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“How on earth are we going to do that? I’ve heard of reputations ruined by indiscreet behavior, or evidence of some sort, but—”

“We’ll present evidence,” Esme said patiently. “Believe me, there’s often very little connection between evidence and truth. If we present evidence that you and Darby spent the night together to Mrs. Colby, for example, she’ll have the two of you married off before you even turn around, and it won’t matter a smidgen to her that you are endangered by the whole childbearing issue. The important thing to her is that scandal is tied up in neat packages.”

“I just don’t see what could be offered as evidence, under the circumstances.”

“Oh, a letter,” Esme said carelessly, “a letter or a poem should do it. A poem would add an elegant rather Darby-ish touch, really.”

Henrietta’s eyes widened, and Esme caught the slight movement. “He wrote you!”

“No.”

“But you have something, don’t you? Something we could use as evidence?”

Fool for Love

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“Well . . .”

“What is it?” Esme demanded.

“It’s embarrassing,” Henrietta admitted.

“How embarrassing can it be? I just confessed to you the whole tale of my seamy past!”

Henrietta had to admit the truth of that statement. “I wrote myself a letter,” she said. “From Darby, if you understand.”

“You wrote yourself a letter? Why didn’t you write a letter to Darby if you were in an epistolary mood?”

“I think I’d had too much champagne. I was thinking about love letters that friends of mine had received. And I—

well, I’m unlikely to receive any love letters, am I?”

Esme’s eyes grew misty. “That’s so sad.”

“So I wrote one to myself!” Henrietta said brightly, before her friend could collapse in another fit of tears. “And believe me, it’s better than any man could write me.”

Esme, caught on the cusp of weeping, chuckled instead.

“Isn’t that the truth? I’ve received hundreds of letters, myself, and not a one of them worth the paper they were written on.” Except perhaps that note she had upstairs under her pillow, the one written by the gardener. Which had not a word of love on it.

“I consider my letter to be a model of its type,” Henrietta said, laughing as well. “I even quote poetry—”

“Who? Shakespeare?”

“John Donne.”

“Donne’s love sonnets? I am glad that I rusticated near you! I wouldn’t have thought there was a soul in Limpley Stoke who had read Donne’s early poems.”

“Well, I have.”

“And I’m quite certain that Darby has read them as well. I hope you did it properly and referenced a night you spent together?”

A blush edged Henrietta’s cheeks. “I did.”

180 Eloisa

James