A Lady of Letters

by Andrea Pickens

  "Well?"

  He slanted a sideways look at her. "A fine afternoon for a drive, is it not, Gus?"

  "The weather has been uncommonly nice for this time of year, the price of kid gloves has become exorbitant, the neckline of gown Lady Fitzwilliam wore last week was shocking and the latest offering at Haymarket Theatre is said to be quite entertaining. There, we have dispensed with all the rest of the platitudes, so now can we get down to business?"

  The Earl chuckled. "You forgot one thing." His eyes ran over the navy merino carriage dress and snug little jacket frogged in military fashion that Marianne had chosen for her. "You are looking very well, Gus."

  She ducked her head, hoping to hide her blush. Good Lord, it was difficult enough sitting close beside him and pretending to be unmoved without having to listen to such pleasant banter. Teeth on edge, she forced a cool reply. "I believe you have something of greater importance to tell me, sir."

  "Alex," he corrected. "I thought we had come to an agreement on that."

  "Well, have you?"

  "Have I what?"

  "Something to tell me!" she snapped with some impatience.

  His brow rose slightly.

  "Alex," she added in a near whisper.

  He lips twitched. "As a matter of fact, I have." The horses slowed to a sedate trot. "Weston and Stutz have never seen the fabric. Nor have any of the other tailors on Bond Street or Jermyn Street."

  "Oh, that's helpful," she remarked rather snidely.

  He shot her an aggrieved look before continuing. "I didn't say that was all, did I? There are others, of course, in less fashionable locations that are not as well-known, but more willing to offer a gentleman generous terms in return for his patronage." He paused to grimace. "You have no idea how many ghastly waistcoats and ridiculous chitterlings I have been forced to view."

  "A sore trial, I am sure."

  "Just so. Now, neither Gibbons nor Thurgood nor Haskins had the silk. Then I remembered Joshua Hallinsworth near Regent Park...."

  She began to grind her teeth.

  "But alas, no luck there. Although oddly enough, I did find a rather attractive paisley pattern in dark burgundy and navy that—"

  "Alex!"

  "You do not care for paisley?"

  "If you say another word about a color or pattern other than the one which we are seeking, I will finish the job those two ruffians set out to do myself!"

  "Don't tell me you have added a knife to the gruesome assortment of weapons in that reticule of yours." Before she could snap a retort, he ceased his teasing. "But if you insist, we'll dispense with your opinion on sartorial splendor. What you wish to hear is the name Shackleford."

  Augusta looked thoroughly perplexed.

  "I wouldn't have thought of his name either. Not my taste at all. But the dreadful fellow was so anxious to curry my favor that he dug around in his workshop until he emerged victorious with several yards of the silk."

  "Our silk?"

  "The same. And a rare one at that. Apparently only one bolt survived a leaky hull and long passage from China. He bought it, along with several other remnants, from the shipper at a favorable price."

  "So we may assume that not many garments have been made from the stuff," she said very slowly.

  "I think it is safe to say so."

  "And this Shackleford, he remembers his clientele?"

  "He does, though hastening his recall cost me the order of a garment I shall relegate to the waste bin as quickly as possible."

  "Please stop teasing," she urged. "What did he tell you?"

  The Earl took a moment to guide his team around a sharp bend, then brought the phaeton to a complete stop among a copse of elm and hawthorn. "Ludlowe is our man." he said softly.

  "Oh, now we know for certain who is the miscreant behind these terrible crimes." She leaned toward him with a radiant smile and placed a hand on his arm. "Alex, how very clever of you!"

  "I've proven useful, haven't I?"

  There was something about his tone that caused her expression to turn wary. "Yes, indeed you have," she answered rather hesitantly.

  "Then perhaps I should be rewarded for my efforts."

  Augusta couldn't quite believe her ears. Her mouth dropped open, but for a moment she was unable to speak. "Shame on you, sir," she finally managed to sputter. "I had not thought you so mercenary as to expect a sum—"

  "It's not money I'm speaking of, Gus."

  She bit at her lower lip. "J...just what did you have in mind?"

  There was no answer as he dropped the reins and bent his head toward hers. This time the kiss was softer, gentler, his lips merely grazing over hers at first. She recoiled as if burned, but his hands had come up around her shoulders and stopped her from pulling away. "Am I truly that odious?" he murmured before taking possession of her mouth again.

  She knew she should do something to put out the flames licking up inside of her but all such resolve seemed to go up in smoke. Leaning into his embrace, she gave in to the urge to run her fingers down the hard plane of his jaw. Then, as if knowing that in another instant she would be consumed by the fire, she managed to draw back. Her hands came up against his chest. "I... think you had better take me home, sir."

  "Gus," he began.

  "Please! At once!" She was mortified by the note of rising panic in her voice. Flighty heroines and gothic melodramas had always seemed so laughable to her, yet here she was, enacting her own Cheltenham tragedy. It would have been a most amusing scene, she supposed, had she not been the leading lady.

  Sheffield looked at her uncertainly. "I'm sorry but—"

  The sound of an approaching carriage only threatened to turn high drama into farce.

  The little tiger, who had studiously kept his eyes averted from what was going on in the front of the vehicle cleared his throat. "Er, Guv. There's somebody coming up on us fast. Ye might want te replace wot's in yer hands with the reins, if ye knows wot's good fer ye.."

  The Earl's response was a rather long curse.

  "Don't go yelling at me," muttered the tiger "I ain't the one drivin' the udder team." He gave an affronted sniff. "Nor is I the one what's been doing the kissing." His breath came out in a doleful sigh. "Wimmen!"

  Sheffield bit back another oath as he made to follow his tiger's advice. He snatched up the reins and set his own horses in motion just as the other carriage came tooling around the bend. There was no room to pass and so it was forced to slow down until the trees were cleared and the path widened once again. Lord Wilford gave a brief wave as he swung out to pass. The other occupants—two maiden aunts and spotty faced younger sibling just down from Oxford—nodded as they went by.

  Augusta studiously avoided their speculative gazes while silently giving thanks that the current state of her bonnet and dress were as easily due to the brisk breeze encountered in an open carriage as to any other cause. The park was rapidly filling with other vehicles, making all but the most banal conversation impossible. As neither of them seemed inclined to revert to such topics, the drive home was accompanied by naught but the sound of the jingling harnesses and the cadence of the matched team.

  On drawing to halt in front of her townhouse, the Earl hesitated in dismounting. "I'm sorry if I upset you." His eyes seemed to be searching her face for something. "Perhaps we had best... talk about what is happening."

  That was the last thing in the world she wished to do. "Perhaps we had best try to avoid letting it happen again," she snapped. "Obviously, the heat of the chase is affecting our reason."

  If she didn't know better, she would have thought she detected a look of hurt in his eyes. But whatever had been there quickly masked by a cool detachment that matched her own. "Ah, you think that is what it is?"

  "What else could it be?" There was a fraction of a pause. "At least for me. You, no doubt, are quite using to stealing kisses in carriages." She stared down at her tightly clasped fingers. "I imagine if it had been—" She caught herself, aghast at the words that had b
een about to slip out. Of course he would rather have kissed Marianne. She didn't blame him in the least, for any man would. But she would never wish to reveal to anyone, much less the Earl, how much that hurt.

  "If it had been what?" he asked quietly.

  "If... if it had been any female, the result would have been the same," she stammered.

  "Goddamn son of a poxed whore!" Though the words were barely audible, she could see that he was truly angry. "Bloody Hell," he added for good measure. "You have read my letters and yet you insist on seeing me as nothing more than a profligate wastrel? Then perhaps your depth of understanding runs only as deep as ink on paper, for in person you show remarkably little perception or empathy." His jaw worked slightly. "Your intellect may be unassailable, but in matters of feeling, you should think twice about signing yourself as Firebrand. In truth you are as rigid and cold as ice." He threw down the reins and climbed down without further words.

  It was all Augusta could do to keep from bursting into tears as he escorted her up the marble stairs. He was wrong. Her intellect was as suspect as her emotions. She was a fool—a bloody fool, to borrow his words. Now she had lost everything that mattered, her best friend as well as her heart.

  And she thought she was so clever. With such hubris, she supposed she deserved what she got.

  As Sheffield gave a rap with the brass knocker, she asked in a small voice, "About Lord Ludlowe... "

  "If you mean will I abandon the quest for justice, you may be assured I will not succumb to boredom and walk away from the matter."

  She didn't dare look at him. "But what do you intend to do?" she went on, her eyes locked on the hem of her dress.

  There was a moment of silence. "Perhaps I'll send you a note to keep you informed," he replied coldly.

  The door swung open.

  "Good day, Miss Hadley." He turned and his boots beat a staccato retreat on the polished stone.

  Augusta went inside, barely aware of the butler's greeting or of how she managed to put one foot in front of the other. As she passed by the drawing room, her mother appeared in the doorway, a broad smile on her lips.

  "Augusta, my dear!"

  She dragged to a reluctant halt, her ears hardly registering the rare endearment. "Yes, Mama?"

  "You sly puss. Here I thought Marianne was the one going to make the splendid match."

  Augusta stared in some confusion. "Marianne is engaged? She said nothing to me about—"

  "Oh, do stop teasing, my dear. You know my constitution has not allowed me to go out very often these past few weeks, but I have just heard the most interesting news from Lady Framingham about the attentions a certain gentleman has been paying to you. And now I see for myself that the gossips have not been exaggerating. I vow, I hadn't dreamed it possible you could be so clever! When do we expect an announcement?"

  Augusta looked utterly perplexed. "An announcement of what?"

  "Why, of your betrothal to Lord Sheffield."

  A look of disbelief crossed her face. "You must be joking," she blurted out, even though she knew her mother had precious little sense of humor, especially not on the subject of marriage. "I assure you, Mama. Lord Sheffield has no intention of legshackling himself to me."

  "Don't use such horrid cant," snapped her mother out of habit. Then her brow puckered in distress. "What do you mean? The carriage rides, the marked preference at balls—"

  "They have nothing to do with the Earl's interest in me personally, Mama. We have merely been trying to solve an... intellectual problem."

  Disappointment made her mother's words even harsher. "Unnatural child," she huffed. "A chance to attach a man such as Sheffield and you can think of nothing but your silly books and stupid theories? How many times do I have to tell that you men don't find a bluestocking at all attractive?"

  "I'm well aware of that fact," she answered in a near whisper.

  Her mother heaved a grumpy sigh. "Well, maybe it isn't too late. Maybe the Earl has suffered some heavy losses at the gaming table and is desperate for a large dowry. At least you have that."

  Augusta's eyes pressed closed. "I doubt it would be near enough."

  "What was that?"

  "Nothing, Mama."

  "Hmmph." Her mother started back toward the settee and her tea tray. "Do try to act like a normal female when you are with him. And try not to give him a disgust of you with your odd whims and notions."

  She hung her head. "Yes, Mama," was about the only answer she could manage. Why bother informing her parent that it was much too late for that. Why, the moon would turn into a wheel of Stilton before the Earl of Sheffield would cast another look at her. With such a lowering though in mind, she hurried on into the sanctuary of her study and flung her bonnet and reticule aside. Only then, seated at her desk, head buried in her arms, did she allow the bitter tears to flow.

  Through the muffled sobs, she did not hear the sound of the door opening and closing a short time later. It was not until a gentle touch steadied her quivering shoulder that she was aware of Marianne's presence in the room.

  "Oh Gus, whatever is wrong?" asked her sister.

  Augusta didn't look up. "Please, Marianne. Right now I just want to be alone."

  Her sister refused to be put off so easily. "Do you? I doubt it. You've always been a source of comfort and wisdom to me when I am upset. Why won't you let me try to be the same?

  "Wisdom! Hah! What a charlatan I am to give advice." There was a waver in her voice. "Why, I'm the biggest fool of all, always thinking I have the answer."

  Marianne was tactfully silent as Augusta searched for a handkerchief in her pocket and blew her nose. Then she ventured a tentative smile. "You always say it helps to talk things out in rational manner. And you are usually right. Things never seem quite as dreadful after one does."

  Augusta brushed at her cheek with her sleeve. "Do I really say that? Then I'm more of an idiot than I imagined. What really makes one feel better is falling into a fit of vapors." Her mouth finally managed to form a rueful grimace. "I have considerably more sympathy for all those brainless heroines who turn into watering pots at the slightest provocation. Perhaps they are onto something."

  Marianne stifled a giggle.

  She blew her nose again. "In fact, I think I shall curl up for the rest of the afternoon with one of Mrs. Radcliffe's horrid novels and thoroughly enjoy all the rantings and weepings."

  "Well, I am glad to see your normal sense of humor reasserting itself."

  "Actually I'm being quite serious."

  There was a moment of silence, then both of them couldn't repress a soft burst of laughter.

  "Dear Gus," murmured Marianne, giving her a quick hug as their voices subsided. "Now out with it. What happened between you and Lord Sheffield that has you in such a rare taking?" Seeing that Augusta's spirits seemed sufficiently recovered, she essayed a bit of quizzing. "A lover's quarrel?"

  That was perhaps not the best tack to take. Augusta's expression immediately lost any glimmer of her usual self. "Hardly. For that would imply there was any romantic interest in the first place." She couldn't repress a ragged sigh. "We did, however, have a certain... friendship, but now I'm afraid I've managed to destroy that. He finds me totally repugnant and wants nothing more to do with me"

  "Gus, I ‘m sure that is not true. I am under the distinct impression that Lord Sheffield is, er, not adverse to your company."

  "It is true. Last night he called me a stubborn, willful t...t...termagant... " Her voice had begun to quiver. "And that is not the worst of it. Today he said—" The words were lost in a snuffle.

  Her sister made a number of sympathetic sounds as she patted Augusta's hand. ‘Well, that wasn't very gentlemanly of him, but I'm sure he will make a handsome apology—"

  "No, he won't. I've said enough dreadful things to him that he will never forgive me." She was forced to stop, in order to blink back another wave of tears that was threatening to spill. "Why am I so awkward and outspoken? I... I wish I could
be more like you—you find it so easy to be charming, to make people smile and feel at ease." She turned a watery glance at Marianne's lovely profile. "No doubt Alex would have much preferred driving out with you instead of me. He... mentioned that he found your company quite pleasant last night—unlike mine."

  Her sister wisely avoided any comment on the use of the Earl's Christian name. But her expression darkened on listening to the last little confession. "Gus, now you are beginning to sound like one of the widget-headed heroines in those ridiculous books. Never say you wish to be like anyone else. I may be fortunate to be endowed with looks that gentlemen seem to find attractive, but that is hardly a credit to any of my own accomplishments. You, on the other hand, have had the wits and the courage to form your own character. You are not awkward and outspoken, rather a unique individual with a style all your own and the strength to stand up for your convictions."