Chapter Fifteen
Charlotte remained on her knees beneath the parlor window as the spill of light from within dimmed, and Lewis and Kenley retired for the night. She heard their voices fade along with their footsteps as they abandoned the parlor, walking together toward the foyer staircase. When silence settled beyond the window above her, she stood again, wincing and shaking her feet to reacquaint blood flow to her calves. She followed the wall, creeping around the corner toward the kitchen entrance. She backed away from the house and looked up, keeping carefully to the shadows. She watched a yellow glow appear in a second storey chamber overlooking the yard as someone within lit a lamp. After a moment, a silhouetted figure appeared in one of the windows, forcing her to scuttle for cover among deeper shadows. The figure paused only briefly at the window before turning and walking away, but she saw plainly he was too lean to be of Lewis’s strapping build. She was looking up at Kenley’s room.
She shivered in the cold, damp night air, waiting for him to snuff his lamp and go to bed. An excruciating amount of time seemed to creep by; and finally, the glow from his windows extinguished, plunging her field of vision immediately and thoroughly into darkness. She forced herself to wait a bit longer, knowing that just because he had tucked himself to bed did not necessarily mean he was sleeping.
When she moved, she darted quickly for the kitchen door. She did not know if Theydon Hall was kept bolted by habit or not; with so many broken windows to choose from, even if the door was locked, she would have no problem with entry. She found the kitchen door unlatched, however, and slipped inside, closing it silently behind her. She stood for a moment in the darkened room, gathering her bearings and trying to orient herself in the unfamiliar house.
She followed a corridor beyond the kitchen leading to her right and found herself in the foyer. She could see the dim, scarlet glow of waning coals from the parlor fireplace to her right. She turned and crept up the stairs toward the second floor, grimacing at every creak and groan her feet coaxed from the weathered wood of the risers.
When Charlotte reached the door outside of Kenley’s room, she paused, slipping her hand into her pocket and curling her fingers around the butt of her pistol. Her heart was hammering and she trembled. She did not know exactly what she was doing, or what she hoped to accomplish any longer. All that she understood fully was that she wanted the truth; she wanted to hear it from Kenley, or William Sutton, or whomever this young man might be.
She eased the door open a brief margin, and ducked inside the chamber. She looked around and found a large bed set against the far wall. There were precious little other furnishings within; a wardrobe to her left, and another dining chair, like the pair in the parlor, to her right. Several large traveling trunks stood out, obviously utilized as makeshift tables, given the number of books, periodicals, and gazettes heaped atop each.
Kenley slept in his bed, lying on his back with one arm draped across the pillows and over his head. His face was canted toward his shoulder, his dark, tousled hair swept across his brow and cheek. His chest was bare, the blankets swathed loosely about his hips. He kept his other hand pressed lightly against the flat plain of his belly, and his expression was softened with sleep. His bedside lamp was dimmed nearly to darkness, but it cast enough of a glow that once Charlotte became accustomed to it, she could admire its soft play against the lean, long muscles in his arms and chest.
She stood at the end of his bed, torn by such simple, poignant emotions that she was momentarily immobilized. She let her eyes trail along the length of his body, following the contours of muscles stacked against his stomach. She watched the dim illumination from the lamp infuse within his hair, seeping among the disheveled waves and draping against his face. She looked at his hands, his long, graceful fingers settled against his belly, and curled loosely by his head against his pillow.
Something within her trembled, a pang of helpless, distraught longing to think of his hands against her, to recall the sensation of his touch.
She loved him. Even now, faced with the overwhelming, staggering weight of what was surely the truth, she was gripped with love for him. At the same time, Charlotte shook with anger and frustration. Albert had not mistaken Kenley for a stable boy beloved to him. Albert was addled, all right—too addled to remember the ruse, as Will and Lewis must have instructed him. He had not called this young man “William” in confusion; he had addressed him as such because it was his name. This man she loved, who had kissed her, touched her, coaxed such passion and pleasure within her was not Kenley Fairfax at all.
“William,” she whispered, blinking against the sudden heat of tears. She walked around the side of the bed and looked down at him. She drew the pistol from her pocket and leveled it at him, her arm shaking, her aim trembling. “William Sutton.”
She slipped her thumb against the doghead and pulled the hammer back, cocking it. At this soft, distinctive click, and the quiet sound of her voice, William Sutton stirred. He moved his head, turning away from his shoulder as he groaned softly and his eyelids fluttered open.
“Who are you?” Charlotte asked, her voice hoarse and warbling with tears she struggled to hold in check.
His eyes flew wide and he jerked, sitting upright in bed and scrambling back against the headboard in startled alarm. He caught the wink of lamplight against the brass-adorned, snub-nosed pistol and he froze, his breath catching in an audible gasp, his eyes enormous.
“Who are you?” Charlotte demanded again, the pistol shaking in her grasp. He had been momentarily groggy and disoriented, but his dazed eyes moved toward her, and as realization dawned on him, his brows lifted in anguish.
“Charlotte…” he whispered.
“That is my name,” Charlotte snapped, her brows furrowing. “That is mine, you bastard, now tell me yours.”
“Charlotte…” he said again, reaching for her. She shoved the pistol emphatically at him and he froze, stricken.
“Tell me your name!” she shouted. “You lying bastard! Tell me your name! I want to hear it from your lips!”
“Sutton,” he whispered. “My name is Will Sutton.”
Charlotte uttered a soft bark of pained laughter. “Well, then,” she said, reaching with her free hand for her coat. “This is explained. You forgot it in your pocket.”
She tossed the snuffbox at him, and it slapped against his belly, falling to the coverlets. He clearly recognized it; he did not need to see the engraved W.S. to realize what it was, and he looked up at her, his brows lifting in implore. “Please,” he whispered. “Please, Charlotte, let me—”
“What?” Charlotte said. “Let you explain? There is nothing left to explain, Will Sutton. I have it all figured now. You, Reilly, and Lewis served in the navy together, fast as thieves, just like in childhood. Am I right? Fast as thieves for certain! You are the Black Trio! Edmond Cheadle did not threaten to frame you for the robberies. He said he would see you rightly hanged for them!”
He stared at her, aghast and ashen. Charlotte felt tears slip from her eyes, rolling down her cheeks. “That is why you broke our engagement,” she said. “That is why you said you did not love me… why you have done all of this. Is it not?”
He did not answer her. She saw the glimmer of lamplight moistly in his dark eyes, and she frowned, shoving the gun at him again, flexing her finger for emphasis against the trigger. “Is it not?” she cried.
“Yes,” he whispered, nodding. “Yes, it is true.” She backed away from the bed, stumbling slightly, keeping the pistol trained on his head. “Get up,” she said. “Get on your feet, you bastard.”
Will rose slowly from his bed to stand in front of her. His shoulders hunched and his hair drooped into his face as he lowered his gaze, hanging his head in shame.
“Look up at me,” Charlotte said. “You lift your eyes and face me, you coward rot.”
He raised his gaze, his eyes round and forlorn. She steeled her heart against him; against the pain and sorrow in his eyes. “Where is Ken
ley Fairfax?” she asked. “The real Kenley Fairfax. What happened to him?”
“He is dead,” Will said. “He died six months ago, shortly after my uncle passed. A blight came upon him, a lung infection and terrible fever.”
“And you assumed his name,” Charlotte said. “You took his identity for your own. You, Lewis, and my brother conspired to take whatever had been rightly his— this house, the Theydon title and lands—and put you in his place. You stole his life.”
“No,” Will whispered, shaking his head. He stepped toward her. “No, Charlotte, that is not—”
“Do not move!” Charlotte shoved the pistol at him. He drew to a halt, lifting his hands slowly, his gaze fixed upon the gun. “How dare you stand there and lie to me even now!” she cried. “You took those things you had no entitlement to—no bloody right—and you made them your own!”
“They were Kenley’s by right,” Will said. “But they… they were mine, too. Kenley wanted me to have them. He told us on his death bed that he… he wanted…”
His voice faded, and he forked his fingers through his hair. He looked at her, his eyes swimming and glossy with tears now. “Kenley was my brother,” Will whispered. Charlotte stumbled in fresh shock, the gun barrel wavering.
“My mother was a kitchen maid here at Theydon,” Will said. “My father—Kenley’s father—turned to her after Kenley’s mother died in childbirth. Kenley always knew. Lewis, my uncle… they knew it, too, and they loved me for it, even though my father would not admit or accept it. He used to punish me for it, as if it was something for which I could be held accountable.
“He used to beat me,” Will whispered, lowering his gaze to the floor. “With all of his might, he would take his lash to my back. Kenley would try to protect me…spare me from it. He would provoke his father to see himself beaten, not me. When we were older… right before Lord Theydon died, he… Kenley took one of his dueling pistols and drew it against him. Kenley told our father if he ever raised his hand or strap to me again, that he would shoot him dead.”
Charlotte lowered the pistol slightly, blinking at him.
“When our father died, they took care of me,” Will told her. “Kenley and I lived at Woodside, and they treated me as though I was no different than any of them. They were my friends, my family. Kenley and I found trouble together sometimes, but he… I loved him with my whole heart. I would do anything for him. When we joined the navy to keep with Lewis and Reilly, Kenley gave them a false name, one without peerage, so that he would not receive an officer’s commission. He wanted to be with me… an able seaman like me.”
He looked at her, his brows lifted in implore. “He asked this of us, all of this,” he said. “He asked Lewis to give me Theydon. It was as much mine by right and blood as it had ever been his, he said. He told me to take his name, make it my own, and he swore me to it. I could not convince him otherwise. I tried. Please, Charlotte, I tried with all that was within me, but he told me he wanted this for me. He swore us to secrecy on it, me, Lewis, and Reilly. We agreed to say Kenley Fairfax had been away on a Grand Tour. There was no other accounting for his absence all of this time. We agreed to it all because he was dying and we loved him. We would do what he wanted of us.”
“And the Black Trio?” Charlotte asked, summoning her anger again, refusing to succumb to his pleading gaze, his piteous story. She hefted the pistol again, aiming for him. “Was that Kenley Fairfax’s idea, too? Another deathbed wish? The three of you undertook it because you loved him and he wanted you to?”
“No,” Will said. “No, that was Reilly’s idea.”
Charlotte blinked, the breath wrenched from her as surely as if he had just thrown his fist against her gut. “Reilly’s?”
“It was a joke,” Will said. “A joking idea he came up with on the ship, something we tossed about to pass the time, and a way he said that he and Lewis could shrug aside all of the responsibility and duty that had been forced upon them by their families, the navy. He had always done what was expected of him, what was proper and right, and he… I thought he meant it all in jest. When we returned from the colonies after the war, he became restless with the thought of it. He told us he was in love, but because of his noble birth, he could never acknowledge it… never marry her…”
“Meghan,” Charlotte whispered. “My mother’s housekeeper.”
Will nodded. “He felt trapped here, suffocated he told us, and he wanted to see it through. All of the plans we had only laughed over aboard the ship, he wanted to put into motion.”
He stared at her, pleading. “We did not do it because we loved Kenley,” he whispered. “We did it because we love Reilly—because Reilly asked us to.”
Charlotte blinked at him, stricken. When he stepped toward her, she recoiled; she had let the gun waver again, but drew it toward him, keeping her finger poised against the trigger. “Please,” he said. “Please, we did not know it was your carriage. That was what ended it, what was supposed to have ended it. Reilly was devastated. He said he would never forgive himself. It was to have ended there. We had all agreed. Reilly said if we let it go, it would fall behind us and be forgotten.
“It is my fault it has come to this,” he said. “I did not recognize you at first, but you… you were so beautiful, Charlotte, I nearly lost my breath to draw near you. When you challenged me, stood your ground against me, even with a pistol in my hand, I… I was astonished. I had read your works. That was not a lie. Reilly shared them with me aboard the Endurance. I had wondered about you by them—that was no lie, either. I could not wrest you from my mind after the robbery, no matter how I tried. I gave my share of our money as you asked of me. I wanted so badly for you to think kindly of me…to think of me at all.”
He looked at her, forlornly. “It is my fault,” he said again. “I meant no harm, but it brought more interest to our robberies. It made us all the more notorious, and Reilly… I thought he would beat me himself, he was so furious with me. Then, when I announced we would wed…”
His voice faded. “To see you, speak with you, I lost my reason,” he said. “And when Roding said he meant to marry you, I spoke without thinking. I said the first thing that came to my heart, my mind. I could not let Roding have you. I told you that. I had no idea that his coachman was a thief-taker, that he would so quickly figure us out, or that my words would bring as much trouble on us as they have.
“Cheadle beat Reilly. He told Reilly he had evidence to prove us guilty, and when Reilly challenged him, Cheadle beat him nearly witless. He forced Reilly to agree to see us apart and when Reilly came to me— battered and bruised, all on my account—I could not refuse him.”
“What proof does Cheadle have?” Charlotte asked.
“I do not know,” Will said. “He did not say. I told Reilly he was bluffing, but Reilly told me the circumstances alone of our arrival in Essex and the beginning of the robberies could prove enough to see us hanged with a reputable thief-taker to bring us in for bounty.”
He stepped toward Charlotte again, and this time, she did not order him to stop. “Please,” he whispered. “I never wanted to lie to you, or hurt you. By my breath, I never meant for any of this. Last night with you… the terrace… the stables… those were the most wondrous moments in my days.”
“I thought last night was a dream,” Charlotte said. “I thought you had come around to your senses again, that it meant nothing.”
He looked at her, ashamed. “It meant everything,” he said.
Charlotte let the tension in her arm drain, the pistol lower slowly to her side. She could not muster anger any longer; she could not convince herself to hate him. He had lied to her, hurt her, abandoned and betrayed her; and yet she did not harbor a moment’s doubt or reservation in his sincerity. She had trusted him from the first, and somehow, even now, she trusted him yet; it felt instinctive to her, as it had from the moment of their introduction.
“Please,” Will said. “Please forgive me. I beg of you, Charlotte.”
Her fingers uncurled; the pistol dropped to the floor. When he approached her, she did not step away from him. When he touched her face, cradling her cheek against his palm, she looked up at him, her eyes tearful.
“I love you,” he whispered. “By my breath, Charlotte, there has never been anything more truly in my heart than this. I love you.”
He took her face between his hands and pressed his mouth against hers. She opened her lips at his kiss, and whimpered softly as his tongue delved within, tangling with hers. She stepped against him, pressing herself against his body, and she felt him stir, a swell of heat and sudden pressure as he hardened beneath his clothing.
She tilted her head back as his hands guided her gently, and he traced the line of her throat with his mouth, finding the sensitive, exquisite place where the quickening measure of her heart could be felt. He draped his hands against her shoulders, and as he eased the coat away from her, she shrugged to send it falling from her arms, her body. It drooped in heavy folds around her ankles.
He cupped her breasts against his palms, kneading slowly, his fingers following the contours of her bosom as she drew her shoulders back, pressing her chest forward and into his hands. She felt his fingers draw gentle, concentric circles against her nipples, and the wondrous sensation of this intense friction left her gasping for breath, her stomach muscles fluttering in bright and eager anticipation. She felt moistness between her thighs as one of his hands slid against her shirt, his fingers fumbling with the buttons.
He drew her in step with only his kiss, his mouth, his tongue coaxing her in tow. He unfettered all of the fastens on her blouse, and drew it loose from the waistband of her breeches with gentle but insistent tugs. She shrugged her shoulders again to dislodge the sleeves; the shirt fell in a tangled heap behind them as they stumbled together toward the bed.
He tangled his fingers in her long hair, kissing her, drawing her so near, the heat of his body felt as her own, the firm insistence of him against her making her moan against his mouth. She felt the back of her knees meet the edge of the mattress and she sat, lying back as again, his lips left hers, following the contours and curves of her body toward her breasts. Charlotte arched her back at the unanticipated, magnificent sensation of his tongue traveling against her sensitive, nearly electrified, and tremulous flesh. He suckled lightly, his tongue fluttering, and she gasped, touching his head, splaying her fingers in his hair.
His mouth and tongue teased her for a long, dizzying moment and when his hand moved between her legs, caressing the margin of hot, damp fabric of her breeches, she reeled, her eyelids fluttering closed. He slid his hand beneath her breeches and she raised her hips as he drew them away from her.
She wanted to kiss him; she was desperate to kiss him. She tried to sit up, to draw his face to hers, and he raised his head as though reading her mind, knowing without her uttering a word what she wanted. He kissed her, laying her back, pressing himself atop her. Their bodies molded together in a perfect complement of forms, as though they had been made for no other purpose but this—to be together.
He kissed her, his hand moving between her thighs, his fingertips brushing against the silken, sensitive folds of flesh here, lighting against the wispy tufts of golden curls marking the apex of her body.
“Please,” Charlotte whimpered, and his fingertips prodded against someplace hidden deep within this measure of hot, moist flesh; at this touch, the simple pressure he applied by rubbing lightly, deliberately, she cried out breathlessly, the muscles in her thighs tightening reflexively. His hand lingered, his pace quickening, and Charlotte moved with him, wanting him here. She gasped against his mouth, repeatedly drawing his breath as her own, and when his fingers slipped away, moving again, she was left shuddering with the anticipation that came from having approached the brink of pleasure.
She reached for him, trying to push his breeches down. She looked up at him, trembling and breathless, frightened and eager all at once as he shifted his weight to help in her efforts, letting the hard, hot measure of him press against her, poised and at the ready. Charlotte whimpered, clutching at Will’s shoulders, pressing her thighs against his hips, wanting him.
“Charlotte,” he whispered, stroking her disheveled hair back from her face. His brows lifted in implore. “I do not want to hurt you.”
She touched his hips, laying her hands against him. He was lean and strong, and she wanted him as she had never wanted anything else in her days. “It is all right,” she whispered, drawing him toward her, using her palms to guide his hips, lowering him against her.
She felt him press against her threshold, and she lifted her hips to welcome him. She felt him slide into her, and she caught his soft, breathless cry against her mouth. He moved against her, the motion of his hips gentle. It was her first time, and there was pain, but he was slow, deliberate, and careful with every movement, as though she was fragile and precious to him, something he feared to break.
“Charlotte…” he breathed, cradling her face between his hands. He moved deeper still, easing his body against hers, and she closed her eyes, gasping softly, sharply. She felt his hesitation, his uncertainty at this, and opened her eyes, looking at him.
“We do not have to do this,” he whispered, stroking his palm against her cheek, his hips motionless against her. “I do not want to hurt you.”
“This is what I want,” she said, lifting her head to kiss him. “You are what I want. I love you, Will.”
Their lips touched, and he moved against her once more. She found his rhythm and matched it with her own. They moved together for a seeming, wondrous eternity and Charlotte lost all concept of any progression of time as he moved between her thighs. He moaned and she kissed him, tangling her tongue against his, taking his voice, his need against her mouth. He moved faster against her, and faster still. He clutched her hands, folding his fingers through hers, as his rhythm quickened and grew more powerful, delivering him into her with sharp, pounding measure.
She met his every advance with her own, drawing him in as deep as she could manage. She closed her eyes, tilting her head back; like the roar of the sea as an enormous wave bore toward the shore, she could feel something immense rushing within her, tensing her entire body with tremulous anticipation. When this wave broke within her, it was tremendous; she arched her back, straining to present her hips against his as he drove her to a powerful climax.
Her release drew his own; he cried out breathlessly as he offered one last mighty thrust, the deepest yet. He tightened against her, every muscle in his form seizing with sudden, shuddering pleasure, and when it waned, he lowered his head, his shoulders slumping with exhaustion, and he gasped for breath.
They lay still for a long moment, both of them reclaiming their breath. He looked down at her, and touched her face with his hand, brushing sweat- dampened tendrils of flaxen hair back from her flushed cheek, her brow. He smiled for her, and it was like daylight had spilled into the room, she was filled with such joyous and radiant warmth.
“I love you, Will Sutton,” she whispered. He leaned over her, kissing her gently, sweetly, his lips lingering against hers as though this was something he savored; something he never wished to end.
“I love you, Charlotte,” he breathed.