Chapter 8

As Lady Allen placed her trembling fingers on Thel’s sleeve, he wished he could draw her close and whisper soft words in her ear. He might have done so, except that he feared she might bolt. He’d never had a woman recoil from him before. Instead of thinking about how he was going to deal with his daughter’s unknown paramour, he was preoccupied with how he might put Lady Allen’s mind at ease.

The way she’d covered her face with her arms spoke of a history of violence. Someone, likely the deceased earl, had mistreated her. Anger smoldered in his gut as he imagined the innocent girl Lady Allen had once been. Cruelty had stripped that from her. It was no wonder she was so determined to help Constance. He wasn’t sure he believed her claims that someone other than his daughter had written the letters, but he could not risk ignoring her. If a man had inserted himself into Constance’s life, Thel wanted to know who it was.

They walked to Constance’s room behind Mrs. Quill, then stepped inside as he opened the door. Constance sat before her dressing mirror, running a brush through her hair. The faraway look in her eyes suggested she hadn’t even noticed them entering.

His heart gave a painful lurch as he imagined her gathering her pin money to send to the newspaper. The articles had started weeks ago, before they had ever come to London. How had he overlooked that she’d been hiding something so important? She had never kept secrets from him.

Lady Allen had told him to place the envelopes back where he had found them, but as a father, he wanted to throw them onto Constance’s desk and demand answers.

He was slipping his hand in his pocket when Lady Allen grabbed his sleeve and whispered, “While she is distracted.”

He retrieved the envelopes but held firm when she tried to tug them out of his grasp. It felt wrong to be sneakily returning items he had taken from Constance’s room. She might have hidden things from him, but he did not want to do the same. Admitting what he had done might cause a rift to form between them, but it would show her he valued honesty.

He cleared his throat.

Constance caught his gaze in the mirror and shot upright. The brush fell out of her hand and clattered onto the floor. “Yes, Father?”

He held out the ribbon-wrapped bundle. “I found these in your room.”

“What are you—” Olivia started, but he spoke over her.

“I removed these because I was concerned that… you…” His impromptu lecture faded as Constance tilted her head and frowned.

He waggled the envelopes. “Have you seen these before?”

She shook her head. “You found those in my room? What are they?” She stepped forward and reached for the bundle, but he moved his hand out of reach.

She did not know what he was talking about.

The room spun as he was overcome with relief. He’d been wrong. Constance had had nothing to do with the articles. Except that didn’t quite fit. If they weren’t Constance’s doing, then who had hidden the letters he had found in her room? It had to be someone in his household, as they had not been in London long enough for Constance to have callers.

“Let me see,” his daughter said. She went up on her toes and grabbed for the envelopes. When she was unable to reach, she stomped her foot and pouted. “Why are you hiding things from me?”

Before he could come up with an excuse, a short woman with fiery-red hair shoved past them into the room, hefting bolts of pink-and-white fabric on her shoulders.

“Where is the lass?” she asked.

He stepped into the woman’s path. “Who are you?”

“Lily, how wonderful!” Lady Allen said, stepping around him. “It has been an age. Did Lady Briarwood send you?”

“Aye, my lady.” She dropped the bolts of fabric ends down on the carpet with a loud thud . “I’ve come to outfit the lass for the season.”

“Thank God,” Lady Allen said. “You are our savior.”

Then Lily turned to the door and shouted, “Lads, bring them here!”

He staggered back as a line of servants filed in, carrying trunks or armfuls of fabric in colors ranging from pale yellow to rich cobalt while Constance flitted around them, barely muffling her squeals of excitement.

Lady Allen clung to his side. He curled his arm around her waist before catching himself. His excitement at Constance’s reaction to the envelopes had left him giddy.

“She didn’t recognize them,” he said. “What does that mean?”

Lady Allen pursed her lips. “Are you sure she isn’t lying?”

He throttled down the immediate urge to fly to his daughter’s defense. As much as he thought he knew her, he was too sensible to believe it was a coincidence that the letters they found were addressed to the same newspaper that was publishing articles attacking Olivia. It was much more likely that Constance, who was barely eighteen and on the cusp of making the most important decision of her life, had become skilled at lying to her father.

He sighed. “No. I’m not sure.”

Lady Allen squeezed his bicep. “Have patience. I’ll get the answer out of her in time.”

He hoped she was right. Knowing that his daughter was hiding something from him was like walking around with a sliver embedded in his flesh. He longed to rid himself of the pain, but it was too deep to remove on his own.

It seemed like only yesterday Constance had shrieked with joy as he’d carried her on his shoulders around the house. Now she was entering society and preparing to choose a husband. The weekly allowance he gave her was a pittance compared to her dowry.

His thoughts screeched to a halt.

There was no way of proving if she was lying about the envelopes, but he could check the account he had opened for her. If she had paid the editor to publish the articles, there would certainly be large withdrawals.

He made his excuses to Lady Allen and his daughter and left them to sort out the dresses themselves.

He had an appointment with his banker.