by Cara Elliott
“Especially for someone who has once again left finishing her weekly essay until the last moment.”
“Did you have to remind me?” she asked glumly. “As if my night wasn’t bad enough already.”
Caro took a cross-legged seat on the bed. “It couldn’t have been worse than wandering around an empty house, wondering what sort of experiences you and Anna are having.”
“Don’t get carried away with your fantasies, Caro. Balls can be dreadfully dull.”
“I suppose.” But her sister didn’t sound convinced.
“I’m sorry you’re feeling bored.” Olivia sighed, wishing not for the first time that she could trade places with her more exuberant youngest sister. Caro craved Excitement and Emotion, while she, the stick-in the-mud rationalist of the family, was content with just the opposite. “Did you at least get some writing done?”
Caro flashed a mischievous grin. “Actually, that’s why I wanted to see you.” She took a piece of paper from her sleeve and held it out with a flourish. “It’s one of my better compositions, if I say so myself.”
Olivia read it over and laughed. “You have a flair for the dramatic, that’s for sure. I’m sure this missive will find an appreciative audience in young Prescott.”
“I purchased the perfect book for him at Hatchards,” went on Caro. “I’ll just slip the letter inside it. Now all you have to do is write a note to the earl, and the explanatory note to Prescott. Then we’ll have Freddie deliver it first thing in the morning.” Rolling onto her back, she clasped a pillow to her chest. “Oohh, what fun. This is even more romantic than Anna’s latest chapter on Count Alessandro’s secret meetings with Princess Miranda.”
“You know…” As Olivia watched the scudding moonlight play over Caro’s dreamy expression, she felt a slight twinge of foreboding. “I have to confess, I am having second thoughts about this scheme. What if something goes wrong?”
Her sister’s face fell. “What could possibly go wrong? The worst that could happen is that Lord Wrexham goes ahead and marries the stiff-rumped Steel Corset. And, according to Prescott, that’s already a certainty unless we help save the earl from himself.” The squeezed pillow emitted a feathery sigh. “Look at it this way—we are doing a good deed.”
“I’m not sure that the earl would agree.” However, she didn’t have the heart to quash Caro’s hopes of having a small adventure here in London. “Quite likely I shall regret this.”
“No you won’t,” assured Caro.
Gathering up her scattered hairpins, Olivia dropped them one by one into their silver box.
“Oh, hell. Bring me a pen and paper.”
“That’s the spirit!” said her youngest sister.
“Neither spirit nor imagination is anything the three of us lack,” she murmured, as her youngest sister hurried away to fetch the requested items. “It is restraint over our creative impulses that we all might exercise a little more often.” A sigh momentarily fogged the looking glass. “But in for a penny, in for a pound, I suppose.” Caro was right—there seemed to be little harm in setting up one more meeting with the earl’s son. He had looked so vulnerable in the park, looking for Lady Loose Screw to show up.
I can’t very well leave him in the lurch.
Olivia quickly scribbled off the two short notes when Caro returned, and handed it over before she could change her mind.
“But remember,” she cautioned, “your mission with Prescott is going to be to explain, albeit gently, that for compelling personal reasons, Lady Loose Screw can no longer be considered a candidate for marriage. And then to offer some counsel on how he might try to give the Steel—er, that is, the lady in question—a second chance.”
Caro made a face. “I still say we should sell her to white slavers. She doesn’t sound very nice.”
“No, she doesn’t, but that does not give us the right to interfere,” replied Olivia. “Our agreement is that you will pass on my advice to the lad without your own embellishments, or…” She held out her hand. “…You can return my note and the plan is off.”
“No, no, I’ll do as you ask.” Caro hastily tucked the paper up her sleeve. “But I still say we ought to come up with something more romantic than that.”
“Enough of romance,” she muttered. “I need to turn my thoughts to more practical matters—like finishing my essay.”
Caro made a sympathetic sound as she turned for the door. “I’ll leave you the pen and ink. Along with some peace and quiet.”
“Thank you.”
But the ensuing silence, lit by the soft, soundless flickering of the candles, did not quite calm the agitated whisper of thoughts in her head.
Mistresses. What imp of Satan had compelled her to bring up such a subject with the earl?
“Even for me, that was beyond the pale,” she said to herself.
That he was planning a speech on the very issue that was so near and dear to her heart ought to have provoked something other than a deliberately tart comment on courtesans. It was as if she wished him to find her company repulsive.
Which I do, I suppose.
Olivia took pride in being forthright and honest, especially with herself. So honesty compelled her to admit that she found the earl intriguing. Attractive. Intelligent.
He was also all but engaged to be married.
She was willing to take intellectual risks—Good Heavens, it would stir a swirl of scandal throughout the beau monde if it became know that the radical political essays in the Mayfair Gazette were penned by a woman—because the reward of stirring Society’s collective conscience to action made it worthwhile.
However, there seemed little chance that an emotional risk would bring anything other than disappointment. The oh-so-proper Earl of Wrexham and the oh-so-outrageous Hellion of High Street? Ha! And it was not only their temperaments that were diametrically opposed. He was rich as Croesus and she was poor as a churchmouse.
Enough of indulging in mindless fantasies. The Beacon had real work to do.
Clearing a spot on her dressing table for a blank sheet of paper, Olivia dipped her pen in the inkwell and began to write.
Chapter Twelve
The morning post, madam.” Lady Silliman’s footman set a silver tray down on the breakfast room table.
Cecilia thumbed through the letters and paused at a small parcel. “This is for you, John. And Scottie.”
John broke the seal and skimmed over the note inside the wrapping. “Hmmph.” He looked up. “It’s from Miss Sloane. She hopes your eye is on the mend.”
“The purple has turned to green and yellow,” said his son. “I wish Lucy could see how hideous it looks.”
“Perhaps we could invite her to come visit for a week,” suggested Cecilia. “It’s a pleasure for me to have children around, and I’m sure Lucy would enjoy seeing the city. John?”
“Whatever you wish,” he answered absently, his attention still riveted on Olivia’s note. Most female handwriting was light and frilly as lace. Hers, on the other hand, was strong, distinctive script. Bold, forceful, with a slight slant that added an exotic touch.
Rather like the lady herself, John mused, after slowly rereading the missive.
“Miss Sloane thought you might enjoy this picture book on coaches and carriages,” he announced. After tracing a finger over the brightly striped wrapping paper, John slid it across the table. “For the next time you plan an overnight adventure.”
“How very nice of her,” murmured Cecilia.
“She’s a great gun,” agreed Prescott, eagerly reaching for the gift. “I like her laugh.”
“Oh?”
Ignoring his sister’s uplifted brows, John picked up the newspaper and opened it with a snap. “The less said about the incident, the better, Scottie. In the future, I would ask that you not speak of our private family matters with strangers.”
“Yes, sir,” muttered his son.
“What sort of matters?” pressed Cecilia.
“Father’s im
pending engagement to the Steel Corset,” answered Prescott in a funereal voice.
The newsprint slapped down against the polished wood. “The Devil take it, I have not asked the lady for her hand.”
“Well, are you or aren’t you?” countered Prescott.
Cecilia set down her teacup and waited expectantly.
“I haven’t decided yet,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
“Since you appear to be seriously contemplating marriage, John, I should like to hear a little more about this young lady.”
Swearing an inward oath, John speared a large slice of gammon from his plate and began to chew, hoping against hope to delay or distract her.
Unfortunately, she was more relentless than a troop of Soult’s cavalry in pursuing information that interested her. When he didn’t answer, she turned to Prescott. “Does she have a name? Other than the, er,…”
“The Steel Corset,” repeated his son as he began tearing open the wrapping around the book. “Though I’m not supposed to say it aloud. That’s what Lucy and I call her, on account of how she walks and talks.” Sucking in his cheeks, he stiffened his face into a hideous grimace. “Wrexham, fetch my smelling salts! Your son has a spot of jam on his chin.”
John choked down the lump of meat as Cecilia dissolved into laughter.
“That is not funny.”
“Forgive me,” said Cecilia, biting her lip. “Naturally, marriage is a very serious subject.
“Who in the hellfire name of Lucifer said anything about marriage!” he snapped.
“Your father is never at his best this early in the morning, Scottie,” counseled Cecilia after a short stretch of stony silence. “Let us not badger him on the subject.” To John, she added, “I shall not say another word on the subject.”
His sister silent on matters of the heart? Ha—and pigs might fly.
“If you will excuse me, I have a great deal to do to prepare for the upcoming debate in Parliament.” John scraped back his chair. “I shall be gone for most of the day.”
“Oh, don’t worry about us. Scottie and I have plans to tour the British Museum. And then we shall do a bit of shopping at bookstores and toy emporiums off Bond Street.” His sister shooed him off with a cheerful wave. “But remember, all work and no play makes for a very dull existence, John. Do try to relax and have some fun while you are in London.”
Tactics and strategy. John drew in a calming breath. Both called for a cool head and dispassionate judgment, he reminded himself.
Pulling his hat down lower, he shifted his stance, trying to avoid the worst of the mud pooled within the sliver of alleyway. He had managed to put the uncomfortable breakfast interlude out of his head, but in truth he was still seething inside from last night’s encounter with the duke and his crony.
However, any seasoned soldier knew that uncontrolled emotion was dangerous.
Right made might. He intended to use logic and rhetoric as weapons in his fight against the forces of greed and self-interest.
Assuming he could ever manage to meet the elusive thinker known as The Beacon.
The fellow was proving perversely difficult to track down. Yet another of his notes had gone ignored. So this morning he was determined to gird on his sword, so to speak, and take action. A talk with one of the clerks had elicited several key bits of information. The newspaper’s weekly essays were always due on this day. And The Beacon was notoriously late, waiting until the very last moment to deliver the finished piece.
Shifting deeper into the shadows cast by the overhanging eaves, John tried to still his impatience. He had been watching from his hidden vantage point all morning, but aside from a delivery of linseed oil and lamp black for ink, the printing shop had received no visitors.
Damn. Surely he couldn’t have missed the dratted fellow. And yet, a quick glance at his pocketwatch showed that there were only a few minutes left until the place shut down for the midday meal.
Baffled, he frowned and tried to figure out where he had gone wrong. The plan had been perfectly reasonable…
At the sound of hurried footsteps scuffing over the cobblestones, he flattened himself against the grimy brick and edged to the corner of the building. An angled look across the street showed Hurley himself opening the door and admitting the cloaked figure.
Bloody hell. What was Miss Olivia Sloane doing here again? The delivery boy for her newspaper must be the laziest imp alive. Or else…
No. Impossible.
His head said one thing, but war had taught him to listen very carefully to his gut feelings. And at the moment, their shouts were drowning out the voice of reason.
Of course, if he were wrong, he would appear a bloody idiot.
A short while later, Olivia emerged, head down, from the shop and began briskly retracing her steps. John waited until she had rounded the corner before slipping out from the alleyway and following at a discreet distance.
To his surprise, she didn’t head back toward High Street, but instead turned in the opposite direction. After winding through several small side streets, she glanced over her shoulder before darting down a narrow cartway that cut between the walled gardens of two brick townhouses.
John counted to ten and then did the same.
Halfway down the shadowed path, Olivia paused and fumbled with the lock of a thick wooden gate. The hinges creaked as it swung open for a moment, and then fell shut behind her.
He hesitated, suddenly embarrassed that he might have trailed her to a lover’s assignation. Retreat, he told himself. Reason called for a tactical retreat. And yet some strange force impelled him to move forward. Moving lightly, he silently crossed the rutted ground.
The latch had not quite caught, and he was able to ease the weathered oak open without making a sound. Through the narrow crack, he spied a jungle of thick bushes, their dark, glossy leaves shading the narrow gravel path that wove in and out of the dappled sunlight. Thick vines of ivy hung heavy on the brick wall behind them, adding to the play of shadows.
Squinting into the glare, John needed a moment to pick out Olivia’s cloaked figure among the muted colors of the ornamental grasses and shrubs. Her back was to him, and as he watched, she suddenly stopped short and punched a fist in the air.
“Look into your heart, I say, and ask yourself what you see.” A rustling whispered through the branches as her voice rose to a near shout. “Is it an oppressive black cloud, heavy with the weight of the past? Or is it a gleam of pale, pure light?”
He stayed very still, waiting for a reply. But no other voice sounded from the shrubbery.
“This is no time for slinking in the shadows of self-interest. We must rise…” Her palms slapped together, the sudden gesture causing her cloak to slip off her shoulders. Kicking it aside, Olivia continued, “Rise high and reach for our better nature.”
A sparrow chirped.
“Yes, you’re right,” she said loudly. “That’s laying in on a bit thick. Let me think for a moment.” Clasping her hands behind her back, she began pacing back and forth.
Any lingering doubts disappeared as it became obvious that she was alone. John pressed his lips into a tight smile. Ha. The Beacon’s light was no longer hidden under the proverbial bush.
Shouldering his way into the garden, he swiftly cut a path across the mossy verge.
“We must rise up…no, look up.” Olivia shook her head. “Drat, perhaps that would have been better…”
John was now close behind her. Close enough to see the tiny tendrils of dark auburn hair curling at the nape of her neck.
“Actually, I think you got it right the first time,” he said.
She whirled around, mouth open in a perfect “O” of shock.
“The issue is such an important one that it demands a little drama, don’t you think?” he finished.
Fisting her hands, she fell back a step, her face turning pale as parchment. “W-What in the name of God are you doing here, sir?” Her voice, though barely more than a whisper, be
trayed a tiny tremor of fear beneath her outrage.
Her secret could spell ruin for her family, conceded John. But right now he was thinking only of the moment. “I followed you from Hurley’s shop.”
Her eyes widened, and he was acutely aware of the fierce intelligence alight in the glittering green. At that instant, however, the hottest sparks burned from fear to blazing anger.
Actually, she was more than angry. She was furious.
And come to think of it, so was he. Perhaps the reaction was triggered by primitive male instinct—piqued pride, piqued pego—but John suddenly felt a surge of ire that he had been played for a fool.
“How dare you spy on me, sir!” demanded Olivia, once she had mastered her emotions enough to speak.
He fixed her with a commanding stare, the one that had set many a seasoned soldiers to quaking in their boots. “I would not have had to resort to such tactics if you had shown me the courtesy of answering my letters.”
Olivia refused to be intimidated. Lifting her chin, she scowled back at him. “I did answer them.”
“With a single word—no.”
“And what,” she asked with excruciating politeness, “did you not understand about such a simple syllable?”
John couldn’t help but admire her grit. It took courage and resourcefulness to play in a man’s world. And she played well, he conceded.
Expelling a harried sigh, he felt his anger dissipate just as quickly as it had come. She had no choice but to guard her secret very carefully. “Look, at least hear me out, Miss Sloane. Tracking down The Beacon has led me on a merry dance throughout Town.”
Olivia paled at the mention of the nom de plume. Turning abruptly, she plunged off the path and darted around a tangle of holly.
“Wait!” John ducked under the prickly branches, losing his hat in the process.
“Go away!” Her voice was muffled by the overhanging leaves.
“Not until we talk!”
“I’ve nothing to say to you.”
The Devil take it. All but a last little flutter of her skirts disappeared behind a shaggy yew hedge. Swearing under his breath, John cut through a patch of lavender. He hadn’t come this far to be rebuffed. She would damn well listen. Or else…