My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(74)

Jane. They had parted so poorly. Charlotte didn’t even know what to think about Jane’s situation. Jane was in love, and part of Charlotte was keenly envious and part of her was happy for her friend. To fall in love, even in less than convenient circumstances, must be a marvelous thing. But then Mr. Rochester was, some might say, a flawed man. That much was clear. And there was also the great possibility that Mr. Rochester was a murderer.

What would become of Jane?

Charlotte sighed again. The non-broken half of the handle of her carpetbag bit into her flesh. The train that was not hers was about to depart. The conductor leaned out and shouted, “All aboard for Canterbury! Last call for Canterbury!”

After a few moments, the train began to chug slowly forward. And then a voice cried, “Wait! Wait for me! Stop!” and Charlotte was nearly thrown to the ground as someone bashed into her from behind.

That did it for the carpetbag. The other handle snapped at her shoulder, and her clothes and books and bottles of ink and pencils spilled out everywhere. Charlotte said a rather unladylike word under her breath and scrambled to pick up her things. The man who had crashed into her watched helplessly as the train departed without him. Then he turned and stooped to help her.

“That’s quite all right,” she said a bit snappishly. “I can manage.”

“I’m so terribly sorry.” He held up a pair of her pantaloons, and then dropped them like they were on fire. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

There was something familiar about his voice. She lifted her spectacles. And then gasped.

“Mr. Mason!”

He cocked his head to one side and frowned at her. “Are we acquainted, Miss . . . ?”

“Bront?,” she filled in, then shook her head wildly. “You would know me as Miss Eshton, of course. But that wasn’t my real name. But that’s not important now, because you are Mr. Mason! But how? You were on a ship bound for the West Indies! But you weren’t on the ship!”

“No,” he agreed. “I was—”

“This is wonderful!” She pressed her hands to her face as if to keep her head from exploding. “We must tell Mr. Blackwood!”

“Mr. Blackwood?” Mr. Mason still looked very confused.

“Mr. Eshton, to you. Don’t you remember? Oh, Mr. Blackwood will be so pleased we haven’t lost you.” She grasped Mr. Mason firmly by the hand. “Come. We must go speak to him immediately.”

Mr. Mason opened his mouth as if to protest, but she shook her head again. “You have plenty of time. You just missed your train, and the next train to Canterbury doesn’t arrive until six o’clock. So you will accompany me to Mr. Blackwood’s.”

And so it was decided.

“What does . . . Mr. Eshton . . . wish to . . . speak to me . . . regarding?” Mr. Mason panted after Charlotte dragged him to the nearest carriage for hire, thrust him into it, and then ordered the driver to take them to Baker Street posthaste.

“Mr. Rochester, of course!”

Mr. Mason looked suddenly green. But it could have been the rocking of the carriage. They were proceeding at a rather breakneck speed toward Mr. Blackwood’s flat.

Charlotte, on the other hand, was smiling.

She was going to be useful, after all.

When they reached Baker Street, Charlotte took the stairs to Mr. Blackwood’s flat two at a time—an impressive feat considering the volume of her skirts. She couldn’t wait to see his expression when she presented Mr. Mason. The man was the key to Rochester’s mystery—she could feel it in her very bones.

It was getting late, nearly suppertime. Surely Mr. Blackwood would be home at this hour, she thought as she reached the top of the stairs, and then she barreled through the door without thinking to knock.

“Mr. Blackwood!” she cried. “Alexander!”

At her scream, he came running from a back room. “Charlotte—I mean, Miss Bront?! Are you all right? What’s wrong?” His gaze swept over her from head to foot, searching for injury. “What’s happened?”

“I found . . .” She shouldn’t have taken the stairs quite so quickly. In a corset. She bent at the waist and focused on breathing for several moments. Then she straightened. “I found Mr. . . .” She lifted her spectacles to her face so she could catch his expression when she told him.

“Oh dear,” she said. “You’re not dressed.”

He was wearing trousers, thank heavens. But she’d obviously interrupted him in the middle of shaving—there were still traces of shaving cream on his face. His hair was wet and gleaming, dripping onto his bare shoulders. His bare shoulders. Because he was not wearing a shirt. Which meant that, by pre-Victorian standards, anyway, he was more or less completely naked.

A blush glowed on his cheeks. “Miss Bront?.”

She could feel her own blush heating her face. “Oh dear.” She dropped the spectacles. “I should have knocked.”

At that very moment a knock sounded at the door. Mr. Blackwood swiveled to look at it. Charlotte was glad for the interruption.

“That would be Mr. Mason,” she said.

“Mr. Mason?” Mr. Blackwood looked incredulous.

She nodded. “I came across him at the train station.”

“But he was supposed to be on that ship headed for the West Indies,” Mr. Blackwood said, frowning as if, more than anything else, he couldn’t believe he’d been given faulty information.