But Leah’s pointed looks from the day before would not let him be.
Giving the whisky one last, lingering glance, he pushed to his feet.
Though it might be a small thing, he would respect his wife enough to apologize to her sober.
Leah deserved so much more than that.
But at the moment, it was all he could manage.
Leah resolved toput the love letters from her mind.
Truly she did.
But the more she attempted to cast them aside, the more the words tangled her thoughts. The loops and curls of elegant ink morphed into a tantalizing trail of crumbs that, if followed, would lead her to all of Fox’s secrets.
Who was this woman that claimed Fox adored her with such devotion and passion? Logic suggested the writer was likely Miss Honoria Hampstead, his supposed one-time betrothed. And if so, what had happened to their love?
Perhaps, in addition to his memories of the Coorg War, the pain of this woman’s loss drove Fox to the whisky decanter for comfort. Perhaps her loss had been the ultimate source of his sharp tongue and frustrated words the day before.
Regardless, by mid-afternoon, Leah could resist no longer. Yes, she wanted Fox to trust her with the information himself. But mayhap it was simply better to know?
She slipped quietly into the south wing, finding her way unerringly to the chests before the window.
Swallowing, she darted a glance back toward the partially closed door. The stacked crates blocked her from immediate view of the doorway, but still . . .
Guilt ate at her. She should not be doing this. Fox would be (justifiably) furious were he to discover her pawing through his private correspondence.
Such thoughts did not deter her, unfortunately. Bending forward, she raised the lid of the smaller trunk, finding the loose letters, bundles of correspondence, and books just as she had left them.
The beginning of one letter peeked out, written in a slanting, masculine hand.
Dearest love,
Have I told you yet today how ardently I adore you?
The words nearly vibrated off the page.
Leah moved her body, allowing more of the weak window light to illuminate the box.
A stray beam of sunlight landed on another sheet of foolscap with almost preternatural portent. The nameMiss Honoria Hampsteadjumped out.
Taking it to be a sign, Leah carefully pulled the paper out of the pile. Except it wasn’t a complete page. It appeared the letter had been unfolded, read, and refolded so many times, the paper had simply given out at the seams, leaving her with a solitary, truncated paragraph.
. . . send you such dreadful news when I know you are not in a physical state to do anything about it. But I felt it best for you to hear as soon as possible. A certain man (I am sure you can surmise of whom I speak) has been most persistent in his pursuit of your lady, Miss Honoria Hampstead. I know you have been helping to settle her late brother’s estates in the West Indies. I don’t think anyone expected the man to leave all his property to his younger sister, but unfortunately, her newfound wealth has made her the target of every fortune hunter in Madras . . .
Leah stood, absorbing this new piece of the mystery.
Gracious.
So . . . Miss Hampstead had inherited substantial wealth, enough to make her a target of fortune hunters.
Had these fortune hunters succeeded? And if not, had the lady inherited enough money to purchase a large castle up a Highland glen?
So . . . was this proof that the other love letters were snippets of conversation between Fox and Miss Hampstead?
And who was the author of this warning? Leah frowned down at the torn foolscap in her hand. Clearly, the writer was a friend. Lord Dennis, perhaps?
Heart pounding, she set the scrap back into the trunk, carefully pushing other papers aside, attempting to locate the rest of the letter.
