Page 100 of Unmasking the Diamond
A muscle jumped in Alcott’s jaw. “I beg your pardon?” His tone was sharp enough to cut glass.
Before Luca could respond, a calm, familiar voice came from the doorway. “Lord Luca is right,” Lady Alcott said, stepping into the room. “Your sister carries many secrets, but they are hers to reveal.”
Alcott rounded on his wife, fury and anguish warring in his eyes. “Do I not have the right to know what they are?”
Lady Alcott held her ground, though her voice softened. “I know this is upsetting…”
Alcott cut her off. “You know about her secrets, don’t you?”
Jane hesitated, her lips pressing into a tight line. “One of them,” she admitted at last. “But I did not know she went to Lord Matthew’s townhouse disguised as a maid.”
The anger in Alcott’s face faltered, replaced by something more fragile—hurt. “Jane… please,” he said, his tone breaking on her name. “If you know something—anything—that might help us find Charlotte, you must tell us.”
For a moment, silence hung heavy between them. Luca could see the war playing out behind Lady Alcott’s eyes—the tug of loyalty between sisterhood and marriage, between protecting Charlotte and easing her husband’s torment.
At last, she exhaled and said, “Charlotte writes forTheMorning Postunder the pseudonym ‘Mr. Fairchild.’”
Luca watched the words strike Alcott like a physical blow. His friend stared at Jane, his eyes wide with disbelief. The crackle of the fire in the hearth filled the silence.
Finally, Alcott turned his gaze towards Luca, then to Sally, then back to his wife. “You all knew?” he asked, his voice rough, wounded more than angry now.
Luca inclined his head. “Yes,” he replied. “I discovered her secret many days ago. I was trying to convince her to come write forThe London Gazette… with me.”
Alcott’s mouth opened as if to speak, then closed again. He raked a hand through his hair and turned away, staring into the flames. “First, we find Charlotte,” he said at last, his tone resolute. “Then I will deal with her.”
17
The back of Charlotte’s head throbbed with a dull, insistent pain as she fought to open her eyes. The air around her was damp and icy, the kind that seeped into her bones and refused to leave. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear the slow, steady drip of water echoing off stone. She shivered violently and reached instinctively for her blankets—only to feel rough, frigid stone beneath her fingertips instead of linen sheets.
Her breath caught. She wasn’t in her bed.
Blinking through the haze, she forced her eyes open. A dim, grayish light revealed a small, rectangular cell. The walls were rough-hewn and damp, streaked with grime, and an imposing iron door loomed across from her. It had two narrow slits—one near the top, one at the bottom—and she could see nothing beyond them. When she tilted her head, she noticed a tiny, barred window high on the wall. The glass was so filthy it barely admitted light, yet it was enough to confirm the horrifying truth: she was locked away somewhere cold and unknown.
Panic tightened in her chest.Where am I? How did I come to be here?
Then, as if a curtain had been ripped away, memory surged forward. The gardens. Martha. A shadow moving behind her. The sharp, stunning pain at the back of her skull before the world went black.
Charlotte’s stomach turned.
With great effort, she pushed herself upright and leaned against the wall for balance. Her limbs trembled as though she hadn’t used them in days. When she reached up to touch the back of her head, her fingers met something sticky—dried blood tangled in her hair. She drew her hand away, staring at the dark stain on her fingertips, her heart pounding.
How could she have been so foolish? She had trusted Martha and had welcomed her into her confidence, even her home.Why would she betray me?Charlotte’s mind spun through possibilities, but none made sense. Whatever the reason, she was alone now. Alone and trapped.
Forcing herself to focus, she rose on unsteady legs and crossed to the door. She peered through the top slit, her breath fogging the iron as she searched the dim corridor beyond. Nothing—no movement, no sound.
“Hello?” she called, her voice trembling. “Is anyone there? Please—someone help me!”
Her plea echoed back at her, hollow and cruel. She pounded on the door until her hand throbbed, but no one came. The silence that followed was unbearable.
She pressed her forehead against the cold metal, fighting tears.Think, Charlotte. Think.She couldn’t allow fear to consume her. But what was she to do now?
Then from somewhere beyond the wall came a soft voice.
“You may as well conserve your energy,” it said, weary and distinctly feminine. “No one is coming to help you.”
Charlotte startled and spun about, searching the shadows. “Who said that?”
“I’m down here,” came the reply. “Between the walls.”
