Page 26 of Return to Satterthwaite Court

“Insinuations, as I told you.”

“I’d like to see it.”

“I think not.”

“Yet you blame me for writing it? Come.” She held out her gloved hand. “I demand to see that of which I’m being accused. It’s the least you owe me for making such assertions.”

Charles hesitated a fraction of a second. He’d collected the letter before they departed on their walk, tucking the envelope into the pocket of his overcoat. He’d meant to confront her with its contents. To wring an explanation out of her. But it increasingly appeared there was no explanation to be had. Not from Kate, in any event.

He reluctantly withdrew the letter and gave it to her.

“This isn’t my handwriting,” she said at once.

“How was I to know that?”

She shook the letter at him. “Did you not notice the difference between the style of writing in this note and the one I sent? Anyone could see they’re not the same.”

“I did notice,” he said. “However, at the time, I was more concerned with what the note contained than the style in which it was written.”

Kate turned her attention back to the letter, swiftly reading its contents. Her eyes widened. “Extraordinary,” she murmured. “What is it they’re implying?”

“I haven’t the slightest notion. Something sinister, I suspect.”

“Evidently. But what?” She looked up at him, her curiosity piqued. “Will you go to Tiverton on Monday to find out?”

Removing the letter from her fingers, Charles returned it to its envelope and tucked it back into the interior pocket of his coat. Naturally he was going to Tiverton. He wasn’t the sort of man to let a threat to his family go unchallenged. If Kate hadn’t written the letter, he’d have to find out who had.

But that was no business of hers.

“I doubt it,” he said vaguely.

“But you must!”

“Whether I do or don’t is surely no concern—”

“Have you no curiosity?”

His brows lowered. “About my mother? No. I don’t, frankly.”

Kate stepped closer to him, her skirts bowing against the front of his legs. She dropped her voice. “But it could be anything! A missing will. A lost heir. A secret—”

“You read novels, I take it.”

“I read everything, sir. I’m not ashamed of it.” She searched his face. “We’ve already established that you have no curiosity. Do you lack imagination as well?”

Heat prickled under Charles’s collar. She was too bold. Too close. Altogether too much. The fragrance of her perfume and the faint scent of starch from her petticoats was muddling his senses. “My imagination, or lack of it, has no bearing on the situation. Whatever this person intends—”

“Aha!” She pointed a gloved finger at him, her face brightening with triumph. “You admit, then, that I didn’t write it?”

Charles stared down at her. A frown worked its way between his brows. “I admit that it doesn’t seem as likely now as I thought it must be. For that, I can only beg your pardon.”

“Freely given. I don’t believe in holding grudges. However…” Turning away from him in a swirl of skirts, she resumed walking down the path. “I do love a mystery. And I’m part of this one now. I should like to see it through.”

Charles caught up with her in one stride. “On no account,” he said. “I told you, I’m not going to Tiverton.”

“Indeed, you did,” Kate replied cheerfully. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t go myself.”

Chapter Eight