And then another voice, far more sonorous and enticing, emerged from his memory.
Whenever you send for me.
Matthew blew out a shaky breath as he stalked down the hall, making his way to the entrance where the curly-haired porter was examining his fingernails atop his high desk, barely acknowledging Matthew’s approach.
“Pantler. I have two requests.”
The lackadaisical young man straightened up and cleared his throat. “Yes, sir?”
“First, I require a cab.”
“Very good, sir,” Pantler said with a slow nod. “And the other?”
Matthew felt something like an electric current sparking across his skin, twisting through his veins and arteries, lacing through his muscular tissue.
“I need a message sent. Right away. To one Lady Caplin, Rowbotham House.”
The porter didn’t flinch, immediately opening one long drawer within his desk and producing a clean sheet of paper. He slid it toward Matthew, along with his own inkstand and pen, then returned to scrutinizing his nails.
Matthew had his doubts about Pantler’s diligence, but he prayed that the club regulations would hold, and protect both him and Lady Caplin from gossip or rumor.
Heart in his throat, he lifted the pen.
Chapter Fifteen
If it’s not toolate, the message began.
If it had been sent by any other person in London, then yes, absolutely. It would be far too late. She had scarcely believed it when a footman had brought her the note, thinking it must have been from Arthur, since it had been quite a while since he’d come around. And in Cressida’s experience, it tended to be young men who ran about town in the evenings, getting themselves into messes that might require one’s mother to help sort out.
But it wasn’t from Arthur. Her heart skipped when she read the first line. Dr. Collier’s handwriting was unfamiliar to her, but his tone was unmistakable. Her eyes immediately went to the note’s close.
He had signed only his last name, the letters slanted and small. It felt strangely intimate, and Cressida smiled despite herself. Then she read the message again.
My lady—
If it’s not too late, I wonder if you would be amenable to that which you suggested before. Of course, I am painfully aware of the hour and the fact that perhaps you did not intend to be called on so late. However, I am desperate to continue our conversation. Perhaps I shall see you? On my knees, pleading, begging, waiting.
—Collier
She read his name again, and then once more. Her heart seemed to slow. Finally, she forced her eyes from the letter and rang for her maid.
After one more quick reading, she crossed the room and stood before the fire. Cressida knew the prudent thing would be to burn it, as she always did with correspondence of a sordid nature. But this time she hesitated, as she read his name over and over, written in his own hand. Finally, squeezing her eyes shut, she pitched it in. The flames made quick work of it.
It felt hateful.
But if she were to maintain this kind of freedom in her life, she could not afford to cling to needless sentimentality.
Thankfully, a short knock on the door stirred her from such maudlin thoughts.
“Evening, my lady.” Her maid bobbed a curtsy and hurried over. “Turning in early?”
“No,” Cressida drawled, turning about so the girl could begin on the long line of buttons down her back. “Going out, actually.”
With some regret, she shed her charming, fashionable costume for something dull and unremarkable. But needs must.
If her maid suspected anything, she didn’t say a word as she buttoned up the back of the plain black gown. When she produced the gold filigree earrings, the ones from Bartholomew, Cressida practically recoiled.
“No, thank you. I should prefer the emeralds tonight.”
