Page 4 of Touched By a Traitor
He blanched, rising to pour brandy with less than steady hands. “These are damning claims. How did you come by such knowledge?”
“I’ve been studying law in secret and… your company,” she confessed, accepting the crystal glass. “The money… it’s for passage abroad. To continue my studies.”
Andrew regarded her with wonder warring with doubt in his expression. “If accurate, you’ve earned every pound. My solicitor will verify this… before his dismissal.”
He settled beside her, his thigh a line of heat against hers. Charlotte’s breath hitched as he turned, bringing their faces a few feet apart. This close, she could see the kindness there, carefully hidden beneath layers of hard-won caution.
“You speak like one born to privilege,” he murmured. “Who are you really, Miss Grace?”
For a moment, Charlotte considered lying, spinning some tale that would preserve the last shreds of her dignity. But she was too exhausted for such effort. What did it matter what he thought of her? She’d never see him again.
She drew herself up, aristocratic pride burning through her circumstances. “I am the daughter of a viscount, granddaughter of an earl. My mother’s mind shattered when I was sixteen. Father sold everything to spare her the asylum’s horrors. After she passed, he followed her to the grave from a debtor’s cell.”
The words came easier than expected, perhaps because his presence reminded her of his own humble beginnings. Something in Mr. Creswell’s expression thawed, and she saw not pity but understanding—the recognition of one survivor to another.
“Why not seek employment as a governess?” His voice was rough velvet in the dim light.
Bitterness flooded Charlotte’s chest, but also vulnerability she rarely allowed herself to feel. “Society shuns the daughter of a madwoman. And the noble houses…” Her mouth twisted. “Their masters believe a fallen aristocrat makes for easy prey.”
She’d learned that lesson the hard way, in a dozen drawing rooms where men’s eyes had lingered too long, where offers of “protection” came with prices she couldn’t bear to pay.
Andrew turned toward her, and Charlotte felt something shift between them. “And here?”
“I keep house,” she added quickly, then felt compelled to add, “Madam is kinder than most. She offers work without asking for more than I’m willing to give.”
“How did you survive before?” The words were gentle, inviting confidence.
Her fingers whitened around her glass as memories threatened to surface. “A kind vicar offered shelter and education until he married. I searched for work but…” She shook her head, surprised by how much she wanted to share with this man. “They all feared I carried my mother’s affliction.”
“Wouldn’t marriage offer security?”
The question struck her to the core, and she found herself answering more honestly than she’d intended. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “What man would wed a woman with madness in her bloodline?”
The admission hung between them, more naked than any physical revelation. Charlotte felt exposed, vulnerable in a way she hadn’t since her parents’ deaths. Yet Mr. Creswell’s presence didn’t make it unbearable.
She looked up, catching him studying her with an intensity that made her cheeks warm. “How is it you command the language of privilege but wear it like borrowed clothes?”
His laugh rolled through the room like warm brandy, genuine and unguarded. “I’m common as dirt. No schooling to speak of, but Madam wouldn’t have her boy sounding like a dock rat.”
The ease with which he shared his origins, the lack of shame in his voice, made something in Charlotte’s chest loosen. Here was a man who’d risen without forgetting where he came from. She edged closer, drawn by his openness. “How old were you? When she caught you stealing?”
“Twelve. My parents were in the ground from consumption, and I had my two-year-old sister on my back. Word was Madam had a soft heart beneath her sharp edges.”
Something in Charlotte’s chest cracked open at the image—a boy barely older than a child himself, carrying even greater burdens. Gone was the calculation of moments ago, replaced by an understanding. “To lose them so young, with a sister to protect…”
“How did you manage?” she whispered. “With your sister and being so young yourself?”
“I’d trade street findings for whatever I could get—always searching for food for Daisy. Her smile…” He paused, lost in memory, and Charlotte found herself leaning toward him,genuinely invested in his story. “It kept me human when the streets tried to make me savage. Having her to protect made me cleverer, stronger.”
Without conscious thought, Charlotte’s fingers found his wrist, a gossamer touch that anchored them both. The contact sent warmth spreading up her arm, but more than that—it felt right, natural, as if they’d known each other far longer than a few hours.
He stared at the point of contact before slowly, deliberately, threading his fingers through hers. The simple gesture made her heart race.
His voice continued steady, though his thumb had begun tracing idle patterns on her skin that sent sparks dancing along her nerves. “I learned to fight, claimed the best corners for selling papers. Madam watched Daisy while I defended my territory. Three years of saving bought us a room with a schoolmistress which was better suited for Daisy.”
Charlotte found herself drifting in twin currents—the hypnotic caress of his thumb and the revelation of his past. Something shifted between them, a bridge built of shared wounds and iron resolve. She recognized in him what she saw in her mirror—someone who’d clawed their way up from the depths, wearing their scars like armor.
“Mr. Creswell,” she breathed his name like a prayer, the distance between them dissolving gradually. “It’s incredible what you’ve built from nothing but courage and will. And from what I’ve heard, you founded your empire on honor rather than exploitation.”
