Once Again a Bride

Fourteen



A few days later, Charlotte awaited her second caller in much better trim. The drawing room was now established in the larger front chamber, furnished with only those things she had chosen. She wore one of her new gowns, and her hair was carefully dressed. There was no sign of an apron, still less a dust cloth. There would be no repeat of that humiliation. Whenever she thought of the way Sir Alexander had caught her—in a horrid old gown with inches of dust around the hem, her hair all anyway, a smudge on her cheek—she cringed. It was his own fault for forcing his way in, but still…

When he’d appeared, his height and broad shoulders making the room feel much smaller, she’d been so glad to see him—which made her even more furious. She did not wish to care what he thought of her. That moment when he’d looked at her with alien eyes, wondering if she were a danger to his family, had hurt more than any other slight she could remember. She’d seen then how much she wanted him to find her beautiful and accomplished and desirable. That might be a vain dream, but dust and aprons certainly didn’t help.

He had come to her, however. The man who could annihilate Holcombe with a slashing word had taken the trouble to call on her and apologize. Apologize! It had been so long since any man showed concern for her feelings. Henry would have sooner—she couldn’t even think of what would have made him apologize to her.

Sir Alexander would be visiting again when the collection was valued, and again as they “investigated” together. Charlotte’s pulse accelerated at the thought.

There’d been no mention of the kiss, of course. Yet something in his eyes had told her it was as vivid in his memory as in hers. Her recollection of the astonishing sensations that kiss had evoked had made it hard to speak. She’d been inundated by a desire to do it again. She couldn’t, naturally. One kiss could be put down to overindulgence in champagne and overlooked. More would… would what? Ruin her? She had no prospects, a meager income, a marginal toehold in society. As soon as Lady Isabella Danforth tired of squiring her about—as she surely would—Charlotte would be isolated and forgotten once more.

She’d vowed to do as she liked from now on. Could she have a taste of physical passion? It was a revolutionary idea. Briefly, she lost herself in wondering what Sir Alexander would have done if she had thrown her arms around him and…

The bell pealed below, shattering her agreeable visions, and soon after Tess ushered in Lady Isabella. Charlotte hadn’t expected her to come here, so far from fashionable haunts. Indeed, she’d thought Lady Isabella would drop the connection altogether. It had been a pleasant surprise to receive a note from her. The older woman settled on the sofa. “I came to urge you to accompany me to a rout party on Thursday.”

Charlotte thought that she’d really come out of curiosity, to see the place and her household. But she didn’t mind. “That’s very kind of you.”

“My dear, Edward would never forgive me if I did not bring you along.”

She’d seen no evidence of special concern from Edward. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosy. “I’d be delighted to go.”

Lady Isabella looked around the room as if it were a savage’s hut. “Should anyone ask, we shall tell them what a terrible eccentric Henry was. A scholar and an eccentric.” Her tone made the two words synonymous. “He buried himself—and you, of course—out here in the… hinterlands. Like a, a hermit. What could you do? But now you have been… rescued.” She smiled triumphantly.

Why need they tell anyone anything, Charlotte wondered? Then she saw that it was a story to tell. Lady Isabella lived on stories, most of them scurrilous. Yes, she was a gossip. But she seemed to relish the telling as much as the malice. And she could say much worse about Henry; Charlotte didn’t care.

Tess brought tea, and Lady Isabella chattered, reviewing all the current on dits of society. When she mentioned something about her youth, Charlotte couldn’t resist her curiosity. “Sir Alexander spoke of your parents the other day.”

Her caller bridled. “I can imagine the kind of thing he said. Alec always despised Mama.”

“He was talking of his childhood.”

“He was the most priggish child. I suppose he told you she was dreadful?”

“Uh…”

“She was beautiful as an angel, you know. My father fell in love with her the moment he saw her.” She laughed. “At church, if you can believe it! She was the daughter of a bishop.”

Lady Isabella looked at Charlotte as if to share a great irony. Uncertain what to say, Charlotte smiled at her.

“Their parents weren’t pleased. Both sides were hoping for matches that brought much more money. But there was really nothing to object to; they came from the same class and background. And they… overbore all opposition.”

“Like a fairy tale,” said Charlotte, very curious as to how this tale connected with Sir Alexander’s very different view.

“Well, they had a lovely wedding, in the cathedral. Mama used to talk about it often.” Lady Isabella shrugged. “Fairy tales don’t talk about afterward, do they?”

“No.” Nobody mentioned the disasters that could follow a walk down the aisle.

“They were matched in good looks.” Lady Isabella glanced toward the mirror over the mantel. “It’s an odd thing; none of us is nearly as handsome as our parents. The combination didn’t… take. Well, in any way, really.” She shrugged. “From the smallest thing to the largest, they disagreed.”

Charlotte merely looked inquiring. Lady Isabella seemed launched on a flood of reminiscence, and Charlotte was too interested to stop her.

“Mama couldn’t bear opposition of any kind. It was her nature; contradiction drove her wild. And society made her giddy with nerves.” She made an airy gesture. “The only thing that calmed her was brandy and laudanum. Just a bit, you know, mixed together. But as time passed, it began to take more and more. I’ve heard that is common.” Her tone was strangely dispassionate.

Charlotte felt she was hearing too much. “I didn’t mean to pry, Lady Isabella. Please do not feel…”

But her guest seemed to have forgotten Charlotte’s presence. “She always told me I was all she had—her only daughter, you know. I was hers, more than the boys. She’d call me to her rooms and tell me everything. Sometimes, she would weep and rage for hours. They had to remove all the ornaments because she threw them.”

Charlotte’s view of Lady Isabella Danforth was changing by the moment. “That must have been frightening.”

“One learned to duck,” was the odd reply. “It was like a game. We didn’t have so many games.” A sly smile curved her lips. “She used to send me out dressed as a boy.”

“As a…?”

“There was a… fellow nearby who sold brandy. Well, I suspect he made it himself. It wasn’t a place a girl could go.”

“And she sent you…?” Charlotte was appalled.

“Papa kept the liquor locked up, and she couldn’t really…” Belatedly, Lady Isabella seemed to sense her listener’s reaction. “It doesn’t matter. In the end, of course, Simon got me away.”

“Simon?”

“My husband. He was a neighbor. I’d known him all my life, and one day he came to see me and said I had to get out of that house and why didn’t I marry him.” She gave her tinkling laugh. “I was thirty-one years old! Can you believe I said no at first?”

“I suppose it was a surprising…”

“All I could think about was how Mama would scream at me if I so much as mentioned… But Simon didn’t give up. He went to Papa. I don’t know what he said to him, only that Papa came and told me I was a fool if I didn’t grab the chance to escape hell. He was a blunt man, Papa. It was kind of him, though, because I was the only one she listened to when her delusions overcame her. I know it was worse for him after I was gone.”

Charlotte found she had tears in her eyes. “So, it was a romantic rescue.”

“Oh, well.” Lady Isabella gestured vaguely. “Mama had screamed at Simon in front of everyone at a country ball. Quite humiliating. I think he liked the idea of taking something away from her. He spent every cent he had on hunting, of course.”

“Simon did?” confirmed Charlotte, thrown by the change in direction.

“He was hunting mad! His string of horses cost the earth. And the stables, and men to tend them. I always thought he cared more for the horses than for Edward.” She said this as if it were perfectly commonplace.

“Surely he loved his son…?”

“He was glad to have an heir, naturally. His first wife died without producing one. Poor silly Simon. He was killed forcing a water jump at sixty-five years of age, if you can believe it? He would not tolerate the idea that he couldn’t ride neck-or-nothing any longer. At least then we were able to sell the horses and the lodge in Leicestershire and use the income for other things.”

Charlotte wondered if she talked to everyone so freely, or if she considered her a member of the family and thus privy to its secrets. Did gossip fascinate her because her own life was a lurid tale?

“My sad little story,” she finished with a moue, as if reading Charlotte’s mind. “Everyone in town knows it. I always wanted to live in London, so it all came right in the end.” Lady Isabella’s look was bright and oblivious; her smile just as usual. Charlotte could do nothing but smile back. But this seemed the wrong response; her guest’s expression shifted to consternation. “You haven’t brought that horrid animal here?” she exclaimed.

Looking down, Charlotte saw that Callie had come into the room. The cat strolled regally between them, tail in the air. “I’m keeping her for Lizzy. She’s a reformed creature…”

Effortlessly, Callie leapt onto the arm of the sofa, inches from where Lady Isabella sat. She fixed her yellow eyes on the gently waving fringes of her shawl. Lady Isabella stood as if galvanized. “So you will come to the rout party?”

“Yes, thank you. She’s just being friendly, I th…”

“Splendid. Would you mind, my dear, taking a cab and meeting me there? I know I should fetch you, but it is such a long way out here.”

“Of course.”

“You really must move from this forsaken spot.” Lady Isabella kept an eye on Callie as she moved toward the door. It was as if she’d forgotten that Charlotte had no choice but to live in a neighborhood that fashionable Londoners viewed as next to exile. “Till Thursday then.”

“It is very kind of you to ask me.”

Lady Isabella waved this away. Charlotte saw her out, bemused by the odd mixture of traits in her personality, then returned to the drawing room. Callie sat in the same spot, washing a front paw with a rasping tongue. “Was that really necessary?” Charlotte asked her. “We do not have so many callers that we can afford to discourage them.”

The cat ignored her, continuing her ablutions.

“I realize that you did not actually attack the shawl. Though I think that might have been more lack of opportunity than self-control. But I would remind you that you are not allowed on the drawing room furniture.”

Callie stopped washing and gazed at her. Charlotte could almost hear her pointing out that the room was often empty, and no one could keep her from the furniture if she wished to sit on it. Charlotte sighed. She half admired Callie’s attitude and half worried that it seemed so easy to interpret. Was she going just a bit mad? “I won’t end up old and dotty, holding long conversations with a houseful of cats,” she said. It was a joke, and then it wasn’t. Charlotte’s hands closed as if to grasp all that life might offer.

***

Ethan stood in the pantry next to the dining room, gloved, his hands mechanically polishing silver. He finished a fish slice, put it aside, began on a soupspoon. He needed a plan—and he needed it soon. Gran was already making noises about wanting to go home. He’d have to find someone else to work at the house, or tell Lucy’s mistress about the agencies. But a staff of town-bred strangers would leave him with no excuse for visiting, not to mention the way the thought filled his head with hideous visions of roguish menservants stealing Lucy’s affections away from him.

Not that he possessed them, of course. Despite all his efforts, he hadn’t won her over. Meanwhile, Ethan found himself constantly imagining her with him in the forester’s cottage in Derbyshire. Waiting with a smile and a kiss at the end of the day. Sharing a meal, and the bed, oh yes. Perhaps, later on, a family.

This agreeable picture dissolved. To have that life, he had to ask Sir Alexander for the position, which would rouse all kinds of ruckus in his family. He didn’t even want to think about that. But even supposing it didn’t exist, would Lucy leave her Miss Charlotte? He didn’t think so, even though she longed to leave London. And so… his thoughts circled back to the beginning, more tangled than they’d ever been in his life. He needed a plan.

“Ethan.” The tone said that Sir Alexander was repeating himself.

Ethan tried to hide his start. He hadn’t even heard the swinging door. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“I’m going to see Mrs. Wylde. I shall be out for some time.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sir Alexander started to turn away, then hesitated. “How did your grandparents end up working for her, Ethan? I thought they had left service and were living in that cottage they own.”

“They was… were down here visiting my aunt, and I asked them to do it as a favor, sir. I didn’t like to think of L… of the ladies all alone there.”

“Ah. Good work.”

Something in the way he said it made Ethan prick up his ears. Maybe he just had love on the brain, but he got a sudden notion that Sir Alexander was more than commonly interested in the welfare of Lucy’s mistress.

With a nod, Sir Alexander departed, the door swinging shut behind him.

Ethan’s hands stilled as he thought back over the last few weeks. Now that he considered, he could see hints all along the way. Ha. If his master and Lucy’s mistress got together, Lucy would be in Derbyshire, just where he wanted her. Developments could then… develop. And without Lucy having to do anything, which was good, because getting that girl to listen was like pulling teeth. So, how could he… encourage the situation, like?

An elbow poked his ribs. “Ethan, you great lug.” He looked down to find Susan standing beside him. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me.”

“Come on. You’re never like this.”

“Like what?”

“Mooning about instead of working. Not hearing the bell.”

“Did it ring?” He was horrified at the idea.

“James went.” Susan peered up at him. Her eyes narrowed with delighted speculation. “Are you in love?”

Ethan almost moaned. With all the complications suddenly plaguing his life, the last thing he needed was people sticking their noses into his affairs. He’d had a lifetime of that. “Me? ’Course not! Don’t be daft.”

Susan continued to eye him as if he were a horse she might buy.

“Got a letter from my dad,” Ethan added. It wasn’t a lie; he had had a letter two days ago, full of the usual unnecessary admonitions about doing his job well.

“Oh.” Susan knew all about Ethan’s troubles with his father. “Is there anything…?”

“It’s all right.” Ethan hated deceiving a childhood friend. “Nothing new.” Except a swarm of difficulties that somehow only he could resolve.

With a sympathetic pat on his arm, Susan left him, and Ethan tried to put his mind to polishing, despite its being about as useless a task as he could imagine. He liked solid results to show for his efforts, not something that would just have to be done all over again in a week or so.

***

Charlotte’s household fell into a pleasant routine. The more she saw of them, the more she liked her staff. Particularly Mrs. Trask, who somehow limited Callie’s depredations to one lamb chop and a scrap of sausage. On her first visit, Lizzy was amazed. “So you secretly expected her to demolish my house?” teased Charlotte.

“Of course not!” Callie overflowed Lizzy’s lap like a fur rug. Her purr was audible. “I knew she would love it here—and you.” The warm look that came with this pronouncement made Charlotte’s throat tighten. “I wish I could live here, too!”

“You wouldn’t want to leave your sister and bro…”

“They leave me, all the time!” Lizzy pouted. “You wouldn’t do that if I came to stay with you.”

A world of complications buzzed in Charlotte’s brain. “Well, I would have to, because of… ah… household duties and… um… errands.”

“You don’t want me?” Lizzy’s blue eyes threatened tears.

Even putting aside all the other objections, she would be mad with boredom in a day in this small house, Charlotte thought. This was a recipe for disaster. She tried a reason that she was certain Lizzy would never have considered. “Sadly, I can’t really afford visitors.”

As expected, the girl looked blank.

“My household budget is so very limited, Lizzy. I’m sorry.”

“You have no money?”

“You will come to see me—and Callie—very often.”

Lizzy’s thoughtful frown was unsettling. She made no more mention of moving households, but as she headed home, Charlotte was all too aware of the need for a plan to forestall whatever schemes were brewing in that pretty little head.

At two, Sir Alexander arrived with an expert from the British Museum. Charlotte wondered if he’d told the man—Gerald Mortensen—that Henry’s collection went to the museum if the will was violated in any particular. No, she decided.

Mortensen was a thin, laconic ferret of a man. “The keys?” he said as they stood before the display cases in the front parlor.

“Oh.” Charlotte hadn’t thought of this. She thought as little as possible about the whole wretched collection. “Henry always kept them with him. He had a special ring of keys with just those on it. Separate from the house keys. They… they must have been stolen along with his purse.” She looked at Sir Alexander.

“Wycliffe was given his effects. There was no mention of keys.” He turned to Mortensen. “Can’t you make some judgment just by looking?”

“I must handle objects to authenticate them,” was the adamant reply.

“Ah.” Sir Alexander gazed at the rows of cases. “I don’t like to break the locks.”

“One of my colleagues at the museum could very likely open them,” said Mortensen.

“Pick the locks, you mean?” Charlotte asked, intrigued.

The man drew himself up in outrage. “His specialty is the history of locking mechanisms. He has of necessity learned to open various types of locks, as specimens don’t always come with their keys. However, here…” He gestured at the room. “These are standard cases, such as we use ourselves. It is astonishing how often the keys are lost.”

Never to display cases that he was in charge of, Charlotte concluded from the distaste in his tone.

“He has a master key that works in most units. Shall I write a note summoning him?” Mortensen added.

“If you would. My coachman can take it.”

This was accordingly done. Mortensen then left them. He wandered through the rooms on the first floor, examining objects not in cases. He made no response when Charlotte asked if he would like tea or any other refreshment. “He is very focused on his work,” she commented when he had gone out of earshot.

“Indeed, I can verify that he has no other topics of conversation whatsoever. The carriage ride from the museum was a trifle… silent.”

Fortunately, his colleague arrived within half an hour and had no difficulty in opening the display cases. His skeleton key made by the manufacturer would also allow them to be relocked. She would not be able to get at the objects, Charlotte realized, but then she had no wish to.

“Any locks in the collection?” the newcomer asked Mortensen as he handed it over. Told there were not, he departed without further conversation. “This will take time,” said Mortensen, clearly wishing them elsewhere.

“And so we are dismissed,” Sir Alexander said to Charlotte. He looked amused.

“Definitively. Would you like tea or… I think there is some Madeira.”

“Tea,” he replied.

Charlotte gave the order, and they went up to the drawing room. She was glad for the opportunity to show him how much better it looked than at his last visit. He made no comment, however, as they sat. “Lizzy said Anne is still enjoying her dancing class?”

“She seems to be. Although not as much as Lizzy enjoys teasing her about it.”

“And what is Lizzy doing now that Anne is often out?”

Sir Alexander shook his head. “Plotting devilment, I imagine.” He hesitated, then added, “You’ve become well acquainted with my sisters. You’ve seen how Lizzy is. Do you think I should send her away to school? Against her wishes?”

It was just the opening Charlotte had hoped for. The subject of Lizzy had been much on her mind. “I don’t think separating her from her family is right just now.”

“Just now?”

“I think she’s afraid.”

“Afraid? Of what?” He straightened as if priming to go to her defense.

“Of Anne moving off into the wider world and leaving her alone.”

“Ah.” He frowned.

“If she had more to do…”

“She would at school. As well as other young women to befriend.”

“But she doesn’t want to go.”

“Vehemently. Lizzy believes she already knows all she needs to.” He shook his head. “Frances taught the girls when they were very young. Then we hired governesses, but neither my father nor I ever succeeded in finding one who really fitted the post. They were dutiful, no more. And lately, there have been none who would stay in the face of Lizzy’s… antics.”

“Anne has been her only real companion?”

He frowned as if he hadn’t really thought about this. “There are very few young people among our neighbors in the country.”

“Well, I have an idea.” She’d been cudgeling her brain for ideas, afraid that Lizzy was hatching schemes to improve her fortunes.

“I would be grateful for any suggestion.”

“You might do for Lizzy what you are doing for Anne. I suspect your Aunt Earnton would know how to go about it. Find some girls Lizzy’s age whom your aunt approves—let her do it, in fact—and arrange for Lizzy to meet them and get to know them. Make some new friends. Then she will not feel such a need for Anne’s company.”

Sir Alexander stared at her. “That’s brilliant. Why didn’t I think of it? I shall talk to my aunt at once. Thank you!”

His look warmed Charlotte to the depths. If Tess had not come in just then with the tea tray… But she did, and Charlotte busied herself with pouring and passing a cup. The sound of something heavy being shifted downstairs brought her back to earth—murder, robbery, accusations. “Do you really think this valuation will be helpful, that we can actually find any answers?”

“We are intelligent, logical people, with resources…”

“But as you said before, what do we know of investigating crimes? I certainly know nothing.” The suspicion could hang over her forever, she thought despairingly.

“It cannot be too different from examining tenants’ grievances and judging among them. And we have the advantage of knowing you had nothing to do with it and being highly motivated to find the truth.” He met her eyes.

In his steady gaze, Charlotte saw determination, and trustworthiness, and… more? The thud of her pulse nearly deafened her. What was it about this man, more than any other she’d ever met, that captured all her attention, filled her senses? She’d known what was missing from her dreadful marriage; she’d acknowledged the lack with a distant regret, and then relief. But in Sir Alexander’s presence, she felt her physical isolation as an acute ache. She needed to reach out, to rekindle that blaze of connection.

The silence was growing too long, too charged. She groped for words. “I… ah… Lady Isabella very kindly asked me to attend a rout party with her tomorrow.” Perhaps he would come, as he had before.

“Did she?” His voice had gone dry.

“She was telling me about her mother.” Why had she said that? Sir Alexander looked understandably startled. “I’m not sure how it came up… I… we were talking of her childhood.” How could she escape this topic? He’d gone thoughtful. Was he offended?

“I’m sure I did not come off well in any story of hers about our family.”

Horrified, Charlotte hurried to dispel the idea that she had been gossiping about him. “We didn’t talk of…”

“She would say the same of me. Perhaps with reason. But… it seemed to me, once I was of an age to notice, that Aunt Bella rather fanned the flames between my grandparents. They communicated almost solely through her, you know, and the way she… bore tales back and forth escalated rather than eased disputes, I thought.” He shrugged. “So I would take anything she says with… a grain of salt at least.”

“You lived with your grandparents?” Charlotte remembered he had said something like that.

“Only when I was very young. Later, we visited only at the Christmas holidays. My father could never bring himself to refuse the invitation.”

“Then you can’t really know, can you?” How could he conceive what it was like to be a young woman trapped in a household where she was continually terrorized and belittled? Charlotte suppressed a shiver.

He conceded the point with a stiff nod. Charlotte sipped her lukewarm tea. Once again, the silence stretched. They had wandered into a conversation much deeper than social chitchat, and Charlotte wasn’t sure how to find her way out. Sir Alexander started to speak, and she leaned forward. He said nothing. She lifted her cup again. He set his down with a chink.

“Perhaps we should…”

“I wonder if…?”

They spoke at the same moment, then each paused politely—not to say desperately. Simultaneously, they each added, “Please.” Charlotte had never been more grateful for the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

“I have completed my examination, provisionally.” Gerald Mortensen had a small notebook in hand. “I fear it is not good news.”

“Please sit down,” said Charlotte. “Will you have a cup of tea?”

Mortensen waved this aside. “No, thank you.” He didn’t sit either. “My preliminary assessment, which I do not believe will change appreciably upon further consideration, is that this collection is chiefly forgeries. Or, to be more charitable, modern reproductions. Some are quite good copies. But worth very little, of course. There are one or two pieces that the museum might be interested in acquiring.” He raised an eyebrow.

“My husband’s will does not allow any sales,” said Charlotte, tight-lipped.

“Ah.” Mortensen tore one sheet from the notebook and closed it.

“So, if my uncle paid large amounts for these items…?” began Sir Alexander.

“He was duped. Sadly, there are many unscrupulous ‘dealers’ only too ready to cheat those who do not seek expert advice.” Mortensen sniffed.

“This wouldn’t make a good, small museum, then?” Charlotte said. “His collection, I mean?”

He looked at her; a charitable person might have called the gaze pitying. “If the British Museum received a lot such as this, almost all of it would be discarded.” He handed the notebook page to Sir Alexander. “These are the authentic items. I have used the numbers from the displays to identify them.”

“Thank you.”

“I must be going,” said Mortensen. With a small bow, and no further courtesies, he left the room.

“All that money thrown away.” It burst from Charlotte as she struggled to take it in. From Hanks’ comments, she’d expected to hear that some of Henry’s purchases were unwise. But this was too much. He had taken nearly her entire inheritance and reduced it to rubbish.

“In dealings with criminals, basically. We should talk to his man of business. What was his name—Seaton? I allowed him to disappear without…”

“Hasn’t Hanks already talked to everyone? What can we learn that he has not?”

“He was a danger to them. They would say as little as possible in his presence. I might pose as a collector, a source of money.”

“We already know that they cheat. You think one will confess to murder?” Charlotte couldn’t curb her impatience. What was the use? The money was gone, and shockingly, in this moment, she didn’t much care who had killed Henry. She could have cheerfully strangled him herself.

“I don’t know that Hanks saw Seaton. I will inquire. Also, he had asked to go through my uncle’s room. I put him off but perhaps now…”

“It’s locked, and we can’t find a key.” Charlotte had discovered this when rearranging the furnishings, and had not yet dealt with it. “Henry didn’t carry house keys around with him. He liked being let in by a servant. But we cannot find those keys either.”

“What?”

She looked away. “Henry kept his bedchamber locked.” Sir Alexander stared at her, no doubt speculating.

She’d been avoiding the room as if it didn’t exist, as if she could erase the past by leaving it out of her new household arrangements. “Holcombe had a key. He took the maid in when she cleaned.”

“But… you did not…?”

Charlotte turned away from his gaze. “I have never set foot in Henry’s room. He did not wish me to.”

Sir Alexander looked stunned. “Was my uncle completely mad?”

“I often thought so!”

Sir Alexander shook his head, then frowned. Charlotte would have given a great deal to know what he was thinking. “We might break down the door,” he said finally. “But I believe I would rather get the key from Holcombe.”

“He will not wish to give it to you.”

“Precisely.” His smile was humorless.

Picturing the meeting, Charlotte found the spirit to smile back.