Page 1 of Unmasking the Diamond
1
England, 1814
To theton, Miss Charlotte Winslow was the diamond of the Season. To the readers of the Society pages, she was their secret purveyor of gossip, the anonymous quill “Mr. Fairchild.” And business was booming.
She held her glass of champagne delicately, tilting it so that the candlelight made the bubbles sparkle as though she might actually enjoy it. She didn’t. The drink was far too sharp on her tongue, but appearances demanded she sip and smile. Nearby, ladies fanned themselves as they leaned close together, their voices pitched low. But Charlotte had long since trained her ear to snatch up whispers even when veiled behind painted fans. Every rumor, every indiscreet remark, she stored away for later—fodder for the next column.
Across the ballroom, her brother, Alistair, Viscount Alcott, moved with his new bride, Jane, in a graceful waltz. The glow in their eyes as they gazed at one another nearly outshone the chandeliers. Charlotte’s heart warmed for them, yet the sight pricked her all the same. That kind of love was rare—unguarded, unquestioning, absolute. Would she ever find it? Or was she fated to remain alone, with loneliness her only constant companion? She wanted marriage, sometimes desperately, but marriage could mean an end to her secret writing. Could she ever surrender that part of herself?
For over a year, she had been Mr. Fairchild. Only a handful of people knew her true identity—not even her family. Once, she had come close to confessing to Alistair, only to falter at the last moment. The thought of his disappointment—or worse, his command to stop—was unbearable. So she kept her secret and bore its weight alone.
Her gaze drifted through the glittering crowd until it collided with Lord Luca Dexter’s eyes. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and his green eyes missed little, which made him entirely too dangerous. When their gazes locked, he lifted his glass in a subtle salute, the faintest smile playing across his lips.
Charlotte turned away, a prickle of irritation darting through her. Lord Luca was not the sort of man to be easily dismissed, and that unsettled her. He was the younger son of a duke, and unlike so many of his peers, he actually worked for his living. Owning and runningThe London Gazettewas viewed as distasteful by Society, yet Charlotte secretly admired that about him. He had choices—he could idle away his days on leisure and entitlement—but instead he pursued purpose. She ought to find that admirable. Instead, she found him… troublesome.
Her reprieve from attention ended as a group of eager young men descended upon her, their expressions all but shouting ambition. She curved her lips into a dazzling smile, donning her mask as naturally as slipping on gloves. It was the performance she knew best—the gracious diamond.
Lord Welker bowed deeply. “Miss Winslow, you are looking lovely this evening.”
She offered a gracious curtsy. “Thank you, my lord.”
Before she had straightened fully, Mr. Trotter leaned forward. “Would you do me the honor of the next set?”
Her smile didn’t waver. “I would greatly enjoy that.”
“Then may I claim the set after?” Lord Welker asked eagerly.
“Of course, my lord,” she returned sweetly, though inwardly she sighed. How she hated this act, but she knew it must be done.
Another voice interrupted. “Would you care to take a turn in the gardens, Miss Winslow?” Lord Amner asked with a gleam in his eyes.
She summoned a pleasant laugh. “Alas, I cannot. My brother was quite insistent that I remain here while he dances with his wife.”
Undeterred, Lord Amner waggled his eyebrows. “Then I shall wait with you and bask in your company.”
Charlotte’s smile remained a perfect mask, though she longed to roll her eyes. Men, forever circling. And yet, was this not exactly what she had sought? To be the diamond meant access, and access meant secrets.
The music ceased, and Charlotte lifted her glass to her lips, feigning a sip she had no desire to take. Across the floor, Alistair led Jane off, their faces alight with laughter.
Mr. Trotter, scrambling for conversation, spoke up. “It was a fine day today, was it not?”
She very nearly laughed aloud at the triteness of it. Still, she replied with practiced sweetness. “Yes, indeed.”
“And tomorrow promises to be fair,” Mr. Trotter continued.
Setting her glass onto a passing tray, Charlotte remarked, “I heard it may rain.”
“It always rains in England,” Mr. Trotter quipped, puffing up as though he’d made a clever observation.
Lord Welker cut in at once. “Rain or shine, Miss Winslow, would you allow me the pleasure of a carriage ride through Hyde Park during the fashionable hour?”
“I was going to ask her the same,” Mr. Trotter protested.
“But I asked first,” Lord Welker replied, then fixed Charlotte with hopeful eyes. “Well, Miss Winslow?”
Charlotte gave her most demure smile. “A carriage ride sounds delightful, but naturally, I must speak to my brother first.”
His face dimmed ever so slightly. “Of course.”
