“I am wet and very cold,” Lord Braunschweig grumbled. “This inn is very far from the shore.”

“It seems to be close to the beach,” his sister said, gazing at a half-timbered structure.

“Then the captain sank the ship in the wrong location,” the baron said. “An Austrian would have more sense.”

Miss Braunschweig sent an apologetic look to Charlotte. Lord Braunschweig continued his complaints when they arrived at the inn.

“I demand to go to London at once,” Lord Braunschweig said. “The farther from the ocean, the better.”

“Then perhaps we should visit Oxford,” Miss Braunschweig said.

Her brother narrowed his eyes. “That is most unamusing. London will suit us.”

“There’s a coach that stops here in the morning,” the innkeeper said. “It leaves very early in the morning though.”

“If I can manage a shipwreck, I can manage an early morning coach,” Lord Braunschweig declared.

Charlotte was grateful when the innkeeper showed her to her room, but the sight of a soft bed and privacy did not bring joy.

She wasn’t dying.

The realization should have been wonderful, the sort of announcement accompanied by full symphonies, but now horror moved through her.

Callum had married her.

Dear, sweet, lovely Callum had married her, expecting her to die before Christmas. He’d chosen her over all the other debutantes, expressly because she was ill suited to be his wife.

And now she would live.

And she had ruined his life.

Charlotte knew how cruel the ton could be. She knew what would happen the first time they entered a ball. She knew about all the titters and stares he would encounter, and she didn’t want to live with him when he realized his act of spontaneous nobility had doomed him to a life without joy or satisfaction.

She needed to break things off between them. She needed to free him from his noble impulses. It might destroy her, but she would do it.

And Callum, dear Lord, would never suggest they part. He’d made a promise, and he was the type to honor it. He would do it, and he would never tell her he minded doing it.

But she knew Callum had never wanted to marry. If he had, he could have married Lady Isla long ago. Even if Callum tolerated her, even if she’d allowed herself to imagine he more than tolerated her, marriage would never have been the path he would have chosen.

Callum was adventurous. Now that the war was over, the man could go anywhere in the world he wanted to. He wasn’t going to go to balls with his wife, watching as all the hostesses, tittered at him for managing to marry the least admired debutante.  

If she left now—perhaps she could save him. Perhaps she could get an annulment. They’d consummated their marriage—Charlotte paused, pondering precisely how delicious that event had been, but Charlotte could lie. She could say they hadn’t. His happiness was more important than her eternal soul.

I have to leave.

She knocked on the door to Miss Braunschweig’s room. Miss Braunschweig had flung a blanket around her shoulders and it managed to look as elegant as any silver-threaded shawl.

“I would like to travel to London with you,” Charlotte said.

“Of course you can come with us,” Miss Braunschweig said. “You must be so frightened. I suppose the duke will want to travel up later.”

Charlotte smiled. “Thank you.”

She didn’t mention that she was running away. She would always love Callum, always miss him, but she wouldn’t force him to spend the rest of her life with him.

*

CALLUM SMILED AS LIGHT hit his pillow, and he stretched his arms toward Charlotte. He didn’t feel her, and he opened his eyes. “Sweetheart?”

He got out of the bed, wondering at the hour. He’d arrived very late last night.

Charlotte’s not going to die.

It wasn’t the first time that Callum had had this thought, but normally it had been generated by a desire to protect her, to make her visit every possible doctor. He’d pushed the thought away quickly each time, cognizant that hope was an imperfect antidote to science.

But she’d survived the storm, and then, she’d survived the shipwreck.

Her heart should have given out at either of those events.

The fact she’d survived... Well, it was bloody wonderful. Perhaps the doctor had misdiagnosed her. Perhaps the doctor’s apprentice had made a mistake.

Happiness jolted through him, even though Charlotte didn’t seem to be in the room.

Well, she couldn’t be far.

He’d thought she would be distraught after the ship wreck, but she’d seemed quiet and resigned.

His Charlotte was brave. She was the very best woman in the world.

He spotted some paper on the desk and he strode toward it. Most likely it was not for him. Perhaps some other guest had left it. But he recognized Charlotte’s handwriting, and relief moved through him. Likely, she had simply gone off to do flower picking or some other such thing for which she’d judged that his presence would be unnecessary.

My dearest Callum,

It seems the doctor’s diagnosis was incorrect. I am alive, and as we both know, I shouldn’t be after the intensity of last night.

I am returning to London with Lord Braunschweig and his sister.

Thank you for taking such good care of me. I will ensure we get an annulment.

Yours,

Charlotte

Callum’s eyes widened. He reread the letter, as if he’d somehow managed to replace key words in his mind.

But the letter was absolutely the same.

She was still leaving him.

He swallowed hard, and his heartbeat throbbed in his chest.

It’s impossible.

They’d just made love. They should be rejoicing. They were safe from the storm, and if her health was better—

He pulled on his clothes quickly, cursing the many buttons, all seemingly designed to keep valets in business.

She couldn’t have gotten far. He would go after her. He would catch her.

His feet padded down the stairs of the inn, past the startled innkeeper. He rushed outside, and his boots sank more into the soil, muddy from last night’s storm. Some birds began chirping, beginning ballads to their loved ones.

“Charlotte!” he bellowed. His voice cut through the air and seemed to echo.

There was no answer.

*

CHARLOTTE SAID GOODBYE to the baron and his sister and stepped into the hack they’d found for her.

“Where to, Miss?” the hack driver asked.

Charlotte didn’t hesitate. Her family might be living in Mayfair, but there was someone else she needed to see. “St. James Square.”

“Very well.” The driver nodded, but didn’t leave.

“Take me there now,” she said.

“No one is coming?” the driver asked.

“No.”

The driver’s eyes widened, but he started driving. Her heart quickened as she spotted the familiar facades.

This was London.

She’d made it.

The hack stopped before the doctor’s office. She paid the driver to wait and marched up the pavement and entered the building. The doctor’s apprentice rose.

“Is the doctor back from Edinburgh?” she asked.

The apprentice nodded. “Indeed. He’s in his office. If you’ll just wait—”

Charlotte strode past him. Niceties were things of the past.

The doctor lowered his pince-nez. “Young lady, what are you doing here?”

Charlotte squared her shoulders. She clutched the original diagnosis she’d taken from the doctor’s apprentice.

“What are you doing with that scraggly piece of paper?”

Charlotte didn’t flush. The doctor was right. The paper was scraggly. She’d read and reread it so many times.

“You saw me last month,” she said.

“Did I?” The doctor shrugged. “I’m afraid you’ll still need an appointment.”

“You don’t even remember me?” Charlotte asked.

“I’m sure I do,” the doctor said, still staring. “Yes, yes. Of course.”

“What was it that ailed me?” Charlotte asked.

“Er—you had a cold.”

“I didn’t,” Charlotte said.

The doctor threw up his arms. “You can’t expect me to remember everything.”

“Perhaps then you’ll remember this note you left in my file.” Charlotte handed him the paper.

The man picked it up distastefully, and Charlotte tried to remind herself that a fear of infection was likely a good sign in a doctor.

“You told me I was going to die,” she said.

The man’s eyebrows rose. “Did I? That can’t be right.”

“Read the letter.”

“And you’re Charlotte Butterworth?”

She nodded. “It’s a unique name.”

“My, my.” The doctor lifted his head from the paper. “That is a mistake.”

“Quite,” Charlotte said.

“I hope you didn’t do anything drastic about it.”

She gave a tight smile. She wasn’t certain whether doing something drastic entailed having a duke propose to marry her out of a mixture of sympathy and convenience, and then fleeing to the Channel Islands when the man’s brother quite reasonably disapproved of the match.

And now she would have to deal with the consequences.

“Let me see,” the doctor said. “I wrote that for another woman.”

Charlotte felt a pang of sadness for the woman. But it made sense. The doctor was more likely to have made a mistake in addressing the letter than in conjuring up an utterly wrong diagnosis.

“She’s lived a full life,” the doctor said. “She’s quite old. Quite old indeed. As for you... Let me see if I can find your letter in her file.” He rummaged through his desk, and then he pulled up a thin folder. “Ah, yes. You suffer from nerves.”

“N-nerves?” Charlotte stammered.

“Quite harmless,” the doctor said.

“My chest was hurting.”

“It’s an experience that can affect younger women. Particularly the unmarried ones.”

“Oh.” Charlotte blinked.

“I suggest you don’t tighten your corset too much.”

“I hardly do at all,” Charlotte said.

“Good,” the doctor said. “Now if you can excuse me, I have work to do.”

“You told me it was urgent.”

“It was. I was going to be gone for a whole month.”  

Charlotte frowned. “You should know that your misdiagnosis did affect me.”

“Oh, quite, quite.”

“I know it’s too late for you to do anything about it, but I do want you to know that it mattered.”

The doctor’s face reddened. “I am a busy man, and I was preparing for a conference—”

“Take more care in the future,” Charlotte said.

She rose and strode from the office, holding her head high.