Page 15 of Touched By a Traitor
“That’s not—” He stopped, his shoulders sagging as the fight went out of him. “You’re right. What I said in there was deplorable. I was supposed to protect you, and instead I…” He raked a hand through his hair, his composure finally cracking. “Christ, Charlotte, I was terrified. Terrified of losing my position, my influence, everything I’ve built. But that’s no excuse for what I did to you.”
The raw honesty in his voice caught her off guard.
“Then why?” she whispered. “Why throw it all away for politics when you once believed in me enough to fund my dreams?”
Andrew’s jaw tightened, his gaze dropping to the ground. “Because everything has changed since then, Charlotte. When I funded your education, I was nobody—a merchant with ambition but no real standing. Now…” He gestured helplessly. “The earldom, the investments, the position in Parliament—it’s all built on sand. One wrong move, one perceived betrayal of their values, and it all crumbles.”
His voice grew strained. “I have hundreds of employees depending on me, Daisy’s future to secure, obligations I never had before. The men who made me an earl can just as easily unmake me. And supporting you publicly—” He stopped, the words seeming to stick in his throat.
“Would mark you as a radical,” Charlotte finished quietly, understanding dawning in her eyes.
“I was a coward,” he said simply. “I chose security over principle. Over you.” His voice turned bitter. “But perhaps it was easier to justify because I’d already lost you, hadn’t I? You’d found yourself a protector who could offer you more than Icould—respectability, connections, the freedom to practice law without consequence. What was I compared to that?”
The pain in his voice, the way he saw himself as somehow lesser than the duke, made her heart clench. “Andrew,” she said more gently, taking a step toward him. “You don’t understand about Chatham and me. Our arrangement isn’t what you think—”
“Isn’t it?” His laugh was harsh, self-mocking. “Then explain it to me, Charlotte. Help me understand why the woman who showed me what love could be—who made me want things I’d never dared dream of—chose another man’s protection over mine. I tried to find you, but I couldn’t locate a Charlotte Grace anywhere in London. Now I understand why. I didn’t know your real name. No letter, no attempt to contact me. You walked away.”
The question hung between them, weighted with years of hurt and misunderstanding. Charlotte felt the old familiar urge to tell him everything—about Cambridge, about the dean, about Albert’s true nature and her own desperate need for safety. But the words stuck in her throat, trapped by years of necessary secrecy.
How could she explain that Albert’s protection came at the cost of guarding his most dangerous secret? That admitting what the dean had done to her would mean confessing she’d traded her body for her education when Andrew had so reverently protected it? She’d felt so ashamed, so unworthy of the man who’d treated her with such tenderness, that she’d convinced herself he was better off without her.
“I can’t,” she whispered, hating herself. “I wish I could, but I can’t.”
Something died in Andrew’s eyes at her words. When he spoke again, his voice had returned to its earlier formality, though she could hear the anger beneath it.
“Then I suppose we have nothing more to discuss, Miss Morton. I wish you success in your endeavors.”
He turned to go, and Charlotte felt panic rise in her throat. Her hand reached out instinctively, fingers grasping at empty air.
“Andrew, wait,” she called, the words escaping before pride could stop them. When he paused but didn’t turn back, she continued desperately. “I know you must think the worst of me. I know what it looks like. But please… please don’t think I took your generosity lightly. What you gave me—the chance to pursue my dreams—it meant everything. It still does.”
For a moment, his shoulders sagged with some invisible weight. When he finally looked back at her, his expression was unreadable in the moonlight.
“It’s late,” he said quietly, his voice stripped of emotion. “Allow me to escort you back to the Inner Temple. You can find a cab from there.”
The offer was proper, practical—and devastatingly distant. Charlotte nodded, not trusting her voice. As they walked in tense silence through the London streets, she felt the weight of all her unspoken truths pressing against her chest.
When they reached the familiar gates of the Inner Temple, Andrew turned to her one final time. He then simply tipped his hat with cold formality.
“Good evening, Miss Morton.”
The formal address, after everything they’d shared, cut deeper than any cruel words that had been hurled at her by strangers. She watched his figure disappear into the London fog, and felt the bitter taste of his judgment and the terrible knowledge that she’d lost him twice now—once by choice, and once by circumstances beyond her control.
Charlotte sank onto a nearby bench, finally allowing herself to weep for everything they’d lost and everything they could never be.
The Last-Ditch Effort
9 October 1836—London
For three months,Andrew had circled the borders of the Inner Temple like a man skirting the edges of madness. His excuses to avoid the legal district had grown increasingly elaborate—anything to escape the maze of narrow streets where Charlotte now built her new life. He couldn’t trust himself within those ancient stone walls, couldn’t predict whether seeing her would ignite the smoldering remains of his desire or fan his temper into murderous rage.
But when Lord Alford’s messenger arrived bearing a letter adorned with urgent red seals, Andrew’s resolve crumbled beneath the weight of obligation. One did not refuse the man whose influence had secured him the naval contract—that precious agreement to supply warships which had paved his path to the peerage. The earldom now shielded Andrew from the whispers and accusations that had once dogged his steps, a protection he could not afford to squander. No, he would do His Lordship’s bidding provided it did not require him to grovel.
The late afternoon sun spilled through the leaded windows of Lord Alford’s chambers like molten gold, painting the oak-paneled walls with an otherworldly glow. As Andrew crossed the threshold, his curiosity momentarily overcame his dread.
“Ah, Carlisle,” Lord Alford gestured to a chair. “We have a rather delicate matter to discuss.”
Andrew sat, spine rigid with anticipation. “How might I serve you, My Lord?”
