He paused.
Letitia turned to face him. She studied the black mask and found that she hated it. Hated it kept those secrets that were eating them alive.
“Anthony.”
He licked his lips, his eyes drifting to the thin chemise covering her pebbled nipples. Then his eyes flew to hers when he realized what she’d said.
“How long have you known?” he asked, his hand over his mouth as if his teeth had given him away. “It was a servant, wasn’t it? They told you—”
“I knew from the moment I saw you,” she said, placing a hand on his thigh, encased in fine trousers. “Your scar. I haven’t forgotten.”
“Haven’t you?” he asked, pulling back, his voice bitter.
“Of course I haven’t,” she said softly as Anthony rose from the bed.
He turned back. “Before I say goodbye for the last timeagain, I must ask you something. I won’t remove you from my home, so you may answer me honestly.”
Letitia held the doctor’s handkerchief in her hands so tightly she feared her fingers might stay permanently bent.What had the doctor said to Anthony?
“Dr. Riddle said that you sacrificed for my benefit, and I can’t help but wonder what he meant.”
“What a thing for him to say,” replied Letitia faintly.
Anthony sat down again, this time grasping her upper arms in that gentle but firm way she’d been seeking and never finding since she left him.
“Why would the doctor say that?”
“Perhaps he was confused,” she said.
Anthony still had that blasted mask on, that unneeded shield over his beautiful face. She’d thought acknowledging that she knew who he was would make him peel the damned thing off, but he still wouldn’t show her his face.
“I am the wounded one. You leftme,” he said, as if trying to make sense of a house party puzzle. “Why would the doctor say that?”
Letitia said nothing, mindful of the promise she’d made to Anthony’s father that she’d never reveal to him the cause of her avowal of feelings and flight from the home they’d shared. The man was dead; the least she could do was to allow him to rest in peace, knowing that Letitia Delemere didn’t have her hooks in his son.
“You left me on a Tuesday,” he said, his voice low.
“August 29th,” she said.
He glanced at her and released her arms at last. Letitia suddenly felt colder than she’d been in years.
“It should have been a lonely late summer. But it wasn’t.”
Anthony rose from the bed, his mask almost completely obscuring his expression. But Letitia knew him well enough that she could recognize the dawning horror on his face.
“My father found me at the club the next day,” said Anthony. “Well into my cups, I didn’t question his presence in Town.”
He stared out the window. “I should have. I should have asked why my father, who was battling gout and professed to hate Town, would descend upon me immediately after my lover fled our home. He was in a jubilant mood. I was far too drunk to realize that something wasn’t right.”
Letitia said nothing, mindful of her honor as a…well, not a gentleman or even gentlewoman, but as an honest courtesan who had truly loved that man’s son. Still loved him despite the mask he wouldn’t remove.
“What did he promise you, Letitia?”
She studied the ridges on her nails and hoped someone would interrupt this interview before she said something that exposed her.
“Was it money? Did he offer you money? Did you take it?”
“No!” she exclaimed, unable to contain her vehement response.
