Page 20 of Return to Satterthwaite Court

With a burgeoning sense of foreboding, Charles unwrapped the parcel. Given the contents of the letter, it could be anything. But on folding back the tissue paper, he discovered that the mysterious gift was only a folded piece of crochet-work fashioned in a soft red yarn.

A scarf? A muffler? It was impossible to tell.

He lifted it out to inspect it.

Philly inhaled a surprised breath. “My goodness. It’s a crocheted dog muzzle!”

The four Heywoods leaned forward in unison to examine the offending article.

“What a strange thing to give someone,” Hannah said. “It’s not meant for one of our dogs, is it?”

“I doubt that. It doesn’t look very sturdy,” Arthur observed. “More for show than for substance, I’d guess.”

“Someone’s idea of a jest, perhaps?” Philly suggested.

Hannah craned her head to peer into the box. “Look, Charles! There’s another note inside.”

Charles’s brows knit. There was indeed another note. This one was in an even smaller envelope. He opened it. The writing within was as bold as the script on the previous letter had been spidery.

For your rare Spanish dog, until he learns to recognize the difference between a carriage wheel, a skirt, and my fingers.

And suddenly, Charles understood exactly where the gift had come from.

It was from Kate, his blue-eyed Bond Street lady. Some sort of odd jest, as his mother had suggested, undertaken for Kate’s own amusement. A crocheted dog muzzle of all things!

In other circumstances, Charles might have laughed. She was teasing him. Making sport of the fact she’d been bitten.

But there was nothing funny about the first letter she’d sent.

Quite the reverse.

There was an implied threat about it. Something vaguely malicious.

“Is it from a lady?” Hannah asked, looking over his shoulder. “It looks like a lady’s handwriting.”

Charles quickly folded the note away, tucking into his pocket along with the other letter. “Yes,” he said. “I suspect so.”

His parents exchanged a weighted look.

“Who is she, my love?” Philly asked.

A devil, Charles was tempted to reply. She must be to have written the first letter.

But he had no intention of involving his parents in the affair.

“I don’t know her,” he answered truthfully. “Nor do I wish to.”

Chapter Six

Somerset, England

January 1844

“How did you say you know these people again?” Jack asked his sister as their carriage rolled up the drive of the sprawling granite house.

“I don’t know them,” Kate admitted.

Jack’s head jerked to look at her. “What?”