A Lady of Letters

by Andrea Pickens

  Augusta jerked her head around. "What?"

  The big footman quickly schooled his features into a bland expression. "Why, nothing." He cleared his throat. "And who might that gentleman be?"

  There was a moment of ominous silence. "That, Jamison, is the Earl of Sheffield—a gentleman more irritating and insufferable than most." With that, she urged her mount into a rousing gallop, making certain to head in the opposite direction of the black stallion.

  The scowl on her face only deepened on arriving home and finding no letter addressed in the bold, familiar script awaiting her on the silver tray by the front door. She took up the freshly ironed newspaper and made due with perusing the latest news from the Peninsula while picking at her toast. The pages were turned in a leisurely manner when suddenly there was a choking sound.

  "Gus!" cried Marianne in alarm as she entered the breakfast room. "Good heavens, are you alright? Shall I summon Tompkins to give you a thump on the back?"

  Augusta's face, more purple from anger than from any danger of expiring on the spot, appeared from behind the newsprint. "He's done it again!"

  "Who has done what?"

  She swallowed hard. Marianne knew that she penned anonymous essays for Pritchard, but no one, not even her sister, had any idea that she and the controversial Firebrand were one in the same. And it was left best that way. "No need to call for assistance," she muttered. "The only thing stuck in my throat is the fact that the Earl of Sheffield has made another speech in Parliament on child labor. You know it is an issue I have a great interest in, and I cannot help but wonder why he has chosen that, of all topics, to make sport of. "

  Marianne sat down. "May I see what you were reading?"

  Augusta passed her the offending page and fell to finishing her cup of tea, unmindful of the fact that it was now barely lukewarm.

  After several minutes, her sister looked up in consternation "Why, it does not appear as if he is being anything but sincere. After all, why would he subject himself to such scathing criticism if he did not believe in what he was saying?" She looked down again at the printed column. "You have to admit the reaction of his peers has hardly been encouraging, to say the least."

  "Hmmmph."

  "And he voices a number of the same opinions that you yourself have stated."

  Augusta's cup came down rather hard on her saucer. "I sincerely doubt the Earl and I agree on... anything."

  "Well, it also seems that he has been reading the pamphlets of Firebrand. Surely you have no complaint with that man's ideas or commitment, since he is accorded to be the most articulate and provocative reformer in all of London."

  Augusta managed not to fall into a paroxysm of coughing.

  "And don't tell me you haven't read them, for I'd never believe you. Anyway, I've seen them hidden under the papers on your desk. All of them. Now I cannot claim to follow all the nuances of his arguments, for that takes someone with a sharp mind like yours, Gus. But I do understand enough to know he is a very gifted thinker." She lowered her voice. "Pray, just make sure Mama never hears that either of us has read such unsuitable material for innocent females else she'll take to her bed for a week to recover from the shock."

  "You can be sure I shall never mention that name," replied Augusta faintly.

  To her great relief, the subject was put to rest by the entrance of said parent, and the rest of the breakfast time was spent in going over the latest invitations and obligations for the coming week. For once, Augusta made no show of dismay at hearing the list of routs and balls she was expected to attend with her sister. How better to discover just what evening a certain lord might be absent from his townhouse?

  "Are you sure I cannot fetch you anything else? A cup of chamomile tea? A cold compress?"

  Augusta pulled the coverlet even higher up over her chin. "No, nothing," she croaked. "This abominable headache will no doubt disappear if I merely lie still for a time."

  Marianne bit her lip as she peered into the darkened bedchamber, the heavy silk of her elegant ball gown rustling against the half closed door. "I hate to leave you alone in such distress. After all, you are never—"

  "Don't be a peagoose. Peace and quiet is just what I need. Go on and enjoy the evening. I shall be just fine."

  "Well if you are sure," said her sister hesitantly. "I will look in on you when I return home."

  "No! That is, I should prefer you didn't chance waking me. A restful night will have me back on my feet again by morning, I promise."

  "Very well. Good night then. I shall leave word downstairs that you are not to be disturbed." Marianne pulled the door shut very carefully and tiptoed down the hall.

  As soon as she heard the carriage conveying her sister and her mother to the Rockham's ball pull away from the townhouse, Augusta threw off the covers and bounded to her feet. Her movements were even quicker than usual, due to the fact that she was unfettered by layers of muslin and petticoats, but rather dressed in a simple cambric shirt and rather snug dark pantaloons purloined from an old trunk of her brother's belongings tucked away in the attic. Over this ensemble she draped a heavy black clock, then added a nondescript cap that served to hide her mass of curls. After a moment of hesitation, she rummaged in her drawer and took out a pair of black kid gloves. They made a nice touch, she thought. She added a few hairpins to her pocket, then slipped quietly out of her bedchamber and made her way down the back stairs to the scullery door.

  Jamison regarded the shrouded figure in front of him with a baleful look. "Mind you, this is a good deal more serious than filching apples from Squire Havelock's orchards," he grumbled. "If things go amiss, it will be a hell of a lot more difficult fer me to haul ye out of the suds."

  "Oh come on, don't turn missus on me now. Where is your spirit of adventure?"

  "It must have fallen out of me cockloft, along with what little brains I used te possess."

  Augusta put her hands on her hips and fixed him with an indignant glare.

  "Awright, awright," he muttered. "If ye insist on going through with this, let's get on with it."

  "You've mapped the quickest way through the alleys?"

  "Aye, and made sure that the gate to the garden is unlocked. The watch passes by every half hour, so you've got to be in and out quickly. You are sure you can get the window open?"

  She pulled the thin folding knife from her sleeve. "Don't worry. Edwin taught me how to work a latch."

  "And yer sure the gentleman will not be at home?"

  "Yes. I've told you, I heard him say just last night he wouldn't miss the mill taking place somewhere out past Houndslow Heath for anything in the world. And you know gentlemen and prizefights—they will all be drinking well into the next morning. It would be a wonder if any of them can find his hand in front of his face, let alone his carriage to return back to town before this time tomorrow."

  Her mouth tugged down at the corners as the thought of who else would undoubtedly be joining in the betting and carousing came to mind. She shook her head slightly to banish the image of those blue eyes and chiseled lips, both twitching with dry amusement as she had seen them last. But this was hardly the time to be thinking of such things, she cajoled herself.

  Jamison hitched his broad shoulders. "Well then, I suppose we had better be off." By his tone one would have thought they were settling off for a funeral.

  She said as much.

  "Aye, and I should be carrying a spade te bury yer reputation."

  "You know, if you can't say anything positive, then perhaps you should keep your mummer closed."

  The big footman clamped his jaw shut, and with a sniff, set off down the darkened path.

  Despite his obvious disapproval of the plan, he had been diligent in his preparation. The two of them made their way quickly through the neighboring mews and alleys, and soon arrived halfway down a narrow passage between two of the smaller limestone townhouses on a quiet street. A leafy beech tree on the other side of the brick wall afforded some measure of protection
from casual observers, and as Jamison took hold of the iron gate, it swung open slightly with nary a squeak.

  "In here, Missy," he whispered. "The garden is overgrown, so stay right behind me so's ye don't catch yer foot or something." He made it sound that if she did, she might fall all the way through to China.

  She was right on his heels, following around until they were close to a set of tall, mullioned windows overlooking a small sculpted fountain in the shape of a carp, now nearly entwined from head to foot with climbing morning glory vines. "Ye think a fancy toff like him could afford a gardener," muttered Jamison, then his gaze moved up to the granite sill, set nearly six feet off the ground. "Here now, I'll give ye a leg up."

  Augusta shook her head. "No," she whispered. "We agreed it was best you stay outside and keep a careful watch on things. Remember the signal—two sharp whistles and I am to come out immediately."

  "In my experience with you, the only thing that has ever come when I whistled is that damn mutt of yours, who seems te think I'm in dire need of a bath every time he sees me." On seeing her mouth begin to open, he started to move back toward the gate. "Awright, awright. But be careful."

  Her attention had already turned to the set of windows. A growth of thick wisteria had crept up the stone facade, providing an easy foothold to reach the ledge. She swung a booted foot into the tangle of vines and climbed swiftly to where she could step onto the narrow ledge. It took only a few moments for the knife blade to jimmy the brass catch. The window came open and Augusta slipped inside.

  Sheffield heard a faint scraping sound and ducked behind the heavy damask drapes. To his utter consternation, he saw a shadowy figure swing in through the window and land lightly on the thick oriental carpet. Hell's teeth! It was just his the bloody luck, he fumed, Of all the fancy houses in Mayfair, a burglar had to pick this one to break into tonight.

  He watched as the fellow stole over to the heavy oak desk, bent down and began to fiddle with the locked drawer. In a trice, it slid open. The Earl's mouth compressed in grim satisfaction. At least the scoundrel had saved him the effort of having to break into the damned thing himself. The figure removed a thick pile of papers, but rather than toss them aside to continue the search for real valuables, he surprised the Earl even further by starting to peruse their contents in the dim glow of the moonlight filtering into the study. Several pages were pulled out of the stack and hurriedly stuffed into the thief's shirt.

  Sheffield decided he had seen quite enough. Slowly, stealthily, he stepped out from his hiding place and advanced noiselessly up behind the unsuspecting figure. The pistol in his right hand came up hard against the back the other man's neck.

  "Stop right there, if you don't want your brains adding another pattern to the wallpaper," he whispered.

  The thief froze.

  "Now stand up very slowly and turn around."

  The command was obeyed, but as the figure was halfway to his feet, he twisted sharply and his elbow flew out, catching the Earl a hard blow square in the midriff. He doubled over, causing him to smack his knee flush on the corner of the desk. Letting out a low grunt of pain, he struggled to regain his balance, but slipped on one of the stray papers and fell forward. His assailant looked to have every intention of making a mad dash for the open window, but didn't move quite quickly enough. As it was, he ended up between Sheffield's not inconsiderable bulk and the carpet.

  Though his ribs were aching and his knee was throbbing, the Earl had not been knocked so senseless that he failed to realize that the body squirming under him was definitely not that of a man. Not that of a boy either. And if he had had any lingering doubts, they would have been put to rest when the fellow's hat came off, revealing a mass of curls the color of—

  A string of profanities burst forth from his lips, no less heated for being uttered in a dead whisper.

  "Are you always in the habit of swearing in such a vile manner whenever you encounter the least little accident?"

  "Only when provoked to it by unnatural females," he answered through gritted teeth.

  Augusta mumbled something unintelligible.

  "What?"

  "I said, would you kindly get off me so I can breathe!"

  "Oh." For a moment he lingered, feeling the firm roundness of her breasts pressed against his chest, and the soft contours of her thighs molded against his own before he rolled off to one side.

  "Hmmph." She sat up and clamped the hat back on her head. "What the devil are you doing here?" she demanded, trying to keep her voice from raising several decibel levels.

  Sheffield rubbed at his sore knee. "I, er, am investiga—" He stopped short. "Hell's teeth, what am I doing answering your questions! What I want to know is what—"

  Two sharp whistles sounded.

  "What the devil is that?"

  "It is the sign that we best be leaving. And quickly."

  She scrambled to her feet and stared at the mass of papers scattered over the floor. Already there were the faint sounds of footsteps coming down the long hallway. "Damnation, " she muttered. "It's vital he doesn't know his papers have been searched. but there isn't time—"

  Sheffield was up as well. "Make it look like a real robbery," he said quickly, yanking out several other drawers and dumping their contents across the floor. He knocked several Staffordshire figures from the sideboard, scattered the items on the desk and stuffed a rather ugly but expensive looking silver inkwell into his pocket, along with the pistol that he had retrieved from the floor.

  Augusta watched him with grudging admiration. "Why, that's really very clever of you, sir."

  "Don't just stand there!" he hissed. "Pitch in."

  She prompted pitched two costly Chinese vases to the floor.

  The footsteps accelerated into a run at the sound of smashing porcelain.

  The Earl ran—or rather limped—to the door and turned the key in the lock. "That should hold things for a bit." Then he hurried toward the window, catching hold of Augusta's elbow on the way and thrusting her up onto the ledge ahead of him as if she weighed no more than a stray cat.

  Two more frantic whistles sounded.

  Augusta didn't waste time with the wisteria vines. She jumped, and was racing for the back of the walled garden as fast as her flapping cloak would allow before Sheffield's boots hit the ground behind her. He was soon right on her heels, barreling through the unclipped boxwoods and scraggly rhododendron with a modicum of speed if not grace.

  Jamison yanked the iron gate open. "Follow me!" he cried, and set off at a dead run to their right, back down the narrow alley. Sheffield lost count of how many twists and turns the fellow made, but every painful step made him vow anew to strangle the young lady if he ever got his hands on her. Twice he nearly lost his footing, first on a pile of rotting cabbage, then on something he didn't care to identify. It was with some relief that he saw that they were finally stopping for a moment at the shadowed corner of a brick mews.

  "What the devil—" began Sheffield between gasping for air and massaging at his aching knee.

  "We ain't got time fer questions," snapped Jamison. He pointed to a gap between the buildings. "That will take ye to Half Moon Street. From there I imagine ye can find yer own way home." His hand clamped onto the neck of Augusta's cloak and pulled her none too gently in the opposite direction. "We're going this way."

  Before the earl could voice any objection, they disappeared into the night.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ".... While your instincts are noble ones, my friend, I cannot help but feel rather disappointed that evidently you feel me incapable of rendering service to you. I assure you, I am not in the least put off by what you term as ‘danger to my person.' Indeed, those who know me would find that a rather laughable sentiment. I am well able to look after myself, as you may soon see.. Furthermore. I regret that your obligations will make it necessary for our correspondence to suffer, for I shall miss both the opinions and ideas that we have come to exchange with such honesty. Mayhap it will
not be for too long. But in the meantime, I, too, shall be busy....

  Augusta removed her spectacles and rubbed at her eyes. Oh dear. She had not meant to hurt her friend's feelings, only protect the old fellow from possible harm. But it seemed his pride was piqued on being told there might be some task in the universe beyond his powers. A typical male response. She sighed and nibbled on the end of her pen as she wondered whether to dash off a quick note in an attempt to salve the unintentional wound. In truth, she, too, was feeling a touch out of sorts at the idea of having to curtain the frequency of their correspondence.

  However, on further consideration, she decided it would be best to remain tactfully silent, at least for a while. The papers hidden in her desk proved that she was on the right track. From here on, things would require even more discretion and guile. And it would be even more dangerous. She had really not anticipated how eager her friend would be to take an active part in her investigation, and it was best to keep a damper on such enthusiasm. His enigmatic words only fanned her concern. It was one thing to put herself at risk, but she simply wouldn't countenance the idea of anything happening to him. With a faint smile, she realized she had become... quite fond of the fellow. If he were to suffer even the slightest injury, she would never forgive herself.