Her humor was no better than in the moments before her collapse, nor was she in a mood to be dismissed without an explanation. But while she was being fussed over by the marquess’s female servants, who had brought smelling salts, a basin of water and a glass of brandy, Darkefell at least had a chance to read Anne’s accusatory letter. She explicitly said that she had seen him at a gypsy camp on her family’s estate in Kent. What was he doing there? And why did he run when she called his name? she demanded to know. If her vision and her sense were as acute as always—he had reason to believe both perfectly trustworthy—then it must be Julius she had seen and mistaken for him. But why was he there? His elbows propped on his knees, Darkefell stared down at the letter and traced Anne’s signature with one finger. He had done his best to ignore the pain in his heart, hoping he’d recover, but it wasn’t going to happen. He loved her still, perhaps even more deeply for the time apart, and he would keep on adoring Lady Anne Addison, the most contrary, independent, and frustrating woman he had ever had the misfortune to meet.
