Page 33 of Who’s That Earl

“One for Dunnock got mixed up with someone else’s post.”

“Oh? Whose post?”

“Mr. Donaldson’s.”

She wished it had been almost anyone else in the village. “And he returned it to the Thistle and Crown?” she asked, knowing the clergyman’s fear that someone might suspect him of frequenting the pub.

“Nay. Mrs. MacIntosh brought it back this afternoon.” Elspeth nodded toward the book Jane now held. “I tucked it inside to keep it dry.”

Instinctively, Jane’s fingers tightened against the leather-covered boards, trapping the letter more securely between the book’s pages. The younger woman frowned, evidently disappointed that Jane wasn’t showing more enthusiasm about the missive—or at least, curiosity.

Jane merely bowed her head. “Thank you, Elspeth.”

At that clear sign of dismissal, the young woman shrugged and hugged the new book to her, no doubt satisfied she’d done her duty and obviously pleased to have what she’d really come for. Mr. Ross wasn’t likely to get more work out of her tonight.

When she was gone, Jane returned to her desk. Her slippered footsteps were loud in the unusually quiet room. No snoring dogs—they’d gone on their nightly visit to Agnes in search of treats. Even the fire had died down too low to snap and hiss.

After she sat down, she laid the book carefully on the center of her desk, covering up Allora’s exploits, and stared at the reddish-brown cover for a long moment. The sweat of several pairs of hands had darkened the leather; the embossing was bisected by a circular stain, as from the bottom of a damp glass that had been set down upon it, probably at the pub, and one corner of the bottom board was tattered. All those signs of use warmed her heart, a reminder that the volume had made the rounds of Balisaig, just as other copies had been passed around other villages. The Necromancer’s Bride had raised hairs and disrupted sleep and won hearts throughout Britain. She needed to remember that, whenever doubt...threatened...

Stiffly, she extended one fingertip and lifted the cover.

The letter looked up at her, the blob of wax with which it had been sealed staring from the folded rectangle of parchment like a bloodshot eye. Snatching up her penknife from the tray, she slit the seal with a surprisingly steady hand, and then used the tip of the blade to unfold the pages, as if she feared the paper itself might have been soaked in something dangerous to the touch.

Whatever she had been expecting—a letter from the solicitor, informing her that the request to renew the lease on Dunnock had been denied, or another ill-written screed about the deleterious effects of gothic novels on young people’s, particularly young ladies’, brains—she was not prepared for what she found.

The short note had been composed of words clipped from newspapers and pasted to the page. The varied fonts marched across the paper in ragged, jagged lines that might have been comical if they hadn’t spelled out her—that is to say, Robin Ratliff’s—doom.

Closing her eyes, she withdrew her finger and let the cover of the book drop shut. Had this letter come from the same person as the last? She found herself almost hoping so, although the method of composition made it impossible to know for certain. Otherwise, she would have to face the fact that because she had dared to tell a few fanciful stories, not one, but two people wanted her dead.

Briefly, she considered casting it into the fire, book and all. To do otherwise would be to agree that the letter writer deserved her attention.

But he—or she—had it already. Turning the letter to ash would change nothing, would do nothing to quiet the fear hammering in her head and in her chest. Then again, what would?

“Thomas.”

The whisper came from deep within her. If she’d been sentimental, or a fool, she might have said her soul.

The sound of his name broke the spell of the silent room, and her eyes popped open. With a resolute grimace, she once more laid open the book and picked up the letter to study it. She suffered from no delusion that her books were for every reader. Criticism did not bother her. But this? Who would take the time to track down and cut out every word in this artful, awful threat? She turned the letter over to see whether the direction had been done in the same peculiar fashion. Who on earth had—?

The letter fluttered down onto the desk before she even realized it had slipped from her fingers. The same childish hand as the previous letter leaped from the center of the otherwise blank page. The very same...though with one important change. This letter hadn’t been addressed to Mrs. Higginbotham or forwarded from Mr. Canfield. She closed her eyes again, but the words were seared into her eyelids, as if written in flame.

Mr. Robin Ratliff

Dunnock Castle

Balisaig, Inverness, Scotland

Slowly, she opened her burning eyes and focused her gaze on the far side of the room. Sometime between the last letter and this, the writer had discovered where Ratliff—she—lived.

Her hands shook—she hadn’t the strength anymore to stop them—as she tore a scrap of paper off the bottom of the page on which Allora had fallen into the arms of her unlikely hero. She scrawled a few words across it and prayed they would be legible.

Could Thomas protect her from a madman? She didn’t know.

And if she didn’t believe in his promise of safety, what was it that she sought from him?

Mustering her courage, she rose and rang the bell.

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