Charlotte opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
Her shock, her silence, made the earl laugh harshly again. “Yes, that’s how I feel.” He shoved the diary away, a violent gesture.
Charlotte closed her mouth, and shook her head.
Cosgrove pushed to his feet, as if he had too much rage to stay seated. He strode to the window.
Charlotte found her voice. “Why would she—?”
“Think about it.” Cosgrove stared out the window, his hands fisted on the sill. “Would you rather be a widow with a handsome jointure, or a divorced adulteress?”
Charlotte weighed the dead countess’s choices. As Cosgrove’s widow, whispers of adultery would have clung to her, but she’d have kept her title, her jointure, her position in Society. Only the highest sticklers would have closed their doors to her.
As a divorced adulteress who’d been at the center of a very public scandal, she would have existed at the fringes of Society, no longer respectable.
Charlotte pressed her lips together. Lady Cosgrove made her own bed; she should have been prepared to lie in it.
The earl turned around. “Lavinia wanted me dead.” His face wasn’t angular, wasn’t angry. Her father had worn that look—pale, bewildered—after he’d been widowed.
He’s devastated.
Charlotte’s throat closed. Tears stung her eyes. It took all her willpower not to go to Cosgrove, not to put her arms around him and hug him.
She blinked the tears back. What would Albin say at this point? Not Charlotte, who wanted to comfort him, but Albin, the practical, competent secretary. She cleared her throat. “Monkwood loved his sister more than was natural. If he believed her lies . . . No wonder he hates you, sir. No wonder he wants you dead.”
“Yes.” The emotion seemed to drain from Cosgrove. He leaned against the windowsill, his face settling into lines of exhaustion.
“Sir . . . we need his current diary. We need to know what he’s planning! I can search his bedchamber—”
Cosgrove shook his head. “No. The time’s come to confront him.”
Charlotte pushed to her feet. “It’s too dangerous!”
“Dangerous?” Cosgrove snorted, a contemptuous sound. “Gerald Monkwood might hire someone to kill me, but he wouldn’t do it himself. He’s soft. All wind, no mettle.”
“But, sir—”
A knock sounded on the door. A footman entered. “Luncheon is served, sir.”
Marcus stared down at his plate. The mingled scents of beef and pastry made his stomach shift queasily. Monkwood had been Lavinia’s brother and guardian. He should have protected her; instead, he’d seduced her. How old had Lavinia been? Not a child, he prayed. Let her not have been a child. It was too sickening to imagine—
No. Marcus shook his head sharply. He wouldn’t imagine it, wouldn’t allow himself to envisage so grotesque a coupling.
He stared down at the pie, at the flaking golden pastry and glistening juices and tender lumps of meat. Lavinia had lied to him, betrayed him, wished him dead—but she had also been a victim: an orphan, innocent and vulnerable, seduced by her own brother.
Marcus picked up his fork and stirred the food on his plate. If Monkwood had never touched her, who might Lavinia have been? Would her heart have been less fickle? Her sweetness not just a veneer? Her disposition kinder and less covetous? Less deceitful?
Perhaps she could have truly loved me. Perhaps our marriage would have survived.
Marcus put down the fork with a clatter of silver on china. “How could Monkwood have done such a thing?” He shoved his hands through his hair. “God! How old was she when it started?”
“I could take some of the earlier diaries,” Albin said diffidently. “If you truly want to know.”
Do I?
Marcus thrust his plate away.
A faint frown puckered Albin’s brow. “You should eat, sir.”
If I do, I’ll vomit. Marcus shook his head.
Albin laid down his own fork. “Sir . . . Monkwood has two drawers in his desk full of letters from his sister. Would you like to see what she wrote to him? Would it help?”
Marcus pushed to his feet and walked to the window. Did he want to read Lavinia’s letters? Read her lies about him?
What I want is to destroy Monkwood.
His hands clenched on the windowsill. He imagined throttling Monkwood. Imagined squeezing the life from him. He heard the frantic wheeze of Monkwood’s breath, saw Monkwood’s face swell and grow purple—and then his eyes focused on the scene outside.
Snow blew in thick, fierce flurries, blotting out Grosvenor Square.
Marcus unclenched his hands and turned back to Albin. The lad was anxiously watching him.
“We won’t be visiting Monkwood this afternoon. It’s blowing a blizzard.”
Albin’s anxiety seemed to ease slightly.
He’s relieved we can’t go. He’s afraid Monkwood will attack me.
Marcus suppressed a snarl of temper. Words rose on his tongue: You should be a nursery maid, not a secretary. He swallowed them, went back to the table, and sat. He pulled his plate towards him, picked up his fork, and forced himself to spear a piece of beef, to lift it to his mouth, to chew, to swallow.
After a moment’s hesitation, Albin resumed eating.
Marcus ate a dozen mouthfuls, then pushed the plate away again. The silver bowl of fruit was tempting. He reached for a grape and bit into it. The flavor brought back memories: sitting on a rug in front of a fire dressed only in a sheet, Charlotte refusing to be his mistress.
The grape suddenly tasted sour in his mouth.
Think of something else.
He fastened his gaze on Albin. Less than two weeks ago he’d hired the lad—and wondered whether he was making a mistake. One of the best decisions I ever made.
Although Albin was certainly unusual.
“What’s it like to fly?”
“To fly?” Albin blinked, then laid his knife and fork neatly on his plate and pushed it away. “Flying is . . . Exhilarating. But also terrifying.” He broke off a small bunch of grapes. “It’s . . . I don’t know quite how to explain it, sir, but when I’m a bird I feel exposed. Like there’s a cat I haven’t seen, or a hawk waiting to swoop on me.” He pulled the grapes off their stems. “I feel much safer as a person.”
“You said your mother could fly. Did she teach you?”
Albin shook his head. “She died when I was young. I suppose she was planning to tell me when I was older.” He looked down at the grapes and arranged them in a circle on his side plate. “I didn’t know about the magic until a few weeks ago. I don’t think my father knew either. He had enough time to tell me before he died.” Albin frowned and pushed the last grape into place with a fingertip. “My mother must have kept it a secret from him.”
The circle of grapes was oddly familiar. Marcus stared at it. Where had he seen it before? Recollection teased at him.
Grapes. Arranged in a lopsided circle . . .
The recollection clicked into place. Last night. Charlotte had made a circle with grapes while she talked.
The room tilted and seemed to swing around him. Marcus squeezed his eyes shut against dizziness. Fragments of memory whirled in his head: things Albin had done, things Charlotte had said.
“Sir?”
He opened his eyes and stared at the grapes, stared at Albin.
The fragments settled into place in his head and made a whole picture.
Albin is Charlotte.