"How lovely!" her mother had exclaimed. "Who sent it?"
There had been no card or any indication of the sender. The footman who had received it reported only that it had been delivered by a liveried servant who had departed without leaving a name.
"It must be from Lord Deane," Lady Wayworth had decided. "How thoughtful of him. He must have heard of your accident."
"Perhaps," Vanessa had said, though something about the gift did not feel like Lord Deane. The chocolates were French, imported, expensive, the sort of thing one had to know where to find. They were from Monsieur Girard's establishment, which did not advertise and catered only to a select clientele. Lord Deane, for all his good qualities, was not the sort of man who would know about Monsieur Girard. He would have sent flowers from his own garden, perhaps, or a basket of fruit from his estate.
This gift spoke of someone who knew her tastes. Someone who had paid attention. Someone who had, perhaps, overheard her mention once,at a dinner party years ago that Monsieur Girard's chocolates were the finest she had ever tasted.
She had examined the book more closely once her mother had left. It was a volume of poetry, not Byron, but Keats. Endymion and Other Poems, in a beautiful edition with gilt-edged pages and a ribbon marker of deep green silk.
Inside the front cover, someone had written a single line in an unfamiliar hand:For the invalid. To pass the time.
The handwriting was not Martin's. She knew his hand as she had studied it on the few notes he had sent over the years, memorised its angular slant and careless elegance. This was different,rounder and more precise. A servant's hand, perhaps,transcribing a message from someone who did not wish to be identified.
But who? Who would send such a gift anonymously?
She had told herself it was Lord Deane. She had almost convinced herself of it. But a small, treacherous part of her heart had whispered another name, and she had not been able to silence it since.
The chocolates were exactly right. The book was exactly right. Everything about the gift was exactly, perfectly right as though the sender had looked into her heart and seen precisely what would bring her comfort.
Lord Deane did not know her that well. Lord Deane, despite his devotion, had never paid the kind of attention that would reveal such intimate knowledge of her preferences.
But Martin had been there at that dinner party. Martin had been standing nearby when she praised Monsieur Girard's chocolates. Martin had once, years ago, argued with her about the relative merits of Keats and Wordsworth—and lost, gracefully, when she made her case for Endymion.
Martin knew.
The question was whether he had acted on that knowledge, and if so, why.
***
The afternoon light was fading when Helena arrived.
She swept into the drawing room in a rustle of muslin and concern, her pretty face creased with worry. "Vanessa! Edward told me what happened. Are you terribly injured? Does it hurt dreadfully?"
"It is merely a sprain. I am perfectly well."
"You do not look perfectly well. You look pale." Helena settled onto the chair beside the chaise longue, reaching for Vanessa's hand. "Tell me everything. Edward was maddeninglyvague, he said only that you fell from your horse and injured your ankle. How did it happen? Where were you?"
"In the park. A rabbit startled my mare."
"How frightening! Were you alone?"
Vanessa hesitated. This was the moment she had been dreading, the moment when she would have to speak of Martin and somehow keep her voice steady while doing so.
"No. Lord Montehood was there. He... assisted me."
Something shifted in Helena's expression, a flicker of interest and then quickly disappeared. "Did he? How fortunate that he happened to be nearby."
"Yes. Fortunate."
"And he assisted you how, exactly?"
"He helped me to a bench. Sent my groom for a carriage." Vanessa kept her voice carefully neutral, revealing nothing of the turmoil beneath. "He was very kind."
"I see." Helena was watching her with an intensity that made Vanessa uncomfortable. She had known Helena since childhood, and she knew that expression,it was the look Helena got when she was pursuing a mystery, following threads of information to their inevitable conclusion. "And was that all? He simply helped you to a bench?"
"What else would there be?"
