A Study In Seduction(89)
“No one you care to know.”
“How do you know him?”
“He’s a mathematician. A good one. Or at least he was. Years ago.”
“How do you know him?”
“Could you… Alexander, I must go home.”
“Why?”
“Please.”
He rapped on the roof to gain the coachman’s attention, then gave instructions to head to East Street.
Although Alexander remained silent for the drive, dissatisfaction and unease coiled through him. Lydia gripped the letter so tightly she thought she might tear it—and considered doing just that, ripping the paper up into a hundred pieces and tossing them outside. Horses’ hooves, carriage wheels, wagons, dogs, pedestrians—all would trample over the torn pieces and crush them until they rotted and dissolved in the filth.
Because she knew the contents of the letter. Knew them as well as she knew the Pythagorean theorem. Knew them as well as she knew the contours of Jane’s face, the different shades in the girl’s hair. The color of Jane’s eyes.
She preceded Alexander from the carriage and hurried to open the front door.
“Hello, Miss Kellaway. I’ve got seed cake fresh from the ov—” Mrs. Driscoll stopped in the foyer, looking past Lydia to where Alexander stood on the doorstep. “Oh, good day, Lord Northwood.”
“Mrs. Driscoll, is Jane at home?” Lydia asked, trying to keep the urgency from her voice.
“No, miss. Mrs. Boyd took her to her piano lesson.”
“Please tell me at once when they return.”
Mrs. Driscoll looked from her to Alexander again, a line of confusion between her brows. “I’ll… er… I’ll fetch tea, shall I?”
Shedding her cloak, Lydia went into the drawing room, closing the door behind her to keep Alexander out. She sank into a chair beside the window, her heart pumping terror instead of blood through her veins. With trembling fingers, she turned the letter over, broke the seal, and unfolded the paper.
Her suspicion solidified into painful acceptance as she read the neat penmanship and tried to remind herself that she had feared this day for years. She should be grateful it hadn’t dawned before now.
Every square matrix is a root of its own characteristic polynomial.
She refolded the letter and slipped it into her pocket.
Think, Lydia. Think.
The door opened and Mrs. Driscoll left the tea tray on a table before departing. The smell of biscuits caused a swirl of nausea. Lydia tried to drink a cup of tea but managed only two sips before her stomach rebelled.
She grabbed a decorative bowl and retched, sweat breaking out across her forehead, her hands shaking as they gripped the porcelain edges.
“Lydia?”
Her heart plummeted. Tears stung her eyes, blinding her. Alexander’s hand rested warm and heavy on the back of her neck.
“Lydia, go upstairs. I’ll send for the doctor.”
“No, I—”
“You’re ill. If you don’t—”
“No!” Her strident tone made him step back.
Lydia closed her eyes and breathed, trying to suppress the violent storm of emotions that would, if unleashed, drown all coherent thought. She fumbled for the teapot as Alexander took the soiled bowl out. Lydia took a drink, her stomach still roiling.
Alexander’s booted steps moved almost soundlessly across the carpet. Lydia forced herself to look up. He stood with his arms crossed, his expression impenetrable but his eyes dark with both concern and frustration.
A crack split down the middle of Lydia’s heart, jagged and sharp. She remembered when she had once believed Alexander capable of withstanding any truth, any confession she laid before him.
Now the time had come for proof—and Lydia thought for the first time in her life her theory would prove wrong.
She dug her hand into her pocket. Without speaking, she extended the letter toward him.
Alexander took the paper and opened it. His expression didn’t change as he read the contents—the contents Lydia knew by heart even after reading the letter only once.
Dear Lydia,
Congratulations on your engagement. I have anticipated the event, considering your acquaintance with Lord Northwood.
Through several colleagues, I have learned of his lordship’s family history and the divorce of his parents. It seems Lord Northwood has been committed to putting the scandal to rest.
What would his lordship say, I wonder, if he were to learn of your secret?