A Lady of Letters

by Andrea Pickens

  Seeing that the discussion was at an end, Marianne returned to her original objective. "Why don't you let me have some gowns made up for you as well. I know exactly what would suit you, and Madame Celeste's workmanship is superb."

  Augusta stuffed the piece of paper in her pocket. "Oh, very well, if it pleases you." She gave another sigh. "Enjoy your outing. No doubt Mama will have a host of errands for me, so I shall be not be back for ages."

  Indeed, she was not in the best of moods by the time she arrived at Hatchard's. Not only had the various stops for her mother taken more time than she had expected, but the conversation with Marianne had stirred up a number of unsettling feelings. It wasn't as if she were entirely immune to the attractions of the opposite sex, she mused, or that she wished to spend the rest of her days alone, or as the doting spinster aunt to Marianne's future brood of children. It was just that any of the gentleman she knew who possessed a brain had little else to recommend them, while those whose other attributes might have caused her pulse to quicken always proved a bigger disappointment, what with their lack of wit or common sense. In short, all of them left her feeling lukewarm at best.

  Other ladies, Marianne included, seemed to have no trouble finding men they could wax enthusiastic over. Were her own standards really so impossibly high?

  The carriage rolled to a halt and she forced aside such glum thoughts. Leaving her maid at the front of the shop to search out a few popular titles for Marianne, Augusta made her way among the tall shelves to hunt for an obscure work from one of the French philosophes. Twenty minutes later her arms were full of books, but the one she desired still had not been located. Eyes glued to the very top row of offerings, she rounded the corner in a hurry, anxious to find it and be done.

  Whoomph.

  The collision nearly knocked her off her feet, but she managed to grab hold of the edge of the polished wood shelf. The gentleman was not so fortunate. He was sent crashing to the floor, along with the assorted volumes that Augusta had been carrying. One rather large book caught him a sharp clip on the head as he made to sit up.

  "Hell and damnation," he muttered, rubbing at his scalp. When his eyes came up, another word followed, though he spoke it low enough that she couldn't quite make it out. There was no mistaking the look of annoyance in his glare, however. "You!" he growled. "I seem to be cursed with the misfortune of making your acquaintance yet again. Have your parents considered locking you up in a barn, as a favor to Society? You are clumsier than the proverbial bull in a china shop."

  "The only curses seems to be coming from your unbridled mouth, sir. Perhaps it is you who should be locked up in a stall, given such barnyard manners." Her feelings were already in an agitated state, and his untempered rudeness caused a wave of anger to wash away her usual shyness. Really, how the dare the insufferable man keep implying that the blame for these mishaps was all hers.

  A slight flush came to the Earl's cheeks as he rose to his feet and carefully brushed the dust from his immaculate navy merino jacket. He looked as if to say something, but Augusta pointedly turned her back on him and began to gather up her books as if he didn't exist. When she straightened, he was still standing there, regarding her with a look that make no attempt to hide his ire at her deliberate snub. His gaze raked down from her slightly disheveled hair to the prim neckline of her gown to the pile of leatherbound volumes in her arms. A snort of derision came from his curled lips as he surveyed the titles. "Your father ought to send a more capable person to do his errands," he sneered. "You really should stay in the section with horrid novels—much more the thing for your type of flighty female. "

  She knew she shouldn't bother to respond to his gibe, but she couldn't restrain herself. "These books are for me, sir, not my father or any other male relative."

  He gave a bark of laughter. "Hah! You may leave off trying to convince me of that farrididdle. Somehow I doubt that sewing and sketching and whatever other inane things you ladies learn in the schoolroom have quite prepared your intelligence—such as it is— for these works. They may be in French, but they are not flowery snippets of romantic nonsense. You are wasting your money and your time. Why, I'd be willing to wager a goodly sum that you won't get past the first page"

  "A fool and his money are soon parted," she retorted, gratified to see his eyes narrow in further irritation. "And what do you think—that winning a fortune at cards, racing a curricle down St. James's Place at midnight in the buff and bedding other men's wives qualifies you as intelligent?" she went on, heedless of what dangerous ground she was now treading on.

  There was a moment of ominous silence. "Have a care, Miss," he said softly. "If you were a man I should be tempted to call you out for such words."

  "If I were a man, I imagine I should be tempted to accept." She paused for a fraction. "But women have infinitely more sense than to wave pistols at each other on account of some momentary fit of pique." With that, she shouldered her way past him and walked quickly toward the front of the store.

  "Now that, my dear, is the proper way to make an exit," murmured Sheffield under his breath as he watched her walk away. His anger was slowly giving way to a grudging admiration. Once again, an awkward situation had prompted less than exemplary behavior from him, yet this time, she had not fled in tongue tied embarrassment but rather had parried his sharp words with equally cutting ones of her own. Indeed, she had accounted for herself quite credibly, her set-downs showing a quickness and a cleverness he would never have suspected from their initial encounter.

  She was obviously not as bird-witted as he had first imagined, though he wasn't sure he quite believed her assertion that the books were for her. They were difficult going. Of that he was well aware, for several of them were ones he had been struggling to make sense of for the past week. His lips quirked. Perhaps he should discover who she was so he could arrange to meet her father or brother. If they had half the spark that she did, it might prove interesting to cultivate the acquaintance, though, judging by her manner of dress, it didn't promise to be a family of any consequence. However he might actually discover someone he could share an intelligent conversation with.

  The Earl carefully rearranged the folds of his cravat and brushed the minute wrinkles from his fawn breeches. The girl was certainly developing an unfortunate knack for making him look bad—in every respect. He was suddenly aware that not only had he forgotten to tender an apology to her for the other evening but that he had compounded his earlier transgressions with an even worse account of himself today. It wasn't as if it mattered a whit what some unfashionably dressed chit thought of him, but his honor as a gentleman demanded that he at least offer some words of regret for his unsavory language. A lady, no matter how provoking, should not be subjected to such words. After locating the book for which he had come, he tucked it under his arm and returned to the front of the store, determined to get the thing over with.

  There was no sign of her. He turned to the clerk hovering near his elbow. "Another customer was just here and purchased a number of books. Do you know who she is?"

  "L... Lady Hadley?" stammered the fellow.

  Hadley. His brows drew together. "Farnum's daughter?" he demanded.

  The clerk nodded. "Y... yes, my lord. She comes here quite often."

  Good Lord, he thought, as his book was taken away to be wrapped. Edwin Hadley's sister. Now it was not merely honor that required him to make an apology, but something even more important.

  Try as she might to focus her attention on the printed page, her thoughts kept turning to the lean face, the full, chiseled lips curved in a look of distaste while the mocking blue eyes made no attempt to hide a look of utter disapproval.

  As if she cared what the insufferable man thought of her!

  Augusta snapped the book shut and began to pace her small study. This time, at least, she hadn't made a complete hash of defending herself from his cutting words. In fact, she realized with a start, her ripostes had sallied forth, unbidden, before she had a
chance to think about what she had been saying. Not only that, they had actually pricked the man's overweening pride. Though it might have been foolhardy to risk making an enemy of such a man as the Earl of Sheffield, it had been worth it to see the look of surprise, then outrage that spread over his features.

  It was a shame those features were so riveting to look at.

  The tumble of dark locks, worn longer than was fashionable, and arched brows only accentuated the depth of color to his eyes. Not a soft, languid blue but a rich cerulean plummeting to shades of slate when his ire was raised—a state with which she was growing quite familiar.

  The angular planes of his face emphasized the sense of chiseled strength that radiated from his person. No matter his other faults, weakness of character did not appear to be one of them. It was interesting, too, that the hardness in his face did not have the look of calculated coldness or cruelty. Though it was hard to explain, she sensed that his anger might appear razor sharp, yet was somehow a bit blunted around the edge.

  And he was not stupid. His quick tongue and reputation for acerbic wit proved that, though she rather doubted that his thoughts ever ventured beyond issuing scathing set downs. After all, if rumors were true, he spent all his time in idle pursuit of pleasure. His luck at the gaming tables was legendary, as was his prowess at sport... and seduction. More than a few whispers during the interminable morning calls she was forced to make with her mother and sister had reached her ears concerning his all too obvious charms.

  She found herself thinking about the sensual curve of that broad mouth, and what it would feel like to have them pressed against her own—

  What in heaven's name was she thinking of, to entertain such improper, not to speak of absurd, notions! Why, she loathed the man, and it was clear he felt the same way about her. But it seemed her body was intent on betraying her intellect, feeling a perverse attraction to the most unsuitable choice imaginable. Her hands flew to her cheeks. They were hot to the touch. Perhaps she was coming down with a bout of fever, for only a sudden illness could account for such a delirium.

  Or perhaps she had merely stepped too close to the blazing fire.

  She retreated to her desk and took out a leather journal from the locked top drawer. If she could not concentrate on her research, she could at least begin to review her notes on what had taken place during the past several months in the area surrounding Greenfield Manor. In a matter of minutes all thoughts of mesmerizing blue eyes and masculine smiles were gone, replaced by the chilling images of three children, all of whom had disappeared without a trace.

  Her rapid scribbling ceased only when a soft knock came at the door. "Still at work? Don't forget that you promised to attend the Louden's ball with us tonight." Marianne sat down on the comfortable sofa, her face still flushed a becoming pink from the jaunt in the park. "I thought you had finished your essay for Mr. Prichard."

  Augusta nibbled at the tip of her pen. "I have. It is now time to turn my attention to the plight of our neighbors. Mrs. Roberts asked for my help and I mean to do my best to discover what is going on."

  Marianne's expression turned to one of concern. "I don't like the idea of your getting involved in such things. It might be dangerous. Why not write to Papa? He will think of something."

  "Papa is in Vienna and not likely to return for months. There is nothing he can do."

  "Then speak to the magistrate."

  "Squire Hillhouse!" Her brows arched up. "That bumbling fool won't lift a finger to help a mere tenant," she said in some disgust. "Besides, he couldn't unravel a crime if the evidence were twined around his bulbous nose and tied in a pretty bow. "

  Marianne brought her knees up to her chin. "If only Edwin were here to advise—"

  "Well, he is not," said Augusta rather sharply. "So it is up to me." On seeing her sister's stricken expression she bit her lip. "I'm sorry, lamb." she said gently. "I miss him terribly, too."

  Marianne swallowed hard. "How do you mean to start?"

  Augusta gestured to the open pages of her journal. "First, I am compiling a list of all the gentry with residences within twenty miles of the village."

  "Are you really so sure it is someone who lives nearby, and that he is... one of us? I mean, couldn't it have been the work of a band of ruffians merely passing through. I have read of such things—"

  She shook her head. "It is unlikely. I have had Jamison make inquiries in all the neighboring towns and there are no other reports of children gone missing, plus the time between each occurrence makes the chance of it being a random act quite slim." She took something from her drawer and began to twist it between fingers. " Furthermore, the last child to disappear was Tommy Atkins. He was a big lad for his age and there were signs of a struggle near where he had been working in the field. This was found at the scene."

  Marianne craned her neck to see what it was. "A scrap of material? What possible clue is that?"

  Augusta held it up for closer inspection. "A scrap of expensive brocaded silk, with an intricate pattern of stitching. It's from too fancy a piece of clothing for anyone but a fine gentleman to have been wearing."

  "It could be a coincidence," answered Marianne, though her voiced lacked real conviction. "In any case, it's hardly definitive evidence. I mean, you can hardly begin searching the closets of every gentleman in London for a torn waistcoat."

  Augusta's eyes took on a speculative gleam for a moment, then she gave a curt laugh. "I suppose that is out of the question. But nevertheless, it is the only clue I have, so I must begin somewhere." She turned her journal around and pushed it toward her sister. "You are more aware than I of all the gentlemen in our area," she said with a touch of humor. "Am I missing anyone?"

  Marianne took several minutes to study the pages. "Lord Jeffries, though he's over seventy if he's a day."

  "The let us rule him out for the moment."

  "And the new tenant of Chilton Hall. Baron Blatchford, I think, though I've not met him. No one has."

  Augusta added his name to the list.

  "How many are there?"

  Her lips pursed as she added up the entries. "Eleven—no, twelve."

  Her sister was tactfully silent.

  "I know it is no easy task, but there is nothing to do for it. I shall begin making some discreet inquiries into the character of each of our suspects and see what I turn up."

  "Oh dear, you must promise to be extremely careful, Gus. If you are right about what is going on, you after a very dangerous man."

  "If I am right, it is he who had better watch out."

  Augusta hardly noticed the break in the music. She was enjoying a comfortable coze with Baron Ashford, one of her oldest friends from home and a name she hadn't bothered to put on her list. He had already been most helpful, chattering on with only the slightest urging about several of their neighbors, but she dared not push too hard. Still, she had decided she could eliminate two of her suspects, while a third looked to merit closer scrutiny.

  "Forgive me, Gus, but I must excuse myself and find my next partner. Shall I escort you back to your Mama or your sister?"

  "Thank you Jamie, but I am quite happy to sit here for a spell."

  He bent over her hand. "Can't imagine why you choose to act like a turbaned matron and refuse to set foot on the floor."

  "I never dance. My bones are too creaky to climb down from the shelf, you know."

  They both smiled. It had become a joke between them, her unmarried state. He had offered for her once, at the end of her first Season, though she had always felt it was more from loyalty than any deeper emotion. When she had gently but firmly refused, he had seemed rather relieved. Now he was more like the older brother she no longer had, and she much preferred it that way, since she would never have any more than sisterly feelings for him.

  "I shall see you later, then."

  He withdrew into the crowd and Augusta took a moment to survey the room. Marianne was surrounded by a bevy of admirers, but there were no cause for
concern. All were perfectly acceptable young men, so she felt free to turn her attention to the crush of people gathered in the soaring space. In the flickering light of the myriad candles, it was difficult to discern whether any of the other gentlemen she was interested in were present. Perhaps she could ask Jamie later—

  "Miss Hadley." The rise in tone indicated it was not the first time the gentleman had spoken her name.

  Her head jerked around.

  "I asked if I might be allowed the pleasure of this dance."

  She stared at Sheffield in disbelief. "You are asking me to dance? Aren't you afraid I might tread on your toes or cause you to trip and split your pantaloons?"

  He gave a low chuckle and her insides gave a small lurch. It was the first real smile she had seen on his face, and its effect was rather... devastating. "Ah, but this time I shall be on guard against any havoc you might wreak on my person."