One Night Is Never Enough
One Night Is Never Enough
Anne Mallory
Dedication
To S, because you are awesome
Contents
S
he needed to slow down. To saunter and smile gently as a well-bred lady should. To embody the kind and soft woman she wished to be.
Charlotte Chatsworth strode the pavement instead. Long, hard strides. Trying to shake the feel of chains that had always been there, that she had tried to ignore for so long. Chains that were settling more firmly over her shoulders, growing tighter around her wrists and neck.
A distended feeling, full of panic and weariness, pushed outward from her belly, pushing against her ribs, reaching for her throat, to choke her—a balloon grown too large. Emotions too tangled within and around it—creating an almost physical pain.
If only it were a physical pain, a stomachache. Something that could be cured or relieved.
But the swelling desperation—the mixture of bitterness, pride, and fear—had been growing inside her for so long that she didn’t know if anything would be left of her true self should the balloon finally pop.
If an unladylike walk down the crowded street could give relief, if only for an hour, she’d seize whatever she could scrape.
She felt a warmth at her elbow and a strange desire to shift—toward or against the heat, she wasn’t sure—ran through her, then slipped from her body, attached to two men who were brushing past, one dark-haired and the other light. Long strides outpaced even her determined ones, paving a path through the large crowd ahead. People seemed to unconsciously give the two men space to navigate before closing the gaps created by their fleeting presence.
Barely in her view for more than a few seconds, and hard-pressed to think of their passing as anything other than an odd imagining, a strange feeling lingered nevertheless.
Shaking her head, Charlotte looked over her shoulder. Her maid, Anna, trailed behind her, dragging her feet and peering into the windows of the nicest milliners on Bond Street. Dreaming about pink hats, most likely. Wishing that her mistress would purchase a stylish one, then toss it to her when she tired of it.
But Charlotte looked dreadful in pink.
Other ladies, more delicate, with readier smiles, wore pink like the innocent and lovely color it was. Full of hope and femininity. Fragile and tender.
Emily, even with her rampant mischievousness, was a picture in pink. Charlotte’s mouth relaxed for a moment as she pictured a jaunty cap on her boisterous, but sincere sister. Perhaps she would return this way and purchase a cap for her.
But there would be no pink hats for Charlotte.
Rich, deep navy blue. Indigo. Midnight. Stark white. Occasionally a hint of cream when she couldn’t deny herself. Her entire wardrobe was comprised of the combinations therein.
She’d heard more than one of her rivals snidely remark upon the choice and how her father must have stolen a shipment of blue and white muslin and satin years ago, forcing her to survive on the palette.
Three girls walked toward her, heads pressed together, giggling. “—so sweet and kind. He makes me feel safe.” Another giggle. “And Father said I could pursue him. So I did.”
“You kissed! And you didn’t tell us! What was it li—”
Charlotte could hear the giggling happiness behind her as they passed. The girls laughing together.
She touched the pin at her breast. A lift of soft metal wings. A hint of flight.
A gift from the unlikeliest of new friends. With a clasp that was sure and strong. Well crafted and steadfast.
She blinked to clear suddenly moist eyes. She didn’t know what she would have done this last year without Miranda, the new Lady Downing. Most likely she’d have become crushed by Bennett Chatsworth’s machinations, crumbling to dust.
Emily would always be a dear confidante, but Charlotte was fiercely determined that her sister wouldn’t share her burdens. That she would be free of them and of their father, as Charlotte had never been.
So she couldn’t share her difficulties with Emily. And the distended balloon grew.
Now into her third year on the marriage mart, waiting for her father to decide on “the largest crown,” the looks she received had started to turn from envy to smug satisfaction. She smiled bitterly. People relied so heavily on appearances.
Fleeting. So fleeting.
That the recently gifted pin was created to withstand an ocean gale, pinned even to the most damaged flag, made her throat tight. Charlotte had worn the pin often enough in the past few weeks that it had started to cause comment. People calling her
The Dove.
But even with the glow of the gift, she’d never felt less free to fly.
She put an extra clip in her step, fingers slipping from the unusually sharp metal tail. Determined not to fuel the bloated tangle inside. And not to succumb to melancholy. She would weather whatever desperate plan her father next invoked and turn it to her advantage. Build an empire. Carve her own happiness. Allow Emily to be free.
She
would
do it. She’d gather whatever emotional scraps she needed in order to succeed. Without mawkish sobs into her pillow over what would never be. Their mother hadn’t endured twenty-four years as second-best with nothing to teach Charlotte from it.
Charlotte turned down a less-populated side street, thankful for the fewer acquaintances she might encounter. She had four social visits left in the afternoon, then an outing in the park, supper out, two galas, one ladies-only party, and a musicale that evening. The stretch of the social smile that had lately been frozen about her lips strained.
She touched the pin again. But at least now there were ports in the storm.
A passing couple leaned into one another, smiling, their heads touching, melding together. Happiness in being with the one they loved.
She closed her eyes, then opened them again, quickly. For there must be nothing seen to be amiss with the Chatsworths. Just some bad luck at the tables that would turn
corking
any day now.
She didn’t allow morbid laughter to escape the tangle. One of these days, her father was going to embroil them in an entanglement from which they couldn’t break free. Or someone was bound to collect on debts they couldn’t pay.
The bell on the door of the ribbon shop jangled as the door opened, and two women emerged, shrugging. They turned in a direction away from Charlotte. Charlotte caught the door, somehow prevented the bell from sounding again, and she and Anna slipped inside before it closed.
The shop was dim—none of the lamps were lit in the corners to brighten the merchandise and enhance the meager light that seeped through the front windows facing the alley. She would think they were closed, but Charlotte had scheduled an appointment to pick up the special bows and intricate knots she had ordered. Mrs. Hunsden, a shy woman who made the best ribbons in London, was prompt with orders, and Charlotte planned to wear one of the exquisite creations around her arm tonight.
“Good afternoon?” she called, aiming her voice to the back of the shop.
“Perhaps they went out for a nibble, Miss?”
Before she could respond to her maid, she heard a door bang in the back room. A raised voice. Mr. Hunsden screeching. Charlotte had never liked him—smarmy smiles and slick brows, and when he thought no one was looking, quick kicks behind the counter to the shins of his wife. She took a few steps toward the doorway that separated the customer display area from the back of the shop.
She heard Anna mutter about the man’s parentage. Charlotte longed to agree but resolutely walked on, eyes narrowed.
Mr. Hunsden might bully his wife, but he would never dare raise even his voice to Charlotte. The man was a coward. He’d be glib, with an insincere smile, even if she caught him red-handed striking his wife.
Perhaps she could
do
something though. Convince Mrs. Hunsden to come with her. Encourage the Ladies Society to invest more money in her program for disadvantaged women. Or recommend an additional program as part of the Delaneys’ new venture.
Yes.
The itch grew. She could see it already. And Mrs. Hunsden would be
free
.
Charlotte would free
someone.
She peered around the corner, her gloves curving around the splintered frame of the door. Crates littered the space, but sweet Mrs. Hunsden was nowhere to be seen. Instead, she saw a tall, dark-haired man holding stout Mr. Hunsden by his lapels.
She jerked back instinctively. Her body gave a sudden lurch in the opposite direction, and she had to clutch the chipped wood to stay upright.
“I do hate to repeat myself. Where is the money, Hunsden?” The man’s voice was silky and sinister, sending a chill through her.
“I don’t have it.”
“That is unfortunate. Coupled with your poor choice of friends, we’ve decided you’ve
come due.
”
Sweat matted Hunsden’s hairline, curling in rivulets down his cheek and pooling at his chin. Charlotte felt her own body respond in kind. She pulled back again, to run, to go for help, but once more her body lurched, her pin sticking in the splintered wood—the forked tail of the dove embedded like small daggers in tree bark. She tried not to panic. She pushed her chest forward, fumbling to unhook the broach without causing noise or putting herself in full view.
“I don’t have it,” Hunsden said, palpable fear lacing the words.
“That’s unfortunate for you.” There was a smile in the man’s voice. As if he was
glad.
“Tell us which rock Noakes has crawled beneath.”
“I don’t know.”
Charlotte felt an insistent tug on the back bow of her dress. She pushed a hand behind at her maid, trying to still her. She was still hooked. And she’d never make it to the street with Anna in tow if the man chose to stop them. She reached shaking fingers to her chest and tugged the muslin. She’d apologize to Miranda for losing the pin, if she could only free herself.
“Your ignorance is quite to your misfortune. Noakes has been
blacklisted.
”
“That’s—that’s none of my concern,” Hunsden stuttered. “That’s between you and Cornelius.”
“Oh, Cornelius will get his too.” The words were darkly promising. “But word has it that Noakes is here. Perhaps hidden behind a
wooden
rock in this very space?”
Charlotte shifted her darting gaze between the caught fabric and the tableaux, not wanting to take her eyes fully away from either. Using her teeth, she yanked off her right glove, thankful she had worn a short pair.
Hunsden’s face mottled. “I’m surprised you didn’t send your lackeys.”
She nearly triggered the unyielding silver clasp, her shaking, bare fingers almost disengaging it from its lock. She swallowed. Nearly there.
The dark man twisted his hand, and Mr. Hunsden’s skin purpled. “I don’t need lackeys. Now tell me where—”
Charlotte’s vision blurred as a man charged from behind a stack of crates at the far end of the room, the top crate pivoting on end, starting to fall. Charlotte froze in terror at the new threat, a wave of pressure crashing from her throat to her gut, her fingers rooted uselessly over the clasp. The man’s hand descended, silver glittering in a downward arc toward the dark man’s back.
Her body, her thoughts, went cold. Inactive. Immobile.
Mr. Hunsden being manhandled and threatened was terrible, yes. But she was about to see a man stabbed while she was pinned to the doorway.
Murdered.
She tried to close her eyes, to look away. The crate crashed to the floor.
A golden angel appeared as if by ghostly apparition from the side of her view—another man she had neither seen nor heard amidst the wooden crates and her own panic. A well-tailored angel. Gieves and Hawkes, she thought inanely, still frozen.
As the knife descended, the well-dressed man caught the assailant’s hand and twisted, the blade arcing to the side of its intended victim, narrowly missing the tall, dark-haired man. The assailant gave an agonized cry as his hand contorted, and the knife slipped from his fingers. The blond man caught the knife deftly as it fell and had the man pinned, twisted, and chewing the bent nails protruding from the wooden floorboards in seconds.
He flipped the knife, wrapping the handle in a golden fist, and punched the man once in the face. Blood sprayed from the man’s nose and mouth like the cantaloupe Bobby Drayton had once dropped from the top of a three-story building. The man went limp on the floor. Still as death.
She had just seen someone murdered after all.
And the man had been killed
by hand.
Self-preservation triggered movement once more. She pushed her body forward, then tried to forcefully pull back, hoping to rip the fabric from the pin’s unexpectedly traitorous grip.
The man rose, his profile to her, and she caught her breath, fingernails still clawing the pin, at the horrible dichotomy. Angelic-looking, beautiful really, but for the feral grin he shot Hunsden and a long scar curving his cheek. A fallen angel straight from hell.