My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(66)

Alexander’s face reddened. “I have the cane from the carriage ghost, sir, but I no longer have the teacup. It was lost.”

Surprise registered on the duke’s face. “You don’t often make mistakes, my boy. What happened?”

“It was . . . lost,” Alexander said.

Charlotte wanted to hug him. For all the strangeness he must be feeling now about Jane and Rochester. And for protecting Bran.

Bran, for his part, did not want to be protected. He cleared his throat.

“Sir, it was my fault. I handled the talisman improperly, and the spirit of Mr. Brocklehurst possessed me for a time, and then I . . . I broke the cup.”

The duke removed his spectacles. “So the ghost escaped.”

Bran swallowed, a hard jerk of his prominent Adam’s apple. “Yes, sir.”

“I see,” said the duke.

“I await your discipline, sir, with eagerness, in fact, as I know I much deserve it,” Bran said.

Charlotte stepped forward. “He meant well, sir. He was trying to help a child in need.”

The duke turned and walked unceremoniously back to the library. He sat at the desk, relit his pipe, and took a long, hard look at Bran. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Bront? in private for a moment.”

“Sir,” Mr. Blackwood said in protest. “I am to blame as well. I should not have left him alone.”

The duke didn’t appear to have heard. He simply waited for them to comply with his request. Mr. Blackwood sighed and exited the room. Charlotte stayed. She felt she would burst with all that she wanted to say. It was just a mistake. Anybody could have made such a mistake. Well, maybe not anybody. But Bran meant well. He always meant well.

Charlotte’s hands clenched into helpless fists.

“Charlie,” Bran said. “Go.”

Charlotte and Mr. Blackwood waited in the hall for several long minutes. Then Bran emerged again, pale-faced but smiling bravely.

“Are you all right?” Mr. Blackwood asked.

“Fine,” Bran said. “It was just a slap on the wrist, it turns out. I’ll be fine. All will be well.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” said Mr. Blackwood. “You’re fortunate. The duke is not generally the type to give second chances. I’ll walk you out now. I have some further business to attend to with the duke myself.” His eyes caught Charlotte’s, and she tried to give him an encouraging smile.

“I’m sorry, Miss Bront?,” he said as they made their way back to the main entrance. “I know that you wanted to become an agent.”

She nodded. “Well. I did. I do. But . . .” She bit her lip again. “Mr. Blackwood, do you ever get the feeling that the duke is not telling you everything?”

“Wellington is like a second father to me,” he said. “He practically raised me. Of course he tells me everything.”

“He did not tell you about the Move-On Room,” she pointed out.

“There was no occasion to tell me,” Mr. Blackwood said stiffly, drawing away from her a bit. “Like he said, we have not had a Beacon in our employ since before I came to the Society.”

“But that’s a rather significant detail for him to leave out.”

“It’s a detail. Nothing more.”

“And don’t you find it odd that he’s acquainted with Mr. Rochester? And don’t you think—”

“Miss Bront?, I appreciate your concern,” he said in a voice that conveyed that he did not, in fact, appreciate it. “But everything is fine with Wellington. I know him. I will talk to him and sort it all out.”

“Of course. But there’s something important that we don’t yet know. I can feel it.”

“You can always feel it.” He crossed his arms. “You should stop poking your cute button nose where it does not belong.”

“My what?” She shook her head. “But, Mr. Blackwood. Don’t you think it’s all just a tad suspicious? Don’t you think—”

“No. I don’t.”

They were out on the street by now, and it was harder to hear him with the bustle of people moving about. Bran was just behind them. He had not said another word since his tête-à-tête with Wellington.

“Mr. Blackwood,” Charlotte tried again.

“Just stop,” he said. “Stop overthinking everything. Stop trying so hard. Just accept that things are what they appear to be. There is no great mystery here, Miss Bront?. There is no story.”

“But—”

“Go home, Miss Bront?,” he said.

And this time, she felt, he actually meant it.

She drew herself up to her full, unformidable height. “Very well. It was a pleasure working with you, Mr. Blackwood. I am sorry that we apparently will be unable to work together in the future. I can . . . I can see myself home.”

He sighed. He could obviously tell that he had hurt her feelings. “Miss Bront?, I—”

“Good day, Mr. Blackwood.” She gave a half-hearted curtsy, deliberately not lifting her spectacles to look at him.

“Miss Bront?.” Mr. Blackwood tipped his hat and then spun on his heel and went back into the building, leaving Charlotte and Bran on the street.

“Are you all right, Charlie?” Bran asked after a moment.