Matteo made up his mind in that moment, but he did not at first respond. He would leave for France as soon as physically possible, after a talk with Scarlet this evening. But he said only, “Thank you. The list of names is here at my feet.” Then he walked down the hall without so much as a glance behind him.

Weaving his way through the many couples lengthening out the night together, he knew Scarlet would be ready to leave. If he could find her quickly, they would be out and home within the half hour. By inquiring of the nearest footman, he discovered Scarlet had already left in her own carriage. Matteo remembered that they had arrived separately. As unsettling as it felt to have his wife leave without a word to him, he felt a small amount of relief that he too could leave as soon as his own equipage was ready.

Inside the front door of his home, Buckley took Matteo’s hat and coat, directing him upstairs when he asked about Scarlet. Taking two steps at a time, he hurried to her bedchamber, knocking with great urgency. “Scarlet, darling. May I come in?”

He waited and heard no movement inside. Could she be in her bed already? Maid come and gone? Impossible. He walked down the hall and entered his own room. Their connecting door loomed before him. How many times had he eyed that barrier between them, wondering at his reception? A shut door, reminding him of all he had lost since his wedding day. He had no time for insecurities. They must speak tonight. Still nervous to try the knob, he stood in front of it for a heartbeat before reaching forward with his hand.

The knob turned. Great happiness filled him, knowing she had not locked him out. The door slowly crept open as his eyes searched the room. His heart beat faster, hope filling his mind. Convinced that conversation and time together could heal whatever had come between them, he pushed open the door faster and stepped into the room, softly calling, “Scarlet?”

Bed still made, desk clear, no evidence of her presence in the room. Confused, he stepped farther in, calling toward the back, into the dressing room. “Are you in there, Scarlet? Annabeth?”

Only silence responded. Tendrils of concern began to creep into his awareness. A piece of stationery grabbed his attention. Familiar handwriting flowed across the page.

Buckley,

Please be sure Comte Durand receives this letter in the morning. I will follow our usual methods and send word when I can.

S

Her usual methods?