Page 39

And just like that, the spell shattered.

Twenty

“You are being difficult on purpose,” Rosamund murmured as she sloshed her quill into the inkpot.

The Duke’s latest letter regarding the Ashbourne investigation lay on the table. It was written on expensive parchment, folded neatly and precisely, which she expected from the Duke, anyway. The dark red wax seal has his Westbourne crest. She noted that he had never used Ashbournes crest and symbols.

The content of his letters was concise and maddeningly formal.

Lady Rosamund,

I have heard of an old Brighton address we must investigate. It seems associated with a woman named Mrs. Eloisa Watson, but it might be connected to what we are trying to discover. What do you think of this?

P. B.

P.S. Please do not trespass on the western meadow because a bull has been discovered to have taken residence there.

She immediately wrote her response:

Lord Westbourne,

I greatly appreciate your concern, but I doubt the bull can be more disagreeable than its landlord.

R. H.

Lady Rosamund,

The bull is less susceptible to flattery

P. B.

Lord Westbourne,

This implies that you are more susceptible.

R. H.

Lady Rosamund,

You may test the theory whenever you like.

P. B.

Rosamund stared at that sentence far too long, trying to decipher its meaning.

Violin bows and candle lights felt too stifling for Rosamund. They felt too bright even for the more modest gathering she was in. She found herself invited in yet another social event, and Thomas Wycliffe gravitated toward her. He was a likeable man, with a soothing voice, so she did not really mind it.

“You look particularly lovely, tonight, Lady Rosamud,” he said.

“Thank you, Mr. Wycliffe,” she replied. “You are far too kind.”

Mr. Wycliffe stood tall in his tailored dark coat. He held two glasses of punch, and she immediately knew what his intention was. He handed one to her slowly and gently. He might not be a nobleman, but he knew how to follow the rules of society, taking care not to touch her fingers with his. Rosamund appreciated the respect in which he held her.

Somehow, Rosamund had a feeling that in another life, where her family had not fallen into ruin, she would have chosen Thomas. He was a man with nothing hidden away. He seemed like an open book, one that was willing for her to read.

“I had hoped,” he said earnestly, a gentle smile playing on his lips, “that you might honor me with another dance later this evening. Of course, if you wish and if you have not already promised it.”

A flutter spread in her chest. Thomas was beginning to show how serious his intentions were. He wanted to truly court her.