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Sylvia’s hands began to tremble as she opened it, recalling the last time she had received a mysterious letter. But when she removed the sheaf of papers inside, her apprehensions were replaced by shock. Complete, utter shock. Sylvia brought a hand to her mouth as she stared at the documents, while Georgiana quickly grew impatient.
“Well? What is it?”
Sylvia opened and closed her mouth a few times before she was able to answer. “It’s the deed to Hawthorne Cottage.”
Georgiana came over to see for herself. “Oh my goodness.”
“This…this can’t be right,” she said weakly as she stared at the documents before her. There was no note, but the intent was clear. Under “Owner” was her full legal name: Sylvia Marie Wilcox.
“This must have been what Mr. Davies was arguing with your brother about. Sylvia?”
But she couldn’t speak. She could only shake her head.
Sylvia could finally go home.
***
Rafe rolled over onto his side and squinted against the brilliant light that had just flooded his bedroom. “Dammit, Tully! Close the curtains. It’s barely morning.”
The valet paid him no mind as he tied the drapes back. “Actually, it’s well near one o’clock.Sir.”
Rafe grumbled and dragged the pillow over his head. It had been a week since he’d publicly threatened Lionel Wilcox. He had gone out every night since, living up to the reputation he had so meticulously crafted over the years. Tully hadn’t even tried to hide his disapproval. Rafe supposed that’s what he got for hiring an impertinent ex-seaman.
“And I wouldn’t have disturbed you,” Tully added cavalierly, “except you have a visitor.”
Rafe pulled the pillow away and cracked one eye open. “Who the devil is it?”
“Captain Harris. I tried to tell him you were indisposed, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Told me to come and get you anyway.”
Rafe pushed up on his elbows. “And you listened to him?”
“Of course.” Tully looked at him like he was mad, which wasn’t too far off at the moment. “The man’s a national hero!”
Rafe did not have the energy to argue with the both of them. Not when his head felt like the site of a mining operation. “Fine. Go and tell him I’ll be ready in ten minutes,” he said as he sat up. Tully glanced at him and mumbled something as he left the room that sounded an awful lot likeIt’ll take longer than that.“And make me one of those vile drinks you claim cure hangovers,” Rafe called after him. Tully grumbled in response.
Rafe dragged a hand over his face. Last night he had gotten extremely drunk at his club and then had the excellent idea to visit one of the city’s most exclusive brothels. He never visited such establishments, but Rafe reasoned that if he engaged someone’s services, then he mostdefinitelycouldn’t be in love with Sylvia anymore. Instead, he’d sat in the corner of the elegant parlor nursing brandy after brandy while the increasingly irritated madam brought him every woman in the entire house. But he dismissed each one. The dark-haired ones reminded him too much of Sylvia, and the rest didn’t interest him in the slightest. Finally, when dawn had just begun to show her face, Rafe gave the ladies all a generous tip and left.
He walked over to the washstand and looked in the mirror. Tully was right. It would take a hell of a lot longer than ten minutes before he was anything close to presentable. Luckily, it was only Henry. Rafe splashed water on his face and did his best to clean himself up. Then he changed into a fresh shirt and trousers that hadn’t been slept in. His eyes were still rimmed with red, and his heavy stubble would remain until Tully could give him a proper shave, but it would have to do.
Rafe found Henry in the parlor comfortably seated in his favorite chair by the fire with a pot of tea and a tray laden with Tully’s freshly baked buns.
“Well, don’t you look cozy?”
“Hard not to in here. I’ve never seen a man own so many decorative pillows.”
Rafe rolled his eyes. “I’m a bachelor, Henry. Not a barbarian,” he said, collapsing in the chair across from him. “Let me guess. You sleep on a cramped cot that can barely fit you with a scratchy blanket and a single flat pillow.”
Henry’s lips quirked. “Two, actually.”
Rafe narrowed his eyes. “And is all that self-denial working?”
“Well, now you’re just being mean.” Henry finally looked up from the opened folder that had so engrossed him and raised an eyebrow at his appearance. “Late night?”
Rafe glanced away. “I went to the club.”
“That’s interesting,” Henry began as he set down the folder, “because Tully said you came back reeking of cheap perfume.”
Damn his meddling valet. And damn Madam Fleur’s potent potpourri mix.
