Page 108 of How to Love a Duke in Ten Days

You’ll bring the money to the Redmayne tomb tomorrow night.

Stomach churning, she read the note again and again, scanning it as she always did for something.Someclue as to who had written it.

It was never any use. The writing was always different. Very brief. No signature.

Tears blurred the letters and Alexandra squeezed her eyes shut, despair threatening to pull her under.

She might have known. Because she’d let herself relax if only for a moment. She’d taken shelter in the shadow of her oak-sized husband, allowed him to shade her from the oppressive glare of the truth beneath which she’d perspired for so many anxious years.

She’d known that her moments of peace would betainted, eventually, but she thought she’d have another month. At least a chance to return to Castle Redmayne and receive her duchess stipend before she had to worry about where to send the money.

Alexandra barely kept herself from crumpling the paper in her fist as her dread heated to a helpless fury. Why must she be the one to suffer, to pay for the loss of her innocence? To be condemned for a torment thrust upon her?

Why did her frantic decision, made in the mind of a traumatized girl, have to follow her throughout her entire life? Would her children be made to pay for de Marchand’s death? Her grandchildren?

When would it end?

She turned the envelope over, wondering how many postmarks it would carry this time. Usually the demands would originate from a telegraph office somewhere rather exotic. Morocco, perhaps. Or Berlin. Then it would make its way through a few countries to wherever she was.

She’d followed the trail before, even finding the originating telegraph office, but no one had been able to divulge who’d commissioned the message.

Forever untraceable.

This envelope, however, was completely blank but for her name written in block capitals. The script neither masculine nor feminine.

You’ll bring the money to the Redmayne tomb tomorrow night.

Bring. Not post.

Which meant…

“I’m sorry,” she asked the desk clerk in a voice more unsteady than she would have liked. “May I inquire from where this letter arrived?”

“From here, Your Grace,” the clerk answered. “No postmark. It was delivered in person and left in your box last night.”

The hand she’d laid flat on the table curled into a fist as she tried to rein in her galloping heart. “By whom?”

“No one can say, unfortunately.” His mild expression dimmed to one of sheepish regret. “The night concierge was called away from the desk a few times by a rather demanding guest.”

Her hopes began to plummet. “Would it have been left by a night courier maybe?”

He shook his head. “Any courier would have known to wait for a desk clerk, Your Grace, as they wouldn’t have known which mail slot belonged to you. We’re not in the habit of releasing room numbers of our guests, I can assure you.” He hesitated. “Though, I suppose it isn’t much of a surprise that you and the duke are staying in our most luxurious suites.”

After a sharp intake of breath, she felt a pinprick of light pierce her encroaching despair. She thanked the clerk and wandered toward the fireplace, staring at the note as though she could see through it to the answer on the other side.

Few people knew of her whereabouts in Normandy, and even fewer could confirm that de Marchand was dead.

Two veryspecificsouls, staying here in this very hotel, had been at de Chardonne when the incident had occurred. Lady Julia Throckmorton and Jean-Yves. Could Rose be nearby?

Julia had decided to stay in Seasons-sur-Mer for a few days to further her pursuit of Dr. Forsythe. Or was that merely what she claimed? Had she been an enemy this entire time?

Alexandra shook her head, doing her best to reject the notion. It made no sense. She and Julia had always got on famously, and it was well-known the woman had obsceneamounts of money. Alexandra’s monthly payments would have been a pittance compared to Julia’s holdings.

They’d fallen out of touch since de Chardonne, but had never fallen out with each other.

According to her unfailing memory, Julia’s bedroom had been on the east side of de Chardonne, which meant the chances of her witnessing them bury de Marchand would be minuscule as the gardens faced the west.

Besides, the idea that Julia was clever enough to have so ingeniously tormented her this entire time was absurd.