Page 30 of The Boxing Baroness

She’d hoped the duke might say he didn’t have the letter—or that it had spontaneously combusted or been stolen—but she was not so lucky.

He reached into his coat and extracted a small rectangle. “I brought it along, thinking you might wish to read it.”

She sighed, took it, and unfolded it.

Staunton,

I hope this letter finds you well. It has been over a decade since we last spoke—so much water over the dam. No doubt you have looked at the signature on this page and have already contemplated notifying the authorities or throwing it into the fire. I hope, for your brother Ben’s sake, that you do neither.

There, that caught your attention, didn’t it?

Yes, I’ve recently discovered that dear Ben is alive, although not perhaps in the pink of health.

First off, let me assure you that he is, for the time being, safe. When you come to collect him, however, you should bring a caravan or the like to transport him, as he is not fit for riding.

The gentleman in whose care he resides requires compensation for his time and effort. He wants £10,000. It seems a great deal, but I assured him it was well within your means. Especially for your only remaining brother.

As proof of my claim, I’ve included your brother’s ring and a letter from him, in his own hand.

I am not asking for money for my part—I will take you to where Ben is convalescing in exchange for a favor.

I wish to see a woman named Marianne Simpson, who works for a man named Barnabas Farnham.

There are important things I need to say to Miss Simpson. Bringing her to see me won’t be as difficult as it seems, as Farnham’s company will be touring the Continent exceedingly early this year, presumably to get a head start on his imitators, who will likely have the same idea.

Marianne looked up to find all three men watching her intently. “How does he know about the tour?”

“He was an associate of your uncle in the past. Is it possible he is in communication with him now?”

Marianne’s first response was anger—indignant anger—and she opened her mouth to defend her uncle. But the words wouldn’t come. How did Dominic know about their tour? Who would have told him if not Barnabas? But how could her uncle do such a thing after everything that had transpired between her and the baron?

She felt sick to her stomach at the possibility of Barnabas being so disloyal.

Marianne met the duke’s gaze. Was that pity she saw in his eyes? “I don’t know if they are in communication,” she admitted.

The duke only nodded.

Marianne turned back to the letter.

If you bring Marianne to me, I will take you to Ben.

She won’t want to see me—it will likely prove a struggle to get her here. If she requires motivation, tell her to ask Barnabas about the locket and the letter. Once she sees those, she will have many, many questions. Tell her I have answers to all her questions; that will make her eager to see me.

I know what a law-abiding, upright citizen you are, my dear St. John, but do curb your desire to notify the authorities of my existence. If I get so much as a whiff of Elliot or his associates within one hundred miles of me, I will be deeply chagrined.

And Ben will die.

Be at the Iron Helm Inn on April 15th, and I will find you. Show up even one day late and I will be gone, and Ben will die. Dominic

Marianne folded up the letter, proud that her hands barely shook. If there’d been any doubt that Dominic was alive, this letter had put it to rest. Not only did she know his handwriting, but she was more familiar with his tone than she would like to be.

She looked up and gave the duke the letter. “Perhaps you might tell me what it is that you have in mind, Your Grace.”

Chapter 8

“Are you absolutely barking mad? ” Marianne Simpson’s eyes bulged in a manner that almost made Sin smile.

“No, not mad, Miss Simpson.”