Page 124 of Bride of the Midnight Prince

There are two rows of letters, organized upright so one can flip through them quickly. My pulse quickens. I begin sorting through them at once, reading the return addresses.

Baroness Cranswick

Mr. and Mrs. Hudson

Lady Hornbuckle

Miss Ingham

Lord Boreham

Lord Boreham

Lord Boreham

My fingers move faster than the blood pounding in my ears. I flip through the letters, counting the number of exchanges.Over two dozen.

I place a hand over my mouth. “This must be it. The proof has got to be here.”

I take one of the most recent letters and open it.

Dearest Mother,

Neither of us have time for pleasantries, so I shall skip them altogether. If that offends you, just insert the usual pleasantries here in your mind.

I do not like Lady Vandermore and I do not want to marry her. You and I have been over this many times, but perhaps with recent events it’ll finally stick in your head. Forty percent of her fortune, however significant it may be, is not enough to put up with all this will cost me. I have an established living. Josephine will never forgive me if I go through with this.

Unless, of course, you were to give me a more substantial cut of Lady Vandermore’s fortune. Seventy percent, at least. My sisters have their charms and shouldn’t have trouble finding men to marry them with ten percent of the fortune for each of their dowries. I do not see why, if we are to go to the vast trouble and great social embarrassment that comes with convincing Lady Vandermore to marry me, that so much of her fortune should be immediately given away to other men who marry into the family. As the heir of my late father’s estate, the bulk of the money should go to me to be passed down our line.

That is all I have to say on the matter. If you disagree, perhaps you should find a fourth husband and birth another son who might be more easily commanded to act outside his own interests.

Yours,

Malcolm

I stare in shock at the letter. Lord Boreham is Agatha’sson? But—how is that possible? She had no other children besides Bridget and Edith. My father couldn’t have known of this son. He wouldn’t have married Agatha if she’d had a son. He wanted his fortune to go to me. He wouldn’t have risked it by marrying a woman with a son who could take precedence over me.

Lord Boreham and Agatha both hail from Commington.

Fourthhusband.

My father wasn’t Agatha’s second husband. He was her third.

It all makes sense now: the obvious disinterest Lord Boreham had in me and yet the way he still made me an offer of marriage, Agatha’s obsession with me marrying him, Bridget calling him by his first name, my entire stepfamily being shocked and appalled at the idea of one of them marrying Boreham.

I press a hand to my roiling middle. So Agatha, for all her pretending as though she cared about me like a daughter—for all that she made me out to be the unreasonable one between us—really does despise me. And the girls, who at times I thought of as friends, also kept this secret from me. Even Edith, who acts like she cares about nothing but her lonely instruments.

Josephine must be Boreham’s mistress. Someone who stood to lose if he married.

Floorboards creak outside the door. I leap almost a foot in the air. I tuck the letter into my tunic, ease the drawer shut, race to pull away the shawl from the door, and then scramble out the window as quickly as I can.

Just as I close the window, the study door swings open. A candle enters, followed by the illuminated features of Agatha, drawn and pinched, her hair tucked in her nightcap.

As I cling to the lattice outside the window, I realize I’ve left out the matchbox. I hold still, not daring to even breathe, as she sits down at her desk. She freezes, then whirls around. Everything inside me jumps like a frightened cat, but I hold still.

Slowly, Agatha turns back to her desk.

I puff out a silent sigh of relief.

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