London, July 1906

The letter was waiting for him when he arrived home. Colin Moreau returned from France a week after his cousin's wedding, ready to return to his life. He liked his life. At thirty years old, he had taken the money that his grandfather had left him and had tripled it. It was a talent that he'd discovered when he'd decided to buy a share in a locomotive company. Since then, he had invested in a number of different areas including telephone companies, the new electric power that was catching on, and especially, indoor plumbing. His friends joked that he could spot a good idea a mile away.

He'd had the misfortune to be born second into an aristocratic family and, since his older brother Raphael had become the Viscount LaSalle when their father had inherited the Earl of Hollenbeck title, Rafe had sired two sons with his wife, which meant that if Colin wanted to make something of himself, he would have to do it himself. Not that he minded. He wasn't meant for the peerage. He much preferred the company of professional men and the working class.

Colin, to his mother's dismay, was the only of the Moreau children who had not yet married. Gabrielle, who was twenty-seven, had been married for three years and Rafe had been married for five. It wasn't that Colin had an aversion to marriage. Quite the contrary, actually. He had finally settled into his own home in London, and was becoming more successful by the day. The only thing that seemed to be missing from his life was someone to share it with. He saw how happy his siblings and cousins were in their marriages and he wanted that. He wanted a wife to pamper and a child to spoil. It was only that he'd never met anyone he could see himself sharing it with.

Every time he felt like he could get close with a girl, he would discover some unforgiveable flaw: An obnoxious laugh, an annoying habit (the last girl he had courted had cracked her knuckles constantly.), she didn't know the difference between "your" and "you're." He knew he had been too harsh, but it was the rest of his life. He should be able to spend it with someone whom he didn't want to avoid, right?

So, he was pleasantly surprised when he'd seen the letter, addressed to him among invitations and other correspondence, written in handwriting that he did not recognize. There was no name, only a post office box return address. Intrigued, he used a letter opener and carefully drew the flap open.

Dear Colin,

You don't know who I am, and it's probably better that way.

What the hell?

We aren't well acquainted, you see, and I'm sure I will regret this in the morning. My mother says I am far too spontaneous for my own good. I suppose I am sometimes, but what fun would life be if we all did the same thing every day? It's how I earned the nickname Flash from my father as a girl.

Well, at least it was a girl and not some sex crazed pervert.

He always said that I made decisions in a flash and so, it stuck. You probably think I'm some depraved lunatic with nothing better to occupy her time, and you're probably right.

At least she admitted it, though Colin found himself smiling, despite the strangeness of the situation. He could almost hear the girl's voice. She obviously wrote the way she spoke. As he read on, he found himself wondering what she looked like and who she was. They'd obviously met at some point, though he could not recall meeting anyone new for the life of him. The post office box was in Paris, which meant that she was in Paris…which narrowed it down, considering he was related to most of the women who resided there. The problem was, he'd spoken to any number of women there. It could really be anyone.

I'm questioning my own sanity. We've barely ever had a conversation, and I find myself wondering what your middle name is. When is your birthday? Mine is in October. I always hated that, having such a late birthday because I was always the youngest of my friends. Always the youngest. I have three older siblings, you see, so I've never really been taken seriously. Thus, this insane need to write to a perfect stranger.

My favorite color is green, which is odd for a girl my sister tells me. I can't imagine why. Green is such a beautiful color. It represents the very basic things: life, nature, fertility. And really, where would we be without those?

Colin was smiling widely now, thoroughly enchanted by the mystery girl's words. She was so candid, so completely unguarded. It made him feel like they were old friends, even though he didn't even know her name.

Well, I've embarrassed myself enough for one letter. Do try not to judge me too harshly.

Take care.

Flash.

Flash. It was all he had to call her. He would write back. He owed it to her. She had gone to all this trouble, after all. Maybe she would tell him who she was. She had to…she had initiated the friendship, didn't she? Colin pulled out a pen and a piece of his personal stationary.

One week later, he attended a ball at his cousin, Lady Keating's home, but he was unable to concentrate on anything anyone said to him. He'd forgotten his distraction momentarily when his young cousin, Esme, rushed into the ballroom looking rather desperate when she tapped his shoulder. Filled with brotherly concern, he stared down into her angelic face, framed by her brilliant fiery hair.

"Little Esme!" He said, smiling at her. The look in her eyes informed him that something was wrong.

"Have you seen Lord Keating? I need his help!"

"Esme, what's wrong?" He asked, concerned.

"It's Bella, she—" Esme began as Colin moved toward the door, intending to try and find the Marquess, when he appeared with Esme's fiancé, Roger Tiernay.

"Where is she?" Tristan, Lord Keating growled, looking positively murderous.

"In the back hallway with—" The Marquess did not need to hear more, it seemed, as he tore away from the young woman, followed by Tiernay. Colin turned to his sister and her husband, who looked interested too.

"Her butler just said that Nigel Carrington is drunk and she went to attend to it." Gabrielle explained, sighing. Colin blanched in disgust. Nigel Carrington was a notorious wastrel and he had been known to form attachments to women who wanted nothing to do with him. It did not surprise him that his newest target was Bella, but that also did not make him any less irritated with the imbecile.

"She went alone?" He asked his sister. She nodded, swallowing.

"Well, technically Esme went with her." She allowed.

"She'd provide as much protection as a baby deer." Colin scoffed, shaking his head. "Women."

"What is going on with you, Colin?" His sister demanded nosily. "You've been distracted all week. Since you came home."

"I'm fine." He insisted moodily, not wanting to be interrogated. In fact, he wanted nothing more than to go home and reread that damned letter for the hundredth time that week. Since he'd written a response, he'd avidly checked the mail every day, even though he knew it would take longer to get a response. That did not stop him.

"You've turned down both of Mother's dinner invitations this week and everyone in our family knows that you don't turn down free food." Gabrielle pointed out, giving her husband Sean a look. He could not suppress a knowing grin.

Esme and Roger returned shortly after, holding hands. Esme still looked a bit pale, but she was smiling.

"Is everything alright?" He asked her.

"Fine." Roger said with a nod, putting his arm protectively around Esme's waist. Colin envied them. Their bond was so evident, so powerful that one could actually feel the love between them just by standing in their presence. It was slightly uncomfortable for him, especially since he had been longing for female companionship, and not the kind you sought when you had a particular itch. He wanted what they had.

Love.

"Lord Keating has resolved the matter and is attending to his wife." Roger added.

"Bella?" Colin asked vaguely, feeling his thoughts drifting again. He wanted to go home and drink himself into a stupor.

"She's fine…just a bit of indigestion. You know…the baby." Esme indicated her own belly.

"Ah." He said, though he hadn't actually heard a word she'd just said. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his watch. It was ten o'clock. "Well it is late." He told them. "I really must be getting home." He said a brief goodbye to his sister and Sean before he showed himself out.

Half an hour later, across town, he sat at his desk with a glass of whiskey.

You don't know who I am and it's probably better that way…

We've barely ever had a conversation, and I find myself wondering what your middle name is. When is your birthday? Mine is in October…

Green is such a beautiful color. It represents the very basic things: life, nature, fertility. And really, where would we be without those?

Flash…

Who are you, Flash? Why did you choose me? He thought, pouring another drink.

Anna had kept her own personal post office box since she'd been eighteen. Since her brother had been an intrusive mule with Grace, she had opted to buy herself some privacy. She used her pin money to pay the rent for it and had never really had a real use for it until now. She checked it once a week, and was extremely surprised when she found an envelope sitting upright.

Flash

Post Office Box 214

Paris

Anna's heart nearly stopped at the sight of the neat scrawl. He'd written her back. She could barely breathe as she scurried back out of the post office, putting the letter into her reticule. She'd told her mother that she was going to visit Emmy, but the only thing she wanted to do now was to curl up on her bed and open this letter. What could he possibly have said? He was probably warning her to leave him alone. She was both terrified and excited to read it.

Anna could not go visit Emmy in this state. She would be useless as a companion. Instead, she hailed a carriage and returned home. Her mother was nowhere to be found, which could only be a good thing at the moment. Anna definitely did not feel like answering questions at the moment. With all haste, she fled up the stairs to her bedroom and locked the door behind her, removing her gloves and hat.

Trembling, she rifled through the door of her desk until she found her letter opener. Forcing herself to inhale, she closed her eyes and pulled out the neatly folded paper, refusing to look until she was settled against her pillows.

Flash,

If I said your letter didn't surprise me, I would be lying. And I do hope you will forgive me, but I cannot think of whom you could be, but I find myself wanting to know very badly.

You don't strike me as the lunatic type. A bit bold, perhaps, but not crazy. Maybe you're as lonely as I am. I feel so strange saying this, but I feel since we're revealing things about ourselves, I can trust you. I am thirty years old. I have outgrown my bachelorhood and I have come to see that it is time for me not to settle, but to settle down. Skirt chasing has never appealed to me as it has so many others.

In answer to your questions:

My middle name is Alexandre. It was my late grandfather's name.

My birthday is August 20, 1875.

You shouldn't worry about having a late birthday. Think of it this way, you'll always be the youngest of your friends. That will be an advantage when you are all older, won't it? And just think, on your birthday, you can look out your window and see nature at its most beautiful, with all the trees in full color. Even though it isn't green, perhaps, it doesn't last long. I love the Autumn. It's always so humid on my birthday that I hardly ever want to do anything.

I am the middle child, which everyone always says is the most difficult, but as my mother frequently tells me, I was the easiest. My sister was the troublemaker in the family because our father spoiled her horribly.

I quite like your reasoning behind your favorite color, though you certainly do not need to explain yourself to me. My favorite color is blue. The color of the sky. When I was a child, my favorite pastime was lying in the grass and staring up at it, letting myself get lost in it.

Flash, I want to know who you are. I want to know what you look like. I want to know what kinds of food you like and you favorite music.

I want to know your name.

You sought me out, Flash…so he we are.

Your friend,

Colin

Anna could only stare and reread the beautiful letter that really said nothing, but told her everything. She couldn't tell him who she was. He was intrigued by the mystery. Once he'd found out the truth, he might not like the answer. And Anna couldn't really bear it if he didn't. She barely knew him, but if he did find out and he lost interest, what then? What if he laughed at her? It would cheapen the lovely words he'd written to her.

Sighing heavily, Anna folded the paper and put it into the drawer of her night table. It was probably better not to write back again and set herself up for disappointment. She already liked Colin…she was terrified that if she received another letter from him, she would be in grave danger of falling in love with him. Cursing herself silently, she rose and sat at her desk.

"I can't believe I'm doing this." Anna muttered to her cat, Cleo, who had slunk into the room and had lazily curled up on her bed.

Colin was on edge. He'd come back to Paris for his cousin, Esme's wedding on an impulse. He'd received a response from Flash.

Dearest Colin,

I'm lonely too, which probably explains the need to write to someone I barely know. I can't tell you how glad I was that you didn't think me a loon. Even Cleo, my cat, is looking at me with pitying eyes. I hope you don't think I'm some hopeless dope, because I've been called on. My mother just insists that I'm too particular for my own good.

I'm always trying to please her. I know I shouldn't worry about it so much, but I can't help it. You must understand, my oldest sibling and I are ten years apart. Before my sister and I were born, there was an accident. Our brother and sister played a terrible trick on their governess and snuck outside. My sister ended up breaking her neck and died as a result. I never knew her, but she's haunted our house quietly for the past twenty-four years. I don't know if she haunts it literally, I simply mean that I feel it necessary to mold myself into the best daughter possible to make up for her absence. Until recently, my brother blamed himself for her death. I've always felt this need to live up to a person who barely lived. She was four years old.

I could never tell my mother these things, of course, but I've seen the secret shrine to her. They left her bedroom as it was when she died, locking the door behind them as if that could erase the fact that she died. My parents pretend like they've healed, but I can see the pain still there…and sometimes, I feel like a failure because even though my sister and I are still here, we aren't enough. We can never replace our sister. I suppose that's also why I never let myself get close to anyone. I'm afraid I won't be good enough…but I want to be so badly.

So you see, dearest Colin, you sweet man, that I can't tell you who I am. I'm afraid all I can offer you is vague correspondence. I'm afraid to let myself like you too much. I wish I could be different…better…because I am so very tired of being alone.

I'm sorry.

Yours,

Flash

Colin set his jaw, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket to feel the corner of the letter. The words reverberated through his mind as he walked through the guests at his cousin's wedding ceremony. Flash wasn't some flibberty-gibbet, she was a real girl who felt pain like everyone else in the world. She had insecurities like everyone else, even him. Her confessions had seemed to write themselves into his soul, searing him permanently. She'd attempted to dissuade him from trying to find her, but had only fueled his curiosity further.

He was going to figure it out if he had to question every damned woman in Paris.

"You look like you want to punch somebody." His cousin Claire, Viscountess de Chagny said, sauntering up to him with a raffish grin. Even though she was his cousin, he was thunderstruck as always by her exotic beauty.

"I can't say I'm in the greatest of moods." He conceded, sighing and plucking a flute of champagne off of a nearby tray. He could hear her throaty chuckle.

"What's wrong, Cousin?" She asked, linking her arm through his. "You look positively vexed."

"Do you know someone who goes by the nickname of Flash?" He blurted hopefully, watching her eyes widen, but he did not see any recognition.

"Flash? No." Claire replied apologetically. "Why?"

"I've been written to anonymously by a young woman I met here in Paris, but I have no idea who it is." He told her, watching as her eyebrow rose.

"Out of nowhere?"

"Well, we must have met at some point when I was here for Lillian's wedding, but I can't think of anyone who I spoke to longer than a few moments."

"Well it must have been someone." Claire insisted. "Colin, I fell in love with Gustave within five minutes when I was twelve. It only takes a few moments."

"Well, there was Miss Meredith Andover." Colin said dubiously. "Of course, she didn't know the difference between a peach and a nectarine, so I suppose it's not her."

"What about Emilie Devereaux?" Claire asked. Colin shook his head.

"I don't recall her."

"Can you ask around? Perhaps one of your sisters knows—" He cut off, hearing a female shriek from the side of the room. One of the chaperones had jumped atop a table. Claire closed her eyes in disbelief, seeing her two sons giggling near the door. A blur of green hopped – wait, hopped? – across the room. Colin saw that the little boys had let a frog loose in the ballroom as revenge for not being allowed to partake. Claire shared a look with her husband, the Viscount de Chagny, before the two headed toward the door to reprimand their children while the frog continued to make its rounds. No one made an attempt to retrieve it.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake!" Someone groaned, and another blur of green swiftly reached down and picked up the amphibian. She turned to give Esme a wary look, but the two girls were unable to hold back a grin. Even Roger was stifling laughter. When she turned around, Colin recognized her instantly. The girl he'd knocked over at Lillian's wedding. Anna Reynolds.

"Come along, dear." His Aunt Evangeline said, trying unsuccessfully to hide her amusement as she ushered the blonde girl through the door. Colin strode after them. "I can't even find it in my heart to be angry with them." His aunt confessed to Anna, leading her out of the side door.

"Oh, my sister and I were much worse." She agreed, laughing. Colin could see her profile, revealing a small, attractive nose and a set of very pretty bow shaped lips. "We tied our governess's shoes together and tied her to a chair when she fell asleep. Our brother calls us 'Perfect Hellions.' As if he was such an angel." Aunt Evangeline laughed, supporting the girl's back as they turned to come back. Colin ducked back, unsure of why he was hiding.

"Come sweeting, you must wash your hands you brave little girl." Evangeline grinned. "You look so like your mother."

"Julienne told us that she and Simon are going to name the baby Rose." Colin could hear her silvery voice from the hall.

"How lovely." Evangeline replied thoughtfully. Anna sighed.

"Madame Destler, you can return…I'll finish up here."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course." He could hear the smile in the girl's voice. Colin waited for his aunt to round the corner into ballroom, before he stepped forward. Anna had seen that moment as opportune to come out of the washroom and collided directly with him.

"Sorry!" They both exclaimed at the same time. When she looked up and saw him, Anna Reynolds flew backward so fast, he could have sworn she was trying to flee. There was nowhere for her to go but into the wall. Clutching her heart, she gasped.

"You frightened me!" She cried, making him laugh out loud.

"Éclair, right?" He asked, referring to the dress he had stained before. Swallowing, she nodded. "I do hope it was repairable."

"The soap took it right out." She assured him, looking longingly toward the ballroom.

"I had assumed since I didn't receive an invoice." He chuckled, watching her redden.

"I wouldn't have sent you one even if it hadn't come out." She informed him. "It's just a dress."

"You're nicer than most women."

"I'm the youngest of three, Monsieur. I'm used to hand me downs."

"Touché." He allowed, smiling.

"How long are you in Paris?" Anna inquired, guardedly.

"Well, to be honest, I had not even planned on coming in the first place. Some last minute business brought me here. When I finish with that, I suppose I will return to London." He replied, careful of what he was saying.

"I see." Did she sound disappointed? "Well, I must be getting back—"

"Miss Reynolds!" He called after her when she started away.

"Monsieur?" She did not meet his eyes.

"Do you enjoy theatre?" Colin heard himself say. Slowly, her eyes turned up. He felt his breath catch in his throat when he realized they were the exact color of the sky.

"My mother was a ballerina." Anna informed him. "I've been raised on the performing arts, although I will admit willingly that I find opera deplorable." A sharp ring of laughter tumbled out of him.

"Just a play, I'm afraid. Are you interested?" He studied her closely, seeing the hope spring into those endless light blue eyes, before she sighed and her face fell.

"I can't." She said wearily. Colin could only gape at her in bemusement.

"Oh, I'm sorry…you're spoken for. I should have—"

"I'm not." She told him quickly. "I just…can't." Her voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible. "I'm sorry." A moment later, she was gone.

Thanks for reading. Reviews are highly welcome.