“The letters that arrived from your uncle’s inquiries for me, about illustrating books.”
Jackson winced. “You’ll have to inquire again. Not sure you can read that mess.”
“Why does my post always meet with soggy ends?” She peeled the letters from one another and tried to read the running ink on the front of each. That one might be from Sir Bellafler. And this one—” She froze.
“What is it?” Jackson squeezed her hand.
A familiar red wax seal stared up at her.
Her hands trembled.
Jackson’s hands cupped her face. “Gwendolyn, what is it?”
She handed him the letter. “The Marquess of Preston.”
He took the letter, slashed at the seal, and ripped the epistle open. “Damn. Almost impossible to read. Again.”
“He found me.” She looked up at Jackson. “He found me.” She let her hand drop, the paper dangling, damp between her fingers, and she lifted her gaze to Jackson’s. “I need to know what it said. I think… I think I need to visit the Marquess of Preston.”
“I’ll visit him. You’ll stay here. I’ll return to London, and—”
“I’ll not stay here. No more hiding and running. I’ll face him. Odd, perhaps, that the man I’m most scared of is not the man who tricked me, but his father. The son is a heartless trickster, but the father is a devil.” And she did fear him, so much so she’d been willing to give up everything she cared for. “I must face him. I cannot let you do it for me.”
He took her hand, kissed her knuckles, and pulled her along the path toward home. “I’ll be beside you. You won’t have to do it alone.”
And that banished much of the fear, made a shadow of a man who’d seemed a monster.
She’d spent so much time running, and she’d only just stepped into the light. She would have to resurrect Lady Mary Lytemore to marry the man she loved. The present moment was unsustainable, and the future ones could not excise the influence of the past. Lord Preston still lived, and if she wished to live without fear of her past, she would have to face it completely.
Twenty-Two
Jackson sat beside Gwendolyn on the small sofa in the parlor. Two pairs of eyes stared wide at him, unblinking then startled into joy.
Uncle Henry bounced out of his chair and lifted Gwendolyn from her seat, hugging her so tight her feet left the ground. When he put her down with a pat to the cheek, Sarah was there to take his place, and he crushed Jackson’s hand in his, shaking it as if it wasn’t attached to a human who might feel pain. But Jackson only laughed and rubbed his shoulder when it was finally released.
Gwendolyn beamed through the hugs and sat beside him with a shy smile. Gwendolyn… shy? A new look for her, but one that put blooms on her cheeks he wanted to kiss. He crept his hand toward her, and she took it without reservation.
“I assume then,” Jackson said, “that all of you approve of our upcoming nuptials.”
Another round of joyful shouts.
“It is wonderful,” Sarah said, then screwed her mouth to the side, rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Although, Nora has won, and she will crow.”
“Won?” Gwendolyn asked.
Sarah blushed, a fierce red rush across her skin. “We may have had something of a bet going… about how long it would take the two of you to see each other clearly.”
Gwendolyn opened her mouth and shut it. “I’m not quite sure I approve.”
Sarah patted her hair. “You must, I’m afraid. When shall you wed?”
“As soon as possible,” Gwendolyn said. “But there is something I must do first. I fear I cannot move forward until it happens.”
She told them of the letter, of her need to speak with the marquess.
Uncle Henry’s arms crossed over his chest as she spoke, his eyebrows sliding toward one another. “We’ll go with you.”
Gwendolyn waved her hands. “Oh no, I do not mean that. I merely… I have not been open with any of you since meeting you, and I want to rectify it. It is the only reason I tell you.”
