Invitation to Ruin (41 page)

Under such scrutiny, Del could only admit the truth. “I did.”

“Damn your eyes, Delacorte. This can only end badly.”

Del shrugged with supreme indifference. “That will suit me well enough.”

   They called it blackmail, though the letter secreted in Celia Burke’s pocket was not in actuality black. It had looked innocuous enough: the same ivory-colored paper as all the other mail, brought to her on a little silver tray borne by the butler, Loring. It would have been much better if the letter had actually been black, because then Celia would have known not to open it. She would have flung it into the fire before it could poison her life irrevocably. The clenching grip of anxiety deep in her belly was proof enough the poison had already begun its insidious work.

“Celia, darling? Are you all right? Smile, my dear. Smile.” Lady Caroline Burke whispered her instructions for her daughter’s ears only, as she smiled and nodded to her many
acquaintances in the ballroom as though she hadn’t a care in the world.

Celia shoved her unsteady hand into her pocket to reassure—no, not reassure
—convince
herself—the letter was still there. And still real. She had not dreamt up this particular walking nightmare.

She released the offensive missive and clasped her hands together tightly to stop them from trembling. She had no more than a moment or two to compose herself before the opening set was to begin.

Blackmail. The letter, dated only one day ago, was clear and precise, straight to the point.