Page 40 of Unmasking the Diamond
She pressed her lips together, biting back the retort poised on her tongue. The sooner this carriage ride was done, the better.
Luca studied Miss Winslow as the open-air carriage rattled along the busy street. From the corner of his eye, he watched the way her gaze lingered on the ragged figures that shuffled along the pavement—children playing barefoot, a mother clutching a baby to her chest. Concern softened her eyes, even as her chin lifted a fraction, her mouth tightening in the carefully constructed mask of indifference she wore so well.
He had seen it before—that contradiction. She cared, but she didn’t want anyone to know just how deeply. Why was that? What was she hiding beneath all that poise? The more he watched her, the more fascinated he became.
Deciding the silence had stretched long enough, he leaned towards her. “Why do you hide behind a mask?”
Her head snapped around, her brows drawing together. “If this is your idea of conversation?—”
He pressed forward before she could shut him out. “You tilt your chin so slightly, as if the very thought of the poor were repugnant. But I see how your eyes trail after them.”
“I do not find the poor repugnant,” she said, her voice clipped.
“I know. That was evident when you had your lady’s maid give them coins.” He cocked a brow. “Why not give the coins yourself?”
Miss Winslow frowned, clearly irked. “Is there a point to this line of questioning?”
“You are an intriguing woman,” he said simply.
Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Now you are attempting to flatter me?”
A smirk tugged at his mouth. “Not flattery—merely truth. I will get you to trust me, and then I will learn all of your secrets. Just you wait, Diamond.”
That earned him a roll of her eyes, though he did not miss the faint flush in her cheeks. “You are an infuriating man. If you must call me something, I would prefer Charlotte.”
“What about Lottie?” he asked lightly, testing her reaction.
She went rigid. “No. Not Lottie.”
“Lottie is a common enough nickname?—”
“Stop!” Her voice rang sharp with sudden force. “Do not call me that. Never call me that.”
Luca stilled, startled. The anguish in her tone left no room for jest. “I’m sorry,” he said, his levity gone. “I won’t ever call you that. I promise.”
Tears gathered in her eyes, though she blinked them back quickly, her jaw tight. There it was—a crack in her mask. What memory had he stumbled upon? What wound lay behind that forbidden name? He longed to press, but instinct told him she would only retreat further.
Before he could decide, the carriage slowed, drawing up before a red brick building wedged between two taller structures. The footman hurried forward to open the door. Luca stepped down first, then turned to offer his hand. She took it, but the moment her boots touched the pavement, she slipped free and put distance between them.
Botheration. Just when he thought he had edged closer to the real Charlotte, she withdrew again.
He gestured towards the building. “Shall we?”
Inside, they moved down a narrow corridor until she halted, pointing at the brass placard on the wall—Office 1E.
Luca knocked. Silence. He tried the handle. Locked.
Charlotte exhaled in exasperation. “What do we do now?”
“You are not about to give up so easily, are you?” he teased.
“No, but the door is locked and no one answered. Should we come back later?”
He smiled faintly, sliding two thin bits of metal from his coat pocket. “Or we could try this.”
She stared, wide-eyed, as he crouched and worked the lock, twisting until a soft click rewarded him. Rising smoothly, he pocketed the tools and pushed the door open.
“You can pick locks?” she asked.
