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“I cannot believe you would think that of me,” she sniffed.
“That and more, dear aunt.”
She smiled too sweetly. “It is always nice to have one’s intelligence respected.”
“Your cunning is one thing I would never underestimate.”
She laughed. “Ah, I raised you well, James. I do love you.”
He sighed as he rose to his feet again. She was a crafty old thing, and she had no compunction about meddling in his life and occasionally turning it into a living hell, but he did love her. “I’ll return to my duties, then. We wouldn’t want anyone thinking I’m an incompetent estate manager.”
She shot him a look. Agatha never did appreciate sarcasm from persons other than herself.
James said, “You’ll have to alert me if you receive another note from the blackmailer.”
“The instant I get it,” she assured him.
He paused at the door. “I understand you’re having a gathering tomorrow?”
“Yes, a small garden party, why?” But before he could answer, she said, “Oh, of course. You don’t want to be recognized. Here, let me get you the guest list.” She pointed across the room. “Fetch me that box of papers on the desk.”
James did as she bid.
“Good thing I made you change your name, eh? Wouldn’t do for one of the servants to mention Mr. Sidwell.”
James nodded as his aunt rifled through her papers. He was generally known as Riverdale, and had been since he’d ascended to the title at age twenty, but his family name was common enough knowledge.
Agatha let out an “Aha!” and pulled out a sheet of cream-colored paper. Before she handed it over, she scanned it, murmuring, “Oh dear. I can’t imagine you don’t know at least one of these people.”
James read over the names, allowing his aunt to believe that his interest in the list lay with his desire to keep his identity a secret. The truth, however, was that he wanted to see the pool of men from whom he was supposed to choose a bloody husband for Elizabeth.
Sir Bertram Fellport. Drunk.
Lord Binsby. Inveterate gambler.
Daniel, Lord Harmon. Married.
Sir Christopher Gatcombe. Married.
Dr. Robert Gifford. Married.
Mr. William Dunford. Too rakish.
Captain Cynric Andrien. Too military.
“This won’t do,” James growled, just barely resisting the urge to crumple the paper into a pathetic little ball.
“Is there a problem?” Agatha inquired.
He looked up in surprise. He’d completely forgotten that Agatha was in the room. “Do you mind if I make a copy of this?”
“I can’t see why you would want to.”
“Just for my records,” he improvised. “It is very important to keep accurate records.” In actuality, James was of the belief that the less put into writing, the better. There was nothing like written documents to incriminate a person.
Agatha shrugged and held out a piece of paper. “You’ll find a quill and ink in the desk near the window.”
A minute later, James had neatly copied the guest list and was waiting for the ink to dry. He walked back to his aunt, saying, “There is always the possibility that the blackmailer is among your guests.”
