Seth had been making for his bedchamber for a change of clothes, but now paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
“That is the second time you have mentioned an heir. And now I know he is someone whom I am familiar with.”
Monkton shook his head flatly. “No. Merely able to monitor your activities.”
Seth frowned, hoping to puzzle out who it could be.
“Irrespective, he is not doing his job well. I did not spend the evening at Catesby’s. I started the evening there. And then left—”
“With a young fair-haired lady,” Monkton cut in promptly with a telling smirk. “You see, Your Grace, I am aware of more than you might believe.”
Seth laughed and was rewarded by a twitch of Monkton’s eyebrow.
“Chrissie? She tried to inveigle herself into my company, but I was having none of it. Did you pay her, too, Monkton? With instructions to swear to my adultery? She was sent packing, and I have a witness to that.”
Monkton stood, bracing his hands flat upon his cane. “Nevertheless. You are neither married, nor rejected by all three women. I must inform you that you have one month precisely to fulfill the terms of your father’s marriage clause before it is invoked and your lands, wealth, perhaps even title, pass to...”
The solicitor raised his hands in a shrug.
“To whom, I cannot say. Good day to you.”
He left the room, and Seth listened to his cane clacking its way down the stairs. His attention turned to his post lying in a neat pile on the mantle, bound by a ribbon bearing the Bellmonte seal imprinted on wax.
A month to untangle my feelings. To accept the shackles of betrothal or to drive Amelia away once and for all.
He picked up the letters, threw himself into a chair, and tossed his coat over the arm of another. Tearing the seal away, he dropped the ribbon on the floor and began poring through the letters. The first half-dozen were mundane, and he skimmed them—business correspondence relating to the management of his estates. The seventh was different.
Tearing it open, he began to simply skim the letter, then paused and reverted back to the beginning, reading it more thoroughly this time.
Your Grace,
I hope you are well. I wish to take this opportunity to write to you to inform you that I do not intend to hold you to the marriage which your father and my uncle had arranged. I have never cared for the notion of being anyone’s third choice, as I understand I was to be. I like it least of all when the gentleman concerned treats me as onerously as you have.
It has left me confused and a little distressed over the last few weeks, but I now thank you for it. I have no desire to marry you, as there is another whom I love, and I intend to pursue happiness with him. I do not think we shall meet again, as I write this from my temporary home in the town of Scarborough. I would kindly request you do not seek me out either, for I will be long gone by the time you receive this post.
I hope this news does not leave you downhearted. I suspect that it will not.
Regards
Amelia Nightingale.
Seth had to re-read the letter several times to fully absorb the contents. Then he convinced himself this was some kind of bizarre practical joke. But that notion lasted only a moment. Something else was happening here.
Amelia Nightingale is in London, yet writes from Scarborough. It would not take more than a week for this letter to reach me from there. Amelia Nightingale, or rather, someone claiming to be her, wrote this letter.
Someone claiming to be Amelia Nightingale…
Either the author of the letter or the woman he had been alternately wooing and trying to drive away was an impostor. The letter crumpled in his fist as he strode for the door.
Am I being played for a fool? Is this some machination of Tharpe Monkton?To what end?
If the letter was genuine, then Seth had won, the marriage clause was passed, and his inheritance was safe.
If the woman he had spent the night with was the real Amelia, then everything was still hanging in the balance, for she showed no signs of rejecting him anytime soon.
He took the stairs three at a time and flew out of the door into the street. He searched Fleet Street for a cab as he strode along, sans coat, hat, or waistcoat, all of which he had stripped away inside to change. An upraised hand, the letter still clutched, finally summoned a carriage, and Seth leaped inside, barking his destination.
“Prescott Estate!”
