Pen hesitated. This was the only letter she ever had from Marcus. It was infinitely precious to her. She relinquished it with reluctance.
It was a brief note. Pen had memorised it.
Your guardian expressly wishes for you to remain at the Seminary until further notice.
P.P. E.W.
Alworth’s eyebrows nearly disappeared under the hairline. “P.P. E.W? Pippin Paul Edgar Williams?”
“Pro Procurationem, or on behalf of. E.W. Could be anyone. Even Edgar Williams. I assume it’s a secretary. Or a lawyer.” She shrugged.
“What seminary?”
Pen’s mind raced. She could hardly tell him about Miss Hilversham’s Seminary for Young Ladies and that fateful night when they were caught sneaking out to the wishing well, and she ended up falling in. The consequence was that Miss Hilversham had written to her guardian about the incident. It had been the address at Bird Street, and Marcus must’ve still lived there, then. The only response she’d received was this missive signed by E.W.
“The seminary is the boarding school I attended. In Bath.”
The envelope had the stamp of the general post office in London. He folded the letter again and stared at the red wax seal. It was barely decipherable. He went to the window to see it closer in the light.
“May I have this letter?”
“Certainly not!” Pen held out her hand to demand it back.
“I would only need it to investigate something. I believe I can help you discover the identity of E.W.”
“How?”
“I have my means. Trust me?” He looked at her unwaveringly.
Pen rubbed her neck. “You will return the letter soon?”
“Latest by tomorrow.” He pocketed it. “I will return it unharmed, I promise.”
Pen nodded.
“Well, then—what on earth are you doing?” He stared at her, aghast.
“Putting on my neckcloth.”
“My dear child. This will not do. This will not do at all.” He held out his hand and with a sigh, she dropped the crumpled neckcloth into his palm. “I cannot be seen with you in this shocking attire.”
He stood in front of her, closer than she felt comfortable, and proceeded to deftly wrap the cloth around her neck. She felt his body heat and smelled starch and cologne. Remembering the dream she’d had, she flushed.
“There.” Alworth patted her shoulder. “That is better. You really should acquire a valet.”
“It’s a matter of funds.”
Alworth nodded. “Understandable. Let us go.”
The morning foghung between the trees.
Pen shivered.
Another group of men appeared promptly. Pen immediately discerned the bulky figure of Blackstone. There was his Second and a man in plain brown clothing, who she assumed to be the surgeon.
“Fine day to duel,” Alworth greeted them.
“You are in a terribly chipper mood considering the fact that I might be dead within the hour,” Pen grumbled. “Not that I intend to die. But blood will be drawn, for sure.”
