“Thank you,” she said softly.
The servant bowed again and retreated. Jane glanced at her with concern.
“Will you read it here?”
Kitty hesitated, fingers tightening around the letter. Then she shook her head.
“No. I think I shall go upstairs.”
They did not protest.
She carried the letter up to her room like it weighed far more than parchment. The moment the door shut behind her, she leaned against it, clutching the envelope with both hands.
She wasn’t sure why she was afraid to open it. Perhaps because part of her still wanted to believe that Marina hadn’t meant harm. That it had been a misunderstanding. That, at least someone—anyone—had not intended to betray her.
Her fingers trembled as she broke the seal.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
My dearest Kitty,
I hardly know where to begin.
I have stared at this page for what must be hours. What words can I write that will not seem like excuses? How can I explain what I did without sounding like a fool—or worse, a traitor?
But I owe you the truth. So here it is.
When Cynthia Henley wrote to me last month, she said she was your confidante. That you were on the verge of an unwanted marriage, and that you were too proud to admit your distress. She said she had only your best interest at heart and that it was urgent we act quickly and discreetly, to intervene before it was too late.
I believed her.
Kitty, I am ashamed to say it. But I did. She spoke with such certainty. Such urgency. I truly thought I was helping you.
It was only after I learned of the scandal that followed that I realized what I had done. How easily I had been manipulated.
I made up a story about your time in Venice, so that I could help break you free from an engagement I thought you did not want. I believed—God help me—I believed she wanted to protect you. And I handed her the very knife she used to cut you down.
There is no forgiveness I deserve. But I beg your mercy all the same.
I was foolish. And I was wrong.
Yours in deepest regret,
Marina
Kitty read the letter once. Then again. The words blurred on the second reading, not from confusion—but from the sting behind her eyes.
She sat down slowly at her vanity and let the paper fall to her lap.
So that was it.
Not malice. Not deliberate sabotage. Just a string of misguided choices, tied together by misplaced trust.
She had always known Cynthia was capable of cruelty.
Marina had been her friend. Her companion. And though Cynthia had twisted that bond into a weapon, Kitty could not summon anger when she thought of Marina. Only a quiet, aching sort of gratitude.
Her mind drifted—unbidden—to that night in Venice. The laughter. The salt-heavy air. The endless, golden possibility of the future. She smiled, faintly, despite herself.
