Since then, they’d all gone on with their lives. Caroline had married the Earl of Helton, their mother had thrown herself into Society, and now Josie would likely make a match as well, pretty and sweet and charming as she was.
But not Melanie. She was… stuck.
Blinking away the unsettling feelings, Melanie pressed her forehead against the window again.
If she kept looking out, she needn’t look in.
This time, she spotted a young woman hurrying down the street, head bowed against the rain, a cumbersome basket clutched tightly in her arms.
Melanie recognized most of the people who walked along Regent Street, but not this one. Something about her didn’t… fit. The lady wore a long, gunmetal gray cape and had pulled the hood low so as to cover most of her face. Whenever she did look up, her eyes darted around in a way that was shifty, almost anxious. Even from a distance, Melanie couldn’t help but notice the vivid green color of the woman’s eyes.
And although the colors she wore were muted, the lady herself was not. A few strands of scarlet hair had escaped the hood. She wasn’t traditionally pretty but she was… striking.
Memorable.
Melanie shifted to get a better view, careful to stay mostly hidden behind one of the semi-transparent window coverings.
When the woman stopped in front of Number Seven, Regent Street—the house directly across from Rutherford Place—Melanie sat up a little straighter.
Preston Hall, home of the notorious Duke of Malum.
She only knew the house belonged to him because months ago, Caroline had pointed it out, her tone tinged with a mix of reluctant admiration and quiet reproach.
Melanie had spent countless hours at this window, observing the quiet comings and goings along the street. On occasion, she’d seen the duke himself—always from a distance. Dressed head to toe in black, from his perfectly tailored coat to his tall top hat, he moved with a deliberate air that set him apart. Yet, she had never gotten a proper look at his face, only the impression of a man cloaked in mystery.
More curious than usual, Melanie watched the woman closely.
Either she was at the wrong address, or she didn’t know to take her delivery to the servants’ entrance, which would be in the back of the house.
The woman shifted the basket into her opposite hand, as though to give the other a rest, and tilted her head back, looking up, up, up at the five-story townhouse.
It stood tall and splendid, its cream façade gleaming brighter—cleaner—than the neighboring townhouses. There were no trellises burdened with unruly vines, no signs of wear or weathering. Instead, the meticulously maintained exterior exuded the quiet opulence of wealth and power.
The woman paused briefly, then, with renewed purpose, marched past the wrought iron railings and up the steps to the entrance. Despite the rain, she was hesitant before carefully placing the basket on the stoop, as though its contents were easily broken.
Melanie leaned closer to the window, trying to make out the woman’s expression.
This was not a regular delivery.
The woman stood frozen, her gaze locked on the basket as though weighing its significance. The ticking of the mantel clock filled the silence, each second stretching unbearably long. Outside, the rain continued to fall, unrelenting, drenching the motionless figure.
Then, without warning, the woman knocked on the door. The sound echoed sharply, ricocheting down the empty street. She didn’t linger—not even for a moment.
Instead, she whirled around and bolted, her hood slipping back as she ran, revealing a cascade of dark, tangled hair that streamed behind her like a banner. Melanie’s breath caught as she watched the woman disappear into the downpour, leaving only the basket behind.
Melanie frowned and leaned forward.
What on earth?
With the woman out of sight, Melanie found herself clutching the cold stone of the windowsill, waiting…
The basket just sat there, looking vulnerable as raindrops steadily plopped onto the wicker.
A basket that size might contain something valuable, and if it did, why abandon it like that, where anyone could scoop it up?
Melanie couldn’t take her eyes off the basket as she listened to the thrumming staccato of the rain, occasionally interrupted by a rumble of thunder.
When the beats accelerated, matching themselves to the beating of her heart, it felt like an ancient call to action.
