Blame It on Bath Page 0,54
chin. Gerard, who rather appreciated the glimpse of her pale, pert breasts, grinned. “No need to hide.” He came to sit on the side of the bed. “I trust you’re well this morning.”
Her eyes were deep pools of blue in the morning light. “Yes, Captain,” she whispered. “Gerard.”
“You never said anything last night.” He traced his finger over her arm, feeling how her muscles tensed as she clutched the bedclothes to her like a shield. “Was it . . . uncomfortable?”
“It didn’t hurt,” she murmured. “Thank you.”
“Well, that is high praise,” he said dryly. “I shall do better. I want you to enjoy it when I make love to you.”
She looked nervous. “I will try.” Gerard cocked his head, wondering why she said it that way. “Did you enjoy it?” she asked, glancing sideways at him like a skittish horse. “Was I . . . pleasing?”
“Yes,” he reassured her, and some of the tension went out of her arms. “Don’t be afraid of me, Kate.”
She was quiet for a moment. “I’m not afraid of you. We aren’t very well acquainted, though, and I do wish to be a good wife.”
“Men are simple creatures, darling,” he said with a laugh. “We want to be well fed, amused, and loved. A good meal, a quality horse race, and a woman waiting in his bed are all it takes to make a man happy. You’ll be a splendid wife.” He leaned forward and kissed her lightly. “I’ll be out most of the day. Bragg has his instructions. Do let him know if you need anything as you settle in.”
“Thank you,” she said. Gerard, already halfway to the door, paused to smile at her before he left. Kate would be fine. He was fortunate she had such a calm and steady disposition.
He skipped his morning ride. The horse needed a rest after two long days of travel. Instead he walked the streets of Bath, reacquainting himself with the town in daylight. Up and down the hills he strode, past the gleaming stone that glowed in the morning sun and along the verdant banks of the rushing Avon. It was still a beautiful town, and he filled his lungs with fresh air, appreciating it all the more for having been in London.
When the post office opened, he made his way there. The postmaster, Mr. Watson, was a businesslike fellow, and once Gerard put the problem to him the right way, he was eager to help. Of the blackmail letter sent eight months ago, there seemed little hope; but the one posted a mere seven weeks before had far more potential. The clerks were summoned and shown the letters, which Gerard had brought with him. One man did indeed remember them. Both were addressed to His Grace the Duke of Durham, which was unusual, and the postage had also been prepaid, a significant enough sum to have attracted notice. Given the combination, the clerk was certain he remembered the man who posted the letter.
“I would know him again if I saw him,” he vowed.
“Have you seen him since?” Gerard asked.
“No, sir. He’s not a regular patron, at least not to this post office.”
“Can you describe him?”
The clerk did, although a hundred men might have answered to the same description. Medium tall and spare, in his prime years, brown hair, spectacles, dressed well enough for a lawyer or a shopkeeper but not better.
“And he had a mark on his cheek,” added the clerk, pointing out the location on his own face. “A scar of some sort.”
Gerard produced the older letter again. “Are you quite certain you never saw him before? I wonder if someone else posted this letter. It’s most certainly from the same person, mailed six months earlier, with the same direction.”
The clerk peered at both letters, but finally shook his head. “They do look very similar, but I couldn’t recall so far back. Another clerk might have served him.”
“May I see them?” Mr. Watson asked. The clerk handed them to the postmaster, who held the two letters side by side. “The writing appears to be the same,” he said, studying them. “In fact . . .” He squinted at one, then the other. “I would almost say they were written at the same time.”
“Oh?” Gerard sat up straighter. He’d scrutinized both letters, and the writing was identical. Of course, he paid more attention to the postmarks and other clues, but if he had missed anything, he was anxious to hear it.
“It rather looks as though