“Vivy,” her mother said as they crossed the hall, her voice the very picture of unruffled grace. “You will not scowl like a governess with a headache. You are home and you should be at ease.”
“I am not scowling,” Vivy returned, managing something near a smile. The last thing she needed was her mother to start asking her pointed questions. She had to find some time alone to think and examine in detail her interaction with the earl. As much as she would have liked to believe he had asked her to dance because he fancied her, Vivy was no fool. He had a reason, and that reason was not evident or as simple as a man wanting to dance with a pretty lady.
Her mother slid a glance to her. “Then you are thinking too loudly.”
Vivy bit back a retort. She did not know how her mother could possibly know what she was thinking. Perhaps she was somehow thinking too loudly as her mother had suggested, as ridiculous as that sounded... “I am merely…tired.”
“Good. Then you will retire and all will be well in the morning.” Her mother paused at the foot of the staircase and tilted her head. “You will not begin inventing the possibility of a romance that involves Lord Ravenwood simply because he requested a dance. He is not for you.”
Heat rose in Vivy’s cheeks. “I have not invented anything.” Why wasn’t he a gentleman she could dream about? What was it about him that her mother thought made him unsuitable.
“You are my daughter and I know you. I saw how you looked at him.” The duchess’s mouth curved, faintly. “Go to bed. Tomorrow, you may collect yourself and remember that men like Ravenwood do not settle down into marriage.”
That, Vivy thought as she ascended, was precisely what unsettled her. Men like Ravenwood did nothing without reason and that was why there had to be one for why he’d asked her to dance. He never truly noticed her before. Well, to be fair, there had never been a reason for him to look her way. She had not even been launched into society the first time they met. When she had fallen at his feet...she had been nothing but a girl with an immediate fixation on a handsome man.
What had he hoped to gain by waltzing with her?
In her chamber, her maid fussed with pins and ribbons while Vivy stood before the mirror and attempted to keep herself calm. Her reflection offered no assistance. Her eyes were too bright; her cheeks were still faintly flushed, and her mouth kept softening at the most humiliating moments. As if her body had decided to betray her regardless of her will. It could not forget dancing with him any more than her mind could.
When at last her maid departed and the door clicked shut, Vivy moved to her escritoire and drew out the small stack of cards and invitations she kept with a care that bordered upon reverence. Most were nothing—requests for her patronage, reminders of obligations, the endless social machinery that ground on without mercy.
Tonight, however, one item sat atop them like a splinter. A folded square of cream paper, sealed with plain wax. There was no crest or signature to distinguish it from the others. She had found it tucked into her reticule as she returned from the modiste a few days ago. It had been slipped inside without her knowledge, like a hand that had dipped into her pocket to steal her pin money. Except this time the trespasser had left her something instead of taking it.
Vivy stared at it; her fingers hovered over the seal. Her first instinct had been to hand it to her mother. The second had been to burn it. The third—wretched, stubborn creature that she was—had been to keep it and see what secrets dared reach for her. Which is what she had done.
She broke the seal. Inside was only a short line, written in neat and precise handwriting.
Some secrets should never be discovered, and you my dear, have uncovered the wrong truth. Stay silent if you know what is good for you, or you’ll regret ever snooping through your father’s study.
Vivy read it twice. Three times. A coldness crept up her spine, slow and insidious. She had been in her father’s study before she received this note. But she did not know what she could have seen that she should not have. She had merely gone into her father’s study for more parchment to write a letter. She had moved some of his correspondence to the side to retrieve a few pieces beneath it.
Was this what Ravenwood had been referring to? Was this why he had asked her to dance? She did not like not knowing the truth. She folded the note and set it with her other correspondence. There was only one thing she could do. She had to go through her father’s study and determine what it was she should not have seen…
As much as she would like to sleep that would prove to be impossible now. Not that she had much of a chance at sleep after her dance with the Earl of Ravenwood. That man had haunted her dreams for far too many years now. The reality was so much better and far to decadent to reserve for her dreams alone.
She slipped on her wrapper and took the candelabra off of a table in her room. Most of the staff should already be abed, along with her father, mother, and sister. She opened her door as silently as possible and slid into the hallway on her tiptoes. Then she headed down the hallway and descended the stairs.
It did not take her long to reach her father’s study, and she had been right. No one was awake to notice her movements. The room was dark and the curtains had been drawn. She opened them to give the room more light from the moon outside. Luckily it was a full moon, and it brightened the room immediately. She set the candelabra down and went to work immediately going through her father’s desk.
She slipped her fingers around to find the hidden catch along the carved molding of the desk. The panel gave with a soft click. Inside the hidden drawer was a stack of neatly arranged papers. It was nothing scandalous at first glance. Letters from ministers. Land reports and invitations stamped with wax. Then, behind a rolled parchment, marked with mundane precision, she saw a thin packet bound with twine, the paper older, rougher, as if it had been handled too often.
A title in her father’s hand was scrawled across the top in his neat handwriting. She narrowed her gaze and wondered if she had read it wrong. It said…spy network. Her curiosity got the best of her. Her heart thudded heavily in her chest as she flipped open the parchment and read it. There was a list of names, and many she recognized. Leander Ashby, Phineas Sedgewick, and…Dashiell Blackwell. All three of those names one word had been written next to them…discharged. Other words were written next to the names…removed, compromised, awaiting orders. Her heart had stopped as she read Ravenwood’s name on the list. There were more of course, but that one made her breathing more ragged.
Every name on that list had been a spy in the war. The three she had recognized were now home. Leander was the Duke of Lionston. He had to return home because he was no longer the second son, like Dashiell. They had no choice. The title demanded they return. She was less familiar with Phineas, but she knew him to be the Viscount of Slothington. Had he been a second son as well? She would have to ask discreetly about him and the other names on the list.
She also had to talk with Ravenwood. This must be what he wanted to ask her about but couldn’t in the ballroom. A dance was only so private. Anyone could have overheard them. If only she knew how best to approach him…
She ought to have never looked at this list, but she could not ignore it now that she had. It was not her correspondence, and it was not meant for her eyes. She had been raised with the understanding that one respected a gentleman’s privacy, and one respected her father’s authority above all. But the note in her reticule had not cared about propriety. Now she that she knew the truth…
And last night, in Lord Ravenwood’s voice, she had heard the warning beneath the formality.
I do not like surprises.
Neither did she. Vivy tightened the twine. Her hands shook a little as she tied it together. She left everything in the stack, except the list of names. The rest of the missives were either coded or mundane, though she would bet on the former. But that did not matter. She was not a skilled codebreaker, and it all meant nothing to her.
She would need the list though to make her inquiries. Vivy slid the list into the pocket of her wrapper with care, as though it were made of glass and might cut her if she handled it too roughly. The paper felt heavier than it ought, weighted not by ink, but by implication. Her father had written those names along with the notes next to them. He was another person she had to investigate. What role did he play in the spy network?
There were several names she did not recognize on that list, and they would be more difficult to investigate, but she had to try. She had to know what it all meant. Vivy suspected she knew what the words next to their names signified, but she would not know for sure until she discovered their identities.
