Page 30 of The Lady's Guide to Well-Endowed Dukes
If only there were a way to know more of his thoughts. With a sigh, she lowered herself to the stool beside the little desk, and leaned her elbow there. Her foot touched something hard beneath and she bent over to look.
A portmanteau. Dark leather with a metallic clasp.
She sat upright again.
What did a man keep in such a travelling case? Correspondence? Legal papers? A diary?
Would any of the above reveal what she wished to know?
It would be wrong to pry, but she’d been wicked far too long to pay consideration to such small matters.
She would only look briefly, and ignore anything which had no pertinence to the last few days, since he’d met her.
Clicking open the bag, she tipped it towards the light. At first, there appeared nothing of interest. Newspapers, maps, a book of poetry, paper, ink and quills. She swept her hand across the lining. Was there a side pocket? She found nothing. But, there was something uneven about the base. Removing the various items, she felt again, running her nail about the edge.
There was a snag, and the stiff bottom peeled up at one corner. A concealed compartment? Lifting it out, she peered inside.
A mask was there—grey with a black trim: a strange thing to hide away, even if it had sentimental value. Picking it up, she frowned. It was an ordinary half-mask, designed to tie at the back. There was nothing remarkable about it, and yet it caught at her memory. She’d seen someone wear one just the same, very recently.
Setting it upon the desk, she looked again into the bottom portion of the portmanteau, and something within her froze.
Letters, bound in ribbon, the name upon them written in a girlish hand. The recipient: Il Conte, Tommaso Sforza. She didn’t need to open them to know these were the letters she’d been searching for at the Palazzo Zorzi Tiepolo.
The man who’d entered the Contessa’s chamber behind her, taking the letters from under her nose, had been Rockley. All this time, he’d had them!
A pain began to throb in her head. Had he recognized her from the masquerade? Followed her onto the ship even? It hardly made sense, if that was the case, for him to approach her—but who knew what he was thinking. To keep her under surveillance, perhaps? Who was he working for?
She had no choice but to take the bundle, to hide it among her possessions and… The next thought hit her like a punch in the gut.
Whether or not Rockley suspected her of anything already, he certainly would when he found the letters missing.
She would have to depart the ship, at Marseille, as soon as they anchored. There were trains to take her north. From Calais, a cross-Channel boat would ferry her to England. Even if Rockley tried to follow her, she’d have a head start.
There was no time to waste, and none to spare for what he’d think when he discovered her deceit. With any luck, by the time he woke, she would be gone.
With trembling fingers, she replaced the mask and the other contents, then eased the clasp shut.
He would hate her, but there was no other way. Her loyalty to Mathilde overrode all other considerations.
Had anything Rockley said been true, or was even the story of Miss Maitland a ruse? A way to get closer to her, and discover why she’d been at the palazzo? A wave of nausea rose up, but she couldn’t afford to succumb to it.
Gathering her dress, she donned it as best as she could. The single shoe she pushed onto her foot. The other garments she crammed into her arms.
She didn’t know Rockley at all. He wasn’t the man she’d thought he was.
That thought would have to comfort her on the cold nights ahead. There would be many of them, but no winter’s frost would ever match the ice that crept now about her heart.
CHAPTER 11
The Royal Opera House, London
December 23rd, 1905
The lady’sretiring room had emptied some five minutes earlier, the performance being soon to begin. Estela sat on the circular chaise in the center of the ornately gilded chamber, aware that she ought to join the merry company with whom she’d arrived. However, just the thought of keeping up the pretense of good spirits was exhausting.
She’d filled her evenings with the theatre, soirées, supper parties and balls, the ballet, the opera. Nothing had provided the distraction she sought. She’d contemplated taking a new lover, but even that amusement held no allure.
Rising, she shook out her skirts and proceeded to the floor-length mirrors at the far end of the room. A last inspection, and she would steel herself do as she had every night since her return to the capital. She would smile and flirt and pretend all was right in her world.
