My Sweet Folly by Laura Kinsale

rich. Very rich, that much she did know. Mssrs. Hawkridge and James made no bones about it. And if he was rich, then there might be Unsavory Elements who wished to steal from him. Extort money from him. Even kidnap him.
    She frowned blindly at the glossy scarlet surface of the desk. It was a ridiculous notion. She had no reason to entertain any such idea.
    I am lost. I am here. Perhaps it seems otherwise.
    She opened the letter again and bent over it, looking closely. It was certainly his handwriting, or an extraordinarily accurate imitation of it.
    But it was not the writing that convinced her. As she held it up near her face to examine it, she breathed a memory, a scent so faint that it seemed to vanish even as she drew it in; the scent of her sky-blue shawl and his letters.
    She knew it instantly and unequivocally. She pressed the paper to her face and breathed deeply.
    He had written this. Handwriting, diction, greeting—all that could be imitated—but not the imperceptible incense that brought a lightning re-creation of those days when she had eagerly broken open his letters and thought of him from moment to moment.
    Folie laid the paper down again, smoothing it open. A part of her tried to remain reasonable and sober, arguing that it was all a nonsensical flight of imagination; a part of her wanted to flee this place immediately, as frightened as Melinda by its strangeness and shadows—but as Folie spread her fingers across the letter, she felt a deeper welling of fear.
    If this was him...the real Robert, her Robert...she was in another sort of danger altogether.
    A moment of near panic seized her heart. Somehow until this moment, this letter, this scent, he had not seemed quite real; she had not ascertained her jeopardy.
    Oh, God save her. If it was truly Robert—she would fall in love with him again. How could she not?
    She made a soft whimper of dismay. It seemed unlikely...the man in this house was hardly attractive to her, but four years ago she had learned a lesson that she would never forget. Love was not for her. Better a practical marriage, safe and quiet, as hers had been, than the foolish flight and terrible fall from those airy heights. She should not have written that letter to him, even in fancy. She must not allow any such thing to happen again.
    With a quick move, she tore the reply in half, and half again, crumpling the pieces in her hand. She must not stay here, not another day.
     

     
    Robert received the message in his dressing room, delivered by a silent Lander with his breakfast tray. He had been doing nothing, simply sitting in a chair staring at the rows of books and bound journals that lined the small dark room, holding his neckcloth dangling in his hand.
    Doing nothing. Thinking nothing. When he saw the tray, smelled the fragrance of warm bread and tea, his mouth watered painfully. The note lying beside the silver cover made his heart squeeze hot blood into his brain. But he merely nodded dismissal to Lander.
    The butler bowed, remaining in place. “It is from Mrs. Hamilton,” he said. “She requests the favor of an immediate reply, sir.”
    “All right,” Robert said, snapping up the note. “All right, then.”
    He tore it open. He was afraid his hand was shaking visibly from hunger and suspense—and then he had to stand up and carry it to the window to read it in the dim little room.
     
    Dear Mr. Cambourne,
    It is my understanding that we are here at your request, that you are our host. We will expect to see you at dinner. If you cannot come, I shall conclude that our presence here is inconvenient at this time. Therefore, we shall depart this morning. Please inform me of your decision before 10 A.M. If I do not have an answer from you by that time, then Miss Melinda Hamilton and I extend our thanks and our farewells by this note.
    Mrs. Charles Hamilton
     
    Robert looked up at the butler. “They are not to leave the grounds.”
    Lander made a slight bow of his head. “I don’t