. . . but, no, she needed to keep to the plan. Nothing could go wrong as long as the Chatsworths followed the plan. As long as her father didn’t do something stupid.
As long as she didn’t.
Her fingers brushed a bright swath of pink fabric that had been placed over the banister rail, forgotten by its owner two weeks past, finally sorted from the rack to be returned to an armoire above stairs. Charlotte pulled her fingers along the pink. Perhaps she could ask . . . yes. The thought brought a smile to her lips. One that didn’t pull or hurt. Her schedule could be rearranged surely for a few days next week?
An abrupt banging interrupted her forming plans.
She turned to see her father stumble inside, brushing off the butler’s helping hands.
“Let go of me,” he roared, eyes bloodshot. The butler’s face remained stoic as he closed the door and stood to the side, waiting.
Charlotte swallowed, fingering the pink fabric. She couldn’t remember the last time her father had returned home for the night.
He looked up, his eyes meeting hers, rage in their depths. She froze—surely news of her lack of success that night had not circulated so quickly? She bowed her head, pretending deference, watching his physical movements for any sign of his emotional state, which might indicate how she should respond. The shaking of his hands seemed to indicate some sort of personal devastation.
“Girl, follow me. Now,” he barked.
She stiffly followed, still fully dressed in the elaborate navy-and-white gown she had worn all evening. It was hard not to feel as if the bare walls and surfaces she passed had been bled, leeched, into the cloth encasing her. Stripped paint and sacrificed heirlooms clinging to her, demanding she make everything right once more.
“A good evening to you, Father,” she stated as she entered his study and closed the door behind her so that any remaining servants would have to press an ear to the door to hear. “It is a pleasure to see you this night.”
He ignored her, violently shuffling through the piles on his desk.
She stood for a minute watching. “And I was thinking perhaps Emily—”
“Emily?” He didn’t look up as he searched unsuccessfully through the scattered papers. “Bloody peasant fodder. And as useless to me tonight as always.”
Charlotte tried to control her own anger. Caution. “I was thinking—”
He sliced a hand through the air. “Don’t think, for god’s sake. Just get rid of her in the morning. Send her back to the country. God knows she can’t keep her gob shut.” Though his ruddiness pointed to obvious alcohol consumption, there was something overly controlled about his movements and words.
Charlotte’s unease grew. “She is already in the country, Father. She has been for two weeks. In fact, I thought perhaps I too could—”
“What?” he asked coldly, running a hand through his hair, causing it to stick out in strange angles. The strands were thin now, where they had once been thick and strong. “Go to the country? Hide with your useless sister?”
Charlotte held herself still, stiff. “Emily is not useless. And yes, I—”
“You can’t, you have an appointment tomorrow night in the heathen’s den,” he spat.
Ladies didn’t sweat. It was a rule.
Nevertheless, Charlotte could feel the brimming moisture in her hairline—cold, not hot—frosty like the icicles gathering in the very marrow of her bones. “I believe I heard you incorrectly, Father.”
She wasn’t sure how her voice remained so even because she was certain she had heard quite correctly, indeed, no matter her words.
Bennett Chatsworth looked away for a moment, fingers playing at the flap of his disheveled jacket, stroking the pocket watch there, an ill look to his features. The rage momentarily gave in to the devastation that simmered beneath.
“You will be staying the night elsewhere tomorrow. I will have your mother make your excuses to the Drumhursts.”
She felt