The Spinster's Secret Read Online Free PDF Page B

to hide the confession. And this time, she’d seal it with wax. Lots of wax.
    Mattie frowned as she gathered the pages together and folded them. What had happened to the confession that she’d sent yesterday?
    The thought of someone finding it, or worse, of Uncle Arthur discovering her secret, was enough to make her heart clench in her chest. The roof over her head, the clothes she wore, the food she ate—all were at Uncle Arthur’s generosity. A cold generosity, perhaps, without the gift of love to leaven it, but generosity nonetheless. To repay him with distress of any kind would be unspeakable.
    “He will never know,” Mattie told herself firmly as she sealed the letter with a large dollop of wax.
    The missing confession was lost in the creek. Washed away and long since disintegrated. She had nothing to worry about. In a month’s time, she’d have enough money to leave Creed Hall without causing Uncle Arthur any distress at all.
    …
    Strickland kept no riding horses in his stables, and taking the curricle into Soddy Morton wasn’t an option unless Edward wished to detour sixteen miles via Gripton, which he didn’t. He debated riding one of his carriage horses, then decided to walk. Carriage horses made poor riding mounts.
    His boots were heavy with mud by the time he reached the village, but the exercise had eased the ache in his thigh. He wasn’t limping as he strode down High Street, past cottages built of the same dark grey limestone as Creed Hall, a smoke-stained forge, and a whipping block and stocks across from the market cross.
    Soddy Morton wasn’t large. It boasted only one inn, a plaster and timber building with low eaves and a slate roof. Edward used the boot scraper at the door and went inside.
    The innkeeper was in the taproom, a stout man with the ruddy complexion of a drinker. He leaned on the counter, a tankard of ale in his fist, conversing with his sole customer, a blacksmith by his leather apron and burn-flecked forearms.
    Both men turned to look at Edward as he entered. He saw shock flicker across the innkeeper’s face—the widening of his eyes, the startled blink—as the man took in the scars.
    “Mr. Potts? My name is Kane. I’m staying at Creed Hall.”
    The innkeeper put down his tankard and straightened. “What can I do for you, sir?”
    “I understand that you’re Soddy Morton”s postmaster.” Edward laid the soggy bundle of letters on the counter. “This is this morning’s mail. It was retrieved from the creek on Sir Arthur Strickland’s property.”
    The innkeeper lost his smile. He reached for the letters and swiftly counted them.
    “One’s missing,” he said, lifting his head.
    Edward blinked. There were two letters missing. The one that Miss Chapple had taken and the confession from Chérie, now resting snugly in his breast pocket.
    “One?”
    The innkeeper nodded. “Fifteen letters, there was.” He counted them again. “Now there’s only fourteen.” He scowled at Edward, as if the scars on his face branded him for a criminal.
    “Miss Chapple has taken a letter.”
    The man grunted. His scowl faded.
    “Are you certain that there were fifteen…”
    “Aye,” the innkeeper said. “Wrote it in the ledger, I did. Fifteen.”
    Edward touched his breast pocket, feeling the thick wedge of damp paper. It didn’t make sense, unless…
    He examined the letters lying on the counter. Nine were unsealed. Had Chérie’s confession been concealed inside one of them?
    Edward extracted the damp confession from his pocket. It was folded to show only the address.
    “Do you recognize this?” he said, laying it on the counter. “It was, er…also found on Sir Arthur’s property.”
    The innkeeper’s gaze fastened on the stumps of Edward’s missing fingers.
    “The address, as you see, is London.”
    The innkeeper stopped staring at Edward’s hand. He peered at the address.
    “Lunnon?” He shook his head. “Only two letters to Lunnon yesterday. That weren’t one