There was a moment of tenderness between them, and for a moment he experienced the most rare, ridiculous emotion—hope.
Was it possible?
She’d seen him dismantle that cutpurse in the alleyway. She knew he’d deceived not only her, but everyone. She hadn’t run screaming or turned from him in disgust.
Perhaps . . . Perhaps he could make her happy.
Not with the Granville money or his social cachet, but just by being the man he was, at his core. Sometimes, when he looked deep into those blue eyes, it felt like anything was possible.
But there was still so much she didn’t know, about what he was and what he’d done. There was true darkness in him, and if she found her way past all his defenses, ventured into the cold, black center of his being . . . he doubted she would smile into the face of it.
Besides, she wanted love in return. Not mere tenderness or affection, but a public love affair to convince even the most skeptical gossip. That was the one thing Piers couldn’t offer her. Not even if he wanted to.
It was useless to think of winning Charlotte’s heart.
He must stick to his first plan: securing her hand and completing his assignment here, by whatever means required.
He kissed her brow one last time, then righted himself and helped her to a sitting position. “Come, then. I’ll help you with your buttons.”
Chapter Ten
It was well past time for Piers to settle down to his work.
When Ridley came in that evening, ostensibly to prepare him for bed, Piers decided it was time to confer on the investigation thus far.
“So,” Piers said, unknotting his cravat. “What have you learned from the servants?”
“Nothing of use.” Ridley lounged in a chair. “They have nothing bad to say about the man. Nor Lady Parkhurst, for that matter. Sir Vernon is only in residence a few months a year, and when he’s here, he’s mostly out-of-doors, living the sportsman’s life. He pays wages on time; gives annual rises to all, and sets aside pensions for the most devoted. According to the steward, he doesn’t meddle overmuch in routine management, but he demands regular reports and questions any discrepancies.”
“No rumors of gaming? Mistresses? Children in the neighborhood with a striking resemblance?”
“Not that I’ve heard. If he has any such secrets, he’s hiding them well from the staff.”
“That’s unusual.”
Typically servants knew everything that went on in a house like this. They brought in the post. They swept out the grates. They gathered the laundry. Nothing escaped their notice.
“I’ll keep eyes and ears open belowstairs, of course. I’ve worked my way into the footmen’s twice-weekly card game, and I think the housekeeper has taken a fancy to me. Anything else you’d like me to do?”
“Nothing.”
Piers couldn’t fault Ridley’s attention to detail. He was the one who’d been shirking his part. He was meant to be gaining Sir Vernon’s confidence. This was exactly the sort of work the Office needed a man like Piers to accomplish. There weren’t many aristocrats in the service of the Crown, and even fewer who could elicit an invitation to an autumn hunting party, just by expressing a passing interest over brandy in the club.
His rank and standing were key to gaining access and trust. In nearly a decade of service, he’d never once compromised his upstanding reputation. Then, within one night of arriving here, he’d given his host reason to believe he defiled virgins on desktops, and the heir to the manor was convinced he had murder on his mind.
Worst of all, Charlotte had stumbled onto the truth.
“On second thought, Ridley, there is something you can do. Come and stand in front of me.”
Ridley obliged him at once. “Here?”
“A bit closer. No, not like that. Face me. Just so.”
They eyed one another.
“I am going to tell you a series of falsehoods. And as I do, I want you to keep close watch on my left eyebrow. Tell me if it moves in the slightest.”
If Ridley was bewildered by this request, he did not show it. “Yes, my lord.”
“The sky,” Piers said carefully, “is pink. I breakfasted on kippers and toast. I’m wearing a fashionable waistcoat.” He paused. “Well? Any movement?”
“No movement.”
“Not a wrinkle. You’re certain.”
“Nothing.”
With a curse, Piers turned aside, whiffing the air with a strike of an imaginary cricket bat. This couldn’t be happening to him. He’d perfected the art of deceit in his childhood. How the devil was it possible that Charlotte Highwood could read him, when the rest of the world could not?
After a pause, Ridley asked, “What’s wrong with the waistcoat?”
“Nothing. But there’s nothing especially right with it, either.”
“The tailors told me it’s all the rage this season, that color. Called it curry.”
Piers shrugged.
The younger man gave a sigh of lament. “Were you ever going to tell me? Here I’m meant to be a marquess’s valet, and you’ve been letting me dress you in an unflattering waistcoat.”
“Enough about the waistcoat.”
Somehow he had to regain control of this situation. Put his head back on straight. Rein his eyebrow into submission. Do his bloody duty.
He couldn’t risk losing his career. He wouldn’t know who he was anymore.
The very next day, whatever sport Sir Vernon proposed, Piers would find an excuse to leave their outing early. He would return to the manor alone, head to the library, open that locked drawer, and retrieve the information he’d been sent to gather.
From there, everything would fall into place.
He would announce his engagement to Charlotte before departing Nottinghamshire. His solicitors and Mrs. Highwood would no doubt require a few months to settle the marriage contracts and make wedding arrangements. They would have a Christmas wedding. Then winter at Oakhaven to work on starting an heir. By the time he was due back in London for the new session of Parliament, he would leave Charlotte pregnant and preoccupied at his estate—where she would be well out of sight of his left eyebrow and unable to disrupt his concentration.
There. He had a plan.
Now to execute it.
“Has there been any mention of the sport for tomorrow?” he asked Ridley. “Angling? Coursing? Shooting?”