for you then, guv,’ said the boy, approaching. ‘From a lidy,’ and pushed the note into Richard’s hand. He was gone in a flash, racing off along the pavement and disappearing around the corner into Upper Grosvenor Street, before either of them could stop him.
Richard stared after him with raised brows. ‘Idiot boy,’ he said. ‘I’d have given him sixpence. Wonder who’s writing me love notes?’
Braybrook raised his brows. ‘Love notes, Ricky? You?’
Richard grinned, breaking the seal and opening the note. ‘Do you think you and Max are the only men in London ever to—good God!’
He stared in disgust. Who the hell had penned this filth?
Braybrook twitched the note out of his hand and read aloud, ‘How many times will you tup the gilded whore tonight?’ In an expressionless voice, he said, ‘Charming, Ricky. Absolutely charming.’ He handed it back.
Crumpling the note in his fist, Richard shoved it deep in the pocket of his coat. ‘Quite.’
The burning question, of course, was just who was the gilded whore? He hoped, he very much hoped, that he didn’t know the answer.
‘Sure you won’t seek lodgings, old man?’ asked Braybrook.
Richard shook his head curtly and limped up the steps, refusing to acknowledge the wisdom of the suggestion.
Thea frowned at the note from Lady Chasewater, inviting her to drive her in the park the following day. Relieved that it wasn’t for that afternoon, Thea managed to persuade Lady Arnsworth that a quiet hour in the back parlour would be more beneficial than more shopping.
Reluctantly, her ladyship consented. ‘Very well, dear. If you are quite sure it is necessary. You do look pale. And of course you must send a note accepting Laetitia’s invitation. She is very influential. And there must be no question of you not being able to attend the Montacute ball this evening, so I suppose …’
Thea assured her that with a little quiet she would be perfectly ready to attend the ball and Lady Arnsworth departed.
Telling Myles that she was not at home to anyone, Thea asked for a pot of tea to be brought to her in the parlour.
Ten minutes later she was ensconced on a sofa with her writing box and sipping her tea. Peace descended in the familiar room. Faint sounds from the street and the mews reached her, but they seemed oddly detached, as though the house hung suspended beyond the noise.
Hastily she wrote a note to Lady Chasewater, assuring her that she would be delighted to drive with her the following day. Then she summoned a footman to take the note. That done, she took out another sheet of paper to write to Aunt Maria.
For a few moments her pen scratched away. Then it stilled as her concentration wavered and she gazed about the familiar room. Little had changed since last she had been there. It was not a public room, and the furniture was rather old-fashioned and crowded. Not a crocodile leg or sphinx in sight, as though the room had been forgotten when Lady Arnsworth redecorated.
Of all the rooms in Arnsworth House, this was the one she had always known best when she visited as a child. Here Richard had spent his days after the riding accident that broke his left leg. Here, she had been introduced to him at the age of five, as a suitable chess opponent. She smiled, remembering. The twelve-year-old Richard had barely choked off the exclamation of disgust. He had, however, taught her to play chess.
She laid the pen down.
What was he really like now? She had known him as a boy, but did she know the man? Perhaps she did. No doubt he still loved dogs. And horses. The fuss there had been when he insisted on riding again after his accident! His mother and Lady Arnsworth would have kept him wrapped in cotton wool on the sofa if he hadn’t been so stubborn about it. She couldn’t believe that would have changed. Richard could make a mule look cooperative.
Which probably meant he was in no danger of being lured into a matrimonial trap with her.
And he was still kind. Protective. The thought stole through her, insensibly warming. He had been protective last night. No, that had not changed. So perhaps she did still know him. A little. Far better than he could know her.
The child who had known Richard was gone beyond recall, as if a knife had slashed the thread of her life leaving it in two utterly separate pieces. Short useless pieces that could never be woven back into the pattern.
No one knew her now. Sometimes she wished she didn’t know herself. There was no point wondering about Richard Blakehurst. He was no concern of hers. She thrust the thoughts away and went back to her letter. That was how she had learnt to manage. One thing at a time; concentrate on the task at hand.
The only sound within the parlour was the scratching of Thea’s pen as she concentrated on manufacturing neat, ladylike sentences for Aunt Mary.
A light tap at the door disturbed her.
‘Yes?’
The door opened and Myles came in. ‘A note for you, miss.’
‘Oh. Thank you, Myles.’
She took the note with a smile.
‘Will that be all, miss?’
‘Yes, thank you. I’ll ring if I need to send a reply.’
As the door closed behind the butler, Thea looked at the note. A single sheet folded once and sealed with a plain seal. It was directed to Miss Winslow, Arnsworth House, in clumsy, ill-formed capitals. Thea frowned, broke the seal and opened the note.
Time stood still and her veins congealed as the single word slashed her hard-won peace to shreds: SLUT.
Who? Who?
How long she sat staring at the note, she had no idea, but a deep voice wrenched her out of the nightmare with a shock like icy water.
‘What the deuce have you got here?’
The writing box hit the floor, accompanied by the crash of splintering glass and china as the inkpot and teacup broke. Thea found herself on her feet, every sense at full stretch, one fist clenched. Ready to fight.
Richard’s shocked face steadied her. ‘It’s only me, Thea.’ Then, ‘Damn! Stay still!’
He strode towards her, his expression fiercely intent.
Despite herself, she flinched, stepping back.
‘Damn it, woman! I said to stay still!’ he roared.
She froze in sheer outrage, and he was beside her, his booted feet crunching on the ruins of the inkpot and teacup.
And gasped as she was lifted bodily with ease and dumped back on the sofa with a marked lack of ceremony.
‘And stay there,’ he growled, ‘while I send for someone to clear this up. Those slippers won’t protect you from a shard of glass!’
She looked down. Broken glass and china sat in the lake of spilled ink and tea soaking into the Turkey carpet. And with them
