mouth was no less gentle as he pressed it to her knuckles.
Blue flames had threatened to singe her as he’d replied. “Five days.”
This morning, after awakening no less than a hundred times in the night plagued by a restless and terrible feeling, Alexandra capitulated to the idea that she’d get no more sleep and had dressed uncharacteristically early.
Three days now, she’d realized as she all but skipped down the stairs awash with a new, optimistic fervor and a smile in her heart. Three days and the state of her empty womb would be confirmed.
Three days and he’d be one step closer to trusting her. In this respect, at least.
She’d reached the lobby before her husband did, and was called over by the desk clerk.
“A note for you, Your Grace.” He extended a small ivory envelope with a solicitous smile.
An envelope identical to the one she’d dreaded nearly every month for the last decade.
It might have been another lovely day, Alexandra mourned as a flush of hot panic ignited little pinprick fires over her skin.
If she’d never killed a man.
She knew the author of the letter before her unsteady fingers grappled it open.
Her sin had followed her to Normandy.
It followed her everywhere, didn’t it? Wherever she’d escaped to on the globe, her blackmailer had known. Had found her. And a letter had arrived like a clockwork nightmare.
You’ll bring the money to the Redmayne tomb tomorrow night.
Stomach churning, she read the note again and again, scanning it as she always did for something. Some clue as to who had written it.
It was never any use. The writing was always different. Very brief. No signature.
Tears blurred the letters and Alexandra squeezed her eyes shut, despair threatening to pull her under.
She might have known. Because she’d let herself relax if only for a moment. She’d taken shelter in the shadow of her oak-sized husband, allowed him to shade her from the oppressive glare of the truth beneath which she’d perspired for so many anxious years.
She’d known that her moments of peace would be tainted, eventually, but she thought she’d have another month. At least a chance to return to Castle Redmayne and receive her duchess stipend before she had to worry about where to send the money.
Alexandra barely kept herself from crumpling the paper in her fist as her dread heated to a helpless fury. Why must she be the one to suffer, to pay for the loss of her innocence? To be condemned for a torment thrust upon her?
Why did her frantic decision, made in the mind of a traumatized girl, have to follow her throughout her entire life? Would her children be made to pay for de Marchand’s death? Her grandchildren?
When would it end?
She turned the envelope over, wondering how many postmarks it would carry this time. Usually the demands would originate from a telegraph office somewhere rather exotic. Morocco, perhaps. Or Berlin. Then it would make its way through a few countries to wherever she was.
She’d followed the trail before, even finding the originating telegraph office, but no one had been able to divulge who’d commissioned the message.
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,