Duchess of Seduction (Hearts in Hiding 3)

Cressida did not argue. The hour was late and Madame Zirelli wanted the catharsis of knowing Cressida believed in and trusted her.

“Take the whole box,” Madame Zirelli directed. “There is other correspondence which little Dorcas, the maid, slips in when it arrives, and which may not be relevant, but the document prepared by your husband and various letters pertaining to the matter are all in there.”

Cressida rose slowly. She’d finished her drink; she’d finished her business here, too, it seemed. All that remained was for her to verify what the other woman had said, though it seemed hardly necessary now. After such an evening during which she’d experienced every emotion from the greatest of despairs to the heights of hope, she was exhausted. She would put the box away in a cupboard and she’d embrace her husband with all the joy and hope her encounter with Madame Zirelli had fostered.

When Cressida was halfway to the door with the writing box under her arm and the interview at an end, Madame Zirelli detained her with a languid wave of her arm and a sad but encouraging smile. “Lady Lovett, your husband severed contact with me eight years ago...the very day after he first set eyes on you, in fact.” Her smile was warm rather than burdened by her personal sorrow. “Few women have the power ove

r their husbands you appear to wield. Go to him, my dear. Use the knowledge I have given you. And be happy.”

Cressida was borne home by a very wearing looking John the coachman and let into the house by a rather crumpled looking housemaid. She’d never been out so late on her own, but while she felt guilty, she felt not the least bit tired.

Nervous energy and anticipation bolstered her. She hurried up the stairs and, at the landing, hesitated as to whether she’d turn right to Justin’s apartments or left, to hers.

She was still clutching Madame Zirelli’s little writing desk. She needed to put that down somewhere. Also, she wanted to make some discreet improvements to her appearance because...

It mattered.

The details of Madame Zirelli’s story were not important. Not right at this moment, because Madame Zirelli’s tragedy had occurred in the past, and neither Justin nor Cressida could help her, though Justin had done what had been asked of him. Cressida was saddened and moved by the woman’s sadness and grateful, too, that Madame Zirelli had shared it with Cressida in order to help her. Now it was time for Cressida to help herself. Madame Zirelli had given her the tools.

Moving the candlestick that her maid had lit from where it sat beside her bed to her dressing table, she took a seat. She’d told the girl not to wait up for her, assuming when she left for the night that Justin could perform the necessaries of undressing the lady of the house.

Though there’d been a hitch in proceedings, he still could, she thought with a fizz of exultation as she reflected on the fact that she had all the joy she could wish for ahead of her while Madame Zirelli had only a dried up future and the sorrow of discovering a daughter she could never acknowledge.

Just up the passage, Justin lay sleeping. He’d been crushed by her disloyalty earlier that evening, but Cressida had to think past that to all the ways she could atone.

Two hours ago, Madame Zirelli had seemed the incarnation of the evil that could come between a husband and a wife. Now Cressida had to acknowledge the huge debt she owed the woman.

And act on it.

Quickly and with mounting excitement, Cressida tidied her hair and dusted a discreet veil of powder over her heated face. Her body pulsed with the knowledge of the power it soon would yield. Justin had left her at Catherine’s, believing she would allow herself to be swayed by her overbearing cousin.

But Cressida was stronger than that and instead of either remaining with Catherine or hurrying home, she’d sought answers from Madame Zirelli.

She’d not been disappointed.

Now, every minute that passed seemed a minute too long before she could bask in Justin’s embrace and enjoy what she’d missed for so long.

A pair of hopeful eyes stared back at her from the looking glass. The dispirited, frightened creature Justin had encountered at Catherine’s was nowhere in evidence.

In a burst of excitement, Cressida rose, accidentally knocking the writing desk from her dressing table with her elbow .

It crashed to the floor, breaking apart and spreading pages to the far corners of the room.

Anxious not to delay her visit to Justin a moment longer, Cressida crouched and quickly tidied the various papers, the words on numerous reports and pieces of parchment blurring before her eyes. There was no point in reading them. Perhaps she never would. Justin could discreetly return them, for Cressida understood too well now the bleak history of a woman who’d been stripped of her one true love and her child—a sorrow compounded when she’d become a victim of sexual exploitation and finally, with no family support, had nevertheless managed to carve out a life for herself against the odds.

Hurriedly, she placed the pages in the remains of the little writing desk and was about to close the lid when she noticed a single folded letter sealed with wax had fallen to her seat. When she picked it up to place it with the others, the seal disintegrated and the letter unfolded before her eyes.

She saw the name Sir Robert and, to her surprise and confu- sion, another name jumped out at her amidst the tight, spidery scrawl of the unfamiliar hand.

Annabelle Luscombe. Annabelle was her old friend. She was involved with the Sedleywich Home for Orphans together with Justin.

Her eyes returned to the name of the letter writer: Sir Robert?

Sir Robert? Surely a coincidence—and surely not the Robert of whom Madame Zirelli spoke? If it was, why would the letter be unopened? Without reading full sentences, Cressida scanned the letter and another name jumped out at her: Lady Banks.

Without thinking what she was doing might be wrong, Cressida carefully smoothed the letter, sat down upon the chair and began to read. As she moved from the familiar greeting, her confusion grew .

“ My dear Mariah—” Sir Robert began.