Page 95 of Not his Marchioness
As Charlotte passed her bedchamber door, she heard Rhys’s voice below, brisk and confident. He was truly going out. The letter had been correct.
But where was he going, and why with Gideon?
Gideon was his dearest friend, yes, but that made it worse. If Rhys had secrets to keep, Gideon would surely be complicit.
Charlotte put her hands on her hips, her fingers curling into the folds of her gown until the fabric wrinkled. Anything to suppress the tremors coursing through her.
What was she to do? Their servants seemed loyal enough, but they had only been with the household for a handful of months. She could not trust any of them with such a delicate matter—to follow their master into St. Giles and report back.
No. She would have to do it herself. There was no other way.
But not as she was now. St. Giles was dangerous.
She rushed to her armoire. A ridiculous array of dresses greeted her: ball gowns of stiff taffeta that crackled like fire, evening gowns of silk so sleek that her hands slid off them, heavy velvets trimmed in fur. No woman required so many garments.
Realization struck her then—how she considered herself the champion of London’s miserable, the soon-to-be patroness of a school for poor children, whilst she lived in such splendor.
But she quickly banished the thought; another day must carry that reckoning.
Her eyes landed on her riding habit. It had been meant for the country estate they had yet to visit, but the deep green velvet cloak would suffice. She slipped into a plainer day gown first—plain for Mayfair, at least, though it would still stand out in St. Giles—and drew the cloak over her shoulders, fastening the ties at her throat and slipping her arms into the inner loops for warmth.
A rustle below warned her that Rhys and his valet were descending. She flew down the servants’ stairs, earning puzzled looks from two maids carrying linens. The stench of tallow thickened as she hurried past the lower halls—sharp and greasy, the very smell she had always associated with poverty.
To think, in her own house! The upper floors smelled of beeswax and burning oak. Below stairs, the servants had to endure the stench of tallow.
What a hypocrisy.
She darted through the kitchens and out into the yard.
The coachman leapt from his seat when she burst forth, nearly tumbling over, his half-smoked cigar scattering ash in the snow.
“My Lady!” He dropped the cigar and straightened. “Good heavens, you startled me.”
“Good,” she panted. “I must ask for a favor. I want you to take me somewhere, but you must never reveal the destination. Not to anyone. Nor must you speak of our return.”
The coachman blinked. His beard was snowy white, his eyes startlingly blue. Nathaniel had vouched for his trustworthiness, and Charlotte clung to that thought.
“Of course, My Lady.”
“Not the carriage,” she said suddenly. “The cart.”
“The cart, My Lady?” His eyebrows rose.
“Yes. The one for errands. I must not be seen.”
He hesitated, but then bowed. “Very well.”
Within minutes, he had brought the cart around. It was a plain wooden contraption, flat-backed for crates. He helped her climb in, and she pulled the hood of her cloak low, as though she were a maid sent out on an errand.
“When my husband leaves with his friend,” she whispered, “follow at a distance. I expect them to go to St. Giles.”
Confusion clouded the coachman’s face, but he gave a solemn nod and climbed onto the seat.
The elegant streets of Mayfair slipped behind. Frost glimmered on the cobbles, and lamps glowed like amber drops in the gathering dusk. Breath rose in plumes before every passerby. Soon, the neat terraces gave way to the city’s rougher quarters, until at last they entered St. Giles.
The air shifted. A foul stench rose from the kennels and open drains, so strong that it made her pull out a handkerchief. Tallow, gin, rot—the odors pressed close, clinging to cloak and skin.
Windows gaped with broken panes, their shabby curtains fluttering like pennants of defeat. Snow, fallen and dirty, only served to emphasize the squalor. Children darted in thin rags, their bare feet almost blue with cold.
