Emily sniffed, and put away her handkerchief. Crying was such an odd thing. She’d wet her pillows every night, but it only made her feel weak and ill. But one good cry into Griselda’s shoulder and she felt it might be possible to face tomorrow. “Whoever he is, he doesn’t deserve you,” she said damply.

Griselda laughed. “That’s a given. As you wisely pointed out, he is a man.”

Emily had to smile a bit at that. “Oh,” she said, “I do have some news for you too, Griselda.”

Griselda looked up from the teapot.

“It’s about Hellgate.”

“They’ve discovered who wrote the Memoirs?” Griselda asked.

“Exactly. It’s so fascinating: Mayne can’t have more than the slimmest acquaintance with the author.”

“What sort of person is he?” Griselda asked, carefully refreshing the hot water. “We decided that he must be a devout reader of the gossip pages.”

“It’s much more interesting than that,” Emily said, accepting a pyramid cream. “This looks absolutely delicious! How does your cook make it?”

“It’s her own recipe,” Griselda said, “and she guards it fiercely. I do know that it takes hartshorn shavings and blanched almonds. I think the prettiest part is the way she cuts up the lemon peel into the shape of leaves.”

“Yes, and stacks them up so neatly. My cook could never do this. She’s quite good at ordinary things, you know. Like fricassee of turnips.” She made a face and Griselda laughed. “But really, you won’t believe who wrote that book.”

Griselda frowned.

“You’ve forgotten what we were talking about,” Emily accused. Griselda turned pink again. “That’s because you’re in love. Ah well, I shall dance at your wedding.”

Griselda’s smile had a deep happiness that would have made Emily bitter, except she didn’t feel bitter any longer. “Now listen,” Emily said. “This is the most fascinating on dit I’ve heard all season.”

“Better than Count Burnet’s divorce petition? I must say that I find it difficult to forget the details of Burnet’s home life, at least as the servants described it.”

“I didn’t believe the half of those stories,” Emily said. “No, this is fascinating because he was one of us, Griselda!”

“Who? Hellgate?”

“Hellgate was your own brother, as we all believe. No—the author!” She leaned forward. “His name was discovered by a most enterprising reporter working for The Tatler.”

Griselda pulled her thoughts away from Portman Square and the blond man who had undoubtedly risen from his bed by now.

“Fascinating,” she said. “Surprise me!”

42

From The Earl of Hellgate,

Chapter the Twenty-seventh

It was a new experience for me to speak from my heart, rather than from my loins, Dear Reader. Only then did I realize how little my heart had been concerned with my many relations, even with my dearest wife. But now…how I yearned! And yet it was no physical lust, but a heart-filled, earnest love. I wanted the best for her, in her life, at all times.So I had to face the truth: was I the best for her?

T he letter arrived along with all of the mail, except that the butler, Cockburn, handed it to her instead of Mayne by accident.

Josie stared down at it, her fingers suddenly cold.Neatly printed on the upper left was the name of the writer: Sylvie de la Broderie.

Sylvie was writing to Mayne? Why? What could she possibly wish to say? He was married.

The possibilities raced through Josie’s mind. She barely caught herself before she cast the letter into the fire.

The sick, muddled feeling beat at her stomach and at her heart too. She would like to kill Sylvie and her slender figure.

“Unladylike,” Josie muttered to herself. But when had she ever cared for ladylike activities? Ladies never read other people’s mail.

She wouldn’t do that.

Ladies never eavesdropped.

Some rules are meant to be broken. Likely Mayne would rip it open and read the note quickly. Likely Sylvie was writing to ask for advice, or to wish him the best on his marriage. That must be it. Of course. Sylvie had exquisite manners.

If she betrayed even the least interest in her husband’s letter, she would seem gauche and ridiculous. There was only one way to achieve unconcern.

By stealth.

When the Earl of Mayne returned to his study that afternoon, he found three letters waiting for him, precisely squared in the center of his blotting paper. He was still chilled from watching his most promising filly, Argent, canter around and around the training yard, so he scooped up his letters and strolled over to the fire.

Which allowed his wife, cozily seated on the floor behind the great velvet curtains, a perfect view of his face and hands.

He ripped open Felton’s letter first. It’s done, he read to himself. Ardmore took to the task with an enthusiasm likely resulting from his personal experiences with this sort of mongrel. We finished the business by offering Thurman’s services to the crew of a slow whaler on its way to Newfoundland. They needed a scrub hand for the deck. Mayne grinned. He owed Felton one. And Ardmore. It was a good feeling to have brothers-in-law. Men to watch your back.

The second letter he opened was from Griselda. He raised an eyebrow. His sister rarely took a hysterical tone, and yet there was a definite trace of hysteria in her words.

He must return to London at once. He must make all haste, in fact, he must leave that very night. He must give her deepest apologies to Josie, but he must return. That last word was underlined three times, and he thought he could even see the blur of a tear. What the devil was that about?

He turned over the sheaf of foolscap only to see that Griselda had apparently realized that he would wish for more information. About Hellgate, she’d scribbed. Those infernal Memoirs. Come at once and say nothing about my letter. I must ask you to say nothing to your wife as well.

Mayne sighed. The only good thing about all of this was that he didn’t have to make the two-hour coach ride by himself, bouncing along on the indifferent springs. He was married now. He and Josie could…amuse themselves for a few hours.

He tipped Griselda’s note into the fire and turned to his other missive. Why in the hell was his former fiancée writing him? Not that he didn’t wish her well, because of course he did. But there was no question in his mind that if he never saw Sylvie de la Broderie again, it wouldn’t grieve him.

He leaned against the fireplace and opened the letter. It was scented, an affectation he found unappealing, so he held it away from himself.

But then, reading her delicate French hand, he felt himself easing into all the charm and loveliness that was Sylvie. He hadn’t loved her for nothing, after all, although it was hard to remember the reasons when Josie was around.

For a moment he stared blindly over the sheet. Compared to Sylvie, Josie was everything warm and sensual and delicious. His love for Sylvie—if one could even call it that—seemed a paltry, brittle thing in contrast, based on nothing more than her charm.

Because she was charming.

My dearest Mayne, Sylvie wrote. I wish to write you to assure you that I am not désolée over your marriage to little Josie.

Little Josie? Compared to Josie, Sylvie was a spindly, scrawny thing. I’d be bedding that frosty twig, but for the luck of the devil, he thought to himself. And couldn’t help grinning.