CHAPTER 6
There was a quality to village inns after dark and tonights was no different. The creak of timber and the faint scent of old paper and lamp oil. Lydia preferred them to the gold-lacquered salons of London—here, even scandal seemed to tire before reaching the front stoop. Tonight, the signboard hardly creaked. A the knock at her chamber door broke the stillness.
She lay stretched out on the lumpy coverlet, her hair spilling over the dull gray wool, a book forgotten in her lap. Outside, the night raged against the window, rattling the shutters and flickering the lamp flame. For a moment, she thought she might have imagined the sound. Then it came again. Abrisk rap, a hesitation, followed by another, less certain knock.
Lydia rose, her boots echoing on the boards as she crossed to the door. She half-expected Maximilian. He had lingered at the edge of her thoughts since their return from the stables, but a messenger stood in the hall. A boy, cheeks raw from the wind, cap clutched in both hands. He held out a folded letter with a wax seal the color of dried blood, stamped with a crest she did not recognize.
“For Miss Montague,” the boy announced, his voice a mix of pride and fear.
“If that is a tart, bring it here,” the dowager called.
The boy cleared his throat and said, “A missive from the post in Exeter. I was told to deliver it at once, ma’am. It is urgent.”
Lydia took the letter, feeling its weight as the dowager nodded off. The vellum was stiff and expensive. The ink on the address slanted with flair. She dismissed the boy with a coin and shut the door. For a moment, she stood there, her thumb pressed to the ridged wax, letting the interruption settle.
The urge to tear it open was nearly physical, but she checked herself, sitting at the edge of the narrow washstand where the lamplight was best. She slidher fingernail under the seal, heard the pop as it broke, and unfolded the single page within.
The handwriting was unfamiliar. Tall, tight loops, the descenders sharp.
Miss Montague,
You are not safe. There are those who would divert you from your journey. The inheritance you seek is not what it seems; documents have been forged and witnesses coerced. Beware the company you keep. Some among them do not wish you well.
I write as one who has also been wronged. Trust no one, least of all those with titles and good breeding.
Your cousin in blood, if not in affection,
C.M.
Lydia read the letter once, then twice, before laying it on the table. A cold absurdity washed over her, followed by a thrill that began under her collarbone and spread to her fingertips. She sat for a minute, the words arranging themselves in her mind like chess pieces.
Unable to remain still, she stood. The modest chamber of four paces by five, with wallpaper faded to the color of old linen, suddenly felt too small for her agitation. She began to pace, crossing and recrossing the floorboards, the sharp aroma of lampoil intensifying as the flame flickered. She caught herself gnawing her lip, recalled her mother’s lectures on preserving feminine mystery, and almost laughed at the absurdity of such advice now.
By the third circuit, her initial shock had transformed into indignation. The audacity of it! That someone, a cousin, no less, would imply she was so easily deceived. She glared at the letter on the table, then at her reflection in the glass: pale face, blue eyes turned stormy, every inch the daughter of her line. She pressed her palm to the cold glass and watched the heat of her skin melt a perfect oval of fog.
For a moment, she stood entirely still, the only sound her own breathing.
Then, as if conjured by her thoughts, came another knock—firm, unmistakably Maximilian.
She strode to the door, swung it wide, and met him with a defiant expression.
He took in her state—hair unpinned, eyes bright—then shifted his gaze to the letter in her hand.
“You have received news,” he said, not quite a question.
Without preamble, she handed him the letter. “A cousin. In the business of cryptic threats.”
He took it, breaking the tension by focusing on the page. Lydia watched as he read, his eyes movingover each line with precision, the knuckles of his right hand whitening against the vellum.
When he finished, he folded the letter carefully and placed it on the washstand. “You have not responded?”
She nearly laughed. “How does one respond to anonymous treason and cousinly condescension?”
His mouth formed an almost smile, but his expression remained calculating. “Do you believe the threat?”
“I believe the intent to unsettle me is genuine.” She moved back to the washstand, positioning herself between the lamp and Maximilian, casting her shadow over his chest. “But if there is fraud. If someone seeks to strip me of the estate. Wouldn’t you already know? Would the solicitor not have been privy to any issues with the inheritance?”
He did not answer immediately. Instead, he leaned against the footboard, folding his arms. The lamplight sharpened his cheekbones and hollowed his eyes. She found herself staring, unashamed.
