Page 12 of Touched By a Traitor
“I should have run after him,” she whispered, surprising herself with the admission. “I should have tried to explain, regardless of the consequences.”
Albert’s expression softened with something approaching pity. “And what would you have said? That our relationship is one of convenience and protection?”
“I would have told him the truth,” Charlotte said fiercely, then deflated. “If I were brave enough.”
The duke sighed, raking fingers through his disheveled hair. “My dear, you are many things, but a coward is not one of them. Perhaps it’s time to prove that—to yourself and to him.”
She sank her head to her knees, shoulders bowing under grief’s weight. Her feelings for Andrew ran deeper than she’d ever intended to acknowledge. What must he think of her now? The thought brought a sorrow so profound it threatened to drown her. Yet Albert had been her only ally, her sole hope thesepast years. How could she risk that safety for a love that might not survive the truth?
“He thinks I chose you over him,” she said quietly. “That I refused his proposal only to become another man’s mistress.”
“Then perhaps it’s time he learned otherwise,” Albert replied. “The question is: Are you prepared to fight for what you desire?”
Charlotte’s eyes flashed. “Albert, we made promises to each other. Sacred ones. I can’t simply abandon you because—”
“Because you’ve found love?” His voice was gentle but firm. “Charlotte, I won’t be the chain that binds you to a life of shadows.”
“And I won’t be the reason you’re exposed and ruined.” Her voice cracked with emotion. “If anyone learned the truth about your… nature… it wouldn’t just mean social death. The law itself would destroy you.”
“My status will grant me some protection. You know this.” Albert’s face grew somber. “I cannot care more for my reputation than your happiness.”
“But you ought to,” Charlotte said fiercely. “We both knew the risks when we began this arrangement. I won’t let my feelings for Andrew become your downfall.”
“And I won’t let my secrets become your prison.”
Charlotte closed her eyes, Andrew’s face—shocked, hurt, disgusted—burned into her memory. “What if he can’t forgive me? What if I tell him everything and he still looks at me like I’m something to be ashamed of?”
“Then at least you’ll know,” Albert said gently. “And you’ll have fought for what matters most.”
As silence settled between them, Charlotte found herself torn between the safety of her current life and the terrifying possibility of reclaiming what she’d lost. The memory of Andrew’s kiss, his gentle hands, his promise to fund her education with no strings attached, warred with the reality ofwhat she’d become—a woman who’d had to live as a man, who’d endured degradation for her dreams, who’d found protection in deception.
Cruel Fate
3 October 1836—London
Twenty barristers haddismissed him outright upon Andrew’s request to represent his sister. Despite his painstaking letters to London’s finest legal minds, each response brought only polite rejection. Even his friend, Nicholas Preston, had declined.
The message was clear—domestic cases were beneath their dignity, inviting only scorn from peers and bench alike.
Yet Andrew hadn’t risen from dockworker to aristocrat by accepting defeat. His will had never bent, and it wouldn’t start now.
Andrew maintained his mask of polite interest, befitting his position as Earl of Carlisle and honorary bencher, as new barristers were presented at the Grand Hall.
The Grand Hall’s solemn pageantry faded to a meaningless swirl of black and white, each new barrister’s bow a distant echo, until—there. His heart raced, recognizing her before his mind could catch up. That particular way she held herself, proud yet somehow vulnerable, the same bearing that had first bewitched him in Madam’s parlor six years ago. The graceful arch of her neck, once pressed against his lips, now bent in reverence to the court.
Charlotte Grace.
So, she had completed her law degree. She’d achieved everything she’d dreamed of.The realization brought with it awave of bittersweet memories he’d thought safely buried. Then, unbidden, came the memory of her compromised form beside the duke.
The thought burned like acid in his throat. Six years of waiting for her letter wondering if she thought of him, and now he knew—she’d found comfort in another man’s protection. The generous funding, the blessing to pursue her dreams, all of it apparently meaningless beside this evidence of her… arrangement.
The Master of Bench, Lord Alford’s voice cut through the chaos in his mind. “Gentlemen, I present Miss Charlie Morton, called to the Bar.”
Andrew’s breath caught as truth struck him. The woman who’d haunted his dreams had been a fiction. He hadn’t even known her real name.
Morton. Not Grace.
She stepped forward, chin held high, defiance radiating from every line of her body. The traditional robes seemed to mock the very institution they represented.
