Page 19 of Return to Satterthwaite Court

“In that case,” Hannah said. “I shall have to rely on Charles’s betrothed to be my guide.”

Charles gave a surprised laugh. “Have I missed something? The last I checked, I wasn’t betrothed to anyone.”

“You will be soon,” Hannah replied with unshakable confidence. “It’s all but guaranteed. Is it not, Mama?”

Philly smiled. “I don’t know about a guarantee, but it does seem likely that your brother might soon find himself engaged.”

Hannah flashed Charles a grin at having her suspicions endorsed by their mother.

“Pray don’t encourage her, Mother,” Charles begged. “I’ve already told you all that I don’t plan to marry until I’ve found a suitable estate.”

“When it comes to romance,” his father said, “a man’s plans have a way of going straight out the window. Especially if that man is young and has just returned from nearly a decade at sea.”

Charles scoffed.

“It’s true, love,” Philly said. “You have a good name and a good-sized fortune. The minute the snow melts, matchmaking mamas from Truro to Berwick-on-Tweed will be throwing their daughters at your head. Your father and I expect it. We only ask that, when you make your choice, you choose a lady worthy of your affections. Don’t make the mistake of tying yourself to the first pretty girl who crosses your path.”

Charles’s treacherous emotions once again conjured a vision of Kate. The way she’d looked at him so archly. As though she’d found him as intriguing as he’d found her.

A rare prickle of heat crept beneath his shirt collar. “You and father have nothing to worry about on that score.”

Arthur’s gaze sharpened. “Good God, lad, have you met someone already?”

“Absolutely not,” Charles replied quickly.

A little too quickly, perhaps.

He cleared his throat. “Was that the last package?”

His mother took pity on him. “No, indeed.” She rose and went to the tree. “There’s another here somewhere.” She rummaged beneath the branches. “Sara brought it in yesterday along with the post.”

Hannah's attention was temporarily diverted. “For me?” she inquired eagerly.

“No, dearest. It’s for Charles. Ah!” Philly’s face lit with a triumphant smile. “Here it is.” She withdrew a small parcel from beneath the tree. There was a cream-colored envelope tucked beneath its ribbons, with Charles’s name and direction written across the front in a spidery hand.

“Who is it from?” he asked as his mother passed it to him. The parcel was soft beneath the printed wrapping paper. It felt rather like an article of clothing.

Odd, that. Charles didn’t know anyone outside his family who would feel compelled to send him any gift, let alone something as intimate as clothing.

“I’ve no idea,” Philly said. “It didn’t have a return address. Whoever sent it desires to remain anonymous. Unless they’ve included their name inside the card?”

Charles tore open the envelope. It contained a letter on plain-woven stationery, written in the same spidery handwriting.

To Lieutenant Charles Heywood:

I write to you as an act of conscience at great risk to my own safety and beg you to tell no one of this letter. A grievous wrong has been done to your mother. You may yet make it right. Look for Mr. Arbogast on the eighth of January at ten o’clock in Gold Street, Tiverton. Employ the utmost discretion. You will know best how to proceed.

Signed,

One Who Wishes You Well

A peculiar feeling of uneasiness settled in Charles’s veins as he finished reading. What in blazes could be the meaning of it?

“Who is it from?” his mother asked. “Did they include a name?”

Refolding the letter, Charles tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat. He had no desire to alarm his family. “A well-wisher,” he replied. “Nobody important.”

“Open the gift,” Hannah urged.