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.
A soft rap came at his study door. His housekeeper peered in. “A person to see you, sir. Says her name is Mrs. Ashworth.” WillTileXXX 22 01 23 Eliza Rae No Other Lady XX...
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. Arthur Pendelton read it for the dozenth time,