Charlotte smiled at John as he swept her into his arms, and they began dancing to the string quartet seated at the other end of the large ballroom. He’d called her “my darling,” and while it was a term of endearment he’d used with her before, she wistfully wondered how it would be if she truly was his darling, and he hers. His hand splayed on her back felt proprietary, confident. There was no hesitancy in his touch, nothing tentative in his possession of her. Had it been anyone else, the very thought would have set her teeth on edge.
He twirled her around the floor, managing to speak to her with an intimate smile even while occasionally glancing at others in the room. She knew he was watching the Friends, but she was hard-pressed to think about them as he led her seamlessly around the other couples.
Someday, John Ellis would marry, and his wife would find herself well cared for in every facet of life. He would converse with her about matters of importance, would seek out her opinion. He would value their time together, would see to her comfort because it was in his nature. It was what he did. He would look at her across the length of a dining room table and smile in a way that held the promise of cherished time spent together alone.
Her breath caught, and she told herself sternly to manage her thoughts, lest they manifest in her expression. John understood nuance, and he read people like books. One look at her face as she imagined how wonderful it would be to be loved by him and he’d know exactly what she was thinking.
She blinked and quietly exhaled, looking over his shoulder, avoiding the gaze that would see too much if she wasn’t careful. She couldn’t even be bothered to care about the horrible people they’d dined with just a short time ago. She wanted them to go away, wanted to forget about her mother’s trunk and her father’s sadness, wanted to forget everything but John.
“Is something the matter?” he asked quietly, leaning his head closer to hers. His lips were full, his hazel eyes observant, and he warmed her chilled nerves by several degrees.
She closed her eyes briefly and exhaled again, managing a smile and shaking her head. “Just tired.”
“Shall we find somewhere for you to rest?”
Charlotte wondered if Mrs. Winston’s library was vacant. “I do not think that is a very wise idea.”
He tilted his head as though in question.
She laughed, mostly at herself. “I am in an odd mood, John. Forgive me.”
“I would know more about this mood, if you’re willing to share.” His eyes met hers, and he seemed to lose all interest in anybody else in the room.
“I am envisioning scenarios I have no business conjuring.”
His attention narrowed, his gaze on her face sharpening, and she could see as realization crystalized in his mind. “Now, you must share.”
“Absolutely not.”
He chuckled and pulled her closer. His arm more firmly encircled her body, and his long fingers extended fully around her waist. He pulled her hand in, and for a moment she wondered if he would kiss her fingers as they skimmed along the shadows at the edge of the room.
“John,” she whispered unevenly.
“Yes?” His eyes caught and held hers.
“You . . . we . . .”
The corner of his mouth turned up. “Yes?” He spun her out in a gentle pirouette and then wrapped her close again.
“Your mother will be scandalized to hear that you’ve been dancing most intimately with ‘that Hampton woman.’”
“I do not want to think about my mother right now.”
She smiled even as her chest rose on a quickened breath. “What do you want to think about?”
“I’m wondering what you have been thinking of the last several minutes since we entered this room.”
“I’ve a feeling you know what I’ve been thinking.”
“I would rather hear it from your lips than rely on my own conjecture.”
“Now you must share your conjecture. Perhaps you’re miles away from the truth.”
He raised a single brow, a slow smile spreading. “Oh, Dr. Duvall, I believe I am quite close to the truth.”
She laughed. “Well, then, there is nothing more to discuss.”
“Did you miss me, Charlotte, when you were away?”
Her smile faltered, not because she was sad, but with the realization at how much the distance had affected her. “So very much,” she whispered.
“Good.” His voice lowered. “Because I ached with it.”
She looked at him, not trusting herself to speak. There were suddenly too many people in the room, the glittering light was too bright, and there was not enough space for them to speak freely instead of in riddles.
He must have been of a mind because he twirled her quietly through an exit at the end of the long ballroom into a sitting room whose muted light shone from turned down sconces and a banked fire in the hearth.
“We’ll be missed,” he whispered, “and no doubt the entire room just witnessed my very obvious seduction of the most beautiful woman in all of London.”
“Is that what it was?”
“If clarification is necessary, then I wasn’t doing a good job of it.”
She laughed breathlessly as he walked her backward from the door to the darkest corner of the room. “Oh, you did a masterful job of it, and I daresay your ego does not need verification from me.”
His smile held a thousand secrets, and she wanted to learn each one.
She put her hand on his chest, not to push away but hoping to pull him closer. She trailed her fingertips along the edge of his cravat.
“Little do you know, Miss Duvall, you could crush my ego thoroughly with a careless phrase.”
She shook her head with a low chuckle. “You are the strongest person I know, John. I appreciate the sentiment, but it is a bit of a stretch.”
“You’re the only one . . .” His smile faded, and the look in his eyes caused her breath to catch. “The only one who ever . . . I adore you, Charlotte Elizabeth Duvall.” He clasped her fingers in his and pressed them to his lips.
She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against their clasped hands. Feelings she’d not known existed swirled through her, threatening to carry her off into the clouds. “John,” she whispered. “I . . .” But she couldn’t think, couldn’t even form words that made sense.
His fingertips trailed along her cheek, and she reveled in the sensation, her eyes still closed. He threaded his fingers around the back of her neck, cradling her head, and with his thumb along her jaw, turned her face just enough to feel the press of his lips against the corner of her mouth. As though testing, questioning, asking permission.
Yes . . .
She wasn’t certain if she uttered the word aloud, but it seemed to hang in the air between them. She turned her head, and when their lips met, her knees threatened to give way.
He wrapped his arm around her, holding her securely against him. His caress was exactly as she suspected it would be, given the force of his personality. He was solid, assured, and as he held her head in his hand, fingers splayed in her hair, his lips found hers again and again.
She sighed, her breathing ragged against his, and she slid her arm around his shoulders as his lips found the sensitive spot just behind her ear. His breath was warm on her neck, and she found herself oddly pleased that she wasn’t the only one winded.
“We must go back,” he whispered as he kissed the tip of her ear. “I don’t want to. I’d thought to further investigate, to see if one of those blasted members of Parliament would ask you to dance, but—” He lifted his head to look at her face. “I cannot stand the way they watch you.”
Charlotte licked her lips, trying to steady her breath. “We must draw them out, see if someone tips a hand. Otherwise, we’ll learn nothing.”
He nuzzled her ear with the tip of his nose, brushing his mouth against her neck with the barest of kisses.
She closed her eyes, pushing her fingers through the soft hair just touching his collar. “You’re distracting me.”
She felt his smile against her skin. “Good.” He lifted his head and brushed his fingertips across her forehead, tucking aside a tousled curl. A grim sense of wonder filled his expression as he said, “I pride my intuition as unmatched. How did I not see this?”
“I did not see it either, and frankly, am still a bit stunned. I came back from America, and you . . . you . . . I cannot even find words.” Her brows pulled together, and she looked at him, perplexed. “What am I going to do?”
He inhaled and exhaled, finally loosening his hold. His hands moved to caress her upper arms, fingers flexing as though he couldn’t decide whether to release her or pull her back in. Her hands rested on his chest, and she longed to reach underneath his coat, to wrap her arms around him and press her cheek to his heart.
“You two should sneak out that way and make an early evening of it,” a voice murmured from the doorway.
Charlotte dropped her hands and gasped, and John’s head whipped to the door.
Nathan shook his head, one corner of his mouth lifted in a bemused smile. “If you make an entrance now, looking like that . . . Well, you’d better have plans to announce an engagement.”
“We’ll take that door,” John murmured, pointing to a far exit, “and you’ll make our excuses?”
“Yes,” Charlotte agreed, glad the shadows of the room hid the flames in her cheeks. She put a hand to her forehead, flushed enough to wonder if she had a temperature. “Will you say I was feeling unwell?”
Nathan looked at John. “You’re lucky it was me who wandered back here first.” He paused. “Well, it was Eva who sent me. She was so busy watching the two of you dance she nearly tripped me twice.”
Charlotte laughed unsteadily. “Please tell Eva I will see her tomorrow—I’m coming by your home to check Sammy’s arm.”
Nathan’s eyes softened. “Thank you, Charlotte. We’ll look forward to your visit.” He glanced back to the ballroom and then at John, jerking his head toward the other door. “Go.”
John took Charlotte’s hand, and they hurried across the room, dodging a chaise lounge and nearly crashing into a large potted plant. Once into the darkened corridor, the sounds from the ballroom grew louder, and John shook his head. “Too many people,” he murmured.
He turned and, with hands at her waist, guided her quickly around the corner where he took her hand again and rushed her through a series of corridors until they arrived at a servants’ entrance at the back of the house.
He opened the door against a gust of wind and looked belatedly at Charlotte’s bare arms. “Blast,” he muttered and removed his coat, draping it around her shoulders before she could protest.
They heard voices coming down the hall, and he pulled her outside, closing the door with a soft click. They ran through the shadows of the kitchen garden, which was fallow and tidied for the winter months, and found their way to the mews where groomsmen gathered with the horses and carriages.
“Fitzhume,” John told an attendant, who left to locate John’s driver.
“Will you wait at the front entrance?” another attendant asked.
“We’ll wait here.”
The attendant studiously avoided gawking at Charlotte, though she could imagine the picture she presented: a woman whose curls were decidedly looser than they had been and standing behind the main house in a gentleman’s jacket. She was grateful for his discretion, feeling a bit like Alice and the rabbit hole.
What on earth had just happened? She’d gone from mooning over her friend in the ballroom to being kissed senseless by him in the shadows. If she were to awaken in the morning and find it had all been a dream, she might have made more sense of it.
Fitzhume eventually appeared with the carriage, and John ushered Charlotte inside, giving him Hampton House’s address. He settled next to her, and as the carriage began to move, he looked at her as though assessing her reaction. To everything.
She slid closer to him and leaned in, and she noted a flicker of relief in his eyes. He wrapped his arm around her, and she rested her head against his shoulder, suddenly very, very tired.
“I seem to be destined to fall asleep in your carriage,” she murmured. “Apologies.”
“I only wish the ride were longer.” He settled back against the cushioned bench and stretched his legs across the expanse to the other seat. He pulled her against his lounging form, wrapping both arms around her and resting his head on hers. “We’re going to have to do something about this, you know.”
She yawned. “What did you have in mind?”
“I’ll think of something.” She heard the smile in his voice. He paused and the carriage turned a corner and merged into traffic. “This was inevitable, of course.”
She smiled against his shoulder. “Why is that?”
“We’re the last two of the group. Stands to reason, doesn’t it?”
“It does.” Yet she couldn’t stop the worry that crept in like an unwelcome guest. “To presuppose a happy ending is probably unwise, however. You have a position in society that demands certain constraints be followed. I have a career that doesn’t allow for . . . relationships.” She stopped just short of the word “marriage.” He’d not said it, not even implied it, and she would not make assumptions.
He lifted his head and turned her face to his. “Charlotte Duvall, do you not know me at all?”
“Of course I do. Were I ignorant of your responsibilities, I could remain in a state of bliss for at least a day or two. As it stands, I feel as though we’re racing to get me home before the clock strikes twelve and I turn into a pumpkin.”
He smiled. “Cinderella does not turn into a pumpkin.”
“I’m certain your family would be happier if I were. I saw your brother and his wife tonight. They did not smile at me.”
His expression tightened. “My family can hang.”
She sighed and settled again into his shoulder. “Life is never so simple, and you know it. Please don’t insult me by suggesting this situation is . . . simple.”
“But I love you.”
The admission drifted quietly in the air like a feather and eventually settled onto Charlotte’s heart. Her eyes burned, and she shut them tightly. “Please don’t say that,” she whispered.
“It’s true. It’s always been true. It was you before I even knew you existed.” His voice was low and quiet, and his thumb traced a gentle pattern on her shoulder. “We will work this out, Charlotte. I’ll never come between you and your career, but I am hopeful we can find an acceptable solution.”
If ever there was a man who could will something into being, Charlotte knew it was John Ellis. The sense of foreboding that had settled on her didn’t lift, though, and remained with her for the rest of the ride home.
When she opened her bedroom door—after another prolonged kiss with John just outside it—she caught her breath and nearly cried out. Her armoire had been turned inside out, the bedding mussed, and the vanity lay tipped on its side, the mirror shattered.
John swore under his breath. She took a step inside, but John put his arm around her waist and pulled her back. “Don’t touch anything yet.” She felt the effects of his anger through the tremor in his arm. He pulled her back from the door and checked his pocket watch.
“What time did you and Dirk leave for the dinner?” he asked tersely.
She couldn’t think. She closed her eyes and reviewed the day. “Six thirty, perhaps. Maybe seven o’clock. Dirk will remember. Where is he?”
“I told him if I was able to make it to the dinner, he was free to go. He mentioned that one of his employees needed assistance tonight at the docks.”
An ugly suspicion rose in her mind. “You do trust him?”
His mouth tightened with determination. “With my life, which he’s saved, more than once.” He paused. “Has he done something to make you suspect—”
She shook her head. “No. I suppose I’m suspecting everyone now of nefarious intentions.”
His jaw clenched. “It’s a fair question—anyone could be involved. If I were a betting man, though, I’d wager everything on his trustworthiness. We must speak immediately with Mrs. Burnette to see who has come and gone since supper.” He looked at her for a moment. “Please do not go in your room yet—wait until I return. I must send word to the Winstons’ to see if Michael can break away from the party. I want another pair of eyes.”
She nodded and glanced back at her disorganized room. Her eye snagged on something sitting on her pillows—they looked like photographs. “John?” She pointed at the items. “Those aren’t mine.”
He rubbed his hand over his jaw, thinking. Then he took a handkerchief from his pocket and frowned, saying, “This will have to do. I’ll get them—there may be fingermark evidence.”
Charlotte didn’t argue, but fingermark evidence was such a new concept in police work that she didn’t know if the extra effort was worth the trouble. She waited by the door, arms held tightly across her middle, as he retrieved the items and returned. The look on his face sent her heart thudding in alarm.
“What? What is it?”
John held two photographs, both of which were a product of Eva’s work. One was a picture of Sammy and Henry, and the other was of Amelie’s two girls, Cassandra and Sophia. The images were recent—perhaps within a few months. The children had posed for Eva with cherubic expressions, and Charlotte’s chest tightened as she stared at them.
“It’s a reminder of what my attacker told me in the alley. He threatened my family.” She looked up at John, stricken. “What am I going to do? I can’t . . . I can’t have this—”
He shook his head and then crouched down to look at the doorframe. The wood bore slight gauge marks where the lock had been forced.
“He didn’t have a key,” she said. She leaned against the wall for support, trying to take deep, even breaths. Someone had been in her room, destroyed her things, left threats. Her throat was thick, and she felt she might be ill.
John quickly went to his room, then returned, placing the photographs into a large envelope. “You hid the contents of your mother’s trunk, correct?”
She nodded and whirled back to the doorway. The trunk had been tipped over on the far side of the room and was partially hidden behind her bed. “After the attack, I put them in a decorative tea tin on the top shelf in the pantry.”
He nodded and leaned down to place a quick, hard kiss on her lips. “Come downstairs with me. We’ll talk to Mrs. Burnette and rally the troops.”
She held John’s hand as they walked down the stairs to the ground floor. When the front door opened and Dirk stepped through, Charlotte unconsciously squeezed John’s fingers. He glanced at her and placed his hand over hers.
Dirk shook off his outercoat and looked up, going still when he saw their faces. “What’s happened?” he demanded without preamble.
Mrs. Burnette rounded the corner, buttoning her housecoat. “What is it?” she echoed.
“We’ll be needing additional security for the house—and for Charlotte’s family,” John said.
Dirk looked at Charlotte, his expression tightening. “What’s happened?” he repeated flatly.
“He’s paid me another visit.” Charlotte shook her head. “Heaven help him, because I will kill him if he harms my family.”