"That is quite poetic, Edward."
"Do not mock me."
"I am not mocking you. I am genuinely pleased." Vanessa smiled at her brother with real warmth. "Helena is wonderful. She has been my dearest friend for years, and I cannot think of anyone I would rather see her with than you."
"You would not find it strange? Your brother courting your best friend?"
"I would find it delightful. Assuming you are serious about it." Her expression sobered. "Helena is not like the women you usually pursue, Edward. She is not interested in games orflirtation or the thrill of the chase. If you are not serious about her, please do not pursue her at all. I will not have her heart broken by my own brother."
"I am serious." Edward's voice was quiet, stripped of its usual lightness. "I know my reputation, Vanessa. I know what people say about me. But Helena is different. When I am with her, I want to be different too. Better."
It was perhaps the most honest thing she had ever heard him say. Vanessa felt a sudden swell of affection for her rakish, careless brother, who was apparently not so careless after all.
"Then I will help however I can," she said. "But you will have to do the hard work yourself. Helena is not easily won, and she deserves someone who is willing to earn her regard."
"I know." Edward rose, his expression thoughtful. "Thank you, Van. For not mocking me."
"I would never mock you for such a serious affair as this…for many other things…but not this."
He departed with something approaching a genuine smile, leaving Vanessa alone with her thoughts. Edward and Helena. It was unexpected, but not unwelcome. If her brother was serious, if he truly meant what he said, they might actually suit each other quite well.
It is a relief to think that someone of our name possesses the good sense…or the good luck…to be happy.”
The thought was more bitter than she had intended. She pushed it aside and turned her attention to the trunk that had been deposited at the foot of her bed, waiting to be unpacked.
Her room was smaller than her chambers at home, but comfortable enough. The wallpaper was a delicate blue, the furniture simple but well-made. A window overlooked the street below, where carriages rattled past and pedestrians hurried about their business.
London. She was in London, for yet another Season, with all the possibilities and pitfalls that entailed.
Her trunk had been placed at the foot of the bed, waiting to be unpacked. She crossed to it and lifted the lid, pushing aside layers of carefully folded clothing until she found what she was looking for.
The writing box.
Still wrapped in its protective shawl, still locked and still safe. She lifted it out and carried it to the small desk by the window, setting it down with a sense of homecoming. This, at least, was familiar. This, at least, was hers.
She reached for the key around her neck… and stopped suddenly…
The ribbon was there, warm from her skin, but her fingers found nothing at the end of it.
The key was gone.
Vanessa's heart stuttered. She yanked the ribbon over her head, examined it frantically. The ribbon was intact, unbroken, but the key that should have hung from it was simply... not there.
No. No, no, no. She had checked it this morning, before they left. She was certain she had checked it. The key had been there, right where it always was, and she had tucked it back beneath her dress and thought nothing more of it.
When had it fallen off? On the journey? During the packing? Had the ribbon loosened without her noticing, allowing the key to slip free and disappear into the chaos of departure?
She dropped to her knees, searching the floor around the desk, around the trunk, in every crevice and corner of the room. Nothing. She dug through her trunk, shaking out every garment, checking every pocket and fold. Nothing.
The key was gone.
But the box…the box might still be locked. Perhaps she was panicking over nothing. Perhaps the key had simply come looseduring travel but the box itself remained secure, its contents undisturbed.
She picked up the writing box with trembling hands and examined the lock.
It was open.
The latch that should have held firm was turned to the unlocked position, the mechanism disengaged. Whoever had the key had already used it.
