The Postilion (The Masqueraders #2) - S.M. LaViolette Page 0,79

down his empty glass and absently leaned down to flip open the lid; it didn’t contain books, but more papers.

Just what he needed: more bloody bills and dunning letters.

Jago was about to close the lid again—and perhaps hurl the trunk out the window—when a piece of pale lavender paper snagged his attention. He pulled that letter, and a couple others like it, from the jumble of documents.

There was no address, just Cadan’s name.

He turned it over in his hands but did not open it.

Jago had come across a fair number of personal letters tossed in among the dunning notices. Although it went against the grain, he’d read everything he found, hoping to solve the mystery of what had deviled his brother’s final days.

This letter, more than anything he’d thus far encountered, shrieked mystery and smacked, oddly, of menace.

Indeed, it seemed to coil and hiss in his hands.

He should throw it back into the trunk before it bared its fangs. Better yet, he should burn it.

Instead, his fingers began to unfold the paper, working as slowly and carefully as they did when he performed a delicate surgery.

His gaze dropped to the bottom of the letter; there was no signature.

“Cadan:

I’m tired of waiting. You got what you wanted and you still look like a knight in shining armor while I look like a duplicitous whore. I didn’t take care of Fenwick and Brian for nothing.

I want two-thirds, not half. I earned it and you know it. I expect you to live up to your part of the bargain before the end of the month. If you keep dragging your heels, I’ll visit the squire and his grieving wife and tell them the real reason their son is dead. And then I’ll send a letter to Jago. We both know how honorable your brother is—it will kill him to do so, but he’ll do the right thing when he learns the truth.

Give me my money and I’ll be gone.”

There was no name or date, but Jago didn’t really need one. The context—although obscure—meant the sender could only have been Ria. As for the date—there was none—he hazarded a guess Cadan would have received it in late 1799, not long after Brian had committed suicide and Jago had been banished from Lenshurst.

What money was she talking about? And Fenwick? He must have been only a lad back then. No, wait—his elder brother would have been Fenwick back then, wouldn’t he?

Christ, Jago couldn’t recall; it was all so long ago.

But the most burning question of all was what in the hell she meant about the real reason behind Brian’s death? His friend had hanged himself after Jago had humiliated him—at least that is what the brief, but succinct, letter Brian had left said.

Jago stared blindly at the paper in his hands.

What the devil did this mean?

Burn it. Burn the others, too.

That was exactly what he should do. Jago looked at the pieces of lavender paper.

They were just lifeless bits of parchment, but they beckoned and coaxed and demanded.

He would never be able to burn them.

Not until he’d read them.

He poured himself another brandy and lighted more candles.

And then he sat down to read.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Cornwall

1817

Present Day

Benna watched Jago ride Asclepius down the front drive not long after ten.

Ooooh, Jago now, is it?

Shut up, Geoffrey.

After what had happened last night in the library, Benna hadn’t possessed the fortitude to go to the earl’s office this morning for their usual meeting.

When he hadn’t sent a servant to fetch her—which she couldn’t decide if she was grateful for or annoyed about—she’d hidden in her study working all morning.

It was cowardly to dodge him, but she had plenty to do and busied herself with the most recent set of bills from the two cottages, which she was supposed to inspect with Jago this afternoon.

She had been looking forward to going on a ride with him but she somehow doubted that he’d want her to accompany him after what happened last night.

Benna squeezed her eyes shut, but then shook the unproductive worry away. She’d already spent a restless night dwelling on the matter.

Not an entirely restless night, if I remember correctly.

Her face heated at the memory of the only restful part of last night.

Benna sometimes had to remind herself that it wasn’t really Geoff taunting her, but her own mischievous mind.

And right now, her mind—her conscience, probably—was attempting to shame her for taking satisfaction from her body.

What a wanton monster I created. Geoffrey chortled.

Fury sparked inside her as she considered society’s