After the Wedding (The Worth Saga #2)(74)

“Here,” Camilla said. “This one—what do you think?”

TO: LASSITER

ANOTHER PACKAGE HAS ARRIVED

DISPOSAL IN THE USUAL MANNER

Adrian read it. “I have actually seen quite a few of those. And here’s this—the date seems right.”

TO: MILES

PACKAGE RECEIVED

MY THANKS FOR ANOTHER SUCCESSFUL DISPOSITION

A few more minutes found this: TO: LASSITER

AN ISSUE HAS ARISEN IN RE PRIOR PACKAGE.

ORIGINAL OWNER IS RAISING A FUSS

ASKING FOR PACKAGE WHEREABOUTS

ADVICE IS NECESSARY

CANNOT COMMIT MORE TO TELEGRAM

Camilla stopped. “This is the day before you arrived.”

“It is.”

“This is it. I know it’s not perfect, but… This shows they were working together, yes? And that they had an agenda that they could not discuss in public.”

“I think it is enough,” Adrian said slowly. “Given the dates, Lassiter’s arrival, the fact that they discussed Mrs. Martin in your presence…it might be enough.” Adrian tapped his finger against the page. “And these are the last telegrams we have. But for this. It’s the one sending for a special license. No surprise there.”

Camilla took the form.

It was hard to see her future written out in India ink like that. Lassiter had made the request, issuing the order with all the authority of his position.

NEED EMERGENCY SPECIAL LICENSE.

The details followed. To think so much had changed since the Wednesday weeks ago when this has all transpired…

Except.

Camilla pushed the page forward. “Adrian, this telegram was sent on a Tuesday.”

“Yes?”

Her voice shook. “Look at the date. He requested a special license the day before we were put in the bedchamber together.”

He blinked, then looked up at her. “So he did. And that’s our story—it all fits together now. Rector Miles receives his package—two thousand pounds. He pockets half, and shares the remainder with the bishop who is helping him cover the crime.”

“Yes.”

“The bishop comes to consult on the matter. I start asking questions about the rector’s household, and the two of them get wind of this and decide to discredit me. But Lassiter sends for a special license the day before their scheme goes into operation—and that pins the blame squarely on him.”

“Yes,” Camilla agreed again.

And then, across the room, Kitty, who had been sitting and reading said, “No.”

They turned as one.

“No?”

Kitty smoothed her skirts and looked away. “When the rector approached me, he said it was about Camilla. That she’d done something wrong and he couldn’t prove it, so he needed to catch her in the act. The only thing he said about you, Mr. Hunter, was that you were nobody.”

Camilla felt a strange sensation—an almost dizziness. “Me? But—that had to be an excuse, of course. What would I—”

“You knew about Mrs. Martin,” Adrian said. “You’re the one who told me.”

She had, technically. She’d overheard it, and remembered—even if they hadn’t mentioned the words. “But—who would I have told? I don’t know anyone. I’m nobody.”

“No,” Adrian said. “You’re not.”

“Maybe not in the general sense of things,” Camilla said, “but to the rest of the world—”

“No.” Adrian said, and Camilla felt her chest contract as she remembered. “No, even then you’re not. You’re the daughter of the Earl of Linney.”

She felt sick. “And Bishop Lassiter asked me about my sister. But she doesn’t want anything to do with me. I know she doesn’t. Why would that matter?”

“Do you know that they want nothing to do with you?”

“Of course I do. Judith said—she said—” She had said, years and years ago. And she hadn’t written, and Camilla had taken all the hope she could not contain and pushed it into the future—hoping, hoping, hoping, and never looking back.

Adrian looked at her. “Do you know?” he asked once more.

Yes. Of course Camilla knew it. She knew it, knew it the way she knew everything she had told herself over and over at night, knew it the way she knew that it was likely hopeless to love, knew it the way that she knew that she’d do it anyway. She knew that nobody wanted her, that nobody remembered her, that nobody cared about her. She knew she’d hope for it forever.

She knew it with a heart that had been bruised too often, with hopes that she’d held onto and lost too many times. She knew it with every fiber of her being.

She just didn’t know it with her head any longer.

“No,” she whispered. “I don’t know.”

Her finger reached out and touched the dark letters asking for a special license—and pulled her hand away, feeling stung.

“It makes a sort of sense,” he said. “I should have considered it the moment you told me. They didn’t know who I was. It wasn’t me they were trying to discredit. It was you all along.”

“Oh, God.” She inhaled. “Of course. It’s all my fault. I should have known.”