Free My Sweet Folly by Laura Kinsale Page B

and loving, as if she were indeed coming on with a fever. Still, she had never seemed to grow hot or damp, and had even eaten much of the broth and toast Sally had brought for their dinner.
    Folie found her candlestick and lit it hurriedly. Likely enough no one had been into the library after they had left it; most of the housekeeping, such as it was, seemed to be completed by noon each day. The floorboards were chilly beneath her slippers. She closed the door behind her and made her way along the passage and down the stairs, sliding her fingertips along the scaly creature that coiled in and out of the banister. At the foot of the stairs, she gave the beast’s nose a friendly flick with her middle finger and tiptoed across the cold marble hall, shielding her candle.
    The door stood partially open. Folie touched it gently, pushing it inward with her shoulder. The veiled glare of her own candle prevented her from discerning the faint glow inside until she was standing in the wide open doorway.
    She started, expecting to see someone there. But a quick glance around the library showed no one, only a guttering candle on the desk where she had been writing that afternoon.
    Folie bit her lip. It had been found, then. Quick heat came to her face as she hurried to the table. A sealed letter lay on it...directed to her in that familiar hand.
    If she had stumbled upon him there in person, she could not have been more agitated. For a few moments she stared at it—he had read it; he had answered her—she did not know whether she was embarrassed or terrified.
    She set down her candle and picked up the letter. The wax was cool but still slightly soft, the impression of the Cambourne coat of arms blurring under her finger. She broke the seal.
     
    Folly, I am here. Perhaps it seems otherwise. I am lost, my dear sweet Folly, well and truly lost, and I cannot seem to find my way back this time.
    Robert
     
    Folie put her fingertips over her mouth, holding the note gently. She sat down slowly at the desk, frowning at the words.
    It had not been long since he had written it. As she touched the letter, a sensation came back to her vividly— she felt as she had felt in that dream of India so long ago...as if he were just out of sight; as if she could reach out and touch him if only she knew how. If only she knew where; and yet she followed and followed the echo of an image and never quite saw him, put out her hands and met only blowing silk and silence.
    “Robert,” she whispered.
    There was no answer. Motionless figures stared back at her from the deep shadows of the room, enigmatic blank eyes. She tucked the letter inside her robe, pulling it closer about her.
    That is not him, she thought vehemently. That man in this house is not him at all. It cannot be him.
    It was a strange thought; she knew it even as it came to her so strongly. This was undeniably his handwriting. He was clearly the master of this house, which had been a well-known Cambourne property for decades. And yet the suspicion had dogged her from the first instant—now that she gave it free rein in her mind, a rush of wild speculations followed one upon the other.
    Robert Cambourne was wealthy. A veritable nabob. It had been something of a legend among Charles’ kin, one of those things mentioned as an aside, a murmur of awe, of pride and just a trace of jealousy—the vast Indian fortune and political influence that the Cambourne branch of the family had amassed in two centuries of service to the East India Company. The Cambournes sent their sons and daughters home to England to be educated and married, but their adult lives were spent in foreign opulence, a leisurely swim through cascades of precious jewels, marvelous banquets, and marbled palace halls—at least, that was the impression in the Hamilton branch. Only through her letters from Robert had Folie caught a different glimpse, though she had never mentioned it to any of the Hamilton kin.
    But Robert Cambourne was