“Man? A messenger?”
“I do not believe so, Your Grace. He had the look of Cheapside about him.”
The man’s tone said that the servant of a Duke was unaccustomed to dealing with such.
“What did he look like?”
“I did not get a good look at his face, Your Grace. He had a hat with a wide brim pulled low. The fingers holding the envelope were none too clean, and neither were the clothes the fellow wore.”
Winston stared at the envelope. The paper was of poor-quality parchment. The penmanship was crude but not uneducated. The work of a sloppy clerk. It was certainly unfamiliar.
A letter to Adeline. It should not occasion notice. Except I wish to know more about her. And this might lessen the mystery.
He knew he could swear the footman to secrecy and open the letter. Not a soul would know he had done it, and he would gain answers to some of his questions perhaps. None would know. But he would.
“She’s in the drawing room?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Winston walked through without another word holding the letter balanced against his fingers. The midday light fell in stripes through the long windows. Adeline sat beside Louisa, reading aloud from some slim volume of fables. Her voice carried softly across the room. She looked up when he entered.
“This arrived for you,” Winston said, setting it on the table beside her. “Delivered by hand, I’m told.”
She stared at it a heartbeat too long before managing a polite reply.
“Thank you.”
He waited. “No direction on the outside. Nothing to say who sent it.”
“No.” Her voice had gone quiet. “It is…private.”
That single word shouldn’t have struck him so hard, yet it did. He’d questioned her plenty of times about her parentage and what happened to cause her to seek solace with his mother. But Winston had never pressed Adeline to give details about her life before Greystone. Suddenly, the need to know who would write her here, under his roof, filled him with something sharp and unpleasant.
“Of course,” he said, and turned toward the window so she wouldn’t see his expression.
He heard the faint tear of the seal, then silence. When he looked back, she was folding the letter again, hands steady now. She slipped it into her reticule as if it were of no consequence.
“Who is it from?” Louisa asked curiously.
“Louisa. That is impolite. It is Miss Wilkinson’s business,” Winston reprimanded her and, internally, himself. “Nothing urgent, I hope,” he said, giving the lie of his words but unable to stop himself.
“Only an old acquaintance,” she replied without meeting his eye. “I wrote to her before we left for London. She is here in town. There’s no need for concern.”
“None at all,” he said lightly, though the words cost him.
I gave her and the others very little notice of this trip. But somehow, she had enough time to pen a letter to an old acquaintance?
Winston tried to dismiss the gnawing suspicion. Adeline had proved herself to be dedicated to Louisa and very capable. But the questions remained at the back of his mind. Cordelia entered then, full of energy, with talk of the evening’s theater engagement. They would go to Drury Lane and see a new production that promised music and spectacle. Winston nodded at all the right moments, but his mind was still on that sealed paper and the tremor he’d seen in Adeline’s fingers.
He told himself it might have been from Oswald. The thought stung worse than it should have. Winston knew his friend to be a man who was full of charm, lingering smiles, and easy confidence. He could well imagine such a letter, an invitation written with too much familiarity.
And Oswald is carefree enough to grab the nearest writing stock, even if it is in a gambling hell. And handwriting can be affected by strong drink.
He left the room soon after and shut himself in his study, pretending to read reports. The ink blurred on the page. Jealousy, he told himself, was the indulgence of fools. Yet he could not shake it.
When evening came, the family carriage rolled through Covent Garden to the great façade of the Theatre Royal. Lanterns burned like tiny suns, and a tide of people surged toward the entrance. Gentlemen wore dark coats while women glittered in silks and pearls. Louisa’s eyes were wide; Cordelia was radiant with anticipation. Adeline sat opposite him, pale beneath her bonnet.
Winston offered his arm as they entered. Adeline took it, her hand light as air. Inside, the noise was a kind of music itself, the hum of talk, the rustle of fans, the rising laughter from boxes. They took their seats in a private box. Louisa sat between Cordelia and Winston, chattering in whispers until the curtain rose.
