Page 64 of Souvenir of Love

“I see,” she said. But she didn’t, not at all. Only the top letter was addressed to her—the rest were addressed to Lord and Lady Moreham and to the Dowager Marchioness, Lady Louisa Moreham of Moreham Hall. It was with difficulty that she restrained the urge to rip the letter open right there and then. “Oh, my dear Elizabeth,” she murmured softly to herself as she slipped it into her sleeve, “what have you got up to now?”

Two days later,when the coachman had returned from Hartsdale, Alix burst into Rafe’s study, jubilantly waving anopened letter. “There, you see, I told you everything would turn out just fine.”

“I presume that is a letter from my sister.”

“It is. There is a letter for us and one for Louisa as well. Elizabeth is having a wonderful time, though she misses us all dreadfully, and she begs us to kiss the pug for her.”

“You’ll forgive me if I refrain from passing on that bit of affection. It’s bad enough that the beast has taken to sleeping on my pillow.”

“He likes you.”

“He drools.”

“He does not,” she protested.

“This epistle.” He beckoned with long elegant fingers. “Have you checked to make certain it came from Hartsdale?”

Alix stopped, planting her fists on her hips.

While he knew his wife meant it as a defiant gesture, Rafe couldn’t help thinking that her rounded belly undermined the pose. She looked adorable. He schooled his features to remain attentive to the tirade he knew was coming.

“Of course I did not check the return address,” she stormed, slipping into French. “I refuse to be suspicious of her.”

“Only because you have not known Elizabeth for as long as I have,” he replied in the same language.

She handed him the letter. He immediately turned it over.

“Well?” she demanded.

“It appears to have been sent from Hartsdale.”

“Which proves my point.” She lifted her chin triumphantly.

“Which proves the letter was sent from Hartsdale, not that my sister sent it from there.”

“It is in her hand, is it not?”

He unfolded the letter, his eyes sliding carefully down the page. “So it appears to be.”

“And there is a postscript from Arabella Norcroft, is there not? Thanking us, in a most polite manner, for sending Elizabeth to stay with them.” She cocked her head. “Or perhaps you think that part is a forgery?”

He shook his head. “My sister could never manage a hand so neat.”

“Concede, then, my love.” She came round his desk. “Your sister is precisely where she ought to be.”

Rafe pulled her onto his lap. “I will concede,” he said, kissing the soft curve of her neck. “Only thatyouare precisely where you should be.”

Twenty-Three

Sitting atop a pile of trunks in the miserable drizzle of Calais, Elizabeth reminded herself that she no longer cared what James Dinsmore thought or felt. She had no intention of apologizing for suggesting James had been involved with his sister in planning her disgrace. He hadn’t answered, of course, certainly not with his servant, Marcus, sitting across from them, but the temperature in the coach seemed to drop several degrees. James had proceeded to bury his nose in a volume of poetry while Marcus had concentrated his energies on forging their marriage certificate.

He deserved the barb for mocking her loss of romantic illusions—when he’d been the one responsible. And he’d been infuriatingly smug, dismissing her idea of financing separate quarters, and suggesting that she was in need of supervision, as if she were a harebrained child. She’d been clever enough to convince him to include her on this trip, hadn’t she? She toyed with the beads of moisture on her gloves; she was well accustomed to James Dinsmore’s arrogance. Usually, it amused her. It was a pose, really, to make people believe he didn’t take anything seriously, not even himself.

“Citizeness Dinsmore.” The French customs official cleared his throat loudly, seeking to attract attention. “If you would be so kind as to stand so that we may inspect your luggage.” Elizabeth shot a surprised look at the man, uncertain what had startled her most, that she hadn’t noticed that the little Frenchman with the greasy hair was standing so close, that he’d addressed her by the egalitarian title citizeness, or that he’d called her by her newly borrowed name, Dinsmore.

“But of course,” she said in French, rising from her seat, the smallest of James’s trunks. She smoothed her skirts, which had become increasingly sodden since they’d come ashore and taken their place in this interminably long customs line.

“The case belongs to your husband, yes?”