Written on Your Skin by Meredith Duran Page B

representative of one of Her Majesty’s darker arms of government. Forthwith I was packed off to his house on Park Lane, where I currently reside as his most unwilling guest.
    It was Mr. Ridland who revealed that my stepfather has escaped from English custody. He feels certain that Mama is with Collins, although he seems undecided on the question of whether or not she has gone willingly. He believes they are still in England, though, and hopes that my continued presence here may serve to lure them from hiding. What a charming role for me!
    Of course, my main concern is for Mama. Today, a very peculiar note arrived at the hotel for me, which Mr. Ridland was generous enough to share. It is Mama’s writing, but how oddly it reads! She says nothing of where she is or with whom she travels. She only sends her love, and reassures me that she leaves her welfare to Providence—and urges me, for her sake, to do the same, at the end.
    I have puzzled in vain over this request. When I read it this morning, it seemed to me the sort of statement a captive might make to her loved one, when she finds herself in the custody of a man whom she knows to be capable of any manner of depravity. I read it and thought, “She is afraid that I will try to find her, and that he will hurt me for it.” But when I read it again tonight, it seemed to me, against my will, to be the advice of a moralist, lecturing me for my great betrayal, and chiding me to look to my soul and reform myself.
    Is it terribly wrong that I am desperate to believe the former interpretation? Yes, it is, isn’t it? For that would mean that she is fearful in his presence, and that she suffers at every moment from thoughts of what he may do to her, or to me. Perhaps, then, I wish that Mama has gone with him willingly. But if this is the case, then all the hope and life that we worked to return to her during the last four years—and the courage she unearthed during those dreadful days in Hong Kong, and the admiration I came to feel for her in their aftermath—all must be counted for naught.
    I cannot accept that. In fact, I will be very honest with you: I cannot accept it, for I know it to be false.
    I wish above anything that I could share with you the source of my conviction. But you have a husband to care for, and a child to mother, and it seems to me that some knowledge is too dangerous for a woman entrusted with so much love. I promise you, though, that if you knew what I know, you would share my conviction that Collins holds her by force. And you would understand why I must take the course of action that I have designed.
    I am signingpower of attorney over to you. The company is yours. Run it as you see fit, and it will flourish. Before Her Majesty’s lapdogs began to yip at me, I managed to secure the contract for the lavender. It has been sent along to New York. Have Cavanaugh draw up some advertisements that extol the vaunted superiority of English perfumery. Do try not to laugh too much in the process.
    I apologize if this letter leaves you shaken. I would prefer not to have to write it, and I eagerly anticipate our happy reunion. In the meantime, I remain
    Your ever-loving sister in spirit,
    Mina
    The next morning, when the maid brought breakfast, she handed over the letter. It did not take long for Ridland to appear.
    On his previous visits, he had made the most of his gray hair and wrinkled cheeks, hobbling and gesturing with the aid of a cane. Today he strode in boldly, her crumpled note clutched in his upraised fist. “What interesting letters you write.”
    He meant to scare her, of course. She jumped to her feet compliantly. “Sir, what a surprise! Did the maid mis-deliver my note? And I see you’ve forgotten your cane! Please do sit; you mustn’t overtax yourself.”
    A vein along his temple throbbed into prominence. “We do not detain you for our own amusement, girl. Toy with me, and you will regret it.”
    He had assured her, on the drive from