When I entered my chamber that evening to dress for dinner history repeated itself. There was a note waiting for me on my dressing table. This time I stuffed it into my reticule before Bridget arrived. There was no point in asking her how it came to be there. I knew she would not know. 

 I now had two notes, one which I could not deliver and one which I had no time to read. It felt somewhat farcical. 

 Once again, I was distracted through dinner, though this time I managed to do ample justice to the cooks efforts. One thing could certainly be said for the family I had married into; they knew how to choose their cooks.

 'You seem abstracted tonight, m'dear, if I may say so,' commented my husband.

 I essayed a light laugh. 'I beg your...

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