“It might snow later today. Barnaby was convinced of it when I ran into him.”
“At least it’s not snowing now.”
“Would you like us to accompany you?” Cassandra asked.
“No, I would prefer to go on my own.”
“Oh. How unconventional.”
“I should go,” Hazel squeaked, and hastily fled to the comfort of her room.
Hazel strode to her wardrobe and stared at her assortment of clothes. For the first time she wished it didn’t consist entirely of drab navy and forest green colors. Hazel put on her nicest gown. Not her ballgown, of course, but one that was a respectable navy.
She sighed. It would be nice to have a dress she had not worn since she was fourteen years old. Though Florence’s seamstress had changed the sleeves and hem several times, she knew from the pitying look Cassandra shot her on occasion that the dress remained unfashionable.
Never mind that. Navy blue was a practical color. One could wear it everywhere, and its lifespan exceeded that of lighter pastel-colored gowns. Besides, what if she spilled tea over a dress like that? She would be quite grateful for this serviceable navy. She ignored the fact she was not in the habit of toppling teacups over herself.
Hazel regarded her reflection in the mirror. Her chin was too pointy, and her figure too thin. Florence had made certain this gown had extra material when she’d ordered it from her seamstress when Hazel was fourteen so there would be ample space for Hazel’s eventual hips and bosom.
And yet, Hazel had only grown taller and taller, while the hips and bosom had never appeared. There was only the slightest of curves, and the dress continued to swathe her in far too much fabric.
She sighed.
She was going to disappoint the viscount.
But then perhaps the viscount had not been the least bit flirtatious in his letters after all. Perhaps she’d simply misread the situation, quite literally.
Perhaps Lord Aston would be flummoxed why she hadn’t introduced herself to him yesterday and would be annoyed she’d forced him to make a trip into the village on a cold, snowy Northumberland day. Perhaps he’d be so annoyed he wouldn’t send her any codes to break anymore. Perhaps even that excitement in her life would vanish.
Hazel swallowed hard. She was going to be sent to Cumbria, which was terribly far from London. Even though the viscount praised her skill, she could hardly expect him to send her codes in the future. Not when every code was urgent, and not when mail to Cumbria was much slower than mail in London.
Hazel resisted the urge to grab a book and lock herself in her room. Instead she straightened her shoulders, strode downstairs to fetch her coat and hat, then stepped out into the chilly air. She tightened her scarf around her neck and started the long walk over the snowy road.
Horses’ hooves sounded, and she looked to see the viscount and his cousin going past her in their carriage.
They hadn’t even noticed her.
But then, nobody did.
She’d sometimes been fond of her ability to blend in with her surroundings, though she’d thought that was strictly confined to walls, since she was a wallflower.
Evidently, a true wallflower could even blend into the country landscape.
Her heart hurt, but she continued onward. Along the way, she found some mistletoe and broke off a sprig to bring to the tea room. Her boots crunched against the snow, but eventually she spotted the roofs from the village.
She continued to walk.
No other carriages passed.
No other horses.
Evidently, everyone else was occupied with spending Boxing Day at home with their families. She grimaced, thinking how easily George and Florence had agreed to her coming to visit the castle for Christmas, even though they would not see one another often in the future. She’d never known Florence to visit her aunt in Cumbria before.
Hazel pressed forward.
She finally reached the village. Her heartbeat quickened, and she hurried to the tea room. She ordered a cup of tea and settled into a corner table, leaving the mistletoe visible at the edge.
The door creaked open, and she glanced toward it. Only an elderly woman and another maid came through and joined the group of giggling girls.
TITUS GAZED AT THE tea room where he was supposed to meet her.
The building looked innocuous. It was midday, and friends chatted inside.
A wave of nervousness filled Titus. His heartbeat thundered, suddenly pounding, pounding, pounding.
“You look ill,” the prince observed, concern filling his eyes.
Titus raked his hand through his hair. He must look dreadful if even Prince Rafael was taking the time to be sympathetic. He shook his head. “I’m fine.”
“Nonsense.” The prince tilted his head. “Do you have a fever? People sometimes get fevers in the winter.” The prince scowled, as if adding fevers to his list of things he did not like about this season.
“No fever.”
The prince appeared skeptical.
“I’m just...nervous,” Titus confessed.
The prince’s eyebrows shot up, and Titus already regretted his statement.
“You? Nervous? Do you mean to say there are some French spies here?” He rubbed his hands together. “I can help you. Give me a pistol.”
“No, no. No spies.”
The prince’s shoulders sank, then he cast another hopeful look at Titus.
“You mean they are not in disguise? Not spies? Just French soldiers in uniform?” He gazed at the teahouse. “Is it under siege?”
“No,” Titus said firmly. “That is not the case.”
“Then what?”
“I’ve been corresponding with a woman,” Titus confessed.
The prince raised his eyebrows. “Who is this woman?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t understand.”
Titus swallowed hard. “She’s someone I work with. A colleague.”
“I thought you would know your colleagues.”
“Well, I don’t know this one. We correspond by letter.”
“How unusual.”
“You’re young. You don’t know how people normally work.”
“I was referring to the fact that you are oddly nervous about meeting a simple colleague.” The prince narrowed his eyes, then grinned. “You are fond of this woman.”
“Nonsense,” Titus said hurriedly. “Our correspondence is purely professional.”
“Hmph.” The prince scrutinized him. “So it’s a forbidden romance?”
“N-no,” Titus said hastily. “She isn’t formally employed—”
The prince grinned. “Then it has the potential to be a romance.”
Titus’s skin heated. “Er—yes. Hypothetically.”
“Indeed,” the prince said. “Well, I will see who is at the tea room.”
“But you mustn’t—”
The prince grinned. “You’re not worried I might steal her from you?”
“Of course not.”
“I am exceedingly handsome,” the prince mused, eyeing himself in the reflection of the window.
“And arrogant.”
The prince gave a languid shrug, and his lips pulled into a smirk. “I would be a fool not to be, given my immensely impressive qualities.”