Both the Duke of Westall and the Duke of Redford automatically leaned forward in their chairs to take up the folded paper. Then, looking at one another, they laughed. Ambrose sniffed the air unobtrusively, some part of his mind unnerved by a faint and not-yet-identified scent hanging there.
“Actually, letters from mysterious young ladies are far more likely to be for you than me, Colin,” Ambrose stated, sitting back in his chair again. “I am a respectable married man.”
“Did she leave a name, Simmons?” the Duke of Redford asked the footman, taking the letter without yet looking at it, and turning to offer small explanation to his companion. “I didrecently gift a case of champagne to a certain young woman. Perhaps she writes to thank me.”
“No, Your Grace. The young woman said only that it was a message from her mistress,” the footman informed him, before bowing and retreating from the table.
“From her mistress? I suppose shewasa lady’s maid,” the Duke of Redford muttered. “But I cannot understand this turn of events…”
Finally, he took a good look at the envelope as Ambrose waited, anticipating a good story, at least. Hopefully Colin had not got into any real scrape with this maid, or perhaps cost his bed partner her job through indiscretion…
Colin’s face changed again as he examined the writing on the front of the letter, and then held it out towards his friend.
“It is for you, Ambrose, not me.”
“For me?!” queried the Duke of Westall, his astonishment easily outweighing that of his companion.
As Ambrose took the letter, however, the scent grew stronger and became recognizable as the same perfume that had soaked the earlier message delivered to Westall Park - the very scent used by Miss Annabelle Sinclair…
“Letters from mysterious ladies already?” chuckled Colin, settling back with his brandy once more. “You’ve been married only a month yet, you old dog.”
“Don’t joke,” returned Ambrose with a grimace, breaking the seal. “There are some mysterious ladies whose attentions I could do without. In any case, whatever comes of my marriage, I made certain vows and intend to keep them.”
Colin held up a conciliatory hand and smiled.
“Forgive me. I shall not judge you by my own standards. It’s only disappointment talking for me really, now that I know my hot-blooded ladies’ maid has not written. Blonde hair, green eyes and the most bewitching manners, in and out of the bedroom…”
Ambrose was no longer listening to his friend’s digression, however. After reading Annabelle Sinclair’s note, he gave a disgusted grunt, crumpled the paper and tossed it into the unlit fireplace.
It was largely a repeat of the first message she had sent to Westall Park, only its language a little stronger and more definite. One line stuck rather firmly in his head, even after only a single reading.
I know that yours is not a true marriage and we need not pretend otherwise…
What the devil did she mean by that, the Duke of Westall puzzled angrily?
Colin cleared his throat, one eyebrow raised quizzically at Ambrose’s strong reaction.
“A disappointed old-flame? Or something more sinister?”
“I do not know what this damned woman is, or why she still pursues me,” Ambrose replied tersely, his brow creased and shoulders tense. “I should really have sent the letter back. That’s what I did with the last one. It arrived at breakfast, in front of Frances, and saturated in the same perfume. I cannot imagine that my wife thought well of me.”
He had not forgotten the expression on Frances’ face and the tone of her voice as she spoke about that letter. It was not the anger that had stayed with him, but the hurt in her. Ambrose had promised to love, honor and cherish this delicately beautiful young woman not so long ago, as well as to forsake all others.
Even if love was beyond his gift, his wife had a right to expect the rest of what he had promised her, and he was determined that she would have it.
“May I?” asked the Duke of Redford, and at Ambrose’s nod, he fished the paper from the ashes, brushed it off and un-crumpled it.
At first, Colin laughed ruefully at the contents but then his face froze and his finger moved up to rest on the address at the top of the paper.
“Miss Annabelle Sinclair, at Delingford House, off Bruton Street,” he said throatily. “It can’t be a coincidence, can it?”
“Coincidence? What do you mean?”
“My champagne-loving lady’s maid works for a mistress who was staying at this address,” Colin admitted, the words coming slowly from his lips as though thinking aloud. “But I do not know what that means.”
“Then let us find out,” said Ambrose grimly, waving to attract the attention of the footman now rearranging chairs across the room. “Simmons, bring us the club’s copy of Debrett’s peerage, if you please.”
Brief perusal of Debrett’s revealed the Dowager Countess of Delingford to be the aunt of Lord Chedwidden, Annabelle Sinclair’s father. Delingford House in London was presumably Lady Delingford’s home under a life interest as part of her marriage settlement. The dowager countess’s great niece was likely staying there during the London Season. While superficial questions were quickly answered, deeper questions now suggested themselves to both men.
