Taming Wilde (Waltzing with the Wallflower #3)(25)

Hawke wouldn’t be in there. By now, Cook’s morning casserole had likely found its mark, and the marquess would be safely tucked away in his closet for several hours. A smug but pleasant grin played on Gemma’s lips. Oh, to have seen the look on his face when that dish had begun its work on his innards.

As for the letter, if she sent Pearl for the ink, the girl would only report the tidbit to Hawke. Gemma would have to retrieve it herself.



****



The ink was in one of the desk drawers. She remembered seeing her father putting the bottle in there after refilling his own inkwell long ago. One of the drawers on the left, she was almost certain.

Rummaging through the drawers felt somewhat wrong, but Gemma had to have the ink. She resolved to put everything back as she had found it, so she took note of the state of the drawer when she opened it. A stack of contracts, a book for the accounts, a bundle of letters tied with a string…

She set each item in turn on the desktop out of her way and knelt down to get a better look at the back of the drawer. When she did, she caught a whiff of lilacs. The same scent her personal stationery carried.

Her gaze rose to the desktop where the package of letters was sitting at eye level, only inches away from her face.

That was her stationery.

She lifted the bundle to examine it more closely. Turning it over in her hands, she recognized her own handwriting. Sir Colin Wilde was inscribed across the back of the top letter. Her throat tightened around the lump that had instantly formed there.

The string that held the letters together was tied in a tight knot. Gemma reached for the letter opener on the desk and cut the string. She lifted the top letter and looked beneath it.

Sir Colin Wilde in broad strokes was etched across that one as well.

Frantically, Gemma thumbed through the rest of the parcel. One after another of her letters — all addressed to Colin, each with a broken seal — stared up at her from the stack.

So that was what Hawke had meant when he’d said he had dealt with Colin. She’d had no idea how far his sabotage had gone. But the evidence was there in her hands. The dozens of letters Gemma had written to Colin — every last one — praising him, professing her affection. He hadn’t received a single one.

Then what had he received?

She shuddered to think what damage Hawke might have done.

Gemma had to speak with Bridget. She would know how to repair this.

Hurriedly, she gathered the pile of letters, tied them with the cut string, shoved the other papers back into the drawer, and rushed into the hall.

“Simmons!” She caught the old footman on his way up the stairs.

“M’lady?” He stopped mid-step and turned to her.

“Simmons, I wish to visit Lady Maddox at once. Order me a carriage, if you please, and arrange an escort straight away.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

That done, she hurried to her chamber to ready for the visitation.





Chapter Twelve


I despise women. At least that is what most women believe. For what type of man would pursue and seduce women as a sport? A rake, dear fellows. Never forget that a rake is first a hunter and second a lover. You must search out your prey carefully, and you must at all costs appear to despise those you seek. For women love nothing more than a man they cannot seem to obtain. —The Private Journal of Viscount Maddox



Lord Maddox’s butler showed Gemma to the drawing room and offered her a seat, but she was far too upset to sit. She thanked him, and he left to inform his mistress of the visitor, while Gemma paced briskly through the center of the room, wringing the top of her reticule with both hands.

Between the letter from her mother and finding the hidden stash of communications meant for Colin, Gemma was beside herself. She was not equipped for so many upsets in one day.

The sound of the opening door interrupted her silent fretting.

“Oh, Bridget! Thank goodness!” She rushed toward her friend, experiencing a mixture of relief and anxiety all at the same time.

Gemma must have looked a fright, because Bridget’s brow furrowed with concern and she hurried to meet her, taking both of Gemma’s hands in her own.

“My sweet Gemma, whatever is the matter?”

When Gemma opened her mouth to respond, all her sorrows spilled out at once, along with a fresh batch of tears, though she’d thought she had none left. Her answer was no doubt unintelligible, as everything that had happened in the past few days swirled together in a torrential outburst of emotion.

Somehow dear Bridget was able to wade through the mire to the matter at hand, though it took some time to unwind the tale.

“Oh, Gemma!” she said at long last, when she came to a clear understanding. “Such a tangled web the marquess has woven!”

“And I alone am captured in it,” Gemma added. She reached into her mangled reticule and produced the bundle of letters. “These letters. Every one I wrote to Sir Wilde. Hawke took them and hid them from me.”

“Yet Sir Wilde was often groaning about the letters he received from you.”

“But they are all here! How could he have?”

“Perhaps your brother…”

It was too terrible to even consider. It was one thing to intercept Gemma’s communication and refuse it to be delivered. It was quite another thing entirely to forge letters in her name, designed to destroy Colin’s regard for her.