There was a knock at her open door. “Are you well, Hazel?” Beatrice asked.
Hazel’s skin warmed, and she folded the letter and pushed it away.
Beatrice’s eyes narrowed.
“Just rereading a letter from a friend.” Hazel smiled.
Hazel might be a proud member of the Spinsters’ Society, but most people kept their distance from them. Spinsterhood wasn’t something to which most people aspired, after all. But Lord Aston was her friend, and he wanted to meet her at Christmas.
She ran her fingers over Lord Aston’s letter. Soon Christmas would be over, and Hazel would become a companion to Florence’s aunt.
Perhaps she could meet Lord Aston.
CHAPTER TWO
Titus had never been as conscious on the overall narrowness of carriages.
When Titus learned Prince Rafael required a remote region in which to hide, he’d suggested the castle that the new militia in Northumberland had fortified with the help of their captain, the Duke of Concord. Somehow Titus forgot he would have to spend all that time in a carriage with the young, excitable prince who had a fondness for relentless chatter.
Titus already regretted his suggestion.
The prince’s thick cologne wafted through the carriage, making even the air about the prince expensive. Personally Titus did not understand the enthusiasm for dowsing oneself with liquids.
Prince Rafael was only nineteen and prone to soliloquies about the wonders of his own country. The prince was in hiding so that the royal family of Aragornia might be quickly restored to power once Bonaparte and his army left. Unfortunately, the French were rather less concerned with keeping the prince alive. On the contrary, they were eager for Prince Rafael to die, and after multiple threats to his person while in exile in England, the British government had decided to hide him.
Snow scattered down from the now pearl sky, and the horses’ pace slowed to a veritable crawl.
“We should be almost there,” Titus said.
“I wish you’d said that a week ago,” the prince grumbled. “Surely there are better places to hide me than Northumberland.”
“This will do well.”
“It’s so far away,” the prince moaned. “And the roads are so winding.”
Titus gritted his teeth, inhaled, exhaled, then smiled. “It will be a good place to hide you.”
“Hmph. I don’t think I need to be hidden,” the prince said petulantly.
“Your father thinks otherwise.”
The prince crossed his arms and scowled, and guilt flickered through Titus.
Northumberland was a perfect place to hide the prince. It was sufficiently north that no one would ever consider it a probable landing location for Bonaparte’s fleet, and thanks to the efforts of the Duke of Concord, this particular part of Northumberland was well fortified even if they did attempt it.
He closed his eyes and thought of Miss Keen Decoder.
The only thing he knew about her was the scraps of information about her life she included in the letters he’d exchanged with her over the past year.
And now he was nearly at Concord’s castle and one step closer to meeting her. Concord had probably expected Titus to reject his invitation to inspect his troops at the remote castle the War Office had found for his troops. It provided a convenient reason for Titus to be in the area. Furthermore, since it was Christmas, most of the ministers had left London. It was less necessary for Titus to be there as well, especially when there was an important prince in need of being hidden.
Now, he only needed to find his letter writer. She hadn’t replied to his last letter, but he’d left London shortly after he’d written it.
Of course, perhaps she’d crumpled up his letter and scoffed. Women weren’t supposed to meet men alone, not before they had rings firmly on their fingers.
He was not as well-versed with women as people might suspect. He knew all the dances, of course. That was vital knowledge his parents had made sure he learned. They’d hired dance tutors for him when he was barely out of his skeleton suit. But there was so much else he didn’t know. So much he saw in plays, so much he read in books, so much he’d told himself he would delay.
First he’d focused on his studies at Cambridge, and then, because of his success at this focus, he’d been recruited to work for the government. He’d been promoted since then, rising higher in the ranks, having less and less time for personal matters.
It seemed frivolous to inquire who were the most sought-after debutantes and begin a season of courting them. He had no urge to spend his Sunday afternoons looping about the Serpentine with a young lady he barely knew, vying for her attention with men with actual interest and a shared enthusiasm for balls. Similarly, Titus had no interest in taking a young lady on a curricle ride while making stilted conversation.
Not when that time could be spent reading a book.
Not when that time could be preparing for meetings with ministers.
Not when that time could be pondering what Bonaparte would do next.
No, he had no interest in that. He would far prefer to spend any free time he had decoding Miss Keen Decoder’s letters and creating fresh coded letters to send to her, when he didn’t require her assistance for something else.
His own occasional thoughts that it might be nice to be attached to a young lady, to go home to someone, were something that could be postponed.
Until now.
He was hopeful. Soon he would meet her, and the mere thought made his heart expand.
“You’re smiling.” The prince scowled. “You probably enjoy this snow.”
“It’s a pleasant alternative to rain.”
The prince tightened his scarf. “You English.”
Finally, the carriage turned onto a rocky lane. Snow blanketed the region in an idyllic manner, making each tree, each boulder, each bush, shimmer, but it wasn’t the sheer loveliness that made Titus smile. Soon he would meet the woman of his dreams.
A grey castle loomed ahead, equipped with old arrow slots and towers. To the left was another tower, and he grinned. This was the fortification. Clearly, Concord had done some work.
Where was the duke? Titus scanned the snowy area. No one was here.
Odd.
He directed the driver to the carriage house. Waves crashed against the rocky cliffs beyond the castle, and Titus exited and inhaled the sea air.
The prince followed him down the metal steps of the carriage. The prince shuddered. “It’s cold here.”
“Then let’s go inside.”
The castle loomed above them. Titus strolled up the steps of the castle, grasped hold of the door knocker, then turned to the prince. “The leader of the militia here is a duke.”
“Not as good as a prince,” Prince Rafael mumbled, but his shoulders eased.
The door was opened by a woman.
“We’re here to see Concord.”
“He isn’t here.”
Titus wrinkled his brow. Was he at the wrong castle?
“Concord isn’t here anymore.”
This was outrageous. Concord must know they were coming. Concord had asked them to come.
“The other members of the militia are inside,” the woman said. “Do come in.”
CHAPTER THREE
The scent of oranges and greenery permeated the air. The snow glistened appealingly through the bay window.