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“You’re right.”
“You won’t know unless you ask him, My Lady,” Annette pointed out sagely.
“What do I say?” She had never been in love before. She’d assumed that it would never happen. Now that it had, she felt like she was a glowing ball of light—and nerves.
“The truth, My Lady,” Annette replied. “Always the truth, unless with gentlemen.”
“Why’s that?” Arabella asked.
Annette looked her in the eye. “Gentlemen dissemble, My Lady.”
It was an odd remark. One which Arabella overlooked at the time. She was about to ask more, but Annette changed the subject.
“What do you mean to do?” she asked. “I can keep watch for you while you speak with him.”
“I suppose he’ll be in the garden,” she mused.
“Undoubtedly, My Lady.”
* * *
Charles and the Viscount returned to the house, where they parted ways. The Viscount was staying in the North Wing, while Charles was in the less ostentatious East Wing.
As he walked the halls, he was deep in thought. He suspected that the Duke had gotten a similar threat. He had been willing to wait, for His Grace to tell him on his own terms. But if he too was threatened, then he might be in grave danger.
He decided to go and see the Duke, present him with the letter that was sent to the Viscount. At the very least, he could get the Duke’s opinion on the veracity of the threat to the Viscount of Drysdale’s life.
He knocked on the door to the Duke’s study.
“Come in,” the Duke called out. Charles entered.
“Your Grace—how is the Lady Arabella?” Charles asked.
“She’s going to be just fine,” the Duke said. “I’ve only just spoken to the physician and he says that the worst she’ll have is bruising of the ribs. She’s had worse injuries from riding, quite frankly.”
“I’m glad she’s well.”
“Have a seat, Mr. Conolly,” the Duke said, gesturing with a hand. “Can I interest you in a drink?”
“Yes, please, Your Grace.”
The Duke produced a cut-crystal decanter, filled with brandy, as well as two glasses. He poured out a few fingers. “What brings you up here?” He raised an eyebrow.
“I—I wanted to discuss the matter which you alluded to, the other day,” Charles began.
The Duke stared at him for a long moment before nodding. He took a large gulp of his brandy, sliding the other glass over to Charles. “Very well.”
Charles took the Viscount of Drysdale’s letter out of his pocket, then passed it over the table.
The Duke blinked, then picked it up. He unfolded it, then read the direction. All of a sudden, he looked deeply ill. He set it down, pushing it back across the desk. Charles picked it up, putting it back into his pocket.
“Lord Drysdale, too.” The Duke was deep in thought, his fingers drumming on his desk.
“Did you get a letter like this, Your Grace?”
“Yes,” he replied, sitting back in his chair so the leather creaked. “It’s the same hand—the same wording.”
“Have you received any more?”
