Page 7 of The Lost Letter: A Victorian Romance

“Such a scandal, you know,” Julia went on. “Miss Cavendish wrote me that most of Miss Stafford’s friends cut her acquaintance. Though I do not know why she must become a governess. Surely she had relatives who might have taken her in.”

Why the devil had she agreed to come here? Had she learned he was the earl now? Assumed that she might ensnare him as easily as she had before? A rush of soul-crushing bitterness surged through him. Of course she must have done. Julia had told her about the lock of hair. No doubt she believed he was still in love with her. Had assumed that he would be grateful for any crumbs of attention she scattered his way.

It would serve her right if he did marry her.

The mere thought of it stirred something deep inside of him. Something that had lain dormant for years.

Would such a bloodless marriage be so terrible? He was two and thirty. It was past time he settled down to the business of producing an heir. And Sylvia Stafford was surely as good a candidate for the next Countess of Radcliffe as any woman. Did it matter that she had cruelly shunned him once? That any interest she might have in him now was purely mercenary? It should not matter in the least. Marriage was a business transaction, nothing more. And he had wealth enough now to provide her with anything she wanted. Fine gowns, servants, even a carriage and cattle of her own if she wished it. In exchange, she would bear his children. And he would have her near. To look at. To admire. To listen to. Perhaps, in time, he might even persuade her to care for him.

Persuade her? Hell and damnation! How pathetic had he become? He stroked his thumb reflexively over the lock of hair in his hand. It would be better to send them both away. And so he would have done if Miss Stafford had not seen him. But she had seen him. At his very worst, too. Not only scarred and disfigured, but unshaven and in his shirtsleeves.

He recalled how carefully he had once dressed whenever he knew that he was to see her. Polished boots, pressed trousers, and an impeccably cut coat. He had always known he was not handsome, especially when compared to her other beaux, but he had never allowed himself to appear before her in less than immaculate attire.

And now, for her to have seen him like this! He clenched his fist in silent anguish. Granted, it had only been one second. Two at the most. Hardly enough time for her to have made a thorough inventory of all his faults.

But she had not screamed, he reminded himself. And she had not swooned. She had merely stood there, clutching her bonnet in her hands and staring at him.

“I daresay Miss Stafford wants to wash and change from our journey,” Julia said. “And then afterward we shall take tea in the drawing room. Unless you will join us. In which case I shall have it brought to the library. It is darker there at this time of day and perhaps you will not feel so much on display.” She gave him a hopeful smile. “You will join us, won’t you Sebastian? I know Miss Stafford is simply longing to see you.”

Sebastian caught Milsom looking at him with an expression of poorly disguised encouragement. He cursed bitterly. “The library, then,” he growled. “In half an hour.”

Legs trembling beneath her, Sylvia sank down on the edge of the bed as the housekeeper withdrew from the guest chamber, shutting the door behind her. She felt breathless and ever so slightly terrified. The sight of Sebastian Conrad had shaken her to the core. He was so vastly different from in her memory. And it was not just the scars, as terrible as they were. There was something feral about him now. Something primitive and dangerous. Had war done that to him? She supposed so. Both that and excruciating physical pain.

She fully expected Lady Harker to come to her room and tell her that they were departing immediately. Before the door to Sebastian’s apartments had closed, she had had a glimpse of something very like rage transforming his features. Instead, only a short time later, Lady Harker entered Sylvia’s room and cheerfully informed her that Sebastian would be joining them for tea downstairs in the library in just half an hour.

“I should not have surprised him in such a way,” she admitted. “He absolutely detests surprises and he will lose his temper. But he is not truly angry, I promise you. Indeed, he is so very pleased that you have come, Miss Stafford.”

“He did not look very pleased,” Sylvia said frankly.

Lady Harker gave an overbright smile. “Oh, you cannot judge my brother on his appearance. He always looks as if he is about to throttle someone.” She backed toward the door. “Now I must dash if I am to be washed and changed in time for tea. But you needn’t wait for me, Miss Stafford. When you are ready, go on ahead to the library. I shall meet you there directly.”

Before Sylvia could think to ask where the library was located, Lady Harker was gone.

She sighed, forcing herself to rise and begin her own ablutions. Not that there was any way to adequately prepare for seeing Sebastian Conrad again after all of these years. Indeed, there was a small part of her that would rather have heard Lady Harker say that they were returning at once to London. That Sebastian had refused to see her at all.

It was not only that he had looked so alarming, both disheveled and in a scandalous state of undress. It was that in spite of his appearance—in spite of the way he had glared at her so ferociously—she had had the unreasonable urge to go to him, to cradle his face in her hands as she had done once before, and to cover him with kisses.

It had struck her then that she must still be in love with him.

It was a lowering thought. She had fought so hard to rid herself of the painful emotion. But perhaps such feelings never truly died? Or perhaps they could not be properly put to rest until she confronted him? Until she finally found out why he had abandoned her so heartlessly?

She had a suspicion, of course. Indeed, she very much feared his disappearance from her life had been her own fault.

“The marriage mart is a sport for gentlemen,” Penelope Mainwaring had told her three years ago. “The more elusive the prey, the more doggedly they pursue it. But if you are one of those ridiculous females who declares herself after only one dance or who allows herself to be ravished in a closed carriage—well!—what sport is there in that? Only look at Miss Caterham’s conduct last season. She told Baron Waitley that she adored him. The silly cow! Why, Waitley could not run far enough or fast enough.”

Penelope had been her best friend since her come out and Sylvia had always endeavored to heed her advice. On this occasion, however, she had doubted. “But surely there must be some gentlemen for whom it is not a sport,” she had argued. “Reticent gentlemen who desire a word or a sign from the lady they admire. Some sort of reassurance that their feelings are returned.”

“Try it and see,” Penelope had warned.

Sylvia’s cheeks burned to think of how spectacularly she had disregarded her former friend’s advice.

But all of that was in the past, she reminded herself as she poured a ewer of water into the washbasin. She was no longer the same foolish girl who had kissed Sebastian Conrad in the Mainwaring’s garden. She was a sober, levelheaded woman of the world. A woman more than capable of dealing with a little unpleasantness.

After washing and drying her hands and face, she changed into a simple, silk and woolen day dress with a narrow, white cambric collar and long, cambric-cuffed sleeves. She brushed the tangles from her thick hair, twisting it back at the nape of her neck and securing it with a handful of pins. The effect was very different from the beribboned frocks and upswept curls she had often worn in London so long ago. She looked like a governess now, she thought.

She was a governess.

Stiffening her spine, she left her room, making her way down the richly carpeted hall and two flights of marble stairs. A nervous housemaid directed her to the first floor library. Sylvia took a deep breath and entered.