Chapter Nine
The light was too bright. Leticia blinked against it, her temples pulsing with a dull ache.
Even the softness of the pillow could not soothe the tension that had crept into her bones.
She hadn’t cried. Not last night. Not even when the mask came off and the gown was unfastened and folded away. But her body felt as if she had.
The curtains were open. Morning light spilled across the room, pale and relentless, painting every surface with a truth she wasn’t ready to face.
Alice must have come and gone already, leaving the room in a state of gentle readiness. Her brushes were neatly aligned, tea steaming faintly on the tray, her slippers placed just so at the foot of the chaise.
Leticia sat up slowly, her fingers brushing the silk coverlet. Her hands trembled, though she wasn’t cold. Everything inside her felt hollow, half-frozen, as if warmth had gone missing.
Across the room, a note from her aunt rested against the teapot. A soft envelope. Pale lavender paper with her aunt’s unmistakable handwriting.
My dearest,
I’ve accepted an invitation from Mrs. Bainbridge. She’d like us to join her for tea and wedding flowers, yours as well as hers. Say you’ll come. We’ll sit beside her garden and pretend everything blooms as it should.
Your loving Aunt Margaret.
Leticia exhaled through her nose and set the note aside. She reached for her cup, then stopped. The newspaper next to it caught her eye.
The morning edition. Still folded. Still untouched.
She set it aside. Instead, she stood and crossed to the washbasin, her feet bare against the carpet.
The air held a faint chill. Everything in the room was tidy, composed, unshaken.
She was not. She poured water into the basin and dipped a cloth, pressing it against her face until the coolness chased back the heat blooming behind her eyes.
Dressing took longer than usual. Alice had laid out a soft blue walking dress with pearl buttons and a shawl the color of quiet seafoam.
Leticia stared at it for a moment, then chose a different one, a deep gray silk with a higher neckline and no ornament at all.
She brushed out her own hair, each stroke an act of control.
By the time she descended the stairs, her aunt was already waiting by the carriage in a tailored pelisse and her traveling gloves.
They did not speak as they rode. Leticia kept her hands folded in her lap, watching the gray morning drift past the window. Her body moved with the motion of the carriage. Her thoughts refused to follow.
Her aunt’s silence was the kind that asked no questions, offered no comfort, only presence. Leticia was grateful for it.
The Bainbridge residence was bright with blooms, the garden already spilling into its spring colors despite the lingering chill. A footman opened the door with a bow, and they were shown through to the morning room.
Mrs. Bainbridge stood at the table, surrounded by ribbon samples, lace swatches, and three teacups that had already begun to steam, and an entire bouquet of anemones sat in a vase, as if watching. She turned with a smile that was only slightly too bright.
“There you are. I was beginning to think you’d both abandoned me to hydrangeas and indecision.”
Leticia curtsied with more grace than she felt. “Thank you for including us.”
“Of course I did.” Mrs. Bainbridge waved them toward chairs with a gesture both elegant and conspiratorial. “You’re the talk of the morning, my dear. I suspect if you opened the paper, you’d find yourself described as luminous.”
A hundred eyes had seen her say yes. That made it true, even if she hadn’t meant it. Leticia’s fingers curled beneath the edge of the chair, out of sight, as if the truth had nothing to do with her at all.
Lady Eastbury raised a brow. “We prefer to leave the papers until after tea.”
“A wise choice,” Mrs. Bainbridge said lightly. “The news of the engagement is quite official. It seems everyone is preparing to congratulate you.”
Leticia did not correct her.
She stared at the tea in front of her, watching steam curl up and vanish into the air. The scent of orange blossom and honey should have been comforting. Instead, it was a mask, lovely, and entirely false.
She had said yes. Danced. Smiled. And now the world believed what she had only dared to imagine for a moment.
She wondered what Ash would say if he saw her now. Would he call her radiant again? Would he say her name?
Mrs. Bainbridge reached for a spoon to stir her tea, but did not look up. “Lord Ashcombe left rather late last night, with Lord Barrington, I believe. He looked, well, not like a man recently engaged.”
Leticia stilled.
“I daresay it had to do with that awful incident,” Mrs. Bainbridge went on. “Theft at a masquerade? It makes one wonder who else was masked last night, doesn’t it?”
Lady Eastbury said nothing, but Leticia could feel the glance she offered over the rim of her cup. She hadn’t forgotten the scream or the missing necklace. But her mind wasn’t ready for mystery, not yet.
Mrs. Bainbridge’s smile softened. “Of course, no one will ask too many questions. Not now. The papers won’t allow it.”
Leticia nodded slowly, unsure whether that was a relief or another layer of which she’d never be free.
She lifted her cup, lowered it again. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” she said quietly.
Both women looked at her.
Mrs. Bainbridge was the first to respond. “Most things worth remembering begin that way.”
Leticia’s gaze dropped to the tea. “It’s just that he didn’t, he doesn’t know…”
Lady Eastbury reached over and gently touched her hand. “You are not obligated to explain yourself. Not to us.”
“I know,” Leticia said. “But I think I need to say it out loud. Just once.” She paused. Breathed. Then, with great care: “He thought I was someone else.”
Mrs. Bainbridge said nothing for a long moment. “That’s the problem with masks. They only hide what people already refuse to see.”
*
Ash stood in Barrington’s study, one hand braced on the map table, the other curled loosely by his side. The windows were closed against the damp, and the fire was unlit, leaving the room cool and heavy with pipe smoke.
Barrington handed him a slim folio. “The second theft was discovered not long after the first. Retiring room. Jewels, again. No forced entry.”
Ash flipped through the brief report. “Another high-value item. Whoever this is, they’re not picking at random.”
“No. They’re escalating.” Barrington crossed to the window, the fog dulling the light against the pane. “They want attention. But not discovery.”
“This isn’t petty theft. These targets are deliberate. I want to know if the Order’s resurfacing, and if they’ve changed tactics.”
Ash exhaled slowly. He had dragged her into this. A mistake, yes, but one now printed in headlines and whispered across parlors. And if the Order had truly resurfaced, she wouldn’t just be the subject of idle gossip. She’d be a target.
“I need to speak with Lady Salisbury.”
Barrington looked over his shoulder. “Now?”
Ash didn’t answer. Not with words.
“Leticia’s likely already surrounded. And your name is printed beside hers in every drawing room across the city.”
“I know what I said,” Ash replied. “And I meant it.”
“You meant it in public,” Barrington said, more gently. “But I’d wager she’s waiting for you to say it in private.”
Ash turned away, the folio still open in his hand.
He hadn’t seen her since the garden, since her silence hadn’t matched the softness in her eyes. He had asked her to stay. She had. And now, with every thread pulling tighter, he wasn’t sure if he’d simply protected her or drawn her into something far more dangerous.
*
Leticia sat alone in the quiet after the carriage returned her home.
The house was hushed, as though holding its breath. Even Alice had the good sense not to ask any questions when she brought in the afternoon tea tray.
The paper was still there. Unfolded. Waiting.
Leticia picked it up.
Her name stared back at her from the third column, neatly printed beneath a headline that included Ash’s. No speculation. No rumor. Just a quiet declaration of fact. The Baron of Ashcombe is engaged to Lady Leticia Salisbury.
Her fingers tightened slightly at the sight of her name, so familiar and so foreign in print. The ink didn’t blur. The news didn’t stammer. The story didn’t care who she truly was.
It was done.
Leticia read it again. And once more. Not because she couldn’t believe it, but because this was the version the world had chosen to remember. She just wasn’t certain if it was the one she could live with.