Page 10 of When Hearts Are Wylde
“Then I’ll get them back.”
“He said he burned them,” she explained. “He destroyed them, but if the blackmailer took one before and he didn’t notice that it was missing— I’m so afraid, Phin. I feel like I’m standing on the precipice of a great, dark crevasse and I’ve no notion what hell awaits me at the bottom.”
“He didn’t burn them.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Because I’ve watched him for the last month, since we’ve all been back in town, and he looks as miserable as you… there is only one thing that can make a man that unhappy.”
Hermione shook her head. “I’m certain you’re wrong. If he cared that much, he would have done something by now. But I need to know what became of those letters… they could ruin us all.”
He sighed. “I’ll get them back. Then you can determine if one is missing. If it is, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. But no more hiding… no secrets, no lies. Trust me to take care of you the way a brother ought to.”
Hermione stepped forward, wrapped her arms around him, and felt the strength of his embrace close around her like a promise.
“No more hiding,” she said against his shoulder.
He held her for a long moment before pulling back. “Now go fix your face. If I know anything about you, it’s that you won’t let your enemies see you shaken. And I’ve no doubt there’s one or two in that ballroom watching every move you make.”
She nodded and managed a smile, the kind that felt like armor being strapped into place. “Thank you, Phin.”
“Always.”
As she stepped back into the music and glitter of the ballroom, Hermione felt steadier. But she also knew the Witness was still watching. Still waiting. And the game was far from over.
Chapter Five
A week later
Aweek of silence passed. Not peace—never peace—but the sort of quiet that hums with the portent of danger.
In that time, Joseph Baxter had grown more attentive than ever. He called regularly, always at the same hour, bearing armfuls of forced cheer and long-winded commentary on everything from the political posturing in Parliament to the quality of his horse’s new saddle. He carried himself like a man halfway in love with his own reflection, blind to the polite boredom in the eyes of every listener. Hermione endured it as one might a persistent cough—unpleasant, recurring, but tolerable so long as one took care not to breathe too deeply in his company.
And The Witness had said nothing.
No messages arrived. No notes tucked beneath her door. No whispered demands passed through the hands of servants. For seven days, the silence stretched long and taut as piano wire. And she knew better than to mistake it for mercy.
It was only the patience of a skilled predator.
That morning, with London cloaked in grey mist and the cold sharp enough to sting through her gloves, Hermione accompanied her mother to Bond Street. Their movements were as deliberate as ever—appearances must be maintained, even in the wake of dread. Especially then. They stopped first at the modiste’s to inquire after alterations, then crossed the street to Darning & Fray, a linen shop they had frequented for years.
Inside, the shop was warm, smelling faintly of starch and lavender. A shopgirl in cap and apron greeted them at the door, ushering them toward the counter with practiced deference. The shopkeeper—a thin, hawk-eyed man with ink-stained fingers—greeted them with a polite inclination of his head and asked what he might present for their consideration.
Elizabeth removed her gloves and handed them off, already beginning her inquiry in the brisk, no-nonsense tone that made Hermione cringe with anticipatory dread. “Handkerchiefs, if you please. Something with lace edging, not that dreadful torchon, and the embroidery must be hand-done. I won’t waste time on machine-work pretending to be the real thing.”
The shopkeeper offered a deferential smile that didn’t reach his eyes and moved behind the curtain to retrieve the requested items.
Hermione, acutely aware of the tension that always seemed to rise when her mother began critiquing the very wares laid out before her, drifted a few steps away under the pretense of giving them space. At the far end of the counter, she spotted a tray of neatly folded handkerchiefs—likely set out for a previous patrol to peruse and not yet sorted back into storage. They were stacked with care, delicate corners peeking out beneath one another, the stitching soft and pale in the morning light. It wasn’t proper to rifle through unattended stock, of course, but shopkeepers typically turned a blind eye when very well-dressed ones with coin to spend had a wander about.
She approached slowly, lifting the top handkerchief with the same idle grace she’d use at a tea table. Her fingers, though gloved, felt clumsy as she examined the fine stitching of the border, turning the square of lawn in her hands.
It fluttered as she turned it over and something small slipped from within the folds—just the size of a calling card. It landed on the counter beside the tray.
Hermione froze.
There was no seal. No address on the outside. Only cream-colored paper, thick, finely cut and easily recognizable. It was just like the others.
Her breath caught as she reached for it, her fingers closing around the edge like a reflex. She turned her shoulder subtly, shielding her movements from view as her mother’s voice continued—brisk and faintly disdainful—on the other side of the shop. With her heart pounding furiously, she unfolded it and read the hateful words concealed within.
