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The handwriting was unknown to her. Faintly intrigued, she broke the seal and unfolded the letter. It came from one of the assistants at the Royal Observatory, extending a flattering invitation from the Astronomer Royal himself—who had heard of her through the instrumentation of Sir Granville Wilberfoss—to visit at Greenwich. He had been acquainted with her great-uncle Reginald, and he looked forward to meeting her. A few weeks earlier such a letter would have thrown Maidie into transports. As it was, she read in it only a hope of salvation as she took in the invitation was for that day.
A carriage would call for her at two o’clock, trusting it was convenient. If not, she had only to send a note with the coachman and the visit would be rearranged for another occasion.
Maidie fairly leapt at Trixie the instant she returned, demanding to know the precise time. Discovering it was but forty minutes to the appointed hour, Maidie began quickly to eat from the tray of viands supplied by the cook. She learned, upon inquiry, that Lady Hester and the Worm were in the green saloon, and Delagarde was out. Relieved, Maidie directed Trixie to go down and ask Lowick to send to her bedchamber immediately upon arrival of the chaise.
She wrote a brief note for Lady Hester and, placing it with the letter, told Trixie to deliver it after she had left the house. By the time the footman tapped on the door, Maidie was ready. She slipped noiselessly down the three flights of stairs, the footman in attendance, and was out of the house and away in the carriage so thoughtfully provided before anyone other than the servants even suspected she had woken up.
Chapter Sixteen
Delagarde stared at the two letters in his hand, beset by a hideous feeling of incapacity. Something was not right, but the exact point eluded him. Maidie’s own note to Aunt Hes had obviously been written in agitation—so much he could comprehend. He had himself been conscious all day of a like sensation. That, and the obtrusive and unshakeable desire to pursue what he had started last night. The impossibility of it had kept him away from Charles Street until close upon the dinner hour. Now he wished fervently he had given in to temptation, and come home sooner. Soon enough to have prevented this ill-considered flight. Flight? A memory clicked into place. He looked up. “This must be a blind!”
“What can you mean, Laurie? I own I have been anxious myself, but—”
“The Astronomer Royal is away,” Delagarde broke in, the urgency rising up inside him finding expression in the curtness of his tone. “I saw it in the Morning Post the other day. The paragraph caught my eye—because of Maidie’s obsession, I must suppose. He is gone upon a matter of business—to Italy, I believe.”
Lady Hester was already rising from the little green-striped sofa, consternation in her eyes. “But that would indicate that—”
“The letter is a forgery!”
“But who would write such a—?” She stopped, a dawning comprehension in her countenance which made Delagarde’s jawline harden. “Eustace Silsoe!”
“My thought exactly.”
Lady Hester came up to him, tightly grasping his arm. “Laurie, you do not suppose Maidie herself has written it? Is it yet another attempt at escape?”
“From me, you mean?” He could not help the bitter note. But he brought up the letters again, intently surveying them both. After a moment, he shook his head. “It is not the same hand. Even were one of them disguised, some slight resemblance must have been discerned.”
The saloon door opened, and Delagarde turned as one with Lady Hester. The sudden hope was instantly dispelled as Miss Wormley walked quickly into the room. She was holding out yet another sealed missive.
“This has just come for you, Lord Delagarde. I ventured to bring it, for—”
“Give it to me!” He snatched it from her hand, breaking the seal with fingers not quite steady, and spreading open the sheet.
“Delagarde—” the note abruptly ran “—I am gone to Scotland with the man I truly love. It is useless to attempt to follow me, for I am determined on this course—Mary Hope.”
The world spun briefly. Unaware the note fell from his hand, along with the other two letters he had been holding, Delagarde swung to the window embrasure, and stood there, supporting himself with a hand gripping one of the straight-backed Chippendale chairs. In a moment the dizziness receded, but was succeeded by an emotion no less distressing. A sensation of loss so intense Delagarde thought his heart must crack. The man she truly loved! Not then Eustace Silsoe, but Wiveliscombe! And he had driven her to this. The memory of last night came back to him—a torment then, an agony now. How blind he had been! Even then, fool enough to mistake his own heart.
“But this is not Maidie’s hand!”
Miss Wormley’s voice, raised in shocked protest, penetrated his inward absorption. He turned to discover Aunt Hes close behind him, an echo of his own pain in her eyes. He looked past her to where the duenna stood, peering closely at the note she had brought to him. She looked up.
“My lord, I know this writing, for all she has attempted to pass it off as Maidie’s.”
“She?” said Lady Hester, echoing the question in Delagarde’s mind as they both moved swiftly back to the centre of the room.
“Lady Shurland—Adela. It is her hand, I am sure of it.” She ventured to touch Delagarde’s arm. “Maidie would never sign herself so, my lord. Not to you.”
The faintest of hopes began to struggle out of the black despair in Delagarde’s heart. “No,” he said slowly, taking the letter and staring at the signature, “you are right. She would not.” His eyes clouded again. “But she is in love!”
“Lord save us!” said his great-aunt, in exasperated accents. “Are you still so blinkered, Laurie? Of course she is in love—with you!”
Delagarde’s heart appeared to stop. He gazed at her, poised between hope and stupefaction.
“Oh, dear!” broke from the duenna. “Oh, dear Lady Hester, pray, do you think—?”
“Nonsense, Ida. The matter is far too urgent for concealment now. Besides, cannot you see Laurie has at last come to his senses?”
But Delagarde was still too dazed to be affected by the lurking twinkle. “Aunt Hes, don’t trifle with me, I beg of you! If this is the truth—”
