The bâtman bustled in with hot shaving water and a fresh towel. “Good morning, sir.”
Edward grunted sourly. He glanced out the window. The sky was that peculiar light gray that signaled snow.
Mattie would be gone by now. She’d probably hired a post-chaise to convey her to London. The writer of Chérie’s Confessions could afford such a luxury.
Anger kindled in his chest again when he remembered the gingerbread he’d bought for her, the kisses they’d shared. She’d played him, used him—and fool that he was, he’d fallen for it. Her poverty had been as much an act as everything else about her.
Edward picked up the razor and shoved thought of Mattie aside. His stomach growled while he shaved. “Have the curricle sent round in fifteen minutes,” he told Tigh. “We’ll eat in Soddy Morton.”
“I beli
