Marquesses at the Masquerade(56)

“Sadly, Annalise’s new gown won’t be ready in time for tonight’s ball at the Danvers’. She’ll have to wear an old one,” Aunt Sally said.

Lud, another ball? It didn’t matter what she wore there. She was only going to linger in the corner, trying to be as invisible as possible. This would be her battle plan until she could retreat to the Continent.

“Oh dear, whatever shall we do?” Mr. Sommerville adopted his falsetto tone again. He dabbed his face with his linen. “Annalise must wear rags. I feel a faint coming on.” His family laughed merrily. Annalise managed only a stiff smile. Thankfully, her uncle’s tirade was cut short when the manservant entered, holding a package and several letters.

“Pardon, sir.” He bowed. “A letter has arrived in the post from your solicitor. You had asked that I inform you as soon as it arrived, sir.”

“Yes, yes.” Mr. Sommerville rose, signaling the end of luncheon, and took the letters from the servant. “I shall be in the library seeing to important business,” he said. “Should you require my audience for some trifling matter, my door will be locked.” He walked out.

“Come, Annalise, you must help me with a darling new hairdressing for tonight,” Phoebe said, coming to her feet.

Before Annalise could answer, the servant thrust the package before her. “For you, miss.”

Annalise slowly took it, noticing the frank. Her belly tightened.

“Ooh, what could it be?” Phoebe asked.

Annalise quickly turned the package, hiding the frank.

“Is it from a dance partner?” Phoebe continued. “I wondered that we should receive no flowers this morning. But maybe because it was a masquerade, our partners won’t send any because they aren’t to know it was you.”

“I suppose,” Annalise said casually, hoping to conceal her racing heart.

“Come then, open it!” Phoebe said.

“It’s from a friend from home.” Annalise changed the subject. “Flowers in your hair would be lovely. Don’t you think, Shelley?”

“Yes!” Shelley grinned to be included with the older girls.

“Then I shall dress both my cousins’ hair?” This was met with great approval, and the mystery of the package was quickly forgotten.

Minutes later, Annalise tossed the package onto her bed in her chamber. “There is nothing I want to hear from you,” she told the package as though it were Exmore himself. She turned to leave and help her cousins but stopped and groaned. “Very well.”

It was best to get these vile things over with. She recklessly tore the paper away and then gasped. Below was an illustration by Visser—the koala she had not chosen that day in the shop. How had he known? Had he been there? But she didn’t remember anyone being in the shop but herself and the clerk before her cousins arrived.

She removed the illustration from the trappings of paper, and a folded letter fell onto her lap. She set the illustration carefully on the mattress and then opened the letter to reveal neat, unadorned script.



Miss Van Der Keer:

Please accept my apologies. I betrayed your kind trust, and for that I am deeply sorry. I must own that I knew you had returned to London after I spied you in the print shop. You did not see me in the back behind a statue because you were enraptured by the illustrations of Visser. I hope you will accept the gift of the illustration you left behind that day in order to purchase “silly slippers.”

I should have made my identity known to you at the ball, and pardon if I am presumptuous, but it seemed as if you wanted to talk, that you hadn’t had someone to speak to for a long while. Had you known my identity, I fear you would have remained silent. I found our conversation delightful and regret its abrupt ending. Please know that all your words I keep in confidence, as I have your call to my home years ago. How our lives have changed since that time. I have nothing but the kindest wishes for you. I apologize if I upset you, and I give you my word that I will kindly stay away from you for the remainder of your time in London. God bless you.

Exmore.



She drew in her breath and reread the letter. She was struck by Exmore’s kindness, as she had been when she had known him only as a musketeer. He had been a villain for so long in her mind, it was hard to think of him in any other role. Had what she thought was betrayal of her trust merely been confused compassion? Should she write him back of her forgiveness?

Did she forgive him?

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

And hadn’t she not been entirely without fault the night she called, unchaperoned and unkempt, to his home? Theirs was a tangled mess of emotions and history, and she would rather avoid him and the memories he kicked up.

She studied the koala, and suddenly, an image of her father cradled in her arms, laboring for breath as he died, filled her mind. She had squandered most of their lives together, assuming he was dull and boring. It hadn’t been until the end that she truly knew him. Exmore had lost someone too. She remembered the pain in his voice. My wife died. Who was she to judge? She was foolishly holding on to Patrick, a man who didn’t love her. Exmore had told her as much that evening long ago, but she had refused to believe him because the truth hurt too much. No, she had never learned to love more wisely, as he had said she would. Her heart was as stupid as ever.

Yes, perhaps she could forgive.