Page 43 of The Marquess’s Masked Archer

In her usual spot behind the Coliseum, Sylvie watched from under her hood as a crowd grew along the wooden bleachers next to the demonstration lawn. Mr. Miller went back and forth, setting up the targets and the stool he would sit on for the big ending trick shot. They’d trained a young man who ran errands around the resort to do Mr. Miller’s part in the finale so he could take over Miles’s spot.

Miles. Sylvie’s heart ached with missing him. She’d imagined the previous week that the intense hurt overshadowing everything else would fade soon enough, but there was no sign of that happening. She drew a deep, cleansing breath and did her best to put it out of her mind. She didn’t want to be distracted and run any risk of harming Mr. Miller during the show.

But the moment she stepped away from the building and toward her starting position, thoughts of Miles fled to the back of her mind. There, front and center in the stands, was a large group of people she recognized all too well—Leila and Adelle, Millicent Howard, Mr. Greene, Mr. Kinsey, and even the widow Templeton, among too many others. Just about the only people missing from the usual high society group were Lucy and her entourage. And Miles, of course. Matilda sat by Mr. Kinsey, her eyes wide enough for Sylvie to see the worry filling them from her hiding spot.

A surge of panic stole Sylvie’s breath. It might be her last show for the season—possibly forever—but she still needed to protect her identity. These people knew her as well as anyone in society. If her father and Lucy had figured out her identity, anyone in the audience could do the same.

And to make matters worse, there, behind Mr. Kinsey and Matilda, sat her parents. Father’s gaze darted around the area as if he was looking for a way to warn her and Mother. Her mother sat with arms crossed, appearing unhappy to be at the show. Why were they present? Sylvie hadn’t imagined anything would convince her mother to travel to the resort. She wasn’t the type to enjoy amusements meant for the masses. Had Lucy told her what Sylvie had been doing all summer?

The urge to turn around and abandon this foolhardy idea hit Sylvie with physical force. She took a step back. But then she stopped and closed her eyes. She envisioned her future as it looked right then. Mother would marry her off to the first man who asked, probably Mr. Greene, and probably before Christmas. Sylvie would then be stuck forever in the role of dutiful wife, performing a different sort of show for the rest of her days. Instead of releasing arrows from her bow, she would play the part of the perfect hostess. She would pretend to be proud of and happy with her husband. She might enjoy the years of having children under their roof, but then, when they all grew, married, and had homes of their own, what would she have left?

The memory of this summer might be all she had. She refused to fail in completing the job she’d agreed to. There was still a chance her identity wouldn’t become public knowledge as easily as she feared.

Sylvie once again fixed her posture and marched forward, forcing everything else out of her mind and keeping her eyes averted from the society group. Her arrows flew straight and true. Her theatrics impressed the crowd, as shown by their wild applause. The final trick was a success, the arrow thunking into the target—albeit slightly off center—without ruffling a single hair on Mr. Miller’s head. And Sylvie rushed away as soon as the shot landed in hopes she wouldn’t have to encounter anyone she knew.

It wasn’t until she arrived home that Sylvie finally allowed herself to release the pent-up emotions from the performance. The crying left her feeling drained, along with mottling her cheeks and rimming her eyes in red. Even after Delia’s best efforts, her resulting appearance was rough enough that Mother pursed her lips when Sylvie descended the stairs before the garden party.

Mother stepped up close to Sylvie, turning Sylvie’s face this way and that before straightening the lace trim on her white gown. After another long look, Mother adjusted the tilt of Sylvie’s beribboned straw hat too. “Goodness, but you do look a mess. Can’t Delia do anything more with your complexion?”

No understanding or compassion for the obvious fact that her daughter had been in tears. Only concern for how Sylvie might look to their guests. Resigned more than ever, Sylvie forced a smile. “It will clear up before most of the guests arrive. You needn’t worry about your daughter bringing any shame on you.”

Her tone must have been sharper than Sylvie intended because Mother flinched. Her gaze roamed Sylvie’s face for a moment, almost as if she considered a compassionate response, after all. But then she drew herself up straight. “Sylvia, you won’t speak that way to me. I care about you, but I don’t understand this moping over a man who left. There are plenty more here who are interested in you and are more eligible than a suspected murderer. I’m thinking of your future. Something I’m not sure you care about in the least after all your clandestine activities this summer.”

Sylvie swallowed hard. She had to be referring to the archery show. But Mother’s face was clear and smooth, unmarred by anger. Maybe she didn’t know, after all. Sylvie wasn’t about to reveal it in case she didn’t. “Of course I care. I only want to choose for myself. I’ve been trying to tell you that for months.”

“Like you chose to risk your reputation by going out and getting a job at that resort? By putting yourself on display for everyone who comes through Cedar Point? I don’t think those are the choices of a young lady qualified to make her own decisions.”

Resignation washed over Sylvie, taking her will to fight with it. “Did Lucy tell you?”

“She did, although I suspected you were up to no good since June.”

So this was how it ended. Sylvie should have known from the start that her wild plans wouldn’t succeed. As Mother said, she hadn’t proven to be very competent at choosing her own path. And Mother didn’t even know about the way Sylvie had pushed Miles away.

Seeing Sylvie’s surrender, Mother grasped her hand, tone softening. “You might think I’m unaware, but I know you’ve had an admirer writing to you this summer. I have a bit of good news for you. I know his identity. He’ll be at the party, and if he declares himself, I hope you’ll keep an open mind and consider the option.”

Shock froze Sylvie in place for a moment. Her mother not only knew about the secret admirer, but also knew who he was? Sylvie started to ask one of the multitude of questions swirling in her mind, but the butler chose that moment to announce the arrival of their first guests. She pressed her lips together and put on her bland, neutrally pleasant mask while following her mother outside to begin the afternoon’s events. But all the while, her mind raced, wondering which man might be her admirer.

She hadn’t heard from him in several weeks. At first, it had almost been a relief. The guilt of allowing him to continue his pursuit while she pined for Miles had torn at her conscience. But as time went on, she worried she might have hurt the author, anyway. She had never been able to bring herself to answer any of his letters, despite the address provided. Had he finally grown tired of waiting for her response and given up?

But now it seemed he’d decided to try a different tactic. Had he contacted her mother to try to reach her? Or had Mother learned about the letters and uncovered his identity herself?

An hour later, the guests had arrived and had all been greeted, but Sylvie was no closer to figuring out the answer. After extricating herself from an endless, one-sided conversation with Mr. Green, Sylvie made a beeline for the more remote parts of the garden. She and Matilda had a particular spot where they often met during events at Sylvie’s house, and she hoped her friend would be there.

Instead, the bench beneath the canopy of a secluded willow tree was empty. Still, Matilda might make her way there soon enough. And if not, at least Sylvie could think in peace.

That hope was soon shattered, however. The wispy branches parted, revealing a tall, masculine frame shadowed by the daylight behind him. Sylvie rose, startled and preparing to get herself out of another unwelcome conversation as soon as possible.

But Mr. Kinsey’s kind voice stopped her in her tracks. “No need to flee, Miss Bryce. I don’t intend to keep you long. I needed to tell you…well, I believe you’d be interested in…” He trailed off, looking frustrated as he paced closer. Then he drew a deep breath and turned his gaze toward her. “The very essence of romance is⁠—”

“—uncertainty,” Sylvie finished the quote with him. She’d memorized it back when she received that first letter. She searched his face, looking for any sign that he knew what they meant to her.

His lips parted, as if he held his breath waiting for her to react. A slight nod showed that he did understand. Sylvie’s heart pitched in her chest when he came to a stop a mere foot in front of her. “Miss Bryce, all I want is an opportunity to show you that we could make a good pair.”

Then he held out his hand, waiting as if to give her time to make a monumental decision. With her pulse thundering in her ears, Sylvie swallowed hard. That sounded very like what her secret admirer had claimed to want. Miles had also said similar words to her. He’d been at her side as a friend, trying to prove himself as more than that. But Sylvie had been so set on defying her mother that she hadn’t let herself be open to the fact that a wonderful man wanted to court her. She’d run him all the way back to England with her foolishness.

Oh, Lord, what do I do?

Mr. Kinsey was kind and intelligent. Her mother approved of him, which used to be something that she would consider a detriment. But perhaps Mother had been right, and Sylvie should keep an open mind. She’d told Sylvie the man who had been writing the letters might reveal himself, and here was Mr. Kinsey, a man Sylvie had suspected all along, asking her for a chance.