Page 89 of Miss Vincent’s Vow

Mr Crowley laughed. “It will be—but a welcome one, I’m sure. We’ve no shipment due in for a day or two, so I doubt Hunt has anything pressing to attend to.”

Cassandra held back, suddenly doubting she should have come. What if Mr Crowley was wrong, and Jethro sent her away?

The smell of the biscuits reminded her of her mission, and she took the basket from Martin and nodded to him to knock before she could change her mind.

She heard Jethro’s voice bid her enter and turned the door handle.

Her husband rose from his seat at the sight of her. “Cassandra! Is all well?”

“Quite well,” she said, shutting the door on the interested footman, and begging Jethro to sit down again. “I brought you some biscuits. They’re still warm from the oven.”

Jethro shook his head, as if he could not believe her words. Cassandra tensed, fearing she had overstepped the mark and was about to receive a set-down.

Instead, he laughed. That joyful, chortling laugh, which she had heard once before. “You brought me biscuits? How thoughtful.”

She put her basket down beside her and unwrapped her gift, watching intently as he took his first bite, closing his eyes to savour the flavour.

“I brought you something else as well,” she said as he finished the biscuit, handing him the letters and the miniature.

“What are these?”

“I found them in your mother’s desk. In the locked drawer. The key was hidden away in my dressing table. Do you think the picture is of your father?”

“It seems unlikely,” Jethro said, barely glancing at the miniature before laying it aside. “Why would she have kept his portrait to herself?”

“What about the letters?” Cassandra asked, somewhat disappointed at his lack of interest.

Jethro undid the bow on the first bundle and spread open the top letter. After a brief glance at the contents, he hastily refolded it.

“As I thought, not from my father. The date is far too recent.”

“Then who is it from?”

“I don’t know, and I will not pry. If my mother locked these things away, it’s reasonable to assume she didn’t want me to find them. I have no wish to delve any further.”

He shoved the letters and the miniature into a drawer and turned back to her.

“Enough of that. You are distracting me from the very important task of sampling Mr Oliver’s latest creation,” he said, helping himself to another biscuit.

Cassandra longed to examine the letters, to see if she could solve the identity of the gentleman in the portrait, but perhaps he was right. It would not be pleasant for him to learn something that would discredit his mother, and if the nature of the correspondence was innocent, why was it hidden away? It was better to leave the past alone.

Jethro let out a satisfied sigh, drawing Cassandra’s attention back to the present.

“Quite the best thing Mr Oliver has produced, don’t you think?” she said.

“Indeed, I do. He deserves a medal. These biscuits are delicious, but not as delightful as the woman who brought them to me.”

Cassandra glowed at the compliment, and stored it away inside, hugging it to herself all the way home.

It was far more meaningful than his admiration of her appearance. A bud of hope that something deeper was growing between them.

She prayed nothing would destroy it while it was so young and tender.

Chapter 48

In the days that followed, Cassandra often found an excuse to visit Jethro in the warehouse. They were the moments that brightened her mornings, the breaks in the routine of running the household, making and receiving morning calls, and working on her embroidery.

Sometimes she took him one of Mr Oliver’s confections. On other occasions, she went to ask him a question that could have waited until dinnertime, but Jethro didn’t seem to mind.