Startled, Charlotte met the eyes that looked so much like her own and remembered that her father had married her mother for a reason. Lavinia Hardison put on a slightly vapid, vain façade, but she had never been stupid when it came to this sort of thing. She knew people far better than she let on, and Charlotte had a history of underestimating her mother to her cost.
“Dexter is the model of propriety, Mother.”
Not quite denying, not quite confirming any illicit behavior that might or might not have been encouraged by either of them.
Her mother sighed, a long-suffering sort of sigh that Charlotte hadn’t heard since before her marriage to Reginald.
“I must go. Please be careful, Charlotte. You know, I suspect I would be much less tolerant with you—or with him—if I weren’t so pleased to see you happy again after all this time.”
The embrace was swift, gardenia-scented, over before Charlotte could respond. Alone in her dressing room, she looked at her reflection again and tried to see what her mother saw. Happiness. But it was like a game of spot-the-difference with only one picture to look at. She couldn’t see what was there now, that hadn’t been before. She saw only herself, more or less the same as she had been for years. Charlotte thought mothers probably saw these sorts of things in their children, whether they were really there or not.
If she was happy, perhaps it was because she was finally about to attempt the work she had trained for, fulfill the purpose she had pledged herself to. For herself, and for Reginald’s memory.
THE HAND OF Silent Death had fallen into his customary postprandial snooze in the library the next time Charlotte and Dexter had a chance to speak privately.
“He’s worn himself out, poor thing,” Charlotte whispered archly, leading Dexter from the room and down the hallway to the conservatory. “Father’s quite exhausted from all his efforts to recruit you ever deeper into his network of intrigue.”
Dexter chuckled, the low tone resonating in the marble-paved corridor despite their efforts to be quiet. “Why the assiduous chaperoning all of a sudden? I must not have ruined you thoroughly enough at the Vanderbilts’, if your mother still believes there’s hope for what remains of your good reputation.”
“Oh, please don’t make fun,” Charlotte implored. “I know it’s tedious to string her along like this. I don’t like it any more than you do, but it’s necessary. One day she’ll understand.”
Charlotte thought her mother already suspected something was afoot, in fact. But she’d held her peace thus far, and the amount of gossip she’d spread about the happy couple had done more to solidify their cover than Charlotte and Dexter could ever have done themselves, had they all the time and dimly lit garden benches in the world.
She closed the conservatory door behind them and ventured farther into the room, until they were shrouded by foliage from any prying maternal eyes.
“You’re a grown woman and a widow. Doesn’t she realize I could simply visit you at your own home any time I liked?”
“She thinks she has spies in the ranks of my household staff. Here, come and sit. We can talk for a few minutes at least before it’s time for you to leave.” Charlotte sat on a wrought-iron bench, scooting to the end to leave ample room for Dexter. She enjoyed their talks, but had felt awkward and nervous with him since the night of their engagement. Now she was determined to remedy that by proving to herself that she could be alone with him and keep her head on straight.
“Your staff are loyal to you and not her, I take it?”
“To the Crown,” Charlotte corrected him. “Most of my staff are retired from government work. My late husband’s family had a longstanding arrangement with Whitehall, which I continue to honor, to provide work and homes for those agents in the Dominions who are unable to continue with field work, for whatever reason. The real wonder is that Mother never questions why so many of my domestics are sporting prosthetic limbs, or seem to do very little actual work. Most of the house is closed to visitors, of course. She’d be appalled to know it’s because the staff are living in it.”
“I suspect she knows more than you think,” Dexter mused.
Charlotte tilted her head, meeting his gaze curiously. She agreed with him in principle, but thought it was impressive that Dexter had figured out the ruse so quickly. “What makes you say that?”
“She’s not nearly as witless as she pretends to be. If she were, for one thing, your father wouldn’t pay as much attention to her as he does. I think they understand one another perfectly.”
“True. You’re very astute about people.”
“No.” He shook his head, laughing. “She just reminds me of my mother, is all.”
Charlotte couldn’t help grinning back at him. “Oh, if that’s all. You have my sympathies.”
“Perhaps one day you’ll be an equally devious mama.” He leaned closer and gave her a conspiratorial wink.
“Oh. I . . . oh.”
She sucked in a breath and tried to will her heart to stop its sudden mad thumping. Instead she caught a faint hint of Dexter’s characteristic spicy scent, and felt close to swooning as her mind whipped back to that evening at the Vanderbilts’. Her body tingled as if his hands were still roaming over it, as the idea of babies led swiftly and inevitably to thoughts of baby making.
Charlotte knew a moment of relief tinged with vague regret when it became clear that Dexter mistook the reason for her reaction.
“I’m sorry, Charlotte. Terribly sorry. It was thoughtless of me to suggest . . . had you and Reginald planned a family?”
He took one of her hands in his, throwing Charlotte’s senses into deeper confusion. She had to swallow twice before she could answer. “We had discussed it, of course. We’d thought we’d like to wait a few years. But after that, at least two. We were both only children, you know. Both of us thought it would be wonderful to have a sibling.”
“I’m fond of my brother and sister now, and I always imagine myself having three or four of my own one day, but I’m not sure I’d have agreed with you when we were all children. We fought like a pack of vicious little wolverines. I actually stabbed my brother in the back of the hand with a fork once, when he tried to beat me to the last pork chop.”
“You didn’t!”
“I did,” he swore. “He has a scar to this day. In my defense, I was only five at the time and he was a very large eight, so he was usually the one doing the injuring.”
Charlotte laughed despite herself. “I can’t picture you doing such a thing. You seem so level-headed now.”
“I was a horrible little boy,” Dexter confided. “When I wasn’t brawling, I was usually taking things apart to see how they worked, never mind that I had no idea how to reassemble them.”
“Yet. You learned at some point, obviously.”
“I learned a thing or two along the way. And stopped fighting. Or rather my brother did, when he stopped growing and I didn’t. He’s still a puny six-footer.”
She could picture it, Dexter grinning down with smug good humor at an older, shorter brother who declined to fight him; it was easy to imagine, even though she hadn’t met Dexter’s family yet. That would come soon, of course, but Charlotte was trying not to think about it just yet. It daunted her, the idea of deceiving that many people. Dexter had reassured her, with his customary geniality, that they would welcome her with open arms, and he himself would be the one to handle any unpleasantness on that front after their mission—and “marriage”—ended.