“The mark is where I seem capable and confident. A better man than I am.”
He was looking at her again with that intense male need. She couldn’t possibly be imagining it. It was right there. She wondered if he even realized what his stare communicated. No, probably not.
He wanted to seem better for her sake. He wanted her to like him, and he’d told her something he hadn’t meant to share. She wanted to tell him she understood, to share something equally intimate . . .
“I almost murdered my ex-husband.” It just popped out of her. Dawn Mother, why in the world did she say that? Of all the things she could’ve told him, that was the last one on the list.
Richard’s eyes widened.
“I’m such an idiot,” she whispered.
The phaeton came to a stop. She glanced out of the window in reflex. A beautiful manor lay before them, three stories of beige stone walls, arched windows, and a grand cascade of pale stairs rolling onto the green lawn.
George opened the door. “Welcome to Camarine Manor.”
He held out his arm to her. She rested her hand on it and stepped out. Three people waited for them at the top of the stairs. The man was unquestionably a blueblood: tall, wide-shouldered, built for battle. His face was classically beautiful, even more so because he’d chosen to pull back his long, pale blond hair into a low ponytail and the hairstyle accentuated the masculine cut of his jaw.
The woman next to him had to be Rose. She had a perfect figure, not obviously lean, nor voluptuous, but rather fit. Her face was delicate, with fine features and big eyes framed in dense natural eyelashes, for which at a certain point of her life, Charlotte would’ve given her right arm. Her Edge heritage was obvious. It wasn’t her lack of beauty or poise that gave her away, it was her choice of styling. She was off ever so slightly, but to high society, she might as well have hung a sign around her neck that said “Amateur.”
Her gown was probably cut in the latest fashion—the fabric was of good quality, and the workmanship looked flawless—but the pale yellow, an attractive color on its own, wasn’t flattering to her skin. Her hair was overly elaborate for an evening at home, and the style her curls were arranged in was decidedly winter instead of late spring. The entire package seemed more suited to a slightly older woman, one who had earned the right to veer from the latest trend by virtue of her status, accomplishments, or reputation. Rose was still in the age bracket where women were expected to be on the cusp of fashion. She was likely modeling herself after another woman’s example, perhaps the earl’s mother or his much older sister.
The Camarines surely had hired a stylist, but no woman wanted to be consistently told that her taste in clothes was flawed. If Éléonore’s stories of Rose’s character were true, she either got exasperated and fired the stylist, or more likely, consulted him only on special occasions. She didn’t commit any fashion crimes, by any means, but she wouldn’t be held up as an example of what to do either.
On second look, the earl favored a slightly older cut to his clothes as well. He knew, Charlotte realized. He understood that Rose was off by half an inch and adjusted his attire to match. She was so loved. A familiar pain, dulled by time, stabbed at Charlotte. They had that thing she so wanted and was denied. Rose was so very lucky.
A young girl stood on Rose’s left’s side, no more than fifteen. Charlotte looked at her face and had to fight to keep from staring. The girl was exquisitely beautiful. Not just pretty, beautiful, almost shockingly so. Her face, a perfect oval, had the coveted high cheekbones and the small yet full mouth. Her nose suggested a touch of something exotic, its lines straight but slightly unusual for Adrianglia, and her eyes reinforced it. Large, wide, yet lightly elongated at the inner corners, they hinted at some mystery, some uncommon heritage and the promise of a dangerous edge. She wasn’t just stunning, she looked interesting, which was infinitely more important than classic perfection or beauty. She could’ve walked into a ballroom filled with people, and every single one of them would pause for a second look.
That dark haunting beauty seemed familiar, but they hadn’t met before. Charlotte was sure of it.
Richard opened his arms.
The girl dashed down the stairs.
He picked her up and hugged her, and Charlotte realized where she had seen her before: there were echoes of Richard in that beautiful face. Did he have a daughter? No, it couldn’t be—he’d said he was childless.
“Richard,” Declan said. “Good to see you in one piece. Why are the boys with you?”
Rose was looking past them to her brothers. “Did something happen? Why do the two of you look like that?”
George took a deep breath.
“You’ll just draw it out.” Jack pushed forward, past his brother.
Oh no.
“Grandmother is dead. Dad was working for people who killed her. George killed Dad, although he won’t admit it.”
Charlotte was looking straight at Rose, and she saw the precise moment when the other woman’s world broke to pieces.
CHARLOTTE sat in the soft chair in Declan Camarine’s study. Richard rested in the other one. The girl sat at his feet on the floor like a loyal puppy, her pose completely at odds with her clothes or age. They should’ve been introduced, but everyone had more important things to do. Somewhere in the house, Rose was trying to make sense of what happened. Her brothers were with her. Charlotte had tried to offer some consolation, but it was pretty clear that Rose needed her privacy, so she came with Richard instead.
At his desk, Declan closed the red ledger. “The evidence is damning.”
“It shows a direct financial trail,” Richard said.
“That it does.” Declan’s face wore a grim expression. She had expected him to be more celebratory. Perhaps he was shocked by the contents or maybe the raw impact of the tragedy his wife was trying to overcome still stunned him. “It fits perfectly. Brennan’s position with the Department of the Interior would permit him to keep tabs on my office. He oversees internal security. My people are legally bound to inform the Department of the Interior of any operation that requires the transport of more than ten marshals. He knew where we would strike before we had a chance to get there.”
Declan fell silent.
“And, my lord?” Charlotte prompted gently.
He looked at her. “And if it was anyone but Brennan, I would act on it immediately.”
Richard leaned forward, focused. “The numbers don’t lie. Audit his accounts. You’ll see the record of payments made to him.”
“If it was anyone else, my name and position alone would be sufficient to instantly gain access and isolate the suspect from any channels of influence. But in this case, he is the cousin of the king,” Declan said. “His favorite cousin, the man whom the King sees as his younger brother. I know Brennan. He is smart, and he navigates the waters of the Department of the Interior like he owns them. He doesn’t make mistakes.
“If I request an audit based on the existence of this ledger, I would have to throw all of my pull and all that of my father’s and mother’s reputation just to get a foot in the door. The ledger will be reviewed by half a dozen people, none of whom want to pin a target to their own chests. Brennan will know about it almost immediately. Someone will tell him simply for a chance to be invited to the next royal picnic. I’ll be asked how I came into possession of the ledger, a question, like many others, I’ll have to dodge.
“Days will pass, the investigation into the ledger will drag on, until he’ll finally come forward and offer to simply settle this because he has nothing to hide. We will perform the audit and find nothing. The ledger will be denounced as a fake. Apologies will be rendered, throughout which he will appear magnanimous and gracious, while I will be painted as overeager, earnest, and naive at best, and jealous and harboring a deep vendetta against Brennan at worst. My credibility will be shot, forcing me to step down, and with me out of the way, Brennan will be free to rebuild his vile enterprise at his leisure.”