Forever untraceable.
This envelope, however, was completely blank but for her name written in block capitals. The script neither masculine nor feminine.
You’ll bring the money to the Redmayne tomb tomorrow night.
Bring. Not post.
Which meant …
“I’m sorry,” she asked the desk clerk in a voice more unsteady than she would have liked. “May I inquire from where this letter arrived?”
“From here, Your Grace,” the clerk answered. “No postmark. It was delivered in person and left in your box last night.”
The hand she’d laid flat on the table curled into a fist as she tried to rein in her galloping heart. “By whom?”
“No one can say, unfortunately.” His mild expression dimmed to one of sheepish regret. “The night concierge was called away from the desk a few times by a rather demanding guest.”
Her hopes began to plummet. “Would it have been left by a night courier maybe?”
He shook his head. “Any courier would have known to wait for a desk clerk, Your Grace, as they wouldn’t have known which mail slot belonged to you. We’re not in the habit of releasing room numbers of our guests, I can assure you.” He hesitated. “Though, I suppose it isn’t much of a surprise that you and the duke are staying in our most luxurious suites.”
After a sharp intake of breath, she felt a pinprick of light pierce her encroaching despair. She thanked the clerk and wandered toward the fireplace, staring at the note as though she could see through it to the answer on the other side.
Few people knew of her whereabouts in Normandy, and even fewer could confirm that de Marchand was dead.
Two very specific souls, staying here in this very hotel, had been at de Chardonne when the incident had occurred. Lady Julia Throckmorton and Jean-Yves. Could Rose be nearby?
Julia had decided to stay in Seasons-sur-Mer for a few days to further her pursuit of Dr. Forsythe. Or was that merely what she claimed? Had she been an enemy this entire time?
Alexandra shook her head, doing her best to reject the notion. It made no sense. She and Julia had always got on famously, and it was well-known the woman had obscene amounts of money. Alexandra’s monthly payments would have been a pittance compared to Julia’s holdings.
They’d fallen out of touch since de Chardonne, but had never fallen out with each other.
According to her unfailing memory, Julia’s bedroom had been on the east side of de Chardonne, which meant the chances of her witnessing them bury de Marchand would be minuscule as the gardens faced the west.
Besides, the idea that Julia was clever enough to have so ingeniously tormented her this entire time was absurd.
Wasn’t it?
Still … could her motive be cruelty? Could she be hiding her wit beneath blond curls and an artless veneer of vapid triviality?
And what about Jean-Yves? Cecelia’s dearest, fatherly companion sent to keep her safe.
He’d buried the man she’d murdered.
He could have taken the razor blade from his pocket when they’d gone. Along with any other bit of evidence he needed.
Was it possible his concern for Alexandra was feigned? That his absolute loyalty to Cecelia was a lie?
Alexandra’s chin quivered at the thought. They’d been so certain all this time that he was the last pure and decent man left in their sphere.
To find that the older man’s kindness had been contrived would break Alexandra’s heart.
But it would kill Cecelia.
Dear, trusting Cecelia who, despite being abandoned, bullied, and blamed for her mother’s sins, still managed to find the goodness in everyone. She loved the old man to distraction, doting upon him like a surrogate elderly father.
Even though she “employed” Jean-Yves, the Red Rogues had visited enough to have seen that, other than the occasional errand, Jean-Yves was more of a companion than a servant. He spent most of his time with his feet up by the fire in his own sitting room while Cecelia read to him. Or gloating as Cecelia let him win at chess. His title as employee was more for his pride than for his keeping, and Cecelia had even shared the amount she’d settled upon him as a salary, which was more than generous.
So, was Cecelia’s generosity not enough for him? Were the fine wines and expensive, comfortable shoes he favored purchased with Alexandra’s blood money?
A calculating thought helped to smother the flames of her fear. If Alexandra were anything like Francesca, she’d see this as an opportunity.
She was to bring the money to the dig site. Not mail it. Nor wire it.
Bring it. Which meant tomorrow night, she might finally face her tormentor. Perhaps glean some answers. And if a surrogate was sent for her blackmailer, there was still a chance she could use her newfound title, wealth, or influence to sway some information from a hired brigand.
A heavy and terrifying thought snaked through her.
What if this was her final payment? What if she met her doom in Redmayne’s crypt?
She swatted at the idea. It made no sense that her blackmailer would wish her harm. If she were dead, the source of the funds dried up, as well.
It made more sense, now that she was a duchess, her tormentor wanted to discuss new terms.
How utterly lamentable, that such a thing would be the lesser of two evils.
Heavy boots approached across the marble floors and Alexandra blinked like a madwoman, hoping to erase all traces of emotion. She’d recognize the sound of that confident stride anywhere.
She summoned a smile from deep in her wounded soul, but it faltered when she met the concern in his gaze.
“Did you receive bad news?” he queried, a note of concern lacing through his comforting baritone. “You’ve gone a bit green about the gills.”
She stared at the paper, moving her eyes as though it contained more lines than only the one. “It’s my, um. My parents.”
“They’re upset about the wedding,” he said wryly.
She looked up, blinded for a moment by how the morning light painted a cobalt sheen into the ebony of his hair. Next to his tawny glory, her pallor must appear positively anemic.
“On the contrary,” she rushed to appease him. “They’re sending along their felicitations.”
“You appear to me anything but felicitous.”
She let out a nervous laugh that escaped at a higher pitch than she’d thought possible. “I’ll grant you they’re … a bit piqued that they weren’t at the wedding, but Father might not have been able to make it anyway, and Andrew is abroad and couldn’t have taken the journey on such short notice.”
She hated how easily the lies tripped from her tongue.
One dark, scarred brow lowered. “Then … why do you look as though someone walked over your grave?”
Because there was a small chance someone wanted to make his ancestor’s grave her own.
Tomorrow night.
She lowered her voice to a whisper, painfully aware of their public venue. “I am tremendously abashed to be so indelicate as to inquire about my um … my stipend. I would send it to them, if I may, to ease their financial distress.”
And she would. Whatever was left of it would go to her parents and her brother. She’d make certain they were taken care of should anything happen to her.
His tense expression relaxed a bit, as though relieved the source of her distress was something as paltry as money. “I’ll have my solicitor contact theirs upon our return to Castle Redmayne to set up an allowance for your family.”