Dear Mr. Noble,
You leave me little choice. My brother’s life is at stake. I accept your veiled threats couched in indistinct terms.
Crumpled ball number seven.
Dear Mr. Noble,
The longer the delay, the worse for my brother. I accept you are an arroga—
Number eight plopped to the floor of the basket like a slab in a tomb. It was obvious that she had to keep the correspondence short.
Dear Mr. Noble,
I accept.
Awaiting your reply,
She signed her name and sealed the note.
A knock at noon announced the arrival of the messenger. It struck her that Noble had never asked for her address.
Their temporary butler hovered—nocowered—near the hall as she opened the door in his stead.
“Murderer!”
“For shame!”
The messenger boy hurried inside as she slammed the door on the shouts from the street. Tinkling glass indicated another meeting of object to window in the drawing room. They had been most successful in hitting that window, situated as prominently as it was. The boy bobbed his head as she handed him the note. He held one out to her in return.
Marietta stared at his outstretched hand. “What is this?”
“A note for you.”
She clutched the paper in her slightly shaking fingers. “Thank you. You may use the back entrance, if you wish.”
“Much obliged, miss.” He bobbed his head and walked down the hall.
With a sharp glance at the still stationary butler, who had no doubt soaked in every nuance of the conversation, she retired to her room.
The note was short. Sloping letters and elegant swirls. She was to stay inside until Noble came at eight. She bristled at the command even as a resoundingthunkindicated what sounded like a head of cabbage hitting the bricks outside.
She had until the evening to change her mind, but the long daytime hours only reinforced her motivation. The hecklers in the streets, the rotten vegetables pinging against the sides of the house, the splintering of glass from the drawing room. The owner of their rented house would have apoplexy when he returned. It was a good thing he was traveling abroad, or likely they would have been evicted days ago.
Waiting until eight was murderous. Mark had risen a bit after noon only to down a headache tonic and slouch back to bed pleading illness. Sick on gin and wine. She’d heard one of the maids tiptoe into his room, and it was without an ounce of surprise that Marietta walked in a few hours later to discover Mark once more passed out with an empty bottle tipped by his bedside.
The knock, when it came on the eighth strike of the clock, was accompanied by more relief than fear. She needed to dosomething. Anything.
“Good evening, I’m here to see Miss Winters,” a smooth, deep voice said.
“And who shall I say is calling?”
Silence met the butler’s question, and she walked around the corner in time to see the butler’s uneasy expression as Noble continued to stare impassively.
“I can handle things from here, thank you, Yates,” she said.
The butler moved back a few spaces, but stayed within hearing distance. She motioned toward the small study at the side of the room, but Noble simply inclined his head and walked back through the door. She hurried after him as he made his way to a carriage parked in front. Darted looks up and down the street showed a blessedly vacant thoroughfare for once.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
