Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels;
Dear is the helpless creature we defend
Against the world;
Signed,
Your Friend and Servant
Herfriend and servant? Henry, Duke of Hartwell, served no man, but for her, he would abase himself with that salutation.
Overwhelmed by the emotion of Henry’s gesture, Fleur felt tears sting at her eyes, the heat and confusion blending inside her.
This book, this cherished treasure entrusted to her by Henry, was the reason Fleur couldn’t bring herself to care about being on the front page of gossip columns.
This was the only thing she wanted to read. The only words she cared about.
A quiet murmur at Fleur’s shoulder snapped her from her daydream.
“Miss?”
Heart beating fast, she slammed her book closed. Her maid, Mary, as loyal as any McQuoid elders, was like another protective, loving second mother. Discreetly, she handed over a note.
“This arrived for you several moments ago,” she spoke quietly.
Fleur accepted the small ivory scrap.
Creasing her brow, Fleur glanced at the unfamiliar seal and then quickly looked up.
No one attended her and Mary. The McQuoids were still caught up in how the London papers had treated Fleur. Their discourse had taken a rather bloodthirsty and even rowdier turn.
Fleur didn’t waste any time. She slipped her finger under the unfamiliar seal, unfolded the note, and read.
Dear Lady Fleur McQuoid,
Pray, allow me to impart that I am in possession of intelligence which I believe you shall be most anxious to receive.
I have the honor to be, Madam, Your Ladyship’s most obedient and humble servant,
PR
Heart pounding loudly, Fleur looked around. Her family present kept up their vociferous defense.
“My lady?”
Fleur blinked, looking up into the anxious eyes of her maid. “Thank you, Mary. That will be all.”
Offering a hesitant curtsy, Mary hastened from the room.
An odd sensation settled in Fleur’s chest; a heavy, sinking pressure that threatened to bring her down and drown her.
Numb inside, Fleur refolded Mr. Rundell’s letter and buried it inside her book.
As soon as she did, it struck Fleur—the absolute wrongness of putting the note that would lead her to the man she gave her virtue to in the pages of this precious work Henry bestowed her.
With quivering fingers, she eased herDon Juanopen enough to catch the broken Rundell and Bridge’s seal and tried for a different reaction—the correct one.
Eager excitement.
