Page 47 of The Duke’s Suspicion

Over this particular page, however, he hesitated, though the code was not especially sophisticated—something to deter the casual sneak, a younger sibling with prying eyes, perhaps. Leaning on one elbow, he held the book closer to the candle, the better to make out her handwriting. A list of something. Undated. Composed over time, in fact—more than one pen had been used. At times her hand had been firm and steady; at others, considerably less so.

After some effort, he managed to sort out what the page contained: a long catalog of someone’s sins and the punishments to be meted out for them. Lateness, slovenliness, forgetfulness. Erica’s sins—for such she clearly imagined them to be.

~For a wandering mind during Dr. V’s sermon, one hour copying Fordyce

~For neglecting to reply promptly to C’s last, no sugar in tea this fortnight

~For missing dinner three times this week— Query: when mortification inheres to the act itself, may not that prove sufficient?? (cf., inattentiveness at church—perhaps damned already?)

He nearly closed the book at that, jerking his gaze to a spot on the carpet and sucking in a breath that rattled a bit in the silence of his chamber. Such ordinary, human failings. And she imagined herself consigned to hellfire for them.

When his breathing had steadied, he made himself return to the list.

~For sloth…

He made no attempt to decipher the punishment. Sloth? How could such a word even be applied to Erica, whose vibrant energy he had imagined impossible to contain? But she had tried to contain it. Tried again and again. The list of infractions filled the page and spilled onto the next; the punishments grew increasingly dire. He could not go on reading them. He could not look away.

The journal fanned shut around his first finger, catching where the stub of a pencil had been wedged deep between the pages. With trepidation, he opened there to find an unencrypted letter, composed with the dull implement that marked its place.

Dear Sir,

You will not, I hope, be greatly offended at my form of address. I find I have not the slightest notion of the proper salutation to use when writing to a duke. If such was ever a part of my education, I have long since forgot it.

Thanks to Captain Whitby, I now know what you imagined my journal contained and why you attempted to steal it from me last night. Only you can decide whether you have now found what you sought.

You will do me the favor of returning it when you are done. It contains things of value to me, if to no one else.

The note was signed with a perfectly ordinary E. How ridiculous that he should spare a pang of disappointment for its lack of embellishment, when the words of the letter itself were so stark. But it too was a symbol, like the half-filled circles and spirals and leaves. A symbol of who she had been when the journal began. And who she had become over the course of filling its pages.

Thanks in no small part to him and what she clearly regarded as his betrayal.

The journal slipped from his hands as he tipped his head back into the pillows and closed his eyes, utterly drained by what could not have been more than an hour’s work. In his years as an agent, he’d decoded and read far worse: blackmail, murder plots, brutal acts of war. He’d been deeply invested in uncovering the truth. But he hadn’t cared about their senders, he realized belatedly. Hadn’t worried for their intended recipients. Not in the way he cared and worried now. Before, he’d relied upon his intellect, his sense of right, his pride. Never before had he ceded any corner of his heart. But the author of this journal had found a place there, that much he could no longer deny.

Was that a sound? He opened his eyes to discover that, for the second time that day, he had called the object of his thoughts into being. Erica stood beside his bed.

Chapter 15

She took unexpected pleasure in the way his gaze cut away and color streaked across the sharp crests of his cheekbones. A visible reminder that he was not actually, entirely in control of everything.

“I’d get up,” he said, his fingers curling in the bed linens, drawing them higher over his chest, “but…”

But beneath that sheet, he was naked. She knew because she’d watched from behind as he’d walked from his dressing room—his undressing room—to the bed, his figure a marble sculpture come to life, all gleaming muscled curves and intriguing shadowed hollows. Up close now, she found herself unwillingly fascinated by the way candlelight highlighted the slopes and valleys of his broad shoulders, the notch at the base of his throat, the surprisingly dark hair that dusted his chest and led downward in a neat furrow that drew her attention to the very edge of the sheet and even lower.

Determinedly, she dragged her eyes back to his face. “I seem to recall telling you once before that you needn’t worry about observing the niceties with me. Standing when I stand and so forth. Now you know why.” She nodded toward her journal where it lay in his lap, only the thinnest of barriers between the deepest secrets of her heart and his— Heat crept into her own cheeks. “You’re a spy, aren’t you? And Whitby said you believed I was too. That’s why you came into my room last night. You were looking for my journal. For proof.”

He jerked his gaze to hers. “No. I mean, yes. I was looking for your journal. Because of my work and what Whitby had said. But the moment I laid a hand on it—no, the moment I set out for your chamber, I knew what I wanted to find. What I would find. Proof of your innocence.”

Several times, she had caught herself wondering whether he was telling the truth. A man in his position would have ample reason to perfect the art of lying. But his face now was open, his eyes fixed on hers, not trying to hide. She could see the pulse throbbing at the base of his throat. Though perhaps she shouldn’t, she so wanted to believe him.

“I suspect Whitby said a great many things,” he said after a moment, “or else you would not have”—one hand passed over the cover of her journal without touching it—“left this for me to find.” A pause, and now his eyes were searching, as if she had not revealed enough. As if she had not already revealed everything. “That was your intent, was is not?”

At first, she’d been angry, seeing him with it in his hands. When he’d found it lying in the conservatory, he hadn’t been able to restrain his curiosity. He’d taken the bait.

Then she’d debated with herself whether she was being reasonable—her barrister brother’s influence, no doubt. Tristan was an army officer, devoted to king and country, duty bound to investigate someone he believed to be a threat to either. Knowing as much, she had set out to trap him. The letter she’d written proved as much. Not exactly sporting.

In the end, she settled on anxious. Peering from the doorway of the sitting room, desperate to read him, even as he read what was hers. Trying to follow his thoughts as he moved from page to page, forward and back again. Studying the curve of his lips, up or down, watching for the precise moment when the notch of concentration in his brow morphed into a frown.

Now, however, standing inches from him, her anxiety had escalated to fear. Terror. He might be wearing nothing, but she was the one who’d been stripped bare. All her life, she’d worked to hide it, the internal chaos that threatened constantly to overwhelm her. She’d kept secrets from everyone—even the man she’d pledged to marry. But she’d rashly revealed them to Tristan. No secrets anymore.