On a Cold Dark Sea(8)

“Lottie.”

Charlotte felt the anger rise up, fueled by remembered shame, but the swell was short-lived, the crackling embers of a fire that had long since burned out. She couldn’t think of a thing to say.

“Let’s have a chat, shall we?” Reg asked.

Charlotte followed Reg outside, carried along in his wake. Reg looked the same as ever: immaculately if ostentatiously dressed, moving with jaunty confidence. When he looked at Charlotte with bemused curiosity, it felt like a bracing ray of May sunlight after a harsh, dark winter.

“I expected to search half London for you,” he said. “Must say I’m rather shocked to find you still here—I thought you’d have had a dozen marriage offers by now.”

Charlotte told him about her mother’s death and her all-but-official engagement to Mr. Thornton. In their glory days, she would have made the story amusing, for the pleasure of hearing Reg laugh. But that kind of vivaciousness was beyond her now. She could only recount the facts, none of them worth smiling about.

“I would congratulate you on the happy news, but it sounds as if I should offer condolences instead,” Reg said. “You’re not really going to marry that fool, are you?”

He looked up, over her shoulder, and tipped his hat. Charlotte turned to see Mr. Thornton tapping on the front window of the shop. With his pinched lips and raised fist, he looked like a cranky old Scrooge berating children who’d woken him from a nap. She saw him through Reg’s eyes and felt a curl of disgust.

“No,” she said, surprised by her own vehemence. “I don’t think I will.”

“Splendid. I’m delighted to have rescued you from a dreary fate.” Reg flashed Mr. Thornton a wide, cheeky grin, then turned back to Charlotte. His face had an expression she recognized from days past, when he’d dreamed up a new scheme. “Run away with me.”

He was teasing. He had to be. Reg was no gallant prince, and he’d made it clear long ago that he wasn’t in love with Charlotte.

“Where?” she asked suspiciously.

“New York.”

It was all a game, the kind of story they used to invent for fun. Except Reg sounded deadly serious.

“The thing is,” Reg said, with exaggerated remorse, “I’ve found myself in a bit of a scrape.”

“Who do you owe money to this time?” It was comforting, in a way, to find Reg hadn’t changed, given the upheavals in Charlotte’s own life.

“I’ll not sully your ears with the sordid details,” he said. “Suffice to say, I have made myself an enemy of a family that one should not run afoul of. Best I leave England for a time, until the commotion blows over. I hear America has much to offer a man of my talents. If you put on a posh act and call yourself the Earl of Nonsense and Nonesuch, everyone thinks you’re rich, and you can rob them blind.”

“The Earl of Nonesuch,” Charlotte said. “You’ll be a smashing success.”

Reg grabbed Charlotte’s hands, and she was surprised by the force with which he squeezed them.

“Come with me.”

Charlotte heard another tap-tap from Mr. Thornton. She had thought her impulsive kiss had forever shattered the bond between her and Reg, that the trust they’d gifted each other could never be recaptured. Now his longing flooded through Charlotte like a fever. Saying yes would be reckless and possibly dangerous; she had no idea what Reg had done and who might be after him. But this, Charlotte knew with bleak certainty, would be her last chance for escape.

“What’s the story?” Charlotte asked, putting on a show of doubtfulness. She didn’t want Reg thinking she’d fall in line right away. “The missionary and his sister?”

“You will travel as Mrs. Reginald Evers. My devoted wife.”

Wife? What exactly was he proposing?

“In name only,” he said smoothly. “You know I’m not the marrying sort.” Then, more quietly, “To my great regret.”

Reg looked down with a flicker of genuine sadness, a gesture that silently asked forgiveness. When Charlotte nodded briskly, asking no questions and demanding no explanations, his face shifted back into its usual cheery expression.

“A ship’s saloon is ripe pickings if you know what you’re about at cards,” he said. “As a respectable married fellow, pleasant enough but none too sharp, I’d be welcome at every table. I wager I’ll earn back our passage before we make landfall. Once we’re in New York, we can work out a scheme as the count and countess, or whatever you please. Just like old times.”

Just like old times. Charlotte felt the pull of it, strong as the hunger that had pushed her to steal that first apple.

“We’d be expected to share a cabin,” she said, looking at Reg straight on.

“Are you afraid for your virtue?”

“Should I be?”

Reg laughed, but she saw the tempted twist of his lips. He’d take whatever she was willing to give, as long as she expected no promises in return.

“I’ll book us adjoining rooms,” Reg said. “You can put it about that I’ve got a terrible snore—which, I’ve been told, I do. Mrs. Evers deserves every comfort.”

Mrs. Evers. Charlotte had hoped to have that name, once. This might be the next best thing. She’d have a place at Reg’s side, a role in the theatrical masterpiece that was his life.