Charity watched Mr. Fortescue walk through the fine layer of snow that had already accumulated upon the ground, trudging toward the door, a leather folio tucked beneath his arm. There was a rap upon the front door, and then the muffled sound of voices in the foyer.
A moment passed, and then there was a scratch upon the drawing room door just before a footman poked his head in. “Visitor for you, Miss Nightingale. A Mr. Fortescue, come down from London.”
“I will see him,” she said, hearing the quaver of uncertainty in her voice. She rose to her feet as Mr. Fortescue entered the room, striving to keep hervoice low and soft so as not to disturb Anthony. “Mr. Fortescue,” she said. “What an unexpected surprise.”
“Miss Nightingale,” he said, with a brief bow. “I apologize for intruding upon your holiday.”
“It is no trouble.” However had he found her? She supposed she must have given him Mercy’s name at some point or another. Had he stopped by her residence and found her missing? Come all this way on the assumption of her presence? “But what brings you here today?”
“A contract,” he said. “I’ve put together the preliminaries. Naturally, you will want to look it over for yourself—”
“I won’t.” She had told him as much before on several occasions. And to his credit, he had never pressed her, even if he had kept the offers on hand in the event that she ever changed her mind. She supposed this one must have been particularly generous, if it had brought him down from London to deliver it immediately and in person. “I am not interested in reviving my career, as you know.”
His brow furrowed, and he cast a glance toward Anthony, who stirred upon the sofa at the first touch of stress in her voice. “Miss Nightingale—”
“I am sorry you have come all this way to deliver it,” she said firmly, “but my answer is no. And so you should tell whoever has inquired.”
Somewhere behind her, Anthony smothered a yawn. She heard a stretch, and a grogginess in his voice as he said, “Charity. Hear the poor man out. He’s come all the way down from London.”
Her brows lifted at the utter lack of surprise in his voice. Almost as if—
Almost as if he had been expecting Mr. Fortescue’s arrival. Almost as if he knew precisely what had precipitated it. “You,” she said, turning. “You brought him down?”
“I did. I told you yesterday that I had seen a solicitor. In fact, I saw yours.” He pulled himself upright at last, boots landing upon the floor as he sat.
“You couldn’t have known I would even be here!”
“No, but I had hoped. And I was reasonably certain that even if you weren’t, your sister would have some idea of how to find you. I thought it best to be prepared for any eventuality.” Anthony paused to wipe the last dregs of sleep from his eyes and clasped his hands before him. “Mr. Fortescue handles your contracts, does he not?”
“He handles my business matters, yes. But he knows well enough,” she said, “that I have no desire to enter into another contract. Withanyone. Noteven with you.”
“Charity—”
“I don’t want to bring ink and paper into this,” she said. “I don’t want that sort of arrangement with you!” The sort that had a time limit, determined by a year, perhaps even two or three. The lease of a house somewhere. A parting gift somewhere down the line; another lovely bauble for her hoard.
“Charity.”
“I don’t require a patron,” she said. “I have funds of my own, enough to see me comfortably through the rest of my life. I don’t want your financial support, or trinkets, or an account at the modiste! I only want you.” Without all the rest of those things that would turn their relationship into something transactional. Something less than they had now. She wanted the lover she had always intended to take for herself, not just another benefactor.
“Charity,” Anthony said again, with infinite patience. “It’s not that sort of contract.”
Mr. Fortescue cleared his throat, gestured to the chair that Charity had recently vacated. “Will you sit, Miss Nightingale?”
Charity sank into her chair as if her knees had gone out beneath her. “I don’t understand,” she said.
“I know,” Anthony said. “I thought I had a little more time. Frankly, I did not expect that Mr. Fortescue would prove himself so incredibly efficient. I might just have to retain his services for myself, as I find my own solicitor to be somewhat less than proficient in certain regards. Mr. Fortescue, would you be so kind?”
“Ah.” Mr. Fortescue grabbed the folio out from beneath his arm, and there was the faint riffle of papers within as he pulled it open. “Here you are,” he said as he laid it into her hands.
Charity stared down at the stack of papers before her. At the wordsMarriage Settlementprinted neatly across the top. Her breath backed up into her throat, and she slammed the folio closed again.
“Careful,” Anthony chided. “There’s a special license in there somewhere. Or at least there ought to be. Mr. Fortescue?”
“There is.”
“Are youmad?” Charity wheezed. “I cannot marry you! We have only just had our marriage annulled!”
Anthony managed a half-smile. “I am aware. The Archbishop was not pleased, I can tell you. I had to endure a solid half an hour of lecturing before he could be swayed—by Mr. Fortescue, more than myself, if I amhonest—to issue a special license.”
