Page 98 of Not his Marchioness
“I know,” Rhys said grimly. “And I won’t let him win.”
With that, he strode out of the back room, past the curious eyes and muttered comments, and out into the cool night.
The street smelled of damp cobblestones and horseflesh, the lamps throwing long shadows. His pulse thundered in his ears as he hurried down the narrow road.
There, waiting where he had left it, was his carriage. Gideon was leaning against the wheel, his arms crossed, impatience etched into every line of his face. At the sight of Rhys, he straightened.
“Well?” he asked, opening the door as Rhys approached.
“No time,” Rhys muttered, climbing in. “We’ve been tricked. Emery set this snare, and I’ll be damned if I let him twist it further. We ride for Mayfair, now.”
The whip cracked, the horses surged forward, and he gripped the seat, hellbent on reaching Charlotte before Emery’s lies did.
CHAPTER 39
Charlotte’s chest was still heaving when she arrived home.
“Leave me be,” she called to the coachman, who was getting ready to climb down and help her alight. “I can manage.”
She hurried up the front steps and was about to yank down the door handle when she heard her name.
“Lady Ravenscar? Is everything all right? Has something happened?”
She turned around and, to her surprise, saw Lady Woodhaven standing there. The older woman had a platter in her hand, along with an item wrapped in brown paper.
“Lady Woodhaven. I am afraid now is not a good time. I am rather indisposed.”
“Yes, I can see that,” Lady Woodhaven said, looking her up and down. “What in the world has?—”
“Nothing,” Charlotte said quickly. “Nothing to concern yourself with. All shall be well. I simply must return to the house and?—”
Another bubble of grief burst out of her, and she cried as she had when she was told that her mother had died.
It felt almost like death, this betrayal.
Why could she not control herself in front of Lady Woodhaven? The two of them might have come to a better understanding, but Lady Woodhaven was still a lady of high society, and her husband was one of the most conservative gentlemen in town. She could not see her blubbering and crying her eyes out in the middle of the street.
“I see. Nothing is the matter, indeed,” Lady Woodhaven scoffed. She walked up to Charlotte and wrapped her arm around her. “Come now. We’re going inside.”
She half-dragged her up the steps, knocked once, and when the most puzzled butler opened the door, pushed past him.
“Bring tea for Lady Ravenscar. Chamomile. Strong. Have it sent up at once. Would you care for some laudanum as well?” she asked briskly. “I am sure it is?—”
“No,” Charlotte said. “I do not want to be numbed.”
Lady Woodhaven turned back to the butler. “Bring a little laudanum, just in case. We will be in the parlor.”
She ushered her into the parlor.
“The drawing room is more comfortable,” Charlotte argued weakly.
“The drawing room is for entertaining. The parlor is for serious conversation and tears,” Lady Woodhaven retorted. “You have much to learn, my young friend.” She eased her into the armchair by the fire and removed the poker from the hook by the hearth, stabbing it at the dying fire. “Unacceptable.”
She turned to the door and yanked the bell pull. A footman appeared instantly, as if summoned by magic.
“Stoke the fire. Lady Ravenscar is chilled through.”
“Of course, My Lady,” he said, rushing to stoke the fire.
