Marianne were merely going to visit Evelyn and Nathaniel at their estate, which was less than an hour away. Nathaniel’s parents were expected to arrive from Scotland that very morning, and four days hence they would all return for the New Year’s ball.
Still, as she stood there, she felt odd.
Ever perceptive, Marianne stepped back from their embrace. “Are you quite well? You have been exceedingly quiet this morning.”
