October 28th, 1805
Grosvenor Square, London
Marcus read his mail while he ate breakfast. His hands ached each time he wielded the knife and fork or unfolded a letter, the scabs across his knuckles threatening to split open. His head ached too; from last night’s brandy, from last night’s rage.
The third letter was thick, addressed in familiar handwriting. He started to break the seal—then recognition came. Albin. Charlotte.
Rage thundered in his chest. Marcus screwed the letter into a ball and threw it at the fireplace. It hit the grate and bounced off, coming to rest on the hearth.
Fellowes entered the breakfast parlor. “The carriage will be round in half an hour, sir.”
Marcus thrust back his chair. “I’ll need two—no, make it three—footmen. Howard and Felix and . . .” Who else among the footmen was young and strong? “Arthur.” He crossed to the fireplace and threw the crumpled letter into the grate. “Tell them to dress warmly, they may be standing outside for some time. And Fellowes . . . tell them they may need to use their fists.”
The letter flared alight and burned swiftly into ashes.
“I’ll see to it at once,” Fellowes said.
Charlotte crouched in the corridor outside Monkwood’s bedroom, a mouse. Smells invaded her nose: furniture polish and candle wax, coal dust, bacon and coffee, a chamber pot stink.
It was barely eight thirty, yet light came from beneath the bedroom door and her ears caught the low murmur of voices. Was Monkwood awake?
The crack beneath the door was too narrow for a mouse. Charlotte changed into a lizard. The smells became duller, the colors brighter, the sounds harder to hear.
She eased beneath the door.
Yes, Monkwood was awake. Candles blazed in sconces and candelabra.
An ocean of carpet stretched before her. A bed reared up from it, an immense island draped in crimson and gold hangings. Someone moved on the other side of the bed; she felt the vibration of footsteps.
“A black waistcoat, sir?” The voice was muffled, as if something blocked her ears.
“Yes, yes. Everything black today.”
Charlotte scuttled across the carpet and beneath the tasseled hem of the valance. She crept to the other side of the bed and peered out. Chair legs, cabinet legs, table legs.
The floor quivered again. “Single-breasted or double-breasted, sir?”
“Double, with the mother-of-pearl buttons.” Monkwood’s voice came from above her.
Charlotte hesitated, uncertain what to do. She’d expected Monkwood to be asleep. Had expected to be able to explore the room without fear of being observed.
I need a vantage point.
On the far side of the expanse of carpet were tall curtains.
Charlotte took a deep breath, slipped out from under the valance, and scuttled around the perimeter of the room, pressing close to the skirting board. The floor quivered to the rhythmic tread of the valet walking back and forth.
Monkwood’s curtains were brocade, crimson heavily ridged with golden thread. Charlotte scaled them cautiously, hidden in the shadow of a fold. When she judged herself halfway up, she paused and looked out across the bedchamber. Her stomach gave a sickening swoop. Her claws dug into the fabric. So high.
Gerald Monkwood sat in his bed, a tray across his lap, writing in a diary. A nightcap perched on his head. Stubble glinted on his soft cheeks. On the bedside table were the remains of a breakfast. The bacon she’d smelled, and the coffee.
Charlotte stared at Monkwood. The first time she’d seen him, she’d thought he looked like Cupid. She still thought it. The plump cheeks were cherubic, as were the soft feminine mouth and the golden curls escaping from beneath the nightcap.
How could so benign an exterior hide such darkness, such ugliness?
The valet emerged from what she thought must be the dressing room. “Are you ready to be shaved, sir?”
“Yes.” Monkwood closed the diary, placed it on his bedside table, and climbed out of bed.
Charlotte inched her way back down the terrifying precipice of the curtain.
At the washstand, the valet dipped a small towel in a basin of steaming water, wrung it out, and dampened Monkwood’s face.
Charlotte scrambled over the hem of the curtain, her breath coming short and fast.
The valet picked up the shaving brush.
Now. While Monkwood had his eyes closed. While the valet lathered his master’s cheeks—
Charlotte crossed the carpet as swiftly as her lizard legs could carry her. She changed into a monkey and reached for the diary. Every hair on her body stood on end. Her pulse echoed deafeningly in her ears. Surely the valet would notice her? Surely Monkwood would open his eyes and see?
No shout came.
Charlotte crouched, clutching the diary. Now what? With Monkwood awake, her plans were awry. She couldn’t cross to the door and slink out. The valet would see her.
She had to get out of this room. Had to get back to the spare bedchamber, back to the window she’d broken. Back to Chandlers Street.
Her gaze fastened on the dressing room door. It was ajar.
Charlotte crept across to it. She eased through the gap between doorframe and door.
Candles were lit in the sconces. She saw crisp white shirts and gleaming boots, satin and brocade waistcoats, tailcoats in olive brown, emerald green, claret, and a dozen shades of blue. Each breath she inhaled smelled of linen and leather and wool. And Monkwood.
On the far side of the dressing room was another door.
Charlotte opened it with deft monkey fingers and peered out. An empty corridor stretched in both directions.