Page 3 of Touched By a Traitor
As Wilson sauntered away, Andrew became acutely aware of Miss Grace’s warmth against him, of how she’d pressed herself into his shadow like a frightened dove seeking shelter. The subtle scent of jasmine and vanilla clouded his senses, but beneath it he caught something else—genuine fear.
“Your private audience, Miss Grace. Now.”
He guided her through the crowd, his hand hovering protectively at the small of her back without quite touching. They wound through the brothel’s maze of oriental screens and velvet drapes toward a private parlor, away from watchful eyes and listening ears, where perhaps she might finally reveal what desperate plan had driven her to such extremes.
*
Charlotte watched thedoor close with a soft click, her heart drumming an unsteady rhythm against her ribs. The private parlor was smaller than the main room, more intimate, with burgundy silk wallpaper and a single crystal lamp casting warm light over polished mahogany furniture. A fire crackled in the marble hearth, its glow dancing across Persian carpets and gilt-framed paintings of pastoral scenes—a far cry from the bawdy artwork adorning the public spaces.
Mr. Creswell’s presence seemed to fill every corner of the room—all six foot two of him, his shoulders broad beneath a coat of rough brown wool that spoke of dock work rather than drawing rooms. The garment was well-made but practical, its sleeves bearing the subtle wear of honest labor. His white shirt, though clean, was simple linen rather than fine cotton, open at the throat where she glimpsed the strong column of his neck. The firelight caught the strong line of his jaw, transforming his weathered features into something almost noble.
She’d expected to feel nothing but cold calculation during this encounter. Instead, warmth pooled in her stomach as she watched him move, each gesture speaking of hard-won strength. When he’d defended her against Lord Wilson’s crude suggestions, she’d felt something crack open in her chest—a dangerous flutter of gratitude she couldn’t afford.
“Please,” he gestured to a velvet armchair near the fire, his voice a deep timbre that seemed to resonate in her bones. Charlotte perched carefully on the edge of the seat, her worn woolen skirts settling around her ankles.
She studied his face in the firelight, her mind racing. Andrew Creswell—owner of Sovereign Seas Trading Corporation. The irony wasn’t lost on her that the man she’d approached in desperation might be the very person who could benefit from her hard-won knowledge.
“Mr. Creswell,” she said, her voice taking on a new quality of purpose, “now that I know who you are, I believe I might have information that could be of considerable value to your business. Perhaps we might… renegotiate our arrangement?”
His eyes narrowed and Charlotte’s nerves threatened to crumble under his scrutiny.
“Your proposition…” he said, finally.
She straightened, steeling herself against the intensity of his gaze. This was business, she reminded herself, even as her heart hammered against her ribs. “Five hundred pounds.”
“And what exactly,” he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, “does this newfound worth purchase?”
She swallowed and forced herself to meet his gaze. “My virginity, yes,” she said with a slight tremor in her voice, “but also, information that could fill your coffers or keep you from the gallows.”
She watched his eyes widen at her boldness, saw him lean forward despite himself. The firelight caught the sharp angles of his face, and for a moment she glimpsed skepticism, perhaps even concern in his expression.
“Do we have an agreement, Mr. Creswell? Five hundred pounds?” she breathed, fighting to maintain her composure as his proximity threatened to undo her carefully constructed facade.
When he extended his hand, Charlotte noticed the roughness of his palm, the strength in those fingers that had built an empire from nothing. Instead of taking it, she turned her own palm upward, suddenly vulnerable. “Three hundred now, for the knowledge I’m about to impart. The remainder when you’ve… claimed your prize.”
The words tasted like ash in her mouth, but she forced them out. For a moment, her carefully constructed walls cracked, and she wondered if he could see the truth in her eyes—not just the fear of what she was offering, but the desperate hope that somehow, this degradation might purchase her freedom.
His eyes raked over her form, and Charlotte felt it like a physical caress. Even as her pulse jumped wildly, she maintained her pose.
“I don’t carry such sums,” he said, his voice rough in a way that made her shiver. “Wait here while I speak with Madam.”
As he turned to leave, Charlotte released a shaky breath, pressing a trembling hand to her chest. What was wrong with her? This was supposed to be simple—a transaction to secure her future. She wasn’t supposed to feel this flutter of attraction, this dangerous wish that things could be different.
When Mr. Creswell returned, notes crackling in his grip, Charlotte’s fingers shook as she accepted them. His eyes lingered on her tremors, something unreadable flickering in their depths. For a moment, she thought he might ask if she was truly certain, might offer her some alternative. The thought both terrified and thrilled her.
But pride was a luxury she’d pawned along with her late mother’s jewelry.
Steeling herself, she leaned forward, dropping her voice to urgent whispers. “Mr. Creswell, are you familiar with Priestley versus Fowler?”
His brow creased. “The labor dispute? I’ve heard rumblings, but—”
“It’s far more significant,” Charlotte cut in, grateful to focus on something she understood. “This ruling could bring your shipping empire to its knees.”
Interest overcame wariness as he shifted closer. “Explain.”
As she outlined the legal vulnerabilities, Charlotte felt herself coming alive. This was what she was meant for—not bartering her body but wielding her mind like a sword. For the first time since entering this place, she felt truly herself.
“The court’s decision on employer liability contains a fatal flaw—one that leaves you vulnerable to smuggling operations. Your company, Mr. Creswell, is exposed.”
