Page 20 of The Marquess’s Masked Archer

It was time to let go of what couldn’t be and focus on the future she’d been envisioning for so long with so little hope. Thanks to the success of making her own choice to work at the resort, Sylvie’s confidence in herself grew every day. If she could make this unusual choice of occupation work, she could also make a wise pick in her husband without her mother’s interference. That man just couldn’t be Miles.

Pushing away from the wall, Sylvie ignored the way Miles’s brow wrinkled as she started toward the lawn. “I’m fine. It was a mere bump. Mr. Miller is signaling for us, but the crowd doesn’t appear to be as full as the last few shows. You don’t think they’ve already lost interest in the new trick, do you?”

Miles rushed to catch up with her, adjusting his mask as he examined the seating area. “The break last week might have cooled people’s interest. I’m certain it will recover soon enough now that we’re performing again.”

The show wasn’t as well-received as the previous ones, however. Sylvie could tell by the mediocre response to her most difficult shots and a few expressions of disinterest when the crowd dispersed. As much as she didn’t—but also somehow did—want to spend any more time with Miles to practice, it appeared they would have to add more thrilling shots into the show sooner rather than later.

Even Mr. Miller noticed the change, which he mentioned while they gathered Sylvie’s arrows. “I thought your partner’s arrival would be a draw for longer. But there are some spectacular new entertainments down on Amusement Circle. Any one of them could be pulling spectators away from this area of the resort and keeping them busy.”

Maybe that’s all it was. Maybe the excitement for her show would return soon. But no matter what happened, the situation revealed anew how tenuous her position at Cedar Point was. She would have to find some way to make her show indispensable, to make it unthinkable for the resort manager to cut it.

And unfortunately, working closer with Miles seemed to be integral to achieving that goal.

Frequent memories of the expression on Sylvie’s face as she peered up at him before their performance on Monday punctuated the rest of Miles’s week. She’d swallowed hard, her brow furrowed. At first, he’d been flattered to think his nearness might have affected her so. But as the week went on, it became clear that it couldn’t have been desire. Judging by her cold behavior every time he saw her, she was still determined to block him from her heart.

Thursday’s show had an even smaller crowd than Monday’s, leaving Miles, Sylvie, and even Mr. Miller subdued and frustrated. The one bright spot in his week was the way words flowed onto paper after sending off his first letter to Sylvie on Monday. By Thursday, he had composed another missive he believed expressed the depth of his appreciation for her. So what if he had to rely on literary quotes that were far more eloquent than his own words? If only he could find a way for her to send a response without compromising his identity. Knowing what she thought of his words would have made it easier to continue writing to her heart.

When Alexander invited Miles to visit the Sunyendeand Club in Sandusky with him, inspiration struck. Miles could use the location for Sylvie to send a reply. The membership included most of the well-to-do men in the area, along with those who visited from Cleveland and Detroit for the summer. Since Miles was only going as a guest among all those members, the chance of Sylvie putting together his identity as the author of the letters from such a busy location was slim. He added the address to the letter and left it to be sent out with the rest of the post on Thursday afternoon.

With part of his plan under control, Miles was in a pleasant enough mood when he walked into the laboratory on Friday morning. His good humor dissipated almost immediately, however, when one of the female students greeted him using his title, despite his frequent requests that they refrain from using it. He bit his tongue to keep from snapping a harsh response. The young ladies were growing too bold, with giggles and glances coming from their direction any time he was near. It was beginning to impact his work, as well. Too often, a female student interrupted to ask him a question she could have figured out on her own, taking up time he needed for his research. Already annoyed for the day, Miles made a beeline for his workstation and buried his head in his notes, praying no one would bother him.

He managed to reach his midday break without incident. While he was eating alone before most of the others entered the dining room, Miss Fording slid into a chair at his table and sighed, rubbing a spot on her lower back. “I’m not used to bending over a microscope for so many hours. Field work is different from learning in the classroom, isn’t it?”

Miles nodded, hoping she wouldn’t become too comfortable and decide to stay. He wanted to eat and return to work before anyone else arrived. But she didn’t seem to catch the message in his silence. Instead, she leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table and resting her chin on her clasped hands. “All the girls have been speculating this week about what you must have experienced growing up in England. Do tell, have you met the king? They’re all certain you’re good friends with him, but I can’t imagine⁠—”

Miles pushed up from his seat, the chair legs scraping across the floor as it pitched backward. She fell silent, and Miles had to swallow back a twinge of remorse when her eyes widened. “Excuse me, but I don’t like to talk about England. I need to return to my work now.”

He strode out of the dining room, the twinge growing into a full wave of guilt. She was young and excitable, the same as the rest of the students. They were only doing what young ladies did, supposing and assuming and letting grand ideas get the better of them. He was certain they didn’t mean any harm. But the assumptions that his life in England had been grand and glittering grated against reality. His childhood had been idyllic enough. But then Father and Oliver had died, thrusting Miles into the role of heir to the marquisate. He’d never wanted it, had embraced his future as the younger son, with dreams of studying entomology. Just when he started to accept he might have to give up his dreams for responsibility, more tragedy struck, this time accompanied by accusations that had taken his family and heritage from him, as well.

Trying to breathe through panic that threatened to overwhelm him, Miles slumped onto the stool at the high table where he worked and rubbed his hand over his face. Would he ever be free from the assumptions people made about him? Would he ever be able to release the past and move forward?

As he’d been doing of late, Miles turned to prayer to calm his racing thoughts. Peace overtook the panic as he gave his fears to the Lord, leaving him feeling steadier and more capable of recovering than he usually did. He accomplished a great deal on his research through the afternoon and even managed to apologize to a subdued Miss Fording before leaving for the day.

Back at the Loftons’ house, Miles rushed upstairs to dress for an evening at the club. It might have been too soon, but he was anxious to see if Sylvie had managed to send a reply to his letter yet, so it didn’t take him long. As he jogged back down the staircase, Alexander was kissing his wife goodbye in the grand entryway. Miles shuffled down the last few steps, making more noise than usual on purpose. But his friend didn’t rush the moment. So Miles shoved both hands in the pockets of his trousers and waited, looking anywhere except at the happy couple.

Finally, Alexander stepped back, and Grace laughed when she caught sight of Miles. “I think we embarrassed our guest, dear. I apologize, Miles. You’ll find out one day how easy it is to become wrapped up in one another.”

They exchanged a look dripping with such fondness, it made Miles’s heart clench. At the moment, he didn’t see how Grace’s prediction would ever be possible. The only woman who had caught his attention enough to imagine spending his life with her was Sylvie Bryce. And she was proving to be a very difficult puzzle to solve.

After taking his hat from a waiting footman and settling it on his head, Alexander turned to Miles with a cheerful nod. “Let’s be off, then.”

With one last goodbye to Grace, they left the house and walked the few blocks to the steamboat dock. A short ride later, they disembarked in Sandusky and walked two more blocks to the Masonic Temple, where the club leased rooms upstairs for their members.

The evening proved to be a decent distraction from the moment they walked in. Miles had asked Alexander not to introduce him with his title, so he was able to simply be Miles Wentworth to those who hadn’t already met him as the visiting marquess. The men gathered in a large room filled with comfortable chairs and tables of refreshments along the back wall. Miles listened as the gentlemen spoke about local and national politics, as well as a fascinating discussion about a recent study on the viral nature of dengue fever. By the end of the conversation, Miles had gathered a great deal of interesting information on the potential spread through mosquitoes, which he planned to incorporate into his work at the laboratory the next week.

Unfortunately, Miles also came face to face with Mr. Greene, the gentleman he often saw in Sylvie’s company at society events. With a sour frown, the portly younger man narrowed his eyes at Miles. “I heard you being introduced as Mr. Wentworth earlier this evening. Why on earth you would choose not to leverage that title of yours for some clout is beyond me.”

The familiar irritation lit in Miles’s chest. He drew a deep breath, hoping to blow it out. “It doesn’t mean anything here, so I don’t see any good in making myself seem more important than I am.” To be honest, it didn’t mean anything in England anymore either. But he didn’t have the least bit of interest in explaining the darker details of his life to a near stranger.

Mr. Greene shrugged and sipped amber liquid from a cut-crystal glass. “If you believe that, you’re more of a fool than I took you for. A title is currency in society. Miss Bryce’s parents wouldn’t give you a second glance without it.”

It took every ounce of Miles’s self-control not to land a solid punch on Mr. Greene’s nose. Perhaps it was true. Sylvie’s parents very well might not want him anywhere near their daughter if he were nothing more than an untitled English scientist. But Sylvie didn’t care about his title, and she was the one who mattered. He was after her heart.

Even he couldn’t deny that her parents’ approval needed to follow, however, and he wasn’t likely to have won it without his heritage.

Turning once again to prayer to fight another rising wave of panic, Miles extricated himself from the conversation with a muttered excuse and rushed from the room. Gentlemen came and went throughout the upper level, so Miles strode down the stairs and slipped through the first unlocked interior door he found, ending up in a darkened room with windows overlooking the street. Shafts of light from the electric streetlamps revealed a large rectangular table surrounded by chairs in the center of the room. Most likely a conference room, then. Certainly not a place he would be discovered.

Taking advantage of the solitude, Miles made his way to stand in front of one of the tall windows and calm his breathing while looking out over the tree-lined street. A few large, respectable homes sat amongst churches, a park, and a modest building with a carved stone lintel above the door marking it as a library. Few people strolled down the wide sidewalks at such a late hour, so movement at the corner of the church across the street caught Miles’s attention. A figure hid in the shadows there, mirroring his concealment in darkness, although this person was slimmer and shorter than he.