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Hair like that should always be down. It made her look like a wild, pagan goddess in a painting that was kept safe from ladies’ innocent eyes. He loved her hair down, even though it did sometimes tickle his nose while he slept.

No matter. He loved the smell of her hair, too. It smelled…soft.

Recognizing that his thoughts had grown nonsensical, he disentangled himself from Emily’s limbs, leaving her to sleeplonger. Time away from her might not be as pleasant as time with her, now that they’d sensibly channeled the strange energy between them into bed sport instead of arguing, but there was convenience, and then there was wasting daylight, and Benedict was veering dangerously towards the latter category.

He commended himself on his sensible nature as he buckled down to several hours of work in his study (tackling correspondence that had gone woefully neglected while he was, ahem, tied up with his wife) and scolded himself for the traitorous jolt of excitement he felt when Emily entered the room near midday.

“Emily, I’m bus—wait, what’s wrong?” The objection to the interruption died on his lips as she saw the way his wife was frowning at the papers scrunched in her hand.

“Oh,” she said absently, looking up at him, her face pale. “I’m sorry, I—I’m interrupting. I just…” She bit her lip, glancing down again.

Benedict was out from behind his desk before he even registered standing up.

“Come, sit,” he urged leading her to a chair. “What’s wrong? Are you injured?”

She gave him a confused look. “What? No, of course not. I was merely going through the Countess’ parlor as you suggested?—”

He stifled his grimace. Hemighthave represented that suggestion to Emily as a gesture of goodwill, of welcoming her into the home over which she now presided as mistress. Hemighthave neglected to mention that his actual inspiration for doing so had been because he’d known it would annoy his mother, whom he still hadn’t forgiven for her antics on his wedding day.

He had to stifle another grimace when he followed Emily’s gaze towards her lap and put the matter together.

“You found more letters,” he said grimly.

“I found more letters,” she agreed. For a moment they looked at one another in perfect accord, their faces matching masks of dismay, resignation, and the definitive knowledge that this was going to besucha bloody headache.

Then Emily shook herself bodily and tried to stand.

“Apologies,” she said, sounding flustered. “I don’t know why I came in here—it was just instinct to…” She gave her head another little shake. “But this is not your concern, surely. I’ll leave you to your work.”

“Stop,” he said, blocking her path to escape. “Just wait a moment. You were right to come show me this.”

“I was?” she asked, clearly surprised by this response.

Benedict wanted to frown, but he felt this would be sending the wrong message when he was wondering how he’d managed to convince his own wife that she couldn’t come to him with matters about the household—about his own family. The rules he’d explained to her hadn’t included a dictate to never speak to him, after all. Why did she insist on making things so complicated? A marriage of convenience wasnota difficult concept.

But showing his frustration at her inability to instinctually comprehend something so simple as basic guidelines for marital harmony likely would not make him seem any more approachable or agreeable, so he bit down his reaction.

“Yes,” he said, keeping his voice calm by firm. “If my mother has been involved in something, I need to know.”

She sighed heavily and handed over the pile of papers which was, Benedict noticed with relief, considerably smaller than the initial stack he’d found.

“I’m not sure what she has or hasn’t done to be honest,” Emily admitted as he scanned the short missives. “As with the other letters, it’s more implication and innuendo than anything else. If we didn’t already know about Dowling, I don’t know that I’d consider them incriminating at all.”

Benedict made a humming sound of agreement.

I can pay Theo, too, my dear, the scrap in his hand read. Emily was right, he realized. If the sexes were reversed, he’dhave assumed these letters some coy negotiation between a gentleman and his mistress. It was too much to hope, wasn’t it, that illicit sexual encounters were the only thing his mother had gotten up to? Could he dare believe that she’d been blackmailing Dowling over some matter pertaining to their interpersonal matters?

“It really isn’t the contents that are interesting at all,” Emily continued. “It’s the recipient.”

His head jerked up. “What?”

She reached out and took the letters from him, reshuffling until she found the one that she wanted to place on top. It was so short he’d scarcely paid it any mind.

G—I’m growing impatient. –P

Now, he followed Emily’s tapping finger to that first initial.

“G,” he breathed. “Who the hell is G?”