October 18th, 1805
London
The earl was out riding when Charlotte presented herself at Grosvenor Square in the morning. A footman showed her to the study, brought a teapot and sweet rolls warm from the oven, and left her to her work. Charlotte ate hungrily, chewing as she examined the bills, sipping tea while she tallied the columns and wrote the totals neatly.
Contentment hummed beneath her skin. Look at me! I’m a secretary. Earning my own money. The quill between her fingers, the ledger open on the desk, Christopher Albin’s clothes, the neckcloth she’d labored over this morning—all were part of her new life. I am a man. I am earning my living. I am independent.
But would a man sit like this? With his knees demurely together? Weren’t men less prim, more relaxed?
Charlotte shuffled in the chair, trying to take up more space, moving her elbows and knees, planting her feet several inches apart on the floor.
She poured herself another cup of tea, began tallying a fresh column.
Would a man hum beneath his breath as he worked?
She stopped humming and bent her attention to the accounts from Cosgrove’s Dorset estate. Coal and spermaceti oil and candles . . . Her concentration wavered, giving her an image from the brothel, the candlelit room they’d barged into. What had the woman kneeling between Phillip Langford’s legs been doing?
Charlotte hissed between her teeth. Don’t think about it. But the image intruded again, the question butting against the inside of her skull, persistent. What had the woman been doing?
Could she ask Cosgrove?
Charlotte tapped the quill against her chin, remembering the conversations she’d had with the earl. He’d been surprisingly frank about many subjects, sex included. Men must talk about such things openly and without embarrassment.
She tapped the quill twice more against her chin and came to a decision: if the opportunity arose, she would ask the earl what the whore had been doing.
Charlotte bent her attention to her work again, adding up the amounts Cosgrove had spent on reroofing his tenants’ cottages, the wages of the household servants, the bills for peppercorns and India tea and sugar. It was past noon by the time the earl strolled into the study. “Afternoon, Albin.”
“Good afternoon, sir.” Charlotte put down her quill and stood. “I brought back your speeches, and the essay.”
“Read them?”
“Twice, sir.”
“Good lad.” But Cosgrove didn’t walk across to his desk; he looked at his watch. “I want to talk to Brashdon today. Have you had lunch?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
Charlotte closed the ledger she was working on and hurried after him down the corridor. She crammed her hat on her head, grabbed her gloves, and followed the earl outside. The sky was low and gray, pressing down on the rooftops.
Charlotte shivered as she pulled on her gloves. The garden in the middle of Grosvenor Square looked like a cemetery behind its wrought iron fence, the trees leafless, the bare flowerbeds laid out like rows of graves. “Sir?” she asked, as they crossed the square. “Can you tell me a little about Lord Brashdon?”
“Brashdon? He’s Mammon. Money is his god—although he’d claim to be Christian.”
Charlotte digested this statement. “And Hyde? Keynes?”
“They’re of the same ilk. Ruled by self-interest and greed.” They turned into Charles Street. The street was narrow, funneling the cold wind. “Brashdon’s the worst of them. He’s been to the West Indies. Seen it.”
“Keynes and Hyde haven’t?”
Cosgrove shook his head. “They own property there, but they haven’t sailed out.”
“Have you seen it, sir?”
“Yes. I have.” The words were curt, clipped, with hard edges.
Charlotte bit her lip. Don’t ask any more questions.
They walked in silence until Berkeley Square. It was as bleak as Grosvenor Square, the tall buildings hunched against the cold. “My grandfather purchased a plantation in the West Indies,” Cosgrove said. His voice was matter-of-fact, the hard edge gone. “Nearly fifty years ago. My father sent me out to see it after I came down from Oxford.”
Charlotte glanced at him. Dare she ask a question? His profile was encouraging—grave, but not grim. “Were there slaves, sir?”
“Oh, yes.” Cosgrove’s smile was a thin stretching of his lips over his teeth. “There were slaves.”
They walked briskly across the square and down Berkeley Street. Charlotte hunched her shoulders, wishing she had a muffler and greatcoat. As soon as I’m paid, I’ll buy more clothes for Christopher Albin.
“My father was like Brashdon. He saw nothing wrong with slavery. Not if it brought wealth into the family.” They halted for a carriage to pass. “I saw women whipped until they could no longer stand. I saw men burned alive in punishment for crimes I doubt they committed.” The earl turned to face her, his eyebrows winging together, his nostrils flared. “Slavery is wrong. Africans are human beings. They should not be treated as less than animals.”
“Yes, sir. I know.”
Cosgrove inhaled a long breath through his nose. He resumed walking. “I resolved to sell the plantation as soon as my father died.” The sound of his footsteps was flat and emphatic. “Five years ago, he did—and I realized that my solution was no solution at all.” They halted at Piccadilly. “If I sold the plantation, someone else would buy it. And continue to use slaves.”
“So what did you do, sir?”
“I kept the plantation, but freed the slaves—which wasn’t as simple as it sounds—the damned roundaboutation with the officials, all the manumission deeds, the fees. But I managed it in the end. And however much money it cost, it was worth it. A hundred times over.” Cosgrove stepped over a steaming pile of horse droppings. “Once the slaves were free, I employed them. I took the best of my bailiffs with me, a man I trust. He manages the plantation for me.”
Charlotte hurried to keep pace with him as he crossed Piccadilly.
“When I got back to England, I joined with Wilberforce and Grenville and Fox, to see that slavery is abolished. And it will be, Albin. Mark my words: It will be.”
“Yes, sir.” She had no doubt that Cosgrove would achieve whatever he set his mind to.
Where did the earl get his confidence from? His certainty? His belief in himself? Was it because of his title and wealth, or was it because he was male?
Charlotte turned those questions over in her head. “Sir?” she said, when they reached St. James’s Street. “What will you do when the slave trade is abolished?”
Cosgrove glanced at her, his eyebrows angling upwards. “Do?”
“With your time, I mean.”
He shrugged. “Why should I do anything?”
Charlotte pondered this answer. She couldn’t imagine Lord Cosgrove settling into a life of leisure. He was no Uncle Neville, content to tax his mind with nothing more strenuous than which waistcoat to wear next and what wine to drink at dinner. Cosgrove had too much fierce intelligence. If he didn’t have something to strive for, he’d be bored. But that wasn’t an observation a humble secretary could make to one’s aristocratic employer.
Cosgrove halted. “Out with it, lad.”
“Sir?”
Cosgrove made a tell me gesture with his hand.
Charlotte bit her lip, and then blurted: “Won’t you be bored if you have nothing to strive for?”
Cosgrove’s eyebrows lifted again. He eyed her, his expression faintly bemused. “You think I would?”
“Yes, sir.”
Cosgrove shrugged. “Probably.” He started walking again. “But that’s a long way off. One thing at a time, Albin. One thing at a time.”
Charlotte fell into step with him again. A long way off, perhaps, but it would happen. With men like Cosgrove leading the cause, it was inevitable.
And whatever goal the earl chose after that, she had no doubt he’d achieve it, too.
I can also be that confident. She knew what she wanted: independence. And she’d taken the first steps to achieving it. She had a career.
Charlotte lifted her chin. I, too, am indomitable.
Cosgrove halted two blocks down St. James’s Street. He nodded at the building across the street. “We’ll likely find all three of them here. If we do, I want you to watch Brashdon. Don’t be distracted by Hyde.”
“Brashdon, sir? Why?”
“Because Keynes is nothing more than a smile, and Hyde is all hot air and noise. Brashdon’s the dangerous one.”
“Dangerous? In what way, sir?”
“He’s more intelligent than the other two.”
Cosgrove waited for a carriage to pass, then crossed the street. Charlotte followed him up the shallow steps to the entrance. “What does Lord Brashdon look like, sir?”
“Nondescript. Easy to overlook. But Hyde is bald and Keynes will be smiling.”
The door opened and a servant bowed. “Good afternoon, Lord Cosgrove.”
“Is Lord Brashdon here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Excellent.” Cosgrove handed over his hat and cane. “I wish to see him.”
Charlotte took off her hat and held it out to the servant. The man looked her up and down. “And this is . . . ?”
Charlotte glanced at Cosgrove. Was she going to be barred entry?
“My secretary,” Cosgrove said, boredom in his voice. He wasn’t challenging the doorman to admit her; he was telling the man he expected it to be done.
“Very good, sir.” The servant took Charlotte’s hat.
“Are you a member here, sir?” Charlotte whispered. The air was scented with furniture polish and camphor and an aroma of prudence and respectability. The narrow wainscoting had a dark patina, as if centuries of tradition had soaked into the wood.
“Yes, but I prefer Brooks. It’s less conservative.” Cosgrove’s glance took in the heavy oil paintings on the walls and the rigid formality of the silver vases lined up on the mantel. “My father used to like it here.”
The servant led them along a corridor, knocked on a door, opened it. “Lord Cosgrove,” he said, and stepped aside.
Charlotte followed Cosgrove into the room. It was a private dining room. Three men sat around the remains of a luncheon. Plates had been pushed aside and napkins discarded.
“Good day, gentlemen,” Cosgrove said.
There was a long moment of silence.
Charlotte closed the door and stood with her back to it. She surveyed the three men, putting names to faces. Sir Roderick Hyde would be the man with the bare, domed skull and square face. He looked like a bulldog, squat and aggressive. “Cosgrove,” he said, shoving his half-filled wine glass away, as if he’d like to do the same with the earl.
The man next to Hyde smiled, a genial expression that sat on his face without reaching his eyes. “Lord Cosgrove. To what do we owe this pleasure?” He would be Keynes.
Charlotte fastened her attention on the third man. He was older than the other two, with a long face and small pursed mouth. His graying hair and pale skin made him look as if he were fading, ghostlike, into the dark paneling behind him.
“A question I’d like answered.” Cosgrove strolled further into the room. Charlotte stayed at the door, her gaze fixed on Brashdon.
“A question?” Keynes said, smiling. “Of me? Or Sir Roderick here, or—”
“All of you.”
“How intriguing.” Keynes gave a little chuckle and reached for his glass. “You perceive us all ears, Lord Cosgrove.”
Cosgrove halted in front of the table. He looked down at the three men. “Did you hire the footpads who attacked me in St. James’s Park?”
Lord Brashdon blinked.
“What?” The word was almost a bellow.
Charlotte glanced involuntarily at Sir Roderick and saw him push up from his chair, his face flushed with anger.
“How dare you—”
She dragged her attention back to Brashdon. He had moved, too, leaning back in his chair, a faint smile on his thin lips.
“I should call you out for this, my lord!”
Lord Brashdon touched two fingertips to his mouth, as if trying to hide his smile.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Keynes said. “Let’s not lose our tempers.”
Brashdon turned his head, as if he’d felt Charlotte’s gaze. The smile vanished from his face. He lowered his hand. His expression seemed to congeal.
Charlotte found herself unable to meet that stare. Too rude, too discourteous. She looked away.
“A damned insult, that’s what it is!” Hyde’s face was ruddy with anger, his hands fisted on the table.
“An ill-judged question, certainly,” Keynes said, soothingly. “But I’m certain his lordship meant no offense.”
Hyde snorted.
Charlotte glanced back at Brashdon. He was still staring at her.
She looked away again and shifted her weight. Would a man meet that stare? Be boldly ill-mannered? Or—
“As you can see, my lord, we had nothing to do with that unfortunate attack.” Keynes’s smile was conciliating.
Hyde sat. “Get out.” He muttered something beneath his breath. To Charlotte’s ears it sounded like Cuckold Cosgrove.
“I beg your pardon?” The earl’s voice was quiet, but her skin prickled with the recognition of danger. Hyde’s belligerence had been loud and blustering, but this—Cosgrove’s quietness—was something to be afraid of.
Hyde seemed to recognize it, too. He closed his mouth on whatever he’d been about to say.
Keynes hurried to fill the silence. “I’m sure it was nothing, my lord.” He gave an awkward laugh and rose to his feet. “We’ve detained you long enough.”
The earl didn’t move. “No. Sir Roderick has something he wishes to say.” His voice was light, but Charlotte heard the unspoken challenge in it.
Hyde heard it, too. His face swelled, becoming even more ruddy.
Cosgrove waited, while the clock ticked the seconds away. The dark oil paintings on the wall were holding their breath, the silver platters on the table, even the candles in the heavy candelabra. Ten seconds, twenty, thirty.
The earl gave a slight, contemptuous bow. “Gentlemen.” He turned on his heel.
Charlotte opened the door and followed him out. She glanced back—Keynes, standing, an uncomfortable smile on his face, Hyde sitting in red-faced, humiliated rage, and Brashdon, his mouth pursed so tightly it had almost vanished, his gaze venomous as he watched the earl depart.