Free In Your Arms Again by Kathryn Smith

it immediately—the way it was folded, the paper, the wax seal. It was another note from her secret admirer. She was becoming heartily sick of them. It was flattering to know someone held her in such high esteem, but not knowing who it was was vexing to say the least.
    Taking the letter, Octavia was tempted to toss it in thewastepaper basket without even opening it, but curiosity got the better of her. What would her admirer pay homage to this time? Her hair, her eyes, perhaps her bosom? There was always something, and it was always said in flowery language that would make even the most romantic of poets roll his eyes.
    Beatrice came closer as she broke the seal and unfolded the heavy parchment.
    I know your secret.
    Octavia’s heart faltered before falling heavily against her ribs. It was the same handwriting as before, the same signature—“ Yours Always ”—but while all the other notes had an air of lightness, this one had an ominous feel that could not be denied.
    She had only one secret, and that was about her mother and her own past. How this person could have found out, she had no idea. But what concerned her most was what he planned to do with the information now. Extortion of some kind? What price would he attach to his silence? And would she be able to pay it?
    Was this coincidence that such a note should arrive after her reunion with North? Was it possible that this person was someone she knew from the past? Someone who knew North as well? As much as she didn’t want to believe it, she knew it was a logical conclusion.
    Could it be that North was her admirer? It seemed too foolish to even contemplate. North would never do such a thing. Would he? And what purpose was he hoping to achieve by sending her such a missive now?
    “My lady?” Janie’s voice was heavy with concern. “Are you quite all right?”
    Clearing her throat, Octavia nodded. “I am fine. Who delivered this, Janie?”
    “A messenger, my lady. Naught but a lad.”
    As usual. It was always a young boy who delivered the notes, a different one each time, none of whom knew anything—or was prepared to tell anything—about his employer.
    “What are you going to do?” Beatrice asked, her hand touching Octavia’s arm.
    “Nothing,” Octavia replied, determined not to play along. Her admirer would not join the list of people she allowed to dictate her life. “I am not going to do a blessed thing.”
    And even if she did want to do something, what could she possibly do without revealing the details of her past to either Spinton or someone else? Whom could she trust? No one. Not even North.
    Not yet .

Chapter 4
    T he offices of numbers three and four Bow Street were as unassuming as they possibly could be. They were sparsely furnished but clean, every inch of scarred wood gleaming with a highly buffed sheen. The early morning air was rich with the scents of polishes, waxes and lemon. An overlying whiff of tobacco hovered just above it all, followed by the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Soon the smells of London would invade this surprisingly quiet space. Unwashed bodies, the stench of the underworld, would creep into the pores of the people working there, pollute their clothes and hair, but for now Bow Street had yet to be brought down to the same level as the criminals it captured.
    This was how North preferred to remember the offices, and why he chose this hour to answer the summons sent to him by Duncan Reed, chief magistrate.
    “What can I do for you, Duncan?”
    Seated behind a massive oak desk that was rumored to have belonged to Henry Fielding himself, Duncan Reed regarded North over the rim of his coffee cup with the eyes of an old, wise wolf.
    “Good morning to you too, North. Coffee?”
    Flipping out the tails of his coat, North seated himself in one of the faded, but well-padded chairs in front of the desk. “Please.”
    Duncan took a battered pot from the tray on the table behind his desk and tipped it over a chipped