Page 62 of Truly, Madly, Daring

―Excerpt of a letter from Mr Gabriel Knight to Mr Inigo DeBeauvoir.

18thof February 1845, The Black Bull, The Port of Folkestone, Kent.

Kilbane looked up as his secretary hurried into the room. Gilbert Berrycloth was short and slender and looked as though he’d only just begun shaving, though he was actually older than Kilbane himself. His fragile looks were deceiving, however, and hid a formidable will, an iron constitution and—when given sufficient incentive—an arsenal of foul language that could rival any member of her majesty’s navy on their best, or worst, day. Just as well, Kilbane thought with amusement, as working for him required all those skills, often at the same time.

“All is packed and ready, my lord. Unless, perhaps—”

“No.”

“But only consider—”

“No.”

“I just thought that—”

“No.”

Berrycloth let out a despondent sigh. “I know it is not my place to say so, my lord.”

Kilbane snorted. “When did that ever stop you?”

The man tugged at his waistcoat and pushed his spectacles back up his nose, a nervous tic to which Kilbane was well used.

“Well, I just can’t imagine being in her position. A young bride, abandoned by her husband the moment he said, ‘I do’.” He adopted a mournful expression and shook his head. “And she’s such a lovely thing.”

“You ought to have said so sooner,” Kilbane remarked, lip curling. “You could have married her.”

Berrycloth narrowed his eyes. “You don’t mean that. You know you don’t.”

“Devil take you, man,” he snapped. “Do stop being so damned tedious. The chit chased a rat into a hole and then acted surprised when she got bitten. It’s her own damned fault. For once, I am entirely blameless, and I’m sick and tired of everyone making out like I did something wrong!”

“I did not say that you did wrong in marrying her, or that it was your fault, only—”

“Enough!” Kilbane stood and stalked to the window. The sooner he was away from England, the better. There was nothing and no one keeping him here. The one man he’d considered a friend had made it clear he wanted no more to do with him and the only things that had ever given him any satisfaction had lost any lingering appeal, and God above, he was tired of it all. So damned tired.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Berrycloth said, all stiff and formal, which meant Kilbane would suffer retribution by a thousand cuts over the coming week. “I shall leave you to finish your breakfast in peace. If it should be of any interest to you, there is a letter here. From your wife.”

And after setting off that last, perfectly timed explosion, the man left him alone.

Kilbane swung around to see the door closing, and the offending letter on the table next to his coffee cup.

“A pox on the bloody interfering female!”

He glared at it, though why he should be so thoroughly overwrought by the sight of the thing, he did not know. She’d said she would write to him, and so she had. God knew he believed her now when she said she was going to do something. Experience had taught him that much. Never in his life had he met anyone so wilful and reckless. Marrying him was bad enough, but frankly, he was astonished she’d lived this long. He could only imagine the number of scrapes, holes, ponds, and cliffs she’d had to be dragged out of or away from since the moment she could walk.

Well, it didn’t matter. He’d told her wouldn’t read it and he wasn’t about to. He’d throw it on the fire. Just as he’d said he would.

He turned his back on the vexing article and stared out of the window at the comings and goings before him, the early morning world going about its day, but his mind was still fixed on the bedamned bloody letter. He would not give her the satisfaction of reading it. No doubt she would attempt to make him feel guilty for leaving her, but little did she know he was doing her a kindness. She was a silly child with notions about him that were entirely wrong-headed and downright insane, but such foolish naivety would end up hurting her. He would hurt her. By accident, or design if he was in an especially bleak mood. Staying away was a mercy, little did she know it. He knew the only people who would notice he’d gone would cheer about it. With good reason too, he thought with a bitter smile.

Kilbane turned away from the window and sat down again to finish his coffee, ignoring the letter. He’d put it on the fire in a moment. He pulled a face on discovering the coffee was cold, and cursed Berrycloth anew. Instead, he picked up the book he’d been reading, finding his place, and reading the same page three times before he gave up and threw the wretched thing down on the table in disgust.

“Bollocks,” he muttered furiously, and picked up the letter.

19th of February 1845, Cawston Hall, Cawston, Norfolk.

Emmeline closed the bedroom door and made her way to the stairs for breakfast, fully aware she was wearing a disgustingly smug smile and not caring a whit. Now, she understood the way Alana had gazed at Harry when they’d got married. Life would be entirely perfect if only the duke and Lord Cecil would go away. Well, and if she could stop worrying about the possibility of her husband losing his mind. Oh, and the fact he was too concerned about that to sire a child….

Her smile faded abruptly, and she gave herself a mental shake. No. The duke and Wrexham’s vile half-brother would be dealt with, and she was by no means convinced about her husband’s future. So, as far as she was concerned, everything would be perfect until she had incontrovertible proof she was wrong. There was no other way to carry on. With that little breakdown averted, Emmeline carried on her way, only to be stopped in her tracks as a deep woof echoed up the stairs from the great hall. Surely her father had only been joking about guard dogs?