She had duped him. Mystery solved. Nora had been the one writing to him, pretending to be the late Dr. Langley. He didn’t understand why or to what end, but he vowed he would soon have an explanation from her.

“It was you? You’ve been writing to me?” he demanded, taking a step toward her and then stopping. Angry as he was, he did not wish to appear a charging bull. It was undignified and conduct he did not imagine fitting as Birchwood’s heir.

Her cheeks pinked up. “Yes,” she admitted.

He shook his head in disgusted awe. “All this time I thought it was Dr. Langley with whom I corresponded. Foolish, I suppose,” he said tightly, “to have made that assumption as each letter was signed from Dr. Langley.”

She winced at his derisive tone and gave a single resolved nod. “It is true. I signed Papa’s name.”

“You what?” the duchess exclaimed. “Oh, Nora. You didn’t!”

“The colonel wrote asking for some medical advice.” She shrugged, and that lighthearted action only inflamed his temper. For her this had been some little thing. An inconsequential game. Only for him, it was no game. For him it was a matter of life and death. Standing here, the hope he had placed in locating Dr. Langley withered a bitter end.

She continued, “Papa had died already, but I knew what to say . . . and how to respond to the colonel’s questions, and it was ever so much easier to reply as Papa. I didn’t expect a stranger would heed the advice of the late doctor’s daughter.” Her lips twisted a little as though she had firsthand experience with this.

“Indeed,” he muttered, feeling . . . betrayed. Perhaps it was not the most fitting descriptor, but it felt accurate nonetheless. For years now, he had penned letters to this female, believing he was communicating with a medical professional, a kind and elderly gentleman concerned with bringing goodness into the world by healing and saving lives. Constantine had been friendly. After a time, he had shared things. Details of himself and his inner thoughts . . . the hardships of living in strange lands, of taking orders without blinking, of leading soldiers into uncertainty, always under the cloud of danger.

None of it embarrassing precisely. He was embarrassed only now. She had made a fool of him. He’d believed he was writing to one person and in fact it had been her.

For years he had watched soldiers writing their letters over campfires to their sweethearts, to their families and friends back home. He had never had anyone to write to before. There had never been anyone out there who expected to hear how Constantine Sinclair was managing through life—if he was managing at all. Until Langley. And that had turned out to be a lie.