lean against the post office window to catch her breath. She fought the urge to rip the package open here, out in the open, daring anyone who watched to judge her. Maybe, if the right person saw her, they could help her out of this ordeal.
Foolish girl, she chided herself. No one will help you. They’ll throw you in gaol for what you’ve done, and then how you will find out who killed Evan?
No, she must soldier on. She pushed off of the post office window and began the long walk back to Abermont House.
More lies. More secrets. With each passing day, the web she spun grew more complex, until the simple act of remembering what she’d said she was doing versus what she was actually doing required a herculean mental effort.
Yet the sole chance for release was when she completed this mission to Sauveterre’s liking. The police had no new information. She doubted they were even still investigating Evan’s death, a year and a half later. They’d been so quick to claim it was a robbery that had escalated into murder. If she went to the authorities now, she’d lose any opportunity to identify Evan’s murderer.
She was alone in this, just as she’d been alone in everything else since her brother’s death. It had always been the two of them against the world. When her cousin, the new Viscount Trayborne, had thrown them out of the home they’d grown up in, Evan had found a small cottage for them in Devon by the next day. It did not compare to the sprawling estate of the viscountcy, but she hadn’t cared. Everything would be fine, as long as they had each other.
If she hadn’t asked him to move to London, maybe he’d still be alive. If only she’d known how dangerous London could be.
A half hour later, she’d returned to Abermont House. Taking the servants’ entrance upstairs, she passed by the nursery, entering her own room next door. She waited until she’d locked the door and taken a seat on her bed before opening the packet. As she sliced through the seal with a penknife, her hands shook. What would Sauveterre ask her to do this time? Each missive from him had brought increased demands. He wanted additional information, and not just odd details about the family’s whereabouts. He wanted the kind of information she could only get by listening in on private conversations, her ear pressed against the door, risking exposure. She’d even sent him notes on the duke’s investments, obtained by snooping through the drawers in his office.
The very office in which she’d shared a drink with Abermont.
She was a survivor, yes, but she was also a traitor.
And nothing seemed to satisfy Sauveterre. He always wanted more.
Her knife bit through the last speck of sealant. Vivian tore into the package, dropping the contents onto her lap. A letter in Sauveterre’s handwriting, written on the same thick, stiff paper he always used. Whoever he was, he was rich enough to afford high-quality stationery.
The letter was not surprising. But the second item in the package concerned her. An emerald velvet bag no wider than her hand, held closed by a black-corded drawstring. She picked it up by the string, examining it. There was no insignia anywhere on the bag, and the velvet was uniform, giving no indication of where it had been made. It was neither extravagant in make, nor low enough in caliber to be conspicuous.
It, like the blasted Spencer family, was blatantly normal. Not a hint of covertness anywhere.
Yet for all its typical appearance, there was something insidious about it. She couldn’t put her finger on what unsettled her, only that the second she had touched the bag, she’d felt troubled, as though the contents would change her life in a way she wasn’t prepared for yet.
Nonsense, Vivian. It’s probably quite innocuous.
But she couldn’t think of a single thing a man such as Sauveterre would send her that wasn’t in some way damning. She glanced from the bag to the letter and back again.
Holding
Foolish girl, she chided herself. No one will help you. They’ll throw you in gaol for what you’ve done, and then how you will find out who killed Evan?
No, she must soldier on. She pushed off of the post office window and began the long walk back to Abermont House.
More lies. More secrets. With each passing day, the web she spun grew more complex, until the simple act of remembering what she’d said she was doing versus what she was actually doing required a herculean mental effort.
Yet the sole chance for release was when she completed this mission to Sauveterre’s liking. The police had no new information. She doubted they were even still investigating Evan’s death, a year and a half later. They’d been so quick to claim it was a robbery that had escalated into murder. If she went to the authorities now, she’d lose any opportunity to identify Evan’s murderer.
She was alone in this, just as she’d been alone in everything else since her brother’s death. It had always been the two of them against the world. When her cousin, the new Viscount Trayborne, had thrown them out of the home they’d grown up in, Evan had found a small cottage for them in Devon by the next day. It did not compare to the sprawling estate of the viscountcy, but she hadn’t cared. Everything would be fine, as long as they had each other.
If she hadn’t asked him to move to London, maybe he’d still be alive. If only she’d known how dangerous London could be.
A half hour later, she’d returned to Abermont House. Taking the servants’ entrance upstairs, she passed by the nursery, entering her own room next door. She waited until she’d locked the door and taken a seat on her bed before opening the packet. As she sliced through the seal with a penknife, her hands shook. What would Sauveterre ask her to do this time? Each missive from him had brought increased demands. He wanted additional information, and not just odd details about the family’s whereabouts. He wanted the kind of information she could only get by listening in on private conversations, her ear pressed against the door, risking exposure. She’d even sent him notes on the duke’s investments, obtained by snooping through the drawers in his office.
The very office in which she’d shared a drink with Abermont.
She was a survivor, yes, but she was also a traitor.
And nothing seemed to satisfy Sauveterre. He always wanted more.
Her knife bit through the last speck of sealant. Vivian tore into the package, dropping the contents onto her lap. A letter in Sauveterre’s handwriting, written on the same thick, stiff paper he always used. Whoever he was, he was rich enough to afford high-quality stationery.
The letter was not surprising. But the second item in the package concerned her. An emerald velvet bag no wider than her hand, held closed by a black-corded drawstring. She picked it up by the string, examining it. There was no insignia anywhere on the bag, and the velvet was uniform, giving no indication of where it had been made. It was neither extravagant in make, nor low enough in caliber to be conspicuous.
It, like the blasted Spencer family, was blatantly normal. Not a hint of covertness anywhere.
Yet for all its typical appearance, there was something insidious about it. She couldn’t put her finger on what unsettled her, only that the second she had touched the bag, she’d felt troubled, as though the contents would change her life in a way she wasn’t prepared for yet.
Nonsense, Vivian. It’s probably quite innocuous.
But she couldn’t think of a single thing a man such as Sauveterre would send her that wasn’t in some way damning. She glanced from the bag to the letter and back again.
Holding
Similar Books
