On a Cold Dark Sea(5)
“Harry!” he called out. “What’s all this?”
“Reginald!” the man exclaimed. “This . . . creature, whom I’ve never met, is causing a scene. There must be a misunderstanding.”
“I wasn’t going to tell her, I swear!” Charlotte protested. “Only you didn’t send the money you promised, and how am I to pay for our little one’s food?”
Harry’s wife removed her hand from the crook of his elbow and watched Charlotte with horrified fascination.
“She’s lying!” Harry snapped.
“Of course she’s lying,” Reginald said. “You always pay what you owe, don’t you, Harry?”
Charlotte watched Harry’s eyes widen with understanding.
“Allow me to assist, if I may?” Reginald asked. “I would hate for your wife to suffer any further humiliation.” He gave Harry a meaningful stare as he took hold of Charlotte’s arm, pulling her aside.
“Yes, yes,” Harry muttered, his feet shuffling on the pavement. “Much obliged. You may be assured of my gratitude.”
“Why don’t we toast your gratitude tomorrow? The Three Bells, at noon?”
Harry nodded curtly, and his wife scurried behind him as he hurried away. When they disappeared around the corner, Reginald looked at Charlotte and let out a triumphant laugh that made his chest shake. Charlotte felt weightless, as if a rope that kept her tethered to everyday life had been snapped. For a few exhilarating moments, she’d been transported into a different body, a different life. She and Reginald had played off each other like dancers, the lies coming as easy as breathing. Charlotte had never been lonely as she schemed her way through the London streets, but she knew she would be the next time, without him.
“He’ll have my money tomorrow, you can be sure of that,” Reginald said. He reached into his jacket and pulled a pound coin from one of his hiding places. “Unlike dear Harry, I always settle my debts.”
“That was the most fun I’ve had in ages,” Charlotte said, fixing Reginald with her best flirtatious smile. “When can we do it again?”
And with that, an unofficial partnership was formed. She couldn’t have Reginald come by the flat—Mother would know him instantly for a ne’er-do-well—but he visited Charlotte at the shop, making her laugh so hard that Mr. Thornton asked pointedly if the gentleman would be buying anything, and if not, it was time for Charlotte to sweep the storeroom. Not long after, Reginald arrived with a proposal: a friend was taking up a collection for poor orphans, and would Charlotte make an appearance at a charity drive as a penniless urchin made good? There was no orphanage, of course, and the only needy souls who’d benefit from the scheme were Reginald and his friend. And Charlotte, if she agreed.
The falsehoods multiplied from there. Charlotte told her mother she was attending educational lectures during her evenings out (where, she implied, eligible young men were in ready supply). She told Mr. Thornton her tortured feelings for him were affecting her health, which allowed her to shorten her working hours while stoking his vanity. She and Reginald concocted story after story: one day they were a missionary and his sister raising funds to build a church in China; the next they were newlyweds recently arrived from Australia, with opportunities to invest in a copper mine. Her favorite ruse starred Reginald as an earnest country vicar who was building a home for wayward young women and Charlotte as the reformed fancy girl he’d rescued. Her performance was particularly appealing to wealthy old roués, men whose consciences were susceptible to tales of ruined virtue. She’d sidle up to them with an innocent smile, even as the movements of her hips and chest hinted at the lewdness of her past. It was an irresistible combination, and donations flooded in.
For six sparkling months, they were Lottie and Reg, companions who understood each other on a primal, wordless level. With a glance or a nod, Charlotte could send Reg a message—This fellow’s suspicious—and Reg would swoop in with a slap on the back and a whirlwind of words that rescued Charlotte from awkward questions. She trusted him utterly, yet she knew almost nothing about him. He lived in a lodging house in Chelsea, where she occasionally sent messages but was dissuaded from visiting. He had a large circle of friends—friends he played cards with (and cheated, when he could); friends he dreamed up schemes with; friends he drank with and fought with and accused of taking his fair share. But none of them knew the real Reg any more than Charlotte did; he’d even hinted, once, that Reginald Evers wasn’t his real name. Like a conjurer at a country fair, he dazzled through misdirection, deflecting questions to protect his secrets.
With each swindle, discovery became more likely; defying those odds was half the fun. And then it all began to go wrong. It started with Mother, asking skeptical questions about Charlotte’s lectures and wondering when the new friends she’d been making would come to call.
“You’ll be nineteen next month,” she warned. She’d taken to coughing dramatically to emphasize her supposedly precarious health. “I will not leave you an old maid. If you can’t find yourself a husband, I’ll do it for you.”
Not long after, Reg, masquerading as “Lord Cavendish,” was spotted by the brother of a man he’d cheated, resulting in a mad dash out the servants’ entrance of the Empire Club.
“Time for Lord Cavendish to emigrate, I think,” Reg told Charlotte the following day. “India, perhaps?”