Hermey looked at her and then at Anne. The maid cast down her eyes and stood with the dumb and blind expression that Lady Shelford encouraged in her servants. "All right," she said, favoring Callie with another speculative glance. "You may read your love letter in peace. I'll send for you at quarter to eight. That should give us time."

Callie waited until they had both gone out. She waited for some little time longer, just to be sure Hermey would not find some excuse to come back. Then she opened her fist and looked down at the note in it.

She had meant to tear it up. Almost, as she fingered the thick seal of wax, she did so. She hadn't sent any ticket for the masquerade to the Antlers, of course. If Mrs. Fowler wished to find him, she would have to chase after him herself. On a broomstick.

The thickly folded note lay in her palm. He'd said so many things to her, one lie upon the other, that it could hardly matter what more the infamous Mrs. Fowler might have to add to the whole sordid story now. Callie had a masquerade to attend, and never had the notion of hiding behind a mask seemed more appealing. She would have preferred to spend the evening in a cowshed, but there was small of chance of her being allowed to do that. She made a gesture, tossing the note toward the grate, but her fingers closed on it before it left her palm.

Instead, she broke the seal. Almost without her conscious approval, she found her fingers pressing the paper half open, as if she wished to worry at a wound and could not help herself. The writing was thin and f lorid—a thought crossed her mind that it was nothing like Trev's concise, elegant strokes; a piece of evidence that one might have supposed a jury would have noticed, but perhaps they were twelve good men and blind instead of true.

She tilted her head. At first glance she was unable to make out the opening line, but then she realized that the letters spelled out "M. Tib L.B.," rather than what she had thought at first: a very contorted rendering of Trevelyan.

Monsieur Thibaut LeBlanc, of course. Callie had disliked the name immensely from the first time she had seen it printed on the pages of The Lady's Spectator. Morbid curiosity prompted her to spread the sheet full open, some dark desire to disgust herself as thoroughly as possible. The first sentence provided a promising start to this endeavor.

You will surely Suppose me to be the Most Madcap of the Female race, and I know you Think me so, but dear M. L.B., I dare to Plead for your Aid.

Callie made a face. She held the note with the tips of her fingers, as if it might stain her skin, and read down the page.