Page 67 of Her Impeccable Scoundrel
“I am sorry, Graeme.” She shook her head. “I assure you, I am not a candidate for Bedlam.”
“I know you are not, Blythe.”
“What are we to do next?” she asked. “Lure Madame out of the house and search? We ought to do that soon before she offers the will to Diddenton.”
“We will keep that in mind as a possibility. First, though, I have another approach in mind. May I see that letter from Lord Vernon to his father?”
“Why not? You know about everything else.”
“Blythe,” he said, reaching for her.
This time she allowed his touch; allowed him to wrap her in an embrace, allowed him to comfort her.
“I don’t quite know everything, do I?” he asked, his voice gentle. “But I can and will wait until you are ready to tell me.”
She kept her attention fixed on a spot on the floor where another passenger had brought in mud, fighting the memories. Louisa had come along later to help her. Coralie had only seen the worst of the miscarriage. Only Archie, that woman, Madame, and Lord Vernon had been present, and the thought sent anger surging through her.
She’d wanted Archie dead. She’d be happy to see Madame and Lord Vernon follow him.
But she wasn’t a murderer.
Adwick greeted them at the door with a letter for Graeme, and he recognized the Foreign Office seal.
“They said it was urgent,” Adwick said. “Will you take breakfast? Lady Hermione has just arrived in the breakfast room. Captain Lynford has not arisen. The children’s food has just gone up to them.”
Graeme helped Blythe with her pelisse and handed his hat to Adwick.
“I’d best read this letter first before the other one, Blythe.”
“Tell Lady Hermione we will be along directly,” Blythe said. “Lord Chilcombe, I can bring that item to the library, if you’ll wait for me there.”
He shook his head. “My sitting room, I think. Come, I’ll escort you.”
At the staircase, he paused. “It is in your room, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “Well-hidden.”
While she went off to retriever her letter, he cracked the seal on the one he’d just received. He’d been called to a meeting in an hour’s time. Not at the Foreign Office, but at a private address in Mayfair.
Annoyed at the interruption to his plans, he rubbed his eyes, fatigue gripping him. He would need to change his clothes and he would need coffee.
A knock at the door brought Blythe. She handed him the letter with shaking fingers. Clive, his new valet, appeared behind her.
He sent the lad to fetch him a tray.
“Sit down, Blythe,” he said, leading her to a sofa. “Please give my apologies to Lady Hermione. I’m called to an urgent meeting but I’ll return here directly afterward.”
She moved as if to stand, but he seated himself next to her.
“Stay, please, while I read this. I may have questions.”
The letter from Lord Vernon was water-stained in places. Surely not tears—he recalled that it had been snowing that day.
When he finished, he folded the paper. “This will go in the safe. Agreed?”
“Yes.”
“And I must ask you where the safe is and who has access to it.” He ought to have thought of that before.
