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Elizabeth thought that with all that had happened, he wouldn’t still be able to make her blush, but apparently she was wrong. “Just open it,” she mumbled.
He set a candle on the nightstand and crawled into bed beside her. When he didn’t move quickly enough to open the envelope, Elizabeth grabbed it from him and yanked it open. Inside, she found another envelope, with the following words across the front:
You’re cheating, aren’t you? Do you really want to open this before you’ve reconciled?
Elizabeth clapped a hand over her mouth, and James didn’t even bother to silence the chuckles that welled up in his throat. “Suspicious, isn’t she?” he murmured.
“Probably with good reason,” Elizabeth admitted. “We did almost open it before we…”
“Reconciled?” he supplied with a devilish grin.
“Yes,” she mumbled, “exactly.”
He motioned to the envelope in her hands. “Are you going to open it?”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Proceeding with a bit more decorum this time, she lifted the envelope flap and pulled out a delicately scented sheet of white paper, folded neatly in half. Elizabeth unfolded it, and, heads burrowed together in the candlelight, they read:
My dearest children,
Yes, it’s true. My dearest children. That is how I think of you, after all.
James, I shall never forget the day I first brought you to Danbury House. You were so suspicious, so unwilling to believe that I might love you for yourself. Every day I hugged you, trying to show you what it means to be family, and then, one day, you hugged me back, and said, “I love you, Aunt Agatha.” And from that moment on, you were as a son to me. I would give my life for you, but I suspect you know that.
Elizabeth, you entered my life when the last of my children married and left me. From the first day, you have taught me what it means to be brave and loyal and true to one’s beliefs. During these past few years it has been my delight to watch you blossom and grow. When you first came to Danbury House, you were so young and green and easy to fluster. But somewhere along the way, you developed a quiet poise and wit that any young woman would envy. You don’t fawn over me, and you never allow me to bully you; that is probably the greatest gift a woman of my sort can receive. I would give all that I own to call you my daughter, but I suspect you, too, know that.
So was it so very strange that I should dream of bringing you—my two favorite people—together? I knew I could not do it through conventional means. James would certainly resist any attempts on my part at matchmaking. He is a man, after all, and therefore stupidly proud. And I knew that I could never convince Elizabeth to travel to London for a season at my expense. She would never participate in any endeavor that would take so much time away from her family.
And so my little deception was born. It started with a note to James. You have always wanted to rescue me as I once rescued you, my boy. It was easy enough to devise a blackmail plot. (I must digress for a moment to assure you that the plot was a complete fabrication, and all of my children are legitimate and were, of course, sired by the late Lord Danbury. I am not the sort of woman who strays from her marital vows.)
I was fairly certain that if I could arrange for the both of you to meet, you would fa
ll in love (I am rarely wrong about these sorts of things), but just to plant ideas in Elizabeth’s head, I located my old copy of HOW TO MARRY A MARQUIS. A sillier book was never written, but I did not know how else to start her pondering marriage. (In case you are wondering, Lizzie, I forgive you for stealing the book from my library. You were meant to do so, of course, and you may keep it as a memento of your courtship.)
That is my entire confession. I shan’t ask your forgiveness since, of course, I have nothing which begs it. I suppose some might take offense with my methods, and normally I would not dream of orchestrating such a compromising situation, but it was clear that the two of you were far too stubborn to see the truth any other way. Love is a precious gift, and you would do well not to toss it away over a bit of foolish pride.
I do hope you enjoy the hunting lodge; you will find that I have anticipated your every need. Please do feel free to spend the night; contrary to popular belief, I do not control the weather, but I am putting in a request with the gentleman upstairs for a violent rainstorm—the sort in which one would never venture outside.
You may thank me at your wedding. I have already procured a special license in your names.
Fondly,
Agatha, Lady Danbury
Elizabeth’s mouth fell open. “I can’t believe it,” she breathed. “She engineered everything.”
James rolled his eyes. “I can believe it.”
“I can’t believe she left that bloody little book out, knowing that I would take it.”
He nodded. “I can believe that, as well.”
She turned to him, her lips still parted in amazement. “And she even has a special license.”
“That,” he admitted, “I can’t believe. But only because I obtained one as well, and I’m a bit surprised that the archbishop would issue a duplicate.”
Lady Danbury’s letter slipped from Elizabeth’s hand and fluttered down to the bedsheets. “You did?” she whispered.
James took one of her hands and raised it to his lips. “When I was in London, searching for Agatha’s bogus blackmailer.”
