Fortune Favors the Wicked by Theresa Romain

beauty, some had said. Rot and rubbish. She was already a beauty. Had been a beauty from the day of her birth.
    â€œI thought you were nice, too.” Charlotte smiled.
    Maggie turned forward again—but she scooted a few inches across the floor, closer to Charlotte’s skirts, despite Captain’s whine of protest.
    â€œI am not sure how long I can stay,” said Charlotte. “But may I write to you once I go? I should like to have a friend with whom to exchange letters.”
    The girl nodded, then tipped another curious glance over her shoulder. Her brows were straight and thoughtful over Perry-green eyes. “Why do you not write to Grandmama and Grandpapa?”
    Somehow Charlotte managed a laugh. “Oh, they know enough about me already.”
    Too much, really. For the past ten years, since Charlotte had first left Strawfield, it was enough for her parents to know that she was alive and sufficiently far away so as not to embarrass them. She did write to them, but rarely did she receive a reply. She wondered whether they read her letters at all.
    Plucking at a loose thread in a quilt block—one of her own resentful stitches, no doubt—she said, “I shall brush and plait your hair tonight, if you like. You may choose the silk ribbons; I’ve brought many colors from”— London , she almost said—“my travels.”
    â€œAnd will you tell me about the places you’ve been?”
    â€œOh . . . you might find them dull. But I’ll tell you stories. How is that?” The stories would be the bare bits of truth of her life, as much as would be appropriate for a child’s ears. She could speak of evenings of wine and wit, of a house papered all in gold and furnished in red, and of a princess with many suitors who could choose none.
    She could not bear the idea of lying to Maggie about what she’d made of herself. Nor, however, could she tell the girl the truth.
    While she stayed in this room, she must try not to show too much feeling. She must not let the weight of every missed day with Maggie bow her shoulders, or strip from her the joy of the present. If Charlotte could find the stolen coins—if she could claim the reward of five thousand pounds—there would be no more regrets.
    Her London life had paid well, but only well enough to finance her escape. Her house in Mayfair was now an empty shell, almost everything else converted into money, handed out in bribes. She had returned to Strawfield with a few trunks, not much more than what she had taken to London a decade before. Barely a woman at eighteen, immortalized on Edward Selwyn’s canvases, fallen in heart and body.
    Charlotte’s chest felt heavy, and she breathed deeply to settle the old weight into its familiar position. “I must go now, to see how dinner preparations are getting on.” As good an excuse as any for giving them both a bit of space. “Your grandpapa will be tired and sad when he returns home. We can at least feed him well, hmm?”
    She rose from the bed, then crouched next to the girl. Stroking back the hair that fell over Maggie’s face, soft as silk thread, she asked, “All right?”
    The piquant little face frowned—then Maggie nodded. “May I bring Captain down to dinner, Aunt Charlotte?”
    â€œShe’s not usually allowed in the dining room, is she? Best not. But she can wait in the corridor just outside. It’s nice to know an old friend is nearby, isn’t it?” Charlotte smiled.
    When Maggie managed a small return of the expression, Charlotte rose to her feet and exited the small chamber.
    Benedict Frost stood outside the door of the spare chamber, wearing an expression of doubt that clashed with the assured lines of his uniform. “Miss Perry?”
    â€œYes.” She closed the distance between them. “What can I help you with, Mr. Frost?”
    He lowered his voice, no more than a faint tickle of