A Royal Secret

CHAPTER THREE

WHITE AGAINST SCARS.

Chara's gaze ran over the length of her wrist, the lace that graced the edges of her gloves, doing a perfect job of keeping the scars on her wrist concealed. It was the same thing her new purple dress sought to do; to conceal her past—her true identity—while bestowing upon her a falsehood that could cost her the very life within her battered form.

Chara didn't dare think of the consequences that could come with this falsehood, for she truly believed herself to be without a choice. The world made certain not to present slaves with choices, forcing them to yield to things against their will. And she was a slave, unskilled and untrained, presented with no other choice but to give in to Spencer's absurd plan. If she didn't, then she would have to sell herself back into slavery.

Sighing softly, she stole a glance at Spencer. His head was tilted to the side, his eyes planted on the moving trees as his body rocked back and forth with the moving coach. She knew he was deep in thought as she watched a muscle work in his jaw. Perhaps his mind was plagued with images of the accident, the death of the woman who was to be his mistress, and the possibility of his master finding out about his planned deception.

"Who was she?" she wondered aloud. Who was Miss Cartridge, other than the woman who was to be wed to a nobleman in London?

Spencer remained seated silently beside her; his gaze planted on the view the window provided.

Shifting her attention from him, she turned to her hands once more and ran them back and forth over the smooth fabric of her purple dress. It was no cheap fabric, and she knew the dress belonged to Miss Cartridge. She wondered how many times Miss Cartridge had worn this dress, and how lovely she had looked in it. Surely she looked nothing like Chara in the dress? Surely it didn't hang loosely on her form, or appear foreign, irrespective of the fact that the maid in the inn had given her a thorough bath, ridding her skin of its week-old dirt. Surely Miss Cartridge had a lush mass of long hair, capable of being pulled into the most luxurious of braids. It was certainly nothing like Chara's.

She touched her hair. She was thankful it had grown to this length within six months, for its length afforded the maid at the inn the opportunity to pull it into a fancy braid behind her head, concealing her scar.

"Is." His voice interrupted her thoughts, forcing her eyelids up. He sat there, his gaze still fixed on the window. "Miss Rose Cartridge is the daughter of a baron who, in a desperate move to keep ownership of his lands, was willing to have one of his daughters be bound in marriage to my master. Do not speak of her in the past tense."

Chara sat still, considering his words. If Miss Cartridge had a family, then they could show up in London and perhaps make it known that Chara wasn't their sister or daughter. Didn't Spencer know that could happen?

"Her family..." she began to say when his words silenced her.

"...is not to be bothered with, for I do not suppose, after Miss Cartridge's public feud with her father, he shall be visiting. Nor shall her sisters, for they need his permission to visit. "

"What about her mother?"

"She's dead."

Chara's gaze drifted to her hands once more, her heart pounding loudly in her chest. Spencer's words were no assurance that Miss Cartridge's family wouldn't show up in London one day—if indeed they succeeded in their deception—to point out the fact that the woman who had stolen Rose's identity was nothing but an impostor.

"It is only a matter of time before somebody shows up and points out the fact that I am not who I say I am. Then what, Spencer?"

"Then we die."

She sucked in a breath. "Does this not bother you?"

"It does, but we die nonetheless. I simply take consolation in the fact that I may be able to delay, and hopefully, prevent it."

Fear clouded her mind, constricting her lungs until it became nearly impossible to breathe.

"How did the accident happen?" she asked, to turn the conversation away from death.

He shrugged. "Bloody coachman had a few bottles and didn't see the path."

"How did you—" she swallowed—"how did we survive?"

"I jumped out of the carriage. Found myself on the sand, surrounded by bodies." The coldness of his tone caused an icy shiver to race down her spine.

"How did I survive?"

He turned to her then, his face crumbled into a frown as fierce brown eyes came to rest on her. "Perhaps the question to ask, Miss Cartridge," he said, the name still unfamiliar to her, "is why you survived. Perhaps it is for this purpose? After I found you, hope returned. I burned the bodies of the dead that they might be unrecognizable, and that you might take her place. "

"You burned—" Her lips fell open, her heartbeat slowing down.

"I had no choice." His frown deepened.

"Perhaps they weren't all dead?!" she screeched, terrified. What in the world had she gotten herself into? How was this happening to her?!

"It was a risk I had to take after confirming Miss Cartridge's death. Her life was all that mattered, and nobody else! I took the chains off of you, placed them on her, and burned the bodies. It was the only way!" he said, silencing her as she attempted to speak.

Chara sank further into the seat, her lungs constricting. Surely they were in even bigger trouble now; surely they would be forced to pay for their crimes. No—she shook her head—they were his crimes, not hers. She had no hand in what had happened—none at all. She could turn back now, couldn't she? She could refuse to be a part oofthis.

"I did what I had to. You, of all people, understand the woes of a servant. I will be blamed for her death; a death I had no control over. I neither had the reins, nor the alcohol. Yet, it would have been my life in recompense for hers. Perhaps you consider me evil for my decision, but can you, in all honesty, see the justice in that?" He stared at her, his eyes having softened.

Chara considered him, fully comprehending his predicament. How often had she been punished for crimes unknown to her?

She heaved a breath to calm her nerves. "Are you certain she is dead?" she asked.

He nodded. "I made sure of it before setting the bodies on fire."

Ignoring the dull pounding of her heart against her ribcage, she nodded. "When shall I meet Mr. Hendrix?"

A small smile played on the edges of his lips. "In only a little while now." Reaching out suddenly, he tucked a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. "You look presentable." His words sent a chill of delight through her veins, causing a broad smile to claim her lips as color climbed up the back of her neck and set her entire face on fire. When was the last time anyone ever spoke so kindly to her, complimenting her on her looks?

Never.

She glanced down at her trembling hands. Something settled on her chin in that second, forcing her gaze to drift back to him; his frown had returned, and his eyes were hard.

"Keep your shoulders straight, chin up, and you must never show fear. You are a mistress now, Miss Cartridge, act like one. "