whole.
‘Who sent the note, Mr Richard?’ Myles looked puzzled. ‘Why, I’m sure I couldn’t say. Edmund must have answered the door, I believe, since he was on duty in the entrance hall. He came to me with the note, asking where Miss Winslow might be. I took it up to her.’
Richard nodded. ‘Very well. Send Edmund to me in my room, please.’
Ten minutes later, Richard swore as his bedchamber door closed behind Edmund. The footman had not seen whoever had delivered the note. It had been pushed under the front door and the bell rung. He’d had a brief glimpse of a boy running off. A dead end. But perhaps he could learn something from the notes themselves.
Frowning, he found the note from last night, pulled Thea’s note out of his pocket and spread the pair of them out flat on the dressing table. He’d looked at enough old documents in his life. Surely he could tell something from these?
Not much. Each had been written on the same ordinary, good-quality paper. The watermark wouldn’t help. It was common enough. What about the handwriting? A contrived-looking scrawl of capitals, which he suspected was nothing like the writer’s ordinary hand. A faint fragrance teased him…feminine, flowery. Frowning, he sniffed at the note. The odour seemed to cling to it…as though the writer had perhaps been wearing perfume—on her wrists, at the pulse points. It wasn’t much, but it was something. He was looking for a woman.
He also had the answer he hadn’t wanted the night before; the gilded whore referred to in his note was Thea herself. Something else from the previous evening came back to him; a woman’s voice, dripping with malicious gossip about Thea—I had the most interesting letter, my dear… Such a simple way to start gossip if you didn’t wish to be identified.
Deep inside he was conscious of fury burning with a cold intensity. When he found the culprit…
Common sense spoke up; unless the sender was foolish enough to send any more notes here to Arnsworth House, it was going to be devilishly hard to find out who she was. His jaw hardened.
Difficult, perhaps, but not impossible. And there was something else; with a grim sense of resignation, Richard acknowledged that whatever the wisdom of seeking lodgings all thought of it had been abandoned—he was remaining at Arnsworth House.
Chapter Five
R ichard limped up the steps of Winslow’s Jermyn Street lodgings, still wondering what might have inspired the invitation. A servant led him to a snug, if rather untidy, parlour, and his host stood up with a friendly smile, which didn’t quite disguise the frown in his eyes.
‘Blakehurst.’ Winslow held out his hand and Richard shook it.
Winslow went straight to the point as the door closed behind the servant. ‘I owe you an apology.
Brandy?’
Richard raised his brows. ‘Oh? Yes, please.’
Winslow looked rueful, as he poured a glass of brandy and handed it to him. ‘Yes. I rather leapt to conclusions the other day. Braybrook put me right.’
Richard couldn’t quite suppress a snort. ‘Don’t refine upon it too much, Winslow,’ he said. ‘By now most of society has leapt to the same obvious conclusion.’ Including the harpy who had penned those poisonous notes.
‘So I hear.’ Winslow gestured to a comfortable-looking leather chair on one side of the crackling fire.
Richard sat down and they sipped quietly for a few moments before Winslow broke the silence.
‘Braybrook gave me some advice.’
Richard looked at him carefully. That sounded dangerous. Julian’s advice was frequently sound and always outrageous. ‘Did he?’ He managed to sound mildly interested rather than suspicious.
‘Yes.’ Winslow swirled the brandy in his glass, and met Richard’s gaze over the rim. ‘Apart from convincing me that if you were hanging out for a rich wife Lady Arnsworth would have married you off years ago—’
Despite the simmering remnants of his annoyance with Winslow, Richard
‘Who sent the note, Mr Richard?’ Myles looked puzzled. ‘Why, I’m sure I couldn’t say. Edmund must have answered the door, I believe, since he was on duty in the entrance hall. He came to me with the note, asking where Miss Winslow might be. I took it up to her.’
Richard nodded. ‘Very well. Send Edmund to me in my room, please.’
Ten minutes later, Richard swore as his bedchamber door closed behind Edmund. The footman had not seen whoever had delivered the note. It had been pushed under the front door and the bell rung. He’d had a brief glimpse of a boy running off. A dead end. But perhaps he could learn something from the notes themselves.
Frowning, he found the note from last night, pulled Thea’s note out of his pocket and spread the pair of them out flat on the dressing table. He’d looked at enough old documents in his life. Surely he could tell something from these?
Not much. Each had been written on the same ordinary, good-quality paper. The watermark wouldn’t help. It was common enough. What about the handwriting? A contrived-looking scrawl of capitals, which he suspected was nothing like the writer’s ordinary hand. A faint fragrance teased him…feminine, flowery. Frowning, he sniffed at the note. The odour seemed to cling to it…as though the writer had perhaps been wearing perfume—on her wrists, at the pulse points. It wasn’t much, but it was something. He was looking for a woman.
He also had the answer he hadn’t wanted the night before; the gilded whore referred to in his note was Thea herself. Something else from the previous evening came back to him; a woman’s voice, dripping with malicious gossip about Thea—I had the most interesting letter, my dear… Such a simple way to start gossip if you didn’t wish to be identified.
Deep inside he was conscious of fury burning with a cold intensity. When he found the culprit…
Common sense spoke up; unless the sender was foolish enough to send any more notes here to Arnsworth House, it was going to be devilishly hard to find out who she was. His jaw hardened.
Difficult, perhaps, but not impossible. And there was something else; with a grim sense of resignation, Richard acknowledged that whatever the wisdom of seeking lodgings all thought of it had been abandoned—he was remaining at Arnsworth House.
Chapter Five
R ichard limped up the steps of Winslow’s Jermyn Street lodgings, still wondering what might have inspired the invitation. A servant led him to a snug, if rather untidy, parlour, and his host stood up with a friendly smile, which didn’t quite disguise the frown in his eyes.
‘Blakehurst.’ Winslow held out his hand and Richard shook it.
Winslow went straight to the point as the door closed behind the servant. ‘I owe you an apology.
Brandy?’
Richard raised his brows. ‘Oh? Yes, please.’
Winslow looked rueful, as he poured a glass of brandy and handed it to him. ‘Yes. I rather leapt to conclusions the other day. Braybrook put me right.’
Richard couldn’t quite suppress a snort. ‘Don’t refine upon it too much, Winslow,’ he said. ‘By now most of society has leapt to the same obvious conclusion.’ Including the harpy who had penned those poisonous notes.
‘So I hear.’ Winslow gestured to a comfortable-looking leather chair on one side of the crackling fire.
Richard sat down and they sipped quietly for a few moments before Winslow broke the silence.
‘Braybrook gave me some advice.’
Richard looked at him carefully. That sounded dangerous. Julian’s advice was frequently sound and always outrageous. ‘Did he?’ He managed to sound mildly interested rather than suspicious.
‘Yes.’ Winslow swirled the brandy in his glass, and met Richard’s gaze over the rim. ‘Apart from convincing me that if you were hanging out for a rich wife Lady Arnsworth would have married you off years ago—’
Despite the simmering remnants of his annoyance with Winslow, Richard
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