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Yours,
P. Seymour
Peter Seymour? The words swam, and I read them again, pressing a finger to my temple to cease the blurring. I looked up and found Benedict watching me closely. I desired at once to tell him what the letter contained and ask for his opinion. He was a wise man. Surely he would know what to do.
Or would telling Benedict of it merely add credence to a situation that should be forgotten, a letter whose fate was in the fire?
“Is it terrible news?” he asked softly.
“I would not classify it as such, no.” My words were softer than I wished. Far more intimate than the conversation needed. We bumped along the road, and I lowered the letter in my lap and refolded it to put away with the others. “It is from a man who has no business writing to me.”
Benedict looked at me sharply. “In what way?”
“I knew him in Vienna. He was the son of the minister-plenipotentiary and was a dear friend to our hosts there. We never courted, but he would have liked to. I was not yet of age, though.”
“He knew where to find you—”
“I saw him in York while I was still in school. Our encounter was completely by chance, but he took to visiting me on occasion when he passed through. He lives in London now, though his father is still on the Continent, I believe.”
The lines around Benedict’s mouth tightened. “The blackguard. To risk your reputation in this way.” He shook his head, disgusted.
“Which is far more appropriate than how you haverisked my reputation,” I said, reminding him of our current situation.
His surprise was a little rewarding. “I am an honorable man.”
“And Peter is not?”
“I would never write to you.”
“A pity, that. I think we could have such entertaining correspondence.”
He looked out the window, seemingly frustrated. “Will you write back to him?”
Did I detect a hint of obstinance in his tone? It took me by surprise. Benedict could not be jealous of Peter. That was a more absurd notion than the idea of me harboring any feelings for Peter at all. Benedict’s gaze swung back toward me, and I leveled my voice. “I would not correspond with a man unless I am engaged to him.” Despite the one kiss I shared with Peter when I was fifteen—can a girl be blamed for romantic notions at such an age? I should think not—he had no claim on me. “The trouble does not lie in his wanting to speak to me, though. He has asked about my whereabouts in a suspicious manner. He believes I am not in a safe situation.”
“Perhaps it would be good to notify him of your return to Chelton then, if only to subdue the rumors before they can begin in earnest. Though we shall ask my mother to write the letter, perhaps.”
“Perhaps.” It was what I’d been thinking too, and I regretted, not for the first time, my foolish, rash decision to leave school on my own in such an underhanded manner.
The motion of the conveyance bumped my leg against Benedict’s, and I glanced up and caught his eye. Benedict, master flirt and tease extraordinaire, held my gaze with the blandest of expressions, his blue eyes fixed on me and his body still. The man was like a blasted water pump—completely dry until one engaged the handle, and then water spewed out at a great volume. When he engaged, he did so with zeal.
But, for now, I did not want him to engage any further. I turned my head away and watched trees and cows pass by the window. If I was not mistaken, I heard Benedict sigh.
Chapter7
BENEDICT
We had the misfortune of finding ourselves at an inn with only one room available again later that night, and that was only after being turned away completely from the other inn in town.
“You may have the room to yourself,” I said, understanding that Thea likely wanted to read the remainder of her correspondence in privacy. “I need to walk and stretch my legs.”
Thea nodded. She slipped into the room and disappeared the moment we reached it, taking both of our small bags with her. Finding a spare cot with Charlie in the stables almost sounded more palatable than sharing a room with her again, and I did not remove the idea completely from my mind.
I stood in the corridor and watched the door close behind Thea, listening to the bar falling over the iron holder to keep it locked. I did not fault her eagerness to be alone, especially after sharing a carriage for the last two days, but we had not stopped earlier for dinner, and it was late.
Hesitation nipped at me, but I shoved it away and knocked at the door.
“Yes?” Her voice came muffled through the thick wood.
