Page 43 of The Lost Letter: A Victorian Romance

“Miss Button was under strict instructions from Sir Roderick Stafford to burn any letters that Miss Stafford wrote to you.”

Sebastian had expected something in that vein. The letters would have had to have been destroyed, either by the maid or by Sir Roderick himself. Even so, he was shaken by the enormity of the offense. All those precious letters. Perfumed. Sealed with a thousand kisses. Letters he had waited for so desperately. “And so she burned them,” he said quietly. “Nearly one hundred bloody letters.”

“Miss Button was very loyal to Sir Roderick,” Milsom replied. “To a point.”

Sebastian heard a glimmer of self-satisfaction in his former batman’s voice. He looked up sharply, meeting Milsom’s eyes again in the mirror. “What the devil is that supposed to mean?”

“Miss Button is getting on in years, my lord,” Milsom said. “She is consumed with worries over her impending retirement. A lady’s maid does not make enough to put by, you understand. Miss Button has often been forced to secure the funds for her retirement cottage in Hampshire through other methods.”

“Other methods?”

“Blackmail, my lord. It seems that Miss Button has long been in the habit of collecting various love letters and other incriminating notes from her employers and putting them away until they might be of use to her.”

Sebastian turned slowly in his seat to face his valet, an arrested expression in his dark eye. “She would not have kept Miss Stafford’s letters,” he said. “Sir Roderick is dead and Miss Stafford hasn’t the means to silence a blackmailer. There was nothing to be gained. This Button creature would know that.”

“Exactly so, my lord,” Milsom agreed. “Which is why she was willing to give this to me for a mere fifty pounds.” At that, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and extracted a small, faded rectangle of paper.

Sebastian’s mouth went dry. “Is that…?”

“This, my lord, is the only letter of Miss Stafford’s that Miss Button had kept. It is, I understand, the first letter that Miss Stafford wrote to you and the one that Miss Button deemed the most valuable. That she had not destroyed it in the last two years is the merest chance.”

“The first letter?” Sebastian asked hoarsely. He reached out and took it with a hand that was suddenly damnably unsteady.

“The first letter, my lord. According to Miss Button.”

Sebastian stared down at the gently swirling script that made up the direction. Sylvia Stafford’s handwriting. “Did you read it?”

“No, my lord.”

Sebastian raised the letter to his nose and inhaled. He could smell it, very faintly. Violets. He tightened his fingers around it. “You have outdone yourself, Milsom.”

“Thank you, sir. Will you be needing anything else this morning?”

“No. That will be all.”

Still beaming at his triumph, Milsom bowed and swiftly left the room.

Sebastian looked at the letter for a long time, his heart pounding in his chest and his pulse racing. It had been closed with a blob of melted red sealing wax that had long since been broken—no doubt by the blackmail-minded lady’s maid. He was almost afraid to open it, but he was no coward. And whatever Sylvia Stafford had written him three years ago could have no real effect on the present, could it? They were only words now. Harmless, meaningless words.

He unfolded the letter and began to read.

My Dearest Sebastian,

I hope this letter finds you safe and well and pray that the overland journey to India was not too difficult for you and your men. Did your new horse settle? Or has he proved as temperamental as you feared? Captain Fellowes told me the sad tale of how your last horse perished in battle. I was grieved to hear it and know you must have been doubly grieved to lose such a fine partner. I wish with all my heart that your new horse will be as valiant and steadfast as the last.

As you see, I have asked after you, even humbling myself before the captain, who I know thinks me no better than a silly chit who has lost her head over a dashing cavalry colonel. I have tried to remain mysterious, but it is becoming very difficult. Lord Goddard is pressing his suit and I wish I might tell him why I must reject him.

My darling, I have been thinking of you often since last we met. There is so much more I wish I had told you that night in the garden. At the moment it seemed as if I had already said too much. You mustn’t declare yourself! Penelope warned me. He will run far and fast to escape you! Foolishly, I listened to her. I believed that I did not dare tell you all that was in my heart. Now you are gone and despite all my prayers for your safety, I realize that there is every chance I may never see you again. What if something should happen to you without your ever knowing the full extent of my affections?

I love you. There, I have said it. I do not mind to be the first to do so. I love you. There is no one else in my heart. There has never been anyone else. And I hope when you return we might be married. It needn’t take a week of your leave. We do not even have to call the banns. We can be married by special license and then I will return with you to India where I will happily follow the drum. I do not know why you did not ask me in the garden. I thought you would. Every moment I thought it and when you did not, I feared I had done something wrong. Was I shameless? Should I not have kissed you? You must write and tell me, Sebastian. I know you will say exactly the right thing to put my mind at ease.

I can think of nothing but seeing you again. What shall I do with myself now you are gone? There is no happiness to be had anywhere. How can I delight in wearing pretty gowns if you will not see them? How can I take pleasure in dancing when you are not my partner? What joy is there in singing when you are not there to listen?

My love, you must endeavor to stay out of danger. Do not attempt anything heroic. I would far rather you come home in one piece than earn some silly medal or promotion. Not that I would not be terribly proud of you on either account, but I cannot bear to contemplate losing you. I have come to think of you as the only solid, reliable thing in my world.

Papa says I must continue to attend the parties here in town and let the Viscount Goddard drive me in the park on occasion. He says I must, on no account, look as if I am pining. But I am pining, Sebastian. Desperately.

I close this letter with a thousand sweet kisses. When I write again, I shall send you one thousand more. I have an endless supply of them for you, my love. Pray keep safe and come back to me.