Now if only Miss Taylor would let the topic rest. He suffered enough torment in her presence already, without this added deviling.
She approached and offered him the letter. “Read it for yourself.”
Good God. Now she meant to test his alphabet. Thorne eyed the envelope. A queasy feeling curdled in his gut. He knew his letters reasonably well—better than most men of his station—but he needed time and concentration to sift through a missive of that length. And he’d have an even harder time of it, trying to read with a raging beauty hovering over his shoulder. How was he supposed to put two sounds together in her presence?
He held up his grimy hands in excuse. “You’ll have to read it to me.”
She shook open the paper. “ ‘My darling beloved Minerva,’” she read aloud.
And that was the last bit he heard. Oh, she kept reading. And he kept listening. But he wasn’t hearing the words anymore—just her clear, bright voice.
So strange. She had music in her voice, even when she wasn’t singing. The melody hummed in his body. Not in a pleasant way. It hurt. The same way it would feel if he drove his shovel full-strength into soil and met unyielding rock instead. The shock of it reverberated all through his bones, his teeth.
His heart.
And now he hadn’t a damned idea what the hell she was reading anyway. He would have had better luck staring stupidly at the paper himself.
“Enough.” He held up a hand. “Payne did not write that.”
“He did. He signed his name.”
Thorne cocked his head and stared at the address on the paper’s reverse. “That’s not Payne’s handwriting.” That much he could discern without effort.
“What?” She flipped the paper back and forth.
“It’s not his hand. I know it’s not.” Wiping his hands on his breeches, he strode over to the turret Payne had been using as his personal quarters. He unlocked and opened the door, proceeding straight to the small writing desk.
He rifled through a stack of papers until he found one in the right penmanship. Then he handed it to her. “See?”
She held up the two and compared them. “You’re right. It is different penmanship.”
“I told you so. He didn’t write that letter.”
“But I don’t understand. Who else would write this, then sign it with Lord Payne’s name?”
He shrugged. “A cruel joke, perhaps. To build up her hopes. Or maybe she wrote it herself.”
“Poor Minerva.”
He watched as Miss Taylor’s bottom lip folded beneath her teeth. Then he forced himself to look elsewhere.
She said, “But somehow, it seems to have worked out anyway. They did elope together.”
He snorted, resisting the urge to tell her everything he’d learned from Mrs. Ginny Watson the other day. When confronted, the young widow had told him all about Miss Minerva’s midnight visit to Rycliff Castle. Thorne knew the truth now, beyond all doubt.
Payne and Miss Highwood had not eloped.
They would, however, end up married. He would ensure that much. If Payne dared to come back from this jaunt a bachelor, he would not remain so long. He’d walk Miss Minerva down the aisle of St. Ursula’s if Thorne had to prod him at knifepoint. Protecting the women of this village was his duty, and he took it seriously.
Which was exactly why he kept his mouth shut now.
Miss Taylor didn’t need to know the particulars of all Mrs. Watson had told him. If it pleased this girl to believe in true love and tales that ended happily for all concerned, Thorne would carry all manner of unpleasant truths to his grave. After all, this secret was hardly the first. Just one of many he’d vowed to keep, for her happiness’s sake.
She sifted through the papers.
He crossed his arms. “What, are you snooping now?”
“No,” she protested. “Well, maybe. Goodness, he writes a great many letters to his stewards.”
“Listen, I have a well to dig, and—”
“Wait.” She plucked a paper from the stack. “What’s this?” She read aloud. “ ‘Millicent . . . Madeira . . . Michaela . . . Marilyn . . .’ And this is written in his hand.”
“So? It’s a list of names.”
“Yes. A list of women’s names, all of them beginning with M.” A flush rose on her throat. “The letter means nothing, but this . . . this is proof. Don’t you see?”
“No, I don’t. Not at all.”
“Lord Payne always acted as though he couldn’t remember Minerva’s name. Calling her Melissa and Miranda and every other ‘M’ name under the sun. But he must have done it on purpose, don’t you see? Just to tease her. He even went to the trouble of writing out this list.”
“That proves him even more of an blackguard, to my mind.”
She clucked her tongue impatiently. “Corporal Thorne. You really don’t understand a thing about romance.”
Thorne shrugged. She was right. He understood desire. He understood wanting. He understood loyalty and bone-deep devotion that stretched back to a time before this woman’s earliest memories.
But he didn’t know a damn thing about romance.
She ought to thank God for it.
There she went, right now—flashing him a fearless smile. No one smiled like that at Thorne. But she’d always been this way. Cheerful, in the face of everything. Singing like a little angel, even when she stood at the very gates of hell.
“Don’t you know?” she said. “Apparent dislike often masks a hidden attraction.”
He felt his face go hot. “Not in this case.”
“Oh, yes. This list doesn’t prove Lord Payne’s a blackguard.” She tapped the paper against Thorne’s chest. “It proves he was smitten.”
Chapter Twenty-six
“I demand to know what was in this letter.” Wearing a devilish grin, Colin chased her up the coaching inn staircase.
Minerva cringed. She never should have mentioned it. “Can we move past this, please? You plagued me all through dinner. I’ve told you, I don’t recall.”
“And I told you, I don’t believe you.”
“It doesn’t matter whether or not you believe me.”
She opened the door to their chambers. While they’d been eating downstairs, a manservant had been dispatched to fetch a few gentlemen’s necessities for Colin. And the finest secondhand gown three pounds could purchase had been laid out by the maid. A surprisingly lovely muslin frock—ivory, block-printed with tiny pink sprigs.