(The Players for this afternoon's narrative....)
The afternoon sun stood hot and high above Port Dominion when Benedict Marlowe set out once more for the Heights, where the Contessa’s residence lay poised above the harbor like a pale jewel upon the crown of St. Albion. The heat shimmered along the cobbled streets, and the scent of salt and sugar-cane mingled with that of horses and tar. Yet Benedict scarcely noticed the heat — his thoughts were a storm unto themselves.
He had not expected the Spanish lady to summon him again so swiftly. When the messenger came — a small, dark-eyed man in the Contessa’s livery — it had startled Mr. Benjamin and Mr. Greene both. But when they told him that the Contessa herself had requested him to receive her written response, Benedict could not deny the faint thrill that ran through him.
The road up to the Heights was lined with bougainvillea, its scarlet petals blazing against the stone walls. The Governor’s young clerk rode slowly, the rhythmic clop of hooves keeping time with his racing heart. He wondered why she had chosen him — of all the men in the Governor’s service — to act as her courier. Was it gratitude? Amusement? Or something deeper, something that unsettled him even to imagine?
When at last the gates opened and the cool shadow of the Contessa’s villa fell over him, he dismounted and smoothed his coat with trembling hands. The place smelled of jasmine and the faintest hint of orange blossom. A servant led him through a colonnade of white marble, where sunlight spilled like honey through high arched windows.
And there she stood — the Contessa Maria Theresa Isabella Emilia Lucia Gabriella Rosalina Liliana Paloma, radiant and composed, a vision of crimson silk and poise.
“Señor Marlowe,” she greeted him, her voice a low melody that lingered in the air. “You have returned, as I hoped you would.”
He bowed, fumbling slightly with his hat. “Your ladyship honors me,” he managed, his English crisp but uncertain. “I was instructed to receive your reply.”
“Ah, yes,” she said, turning toward her writing desk, where the parchment already lay, folded and sealed in crimson wax. “But first — tell me, Señor, how did they receive my answer of the other day? Did the Lady Whitehall approve of my words?”
“I... I believe she was most pleased, my lady,” he said. “Indeed, she seemed... intrigued.”
“Intrigued,” the Contessa repeated, her lips curving slightly. “A dangerous word in the mouths of English ladies. They are rarely intrigued without intent.”
He swallowed. “I... would not know, my lady.”
She smiled then — a small, knowing smile that seemed to see past his uniform, past his position, and directly into the hidden places of him. “No,” she said softly. “But perhaps you will learn. You have honest eyes, Señor Marlowe. Such eyes should not lie too often; they will grow weary.”
She held out the letter. As he reached for it, their fingers brushed. It was the faintest touch — yet it sent a jolt through him, like a spark from a flint. Her skin was cool, perfumed faintly with rosewater and something darker, richer — a scent that spoke of long nights and older secrets. He dared not look up, but she watched him, amused.
“Tell your Lady Whitehall,” she said at last, her voice like velvet drawn over steel, “that I await our meeting with... anticipation. And tell her husband —” she paused, a glint in her eyes “— that diplomacy is never so delicate as when it sits beside beauty.”
He bowed again, words failing him, and she inclined her head slightly in dismissal.
The sun was beginning its descent when Benedict rode back toward Government House. The streets of Port Dominion bustled with the usual evening life — sailors shouting, merchants closing their shutters, and the scent of rum and frying plantain rising from Red Row. Yet he saw none of it clearly; the Contessa’s voice still lingered in his mind, as though her words had taken root there.
Her face — the gleam of her dark eyes, the arch of her brow, the faint curl of amusement on her lips — all haunted him. When her fingers had touched his, it had been as though she had taken hold of something invisible within him and would not let go. He had felt both elated and undone, as though he had glimpsed a world beyond his own — one of power wrapped in silk and mystery.
He wondered what Lady Eleanor would think of this Spanish enchantress when they met face to face. Would they recognize the game between them, these two women of poise and purpose? Or would they smile across the table, each seeing her reflection in the other — polished, proud, and dangerous?
As he neared the Governor’s gates, Benedict pressed a hand to the inner pocket of his coat, feeling the weight of the sealed letter there.
He could not yet guess how much power such a small thing might hold — nor how, before long, the simple act of carrying messages between two women might draw him into currents far deeper than he could swim.
But as the lamps of Government House flickered into view, one thought refused to leave him:
When her hand touched mine, I stopped being a messenger and became a man.
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