Page 78 of The Duke of a Thousand Desires

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He insistedthat four of his sturdiest footmen accompany Ravenna and her aunt on their shopping excursion. Ravenna objected as he followed her downstairs after breakfast.

“The indignity of it,” she said, shaking her head. “Browsing for shifts and unmentionables in the presence of four young men, who shall thenceforth know whether I am wearing French pantalettes beneath my frocks.”

He stood firm. “Do not attempt to provoke my possessive inclinations in this matter. The fact is that I would rather see you clad in only a handkerchief than see you come to harm.”

“Only you, Simon, could make such an admission.”

“’An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.’”

She buttoned on her gloves. “Says he who has become a Mayfair housebreaker and my constant gaoler.”

He accompanied her outside to the front steps. The quartet of footmen awaited her in silence on the pavement. “Purchase something delicate from me,” he said under his breath. “I am partial to sheer white lace.”

“And for Aunt Glynnis? Do you have a particular undergarment in mind? Would you like to see her in blush silk stockings and diamond-studded garters?”

He winced at the suggestion. “Do not talk to strangers.” He cast a covert glance at his footmen who, he just remembered, had been hired by a housekeeper with a predilection for muscular young men. “Do not talk to anyone, in fact, unless it is necessary.”

“Simon.” She patted his arm in dismissal. “Read a political pamphlet. Write one. Go for a walk or visit Heath.”

He shook his head in surrender. “Enjoy your afternoon.”

Indeed, she had not been gone two hours than his vigilance proved warranted. He, Rhys, and Heath had been digging through a collection of Bruxton’s stolen correspondences, most related to bloodstock, some belated expressions of sympathy for Susannah’s death, when the butler and three housemaids appeared. Each carried a salver brimming with the post.

“What on earth?” Rhys said, looking slightly unkempt from a night in his agile lover’s arms.

“Leave them for Ravenna,” Simon said. “She and her maid spend a few hours each morning replying to acquaintances.”

Heath removed a cigar from his vest pocket. “Don’t you ever read your letters?”

“Of course, I do, but I’ve fallen behind since the wedding. Timpkins weeds through the bulk of them first. These are liable to be congratulations. Or invites, which I’d prefer not to acknowledge.”

Heath stared down at the table. “One should never ignore a written correspondence. You might have received a fortune from a long-lost relative. Or another note from a secret admirer.”

“He’s right,” Rhys said. He picked up a sealed letter and held it to his forehead like a seer. “We wouldn’t want a message from one of your old paramours to upset my sister, even though she can stand up to any rival.”

“She has no rivals.” Simon pushed aside Bruxton’s portfolio and reached into the pile of letters. “I daresay she’s the one collecting admirers.” He opened one of the missives and read it aloud. “’Would his grace care to participate in a rowing race?’ No, he wouldn’t. ’Is her grace interested in attending a lecture given by Dr. Angus Fraser on a new method of breeding sheep?’ Positively not. Timpkins and Isolde should sort this out. It’s an utter waste of time.”

“That one.” Heath motioned with his unlit cigar to a lightly inked letter that protruded from the pile. “It’s not franked and the seal bears no insignia.”

Simon examined the missive in question. Blue-black ink. A common vermillion seal melted into a blob without a crest or initials. “I see nothing else remarkable about it.”

“Open it,” Heath said, standing to light his cigar at the fireplace. “Someone had it slipped into the post.”

Simon broke the seal and felt as if a blizzard had blown into the room. A ballad had been clipped from a book and pasted to the paper. “How could you have known?”

“I have a suspicious nature. What does it say?”

“’When a lovely woman stoops to folly

And finds too late that men betray,

What charm can soothe her melancholy,

What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,