Page 92 of His Improper Lady

Desiree read through the single page, frowning, and finally said, “He’s right. It is difficult to read. And that’s just about all Blackstock says. He wants to make things right before he dies. He’s sending it to the Moreland business. There’s another word or two in there, but it’s smeared so much I can’t read it.” She handed the note to Tom for him to scan it, as well. Turning to Mr. Paxton, she said, “You didn’t have a man follow us a few days ago?”

“No. I’d never even seen you before you popped up at my door asking questions. And what good would it do to follow you? Why would you have the will?”

“Why, indeed,” Desiree murmured.

Paxton stood up, holding out his hand for the letter. “And now, if you will excuse me, I must go.”

“One last question,” Tom said. “Something you said the other day has been nagging at me. You said you talked to Alistair one evening, and the next day you went over to the house, and the housekeeper told you they had left.”

“That’s correct,” Paxton replied impatiently.

“But Mrs. McGee said that Stella and Alistair left the day before you came to the house.”

“Then she’s wrong. I’m certain I went there the day they left.”

“How can you be so sure? As you said, it was many years ago.”

“Because it was my birthday! Not something one’s likely to forget. That’s why I went to the house that day. We were going to celebrate my birthday. That’s what Alistair and I were talking about the night before. He didn’t say a word about going to the cottage. It was deuced peculiar. That’s why I was a bit alarmed at first. But then I got his letter. I suppose in all the excitement of running off, Alistair just forgot.” There was a wisp of hurt in his voice. He turned away and went to the door.

“Wait.” The steady, low twist of anxiety inside Desiree’s chest suddenly tightened. She hurried after Paxton. “The cottage.”

“Yes?” Paxton opened the front door and turned to her, raising a brow.

Desiree ignored his obvious impatience. This sudden insistent tug in her chest was too important for politeness. “The cottage where they were supposedly going—do you know where it is?”

“Oh, yes, Alistair and I went there sometimes after he married Tabitha. Alistair loved it, but I found it boring. Nothing much to do but sit up there on the cliff looking at the ocean.”

“Does his family still use it?”

“No, I think not. Tabitha despised it...stands to reason since he used to take Stella there. I don’t know, but my guess is it’s been abandoned.”

“Where is it exactly?”

Paxton gaped. “You want to go there? It’s not an inviting place.”

“Still, I’d like to see it.” Desiree gave him her most winning smile. “Please tell me.”

“It’s on the Dorset coast. Um, its name is... Sea View? No, odder than that—Sea Gift. That’s it. There’s a little village close by—I’m not sure, Red something, or maybe it’s something Red. Anyway, it’s not far from Abbotsbury. Sorry.” Paxton shrugged, looking faintly apologetic. “It’s been a long time. It was a dreadfully dull little place.”

“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

They left the house, and Paxton hurried off down the street. Desiree turned to Tom. “I want to go to that cottage.”

“Why? What are you thinking?” Tom asked as they got into the carriage. “We’re not even sure they went there.”

“I know, but I still want to see it. When he mentioned the cottage, I felt something.” Desiree’s hand tightened into a fist, and she tapped it against her chest. “Here. That cottage is calling to me.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

“CALLING TO YOU?” Tom took her hand, seeing her obvious distress and wishing he could stop it. “What do you mean?”

“The feeling has been inside me for weeks, and it’s been building.”

“Your premonition.”

“Yes, urgency, nerves, dread...whatever you want to call it. It’s never gone away, only increased. It sits there in my chest, a constant hum underneath everything I feel. Like a banked fire. But this afternoon, it flared up when Paxton spoke of the cottage, and as I talked to him about it, that feeling burned hotter and brighter. It pulls at me.” Desiree gazed intently into his eyes. “It’s as if a hand has taken hold of my dress and is tugging at me, urging me to go with it.”

“What does it want?”