The young lady in question had fairly torn open the letter right in the entrance hall of the imposing manor house in her haste to know its contents. Errant ringlets of honey-colored curls, still damp from the exertion of a hard morning gallop over the fields, obscured part of her face but couldn’t hide the furrow that slowly creased her brow as she skimmed the pages. A look of grave concern came over the butler’s craggy face as the furrow deepened. He cleared his throat and spoke again. “I trust that His Grace and the young viscount are...well?” He forbore to say the word “alive” but the slight hesitation in the question made the meaning clear enough. She raised her eyes from the travel-worn paper. Their rich emerald color, usually vibrant with laughter and high spirits, were clouded, and it seemed to take her a moment to realize she had been spoken to. “Yes—yes, Papa and Lucien are fine, thank the Lord. It’s just that....” Her voice trailed off. She abruptly folded the letter and tucked it into the bodice of her navy merino riding habit.
