pound.
She tilted her head to the side and slowly unbuckled each strap. She then pushed the lid back and let it fall open with a thud. Charlotte blinked. Several embroidered full muslin gowns, trimmed with lace and satin, were neatly folded atop one another, creating a contrasting array of lovely pastel colors.
A folded parchment sealed with red wax had been set on them. She caught her breath and plucked up the letter. She had an inkling as to who they could be from, yet refused to acknowledge it.
The letter H was deeply embedded into the pressed, hard red wax. Cracking apart the seal, she hastily unfolded the parchment and was surprised to find only a single sentence neatly scribed in black ink.
“More to come,” she read aloud. “Sincerely, H.”
More to come? She gurgled out a laugh. She needed money for legal fees, taxes, coal, and food. Not bundles of silk and lace to flounce about in.
Charlotte slowly turned over the parchment paper, wondering if it was from him —this Alexander. Though there was no other written form of correspondence inscribed upon it, she knew it was him. Who else would be so bold and cheeky?
She flung the letter aside and hovered over the large open trunk, examining the dresses without touching them.
The amount of detail embroidered into the pale pink muslin of the most visible gown was astounding. White and yellow stitched flowers, both small and large, lined the long sleeves and tucked waist. The collar was trimmed with matching pale pink satin and yellow lace. All signs of expensive tailoring. Even the buttons trailing down the sleeves were made from teardrop pearls. None of which could have been tailored overnight.
Which only meant…
Dread swept through her as she continued to stare at the dresses. What if these were his wife’s gowns? It would certainly explain his hypocritical behavior in the carriage. Yes. H . For hypocrite.
He’d been guilt stricken and thought it best to humiliate her with a scolding, though not until after he’d helped himself to a bit of this and that. She should have known such a good-looking man would have already been spoken for.
Charlotte sifted through each and every gown, searching for proof that they indeed were secondhand garments. Initials, perhaps. A subtle stain. A small tear. But there was nothing. Not even a hint of female perfume.
Agitated, she tossed all eight gowns aside, onto the back lid of the trunk. And paused. For there, at the bottom of the velvet–lined trunk, was a beautiful rose-colored corset made of satin. All the busks were perfectly tucked into place, as were the set of matching laces.
He would remember.
Charlotte reached in and poked at it, shifting the corset and rustling something beneath it in the process. She poked at it again, curiosity sparking her, and eventually exposed what lay beneath. Her hand stilled and her eyes widened at the tidy pile of crisp-looking banknotes. At least a dozen of them. At about ten pounds each.
Charlotte jerked her hand away from the trunk and wiped it against the side of her bombazine gown. This could only really mean one thing. He intended to collect in one form or another. For no man ever offered such blatant generosity without asking for payment in return.
“ Hold on to your virtue , says he,” she grouched aloud. “ It’s worth far more than I or any other could ever afford to pay , says he. I am not a charity case, Mr. H.”
Though she was by no means a fool, either. She needed this. Which is what agitated her most. She hated the idea of being at the mercy of others.
Pinching her lips together, Charlotte reached out and angrily forced every dress back into the trunk, not at all caring that they were being brutally mangled.
She’d simply sell them all. For each and every touch and kiss he’d claimed under false pretenses. And if he thought that his trunk of charity was going to earn him a place between her legs, there was an iron poker waiting for him. For she was more