Charlotte Grey’s home.
His uncle’s adversary’s home.
The staunch, stoic structure of blackened stone that dominated the windswept Blight Moor.
His neck grew hot beneath his linen neckcloth. “I’ve heard of it.”
“Good. I’ve an assignment for you. For the both of you.”
Normally the details of a new assignment would fill Anthony with eagerness and purpose. But now his stomach clenched.
Mr. Walstead continued. “You’ve heard Roland Prior died, I’m sure. I was at Wolden House earlier. Saw the body and spoke with the coroner. He suspects apoplexy, but given Mr. Prior’s unconventional practices and dealings, he ordered a full autopsy and will likely call a coroner’s inquest. Furthermore, there’s unrest at the Prior Mill—the one that had been, up until now, overseen by Roland Prior. I’ve still to get to the root of exactly what the issues are, but events like this trigger every manner of dissension. Silas Prior has engaged our services to secure Wolden House and temper the mill workers. Furthermore, Roland Prior’s widow will be departing Leeds immediately, along with his son and heir. Apparently, she brought Hollythorne House into the marriage and intends to make it her home moving forward.”
Anthony remained perfectly still. He’d show no emotion—make no movement.
And yet, it couldn’t be.
Charlotte Grey . . . was Mrs. Charlotte Prior?
Anthony struggled to focus on Mr. Walstead’s words.
“Mr. Prior has learned from a concerned butler that Mrs. Prior intends to depart in secret and alone in a borrowed carriage, with only her infant and her maid. One can only assume grief has affected her senses, for she’s seemingly unaware of the danger she’s putting the boy in. Mr. Prior cannot legally prevent her from taking such action, but as overseer to the trust, Mr. Prior does have some power, and as such he’s determined that guards should accompany them, at least until the coroner’s inquest is completed, the situation settles, and he’s confident that there are no unanticipated dangers at Hollythorne House. You two will accompany them, remain with them, and ensure no harm comes to that boy.”
Timmons jumped up, his face brighter than Anthony had seen it in months. “Very good, sir. They’ll be in good ’ands.”
Muddling through his thoughts, Anthony followed suit and stood, but his enthusiasm fizzled. The assignment sparked more questions than provided answers. He’d spent years forcing thoughts of Charlotte Grey to the back of his mind. Leaving her had been the biggest regret of his life. And now he was going to see her? Speak with her? Protect her and her son?
Yet he could not turn down this assignment—his thief-taking career would be ruined.
And he needed these jobs if he was to fund the mill reparations.
He could—and would—save his reservations about seeing Charlotte again and deal with them in private. “When do we depart?”
“On the morrow. Meet at Wolden House at seven. You know where it is, of course. You’ll each take a horse from the stable and use it for the duration of the assignment. Again, your priority is to keep the boy safe, so you will do what’s necessary without interrupting the family life. Not that I expect it to be that spirited. No doubt a woman in mourning will keep a quiet routine. Questions?”
The conversation flowed with the details of such a case—where they would break their journey, the age of the child, what would be done about servants.
But Anthony found concentrating difficult.
Memories of the intoxicating summer he’d spent with Charlotte, vibrant and nostalgic, clawed for his attention.
He’d thought about her more times than he could count—of her sweetness and vitality, not to mention the sense of belonging and solidarity he’d experienced in her presence. Such ruminations had kept him warm on the battlefield and reminded him that goodness existed, even when he was enduring true evil and destruction. But even in his dreams he never allowed himself to consider seeing her again.
He’d adjust to this.
It was just a shock.
After all, she’d moved on. She’d married, very well in fact. And now had a child.
He merely had to remember that this assignment was nothing outside of his usual roles. He would do it, and do it well, even though his past—the very past he’d so ardently avoided in the name of healing and growth—was colliding with his present. Names he thought he’d never again hear, people he thought he’d never again see, were forced to the forefront of his mind, confusing his normally disciplined and methodical ways.
“Welbourne, since you are familiar with the area, you’ll be lead on this.” Mr. Walstead stepped out from around the desk. “I’ll meet you at the departure and then be out in a few days to Hollythorne House. I don’t anticipate this to be a terribly long, or even difficult, assignment, but whatever it takes to keep us on the right side of Silas Prior, that’s what we’ll do.”
Anthony nodded, but every muscle in his neck and back tightened. He’d never retreated from an assignment. The more dangerous the task, the more it intrigued him. Facing death had given him a fresh perspective on life, and he would not waste a moment of it. But this—this assignment—was engaging parts of his mind, his heart, that he kept carefully closed off.
Despite the temptation to open the door to those memories, it had to stay firmly shut. Too much was at stake, and he would take no chances.
Chapter 7
Roland had not been dead a full twenty-four hours, and the ramifications were hitting harder—and faster—than Charlotte had anticipated. A sleepless night had given way to an apprehensive morning, and as she made her final parting preparations, her thoughts raced.
Almost immediately following Charlotte’s discovery of Roland’s body, many of the servants had abandoned their posts, and those who remained were unsettled. Mill workers lingered on the street outside, for what reason no one would say, and the coroner and his associates had overseen the autopsy during the bleak midnight hours. Eerie shadows of mistrust and suspicion shrouded Wolden House, and as far as Charlotte was concerned, she, Henry, and Sutcliffe could not be free from it soon enough.
“Mr. Sires’s carriage is here.” Hatbox in hand, Sutcliffe bustled in the bedchamber door.
Charlotte nodded and assessed her bedchamber one last time. She felt no sentimental tie to the items surrounding her. If anything, the stately canopied bed and bold floral paper on the walls seemed impatient to evict her from the chamber’s restraining confines. And now, with valises packed and trunks at the ready, there was one thing left to do—retrieve the key to Hollythorne House.
Roland had always kept keys and other important items locked in a strongbox in his study. She’d not been able to access it during the night hours because of the autopsy. Men involved with the coroner’s inquest had been all around. But now Roland’s body had been moved to the library, and all the men had departed.
As she made her way down the broad staircase, the realization that it had been only the previous morning when she’d flown down this very staircase in a flurry of fury struck her. It seemed a lifetime had transpired since then, and a cautionary chill enveloped her as she turned the corner into Roland’s private study. She could sense him—she could smell his scent of tobacco and cognac and almost feel the weight of his capricious gaze on her.