Page 24 of Unmasking the Diamond
But Miss Winslow—blast it all! He had dragged her into this, even if unwittingly. His own reckless teasing had already alienated her, and now his inquiries had put her in danger. He could not allow any harm to come to her, no matter what he pretended to others—or to himself.
His jaw tightened as the coach rocked forward again into the press of traffic. No warning, no matter how dire, would make him abandon the truth. But now, more than ever, he needed to move carefully. The late Duchess of Brackenford could wait. He needed to warn Miss Winslow before it was too late.
5
Charlotte sat at the writing table in the drawing room, quill scratching furiously as she committed every detail from her earlier trip to Gunter’s with Jane. She recorded who had been present, the fashionable shades of their gowns, which gentlemen fawned too obviously over the heiresses, and—most important of all—the snippets of overheard conversations. It was in these small details that her readers found delight. Sometimes she almost pitied how easy it was to gather material for her articles. Almost.
“What are you writing?” came Jane’s voice beside her.
Charlotte quickly folded the paper over upon itself. In her haste, she prayed the ink had not smeared. “Nothing in particular,” she lied.
Jane gave her a knowing look. “If I had to hazard a guess, I would say you are drafting your next piece forThe Morning Post.”
Charlotte’s eyes flicked to the door, ensuring they were alone, before she sighed. “You would be correct.”
“May I read it?” Jane asked.
Charlotte gave a little shrug, feigning nonchalance. “If you wish. It is nothing more than rough notes of what I observed earlier.”
Jane accepted the paper, her eyes scanning rapidly. Soon her brows arched in astonishment. “You noticed all of this?”
“I did.”
“I confess, I was far too intent on my lemon ice to give heed to anyone’s posture or attire.”
Charlotte’s lips curved faintly. “I have always enjoyed observing people. One can discern so much from the tilt of a chin, the set of the shoulders, or the lift of a brow.”
“You have a talent.”
Charlotte huffed. “Not everyone would agree with you—least of all Alistair.”
“Your brother loves you,” Jane countered, moving to the settee.
“He may love me, but duty governs his every breath. I will not live the same way.”
“And what life do you wish for?”
Charlotte’s quill hand stilled. That was the difficulty since she did not fully know. Only that she cravedmore. More than the glittering cage of her position. More than being paraded about as the diamond of the Season. She had a mind, a voice, and she intended to wield it.
“I was born into privilege, and I am grateful,” she said at last. “But I tire of the restrictions. I feel caged, Jane. Constricted. Alone.” She turned to the window. “I am more than a pretty face.”
Jane tilted her head. “Have you tried to tell Alistair this?”
Charlotte met her gaze with a grimace. “He would not understand.”
“He might,” Jane urged. “You won’t know unless you confide in him.”
“I cannot endure his look of disapproval. I saw that same look in Father’s eyes too many times.”
Jane leaned forward. “Your brother is not your father.”
“I know,” Charlotte admitted. “But if Alistair knew about my writing… he would demand I stop. And I am not prepared to give up that part of myself.”
Jane raised her hand in surrender. “I won’t argue further. But I think you misjudge him. He is more progressive than you credit him for being.”
“Viscounts are not known for progressive thinking,” Charlotte retorted.
Before Jane could answer, Malone appeared in the doorway. “Lord Amner and Mr. Trotter have requested an audience with Miss Winslow.”
