A soft rap came at his study door. His housekeeper peered in. “A person to see you, sir. Says her name is Mrs. Ashworth.”
The telegram lay on the mahogany sideboard, its yellow paper seeming to glow under the gaslight. WillTileXXX 22 01 23 Eliza Rae No Other Lady XX. WillTileXXX 22 01 23 Eliza Rae No Other Lady XX...
Eliza stepped inside, still wearing a traveler’s dust cloak. Her eyes were the same storm-grey he remembered. “You came,” she whispered. A soft rap came at his study door
Arthur Pendelton read it for the dozenth time, his sherry going warm and untouched. The code was one he and Eliza had devised as children— WillTile meant “Willing to elope,” the numbers a date and time, the XX a promise: no other lady, ever. But Eliza Rae had married Lord Ashworth three winters ago. Says her name is Mrs