My Wicked Little Lies. Victoria Alexander

      Prologue

      My Dear Sir,

      I am at once eager and filled with regret to write this missive to you as it shall be my last. No doubt, Sir Maxwell has informed you of my decision to leave my position. In truth, I never thought this day would come. I never imagined leaving this life which has been, in most ways, quite remarkable and, in all ways, extraordinary. And yet, I have grown tired of excitement and weary of secrets.

      I have lived these past five years in service to my queen and my country. While I admit, it may well be selfish, the time has now come to live in service to myself, as it were. I long for nothing more than that which most women want. A husband, a family, and a place in the world where one knows one belongs.

      I have met a wonderful man and I shall spend the rest of my days trying to make him happy. Which is not the least bit daunting as he has pledged to do the same for me. It sounds dreadfully ordinary, doesn’t it? And yet, I have never been so eager and, yes, excited.

      I have always thought those who say they have no regrets seek either to deceive others or to deceive themselves. Yet, as I cast my thoughts back upon these last years, I find few regrets. If I knew at the beginning what I know now, I daresay, I would have chosen the same path although perhaps I would have been more clever. Or possibly not. Regardless, it has been a grand adventure.

      As this is my last communiqué, I feel I can be completely candid. I have only one true regret, Sir. I wish we had met, just once, face-to-face. I confess, I have often thought of that, wondered if I would know you the moment I saw you. Or recognize the sound of your voice. Silly, of course, as I have never seen you nor heard you. But through the years I feel I have come to know you although, in truth, I know nothing about you at all. I have imagined, in the late hours of the night, a meeting between us. The gaze of your eyes, wise and, no doubt, seductive, meeting mine. The corners of your mouth curving upward in amusement. The sound of your laughter. I have imagined the feel of your hand around mine as we danced across a crowded ballroom floor.

      But who knows? You are a man of many secrets. Perhaps we have danced together. Perhaps you were the short, balding gentleman I danced with at the French ambassador’s ball. Or were you the flirtatious Italian count who compared my eyes to the stars in the heavens? I shall never know and that is, no doubt, for the best.

      I sit here now with a smile upon my face. I fear I have let my fancy take f light in this final