Arabella’s mouth parted in surprise. “Hanna!” she exclaimed, shaking her head. “You’re mistaken. Surely it was someone unremarkable—a servant, perhaps?”
“She did not look like a servant,” Hanna said cautiously. “I … Truly I thought it was one of his birds of frailty. I know you said you and he were in love, but I assumed perhaps you’d made an arrangement allowing him…”
“He’s not even been engaging in rakish behavior in years,” Emma protested. “It was all a front and…” she stopped, not wanting to tell her sisters the whole tale again. Emma inhaled sharply, willing herself to remain composed. “When exactly did you see him? And what were they doing?”
Hanna’s eyes widened slightly at Emma’s tone. “It was late—nearly midnight. I was at the Vauxhall Gardens with Edwin at a soiree and was leaving when I saw them. She was standing by the carriage, and they appeared to be speaking rather… intimately. Then he helped her inside, and the carriage drove away.”
Rose. Her thoughts immediately went to the woman. She wasn’t sure why but if Evan had told the truth about abandoning his rakish ways, then that had to mean the woman he was with wassomeone he cared about – someone who’d write letters or have letters written to her.
“He was with a woman?” she whispered. “He…betrayed me?”
Arabella interjected quickly, her voice light but firm. “Oh, Emma, it could have been anyone. A cousin, a family friend—even a servant, perhaps.”
Emma shook her head, her tone clipped. “Evan has no cousins, Arabella, at least none in London. And he certainly has no female acquaintance he would be alone with at such an hour.” She drew a steadying breath. “Besides, he was meant to be with Jonathan—the Earl of Weston, and their business partner.”
Arabella frowned slightly. “Perhaps you misunderstood his plans? Men often change their arrangements without thought to keeping us informed.”
Emma’s fingers tightened on her lap, the silk of her gloves creaking faintly under the pressure. “Perhaps,” she said, though her voice betrayed her doubt. After a moment, she added, “There is more. I found letters in my chambers, addressed to someone named Rose. Letters I never read but which… well, they seem personal. They are perfumed and…Far too personal for comfort.”
Hanna’s eyes widened further. “Letters? Do you think they were left there by accident? Perhaps by a prior guest? The chambers were guest suits in the past, you said.”
“No,” Emma said with quiet conviction. “They were placed there on purpose, I am sure. They were far back, not somewhere someone would place something carelessly. And if Rose is the same woman you saw, then I fear she might be someone from Evan’s past, or worse, someone still in his present.”
Hanna bit her lip, glancing uneasily at Arabella. “Perhaps you should confront him directly. Ask him about her. Better yet, read the letters.”
Arabella shook her head. “Confrontation is a dangerous game, Hanna. What if it is nothing? She could harm her relationship unnecessarily. I agree, you ought to read the letters, they might show you it is all harmless and meaningless.”
Emma let out a bitter laugh. “And what if it is something? Am I to sit idly by and pretend I have not noticed?”
Arabella sighed, leaning forward to clasp Emma’s hand. “Emma, I understand your pain, truly. But you must tread carefully. These matters are never as simple as they seem.”
“Simple?” Emma’s voice trembled with suppressed emotion. “Nothing about this has been simple. I have tried to honor my duty, to play my part as his duchess, and yet… yet I feel as though I am being made a fool.”
“Do you love him?” Hanna asked quietly, her gaze fixed on Emma’s face.
Emma froze, the question catching her off guard. Love. The word felt heavy, suffocating. She had never allowed herself to consider it, not fully. “It does not matter,” she said finally, her voice hollow. “Love was never part of our arrangement. I foolishly thought it could be but now …”
Arabella gave her a sad smile. “Sometimes, love finds its way into the most unlikely places, whether we wish it or not.”
Emma stood abruptly, her skirts rustling with the motion. “Thank you for your concern, both of you. But I must go. There is much to consider.”
Arabella and Hanna exchanged worried looks but said nothing as Emma said her goodbyes.
The carriage ride back to her estate was silent, save for the rhythmic clatter of hooves against cobblestones. Emma stared out the window, her mind awash with conflicting emotions.
Once home, she retreated to her chambers, instructing the staff that she was not to be disturbed. She paced the room, her thoughts spiraling. Memories of the kisses she and Evan had shared flooded her mind, followed by the pain of realizing it might have meant nothing to him. She had opened her heart, if only a sliver, and now it felt as though it had been crushed. She had to know for certain how he felt about her. She had to know if Rose was the woman he’d been with, if she loved him as Emma loved him – and the only way to do so would be to read her letters.
Rising, she moved to her nightstand, where the letters had lain untouched for weeks. Her hand hesitated on the handle before pulling it open. Inside was the bundle—thin, fragile, yet suffused with a weight that felt almost tangible.
Taking it out, she seated herself by the window, her fingers trembling faintly as she untied the silken ribbon encircling the papers. What struck her immediately was how odd the letters were. Letters were usually written on a single large sheet of paper, carefully folded into a compact form that doubled as its own envelope. The outermost page would bear the recipient’s name and address, sealed with a dab of wax. These, however, did not conform to those conventions.
Instead, each letter appeared as a folded piece of plain, unstamped paper, loosely encased in a sleeve of another sheet, blank save for a single name inscribed on the outside: Rose.
Emma’s sharp gaze noted the incongruity almost at once. The ink on the sleeve did not match the handwriting within the letter itself. Whoever had penned the name “Rose” was not the same person who had written the content of these letters. Her breath hitched. These letters had never been sent through the post. They had been delivered—by hand.
Carefully unfolding the topmost letter, she braced herself for what she might find.
The words were few but poignant, each one laced with raw, aching emotion. She read slowly, every phrase a knife twisting in her chest:
