A Lady of Letters

by Andrea Pickens

  Sheffield pursed his lips. "Have you any proof at all of this?"

  She shook her head. "No, but my intuition tells me I am right." The tone of her voice indicated that she expected him to challenge the assertion.

  He gave a snort, then looked as though he might.

  "Before you begin what will undoubtedly be a harangue on the merits of a female's intuitive powers—or lack thereof—let me add a few other points of unassailable fact. I have done a fair amount of research into the matter and as it happens, there are several large mines around Newcastle where the shape of the veins of coal make extraction difficult. Small bodies at work in the tiny passages are the only way to keep them profitable. And profitable they have been, but only starting six months ago."

  The Earl tugged at the brim of his curly brimmed beaver hat. "The devil take it," he muttered. "It still seems to me as if you have precious little to go on."

  "Hmmph." Her parasol came down on the floorboard of the phaeton with a decided thump. "And what about falling coping stones? Someone is clearly not happy about any stirring of public interest in the subject of child labor. You may fail to see any connection, but the link is certainly clear enough for me."

  "For you to do what?"

  There was a slight pause. "I imagine if you close your eyes and think very hard, my lord, you shall be able to conjure up some idea of what I mean."

  The oath that followed was one she decided was well worth filing away for future reference.

  "I vow, Miss Hadley, if you were my sister, I should—"

  "Well, I am not.

  He continued to stare at her intently for a moment. "Right," he said slowly. "And just how many more suspects do you have on your list, may I ask?

  Augusta decided there was little harm in answering. "Two."

  The Earl's head jerked around. "Two?" he repeated, eyeing her with some surprise. What an odd coincidence. That was exactly the same number he was left with.

  "You appear disappointed. Would you have preferred more?"

  Sheffield didn't answer but continued to consider the matter. Despite his initial skepticism, he had not entirely dismissed her conjecture as absurd. He, too, in the course of his readings had become aware of such sinister doings. It was just possible she was on to something. Yet he was determined to figure out a way to keep her from pursuing that line of inquiry. If she was right, she was courting more danger than even she could imagine—not, he noted wryly, that such knowledge would have the least effect in stopping her head-on assault on injustice.

  "Miss Hadley," he finally said, trying to keep a tone of reason in his voice. "Let us think on this a moment. You have two more suspects. It so happens that I have the same number in mind. Let us leave our waltzing around on the dance floor."

  "Sir, I cannot believe they would be the same—"

  He rattled off two names.

  Augusta gave a faint gasp. "How is it that you came up with those men?"

  His hands tightened on the reins and he turned his team toward an even more secluded spot. "I should have liked to keep this to myself, but I see if I am to have any hope of convincing you to let me handle this, I shall have to reveal certain things." He took a deep breath. "I have already told you that I became involved in this at the behest of... a friend. While you may find my intellect and commitment suspect, I doubt you would find any such fault with this learned man. Especially concerning the subject of child labor." He turned to face her. "Have you read the pamphlets of Firebrand?"

  Augusta was overcome by a fit of coughing.

  "Don't try to gammon me. Given your interest in the subject, I would never believe a denial."

  "I... I am acquainted with them," she managed to whisper.

  The Earl lowered his voice as well. "Well, I am acquainted with the author."

  "You... know... who Firebrand is?"

  His lips quirked upward. "Well, I have to admit that I do not actually know his real identity. But we have corresponded through his publisher on a regular basis for some time now. He has asked for my help in pursuing a matter that I cannot help but feel is related to yours. It is from him that I have received my information, and it is on his behalf that I am acting. I should hope that would convince you to trust me. After all, it is apparent that he does."

  Her throat became so tight she found it difficult to squeeze out a reply. "Is Firebrand aware of your identity?"

  "I see no reason why he should be. We have chosen to remain anonymous to each other for a variety of reasons." Sheffield's jaw tightened imperceptibly. "You think it would make a difference in his attitude if he knew?"

  Augusta stared down at the strings of her reticule which were now twisted into little knots. "I imagine that is a question only Firebrand can answer, my lord."

  "I am asking your —" He stopped speaking on noticing that her hand had come up to rub at her temple. "Are you all right, Miss Hadley? You seem to be looking a trifle pale."

  "I am sorry, sir. I find I am suddenly feeling very fatigued."

  Sheffield peered at her wan face and muttered an inward curse for pressing her too hard. "Come then, I had best take you home."

  She made no attempt dissuade him.

  The team started forward at a smart pace, the Earl guiding them back through the park and the crowded streets of Mayfair with a sure hand. He slanted an occasional glance at her rigid form, but found himself only looking at the poke of her bonnet, for her averted face was shielded in its shadows from any further scrutiny.

  His mouth crooked in some concern. Damnation, he thought, she was trying to shoulder entirely too much responsibility, though he could well imagine her response should he voice the opinion that she couldn't go on without help—a man's help. That caused the corners of his mouth to turn upward. His ears would be soundly boxed, if not his person, but he found he was becoming rather used to their verbal sparring. In fact, he rather liked it. Though he had never expected it, she had proven up to his weight in both giving and taking a hit. Her grit and determination were most unusual in a female—why he was almost relieved to her admit to a bit of fatigue. It showed she was human..

  He stole another quick look at the rounded curves of her willowy form, shown to perfection in a new carriage dress of impeccable design and cut.

  Way too human.

  The team pulled up in front of her townhouse and Sheffield quickly came around to hand her down.

  "Get some rest, Miss Hadley. I trust when you have giving the matter careful thought, you will use your good judgement and good sense to come to the right decision."

  CHAPTER NINE

  "I am sorry, my friend, but I am involved in a certain project that requires all my thought and energy at the moment so it will be another little while before I can find my way clear to writing you anything longer than a these few lines to assure you I am well. Oh, and as to the little matter that I requested you to help with—you may rest assured that it is taken care of and there is no need for you to exert yourself in any further way. I have decided to hire two Runners to handle it, and have put the investigation entirely in their hands."

  Her shaking fingers barely managed to scrawl those few lines before setting aside the pen with a sharp intake of breath that sought to control the racing of her pulse. Trying to avoid yet another glance at the latest letter that had been forwarded to her by Pritchard, she sealed the note and rang for a footman to take it away.

  As the door fell shut, Augusta allowed herself to slump back in her chair. A muffled groan followed. Then another. Good Lord, she was not exactly sure how she had contrived to climb down from the phaeton and negotiate the marble steps of the townhouse without collapsing like some hysterical peagoose in a horrid novel, for her legs still felt about as substantial as blanc mange.

  It simply couldn't be possible!

  Her eyes stole back to the bold script covering the single sheet of thick cream stationery that lay on her desk and she pressed her palms to her temples To think that the thoughtful, sensitive
and compelling author of that missive was one and the same gentleman with the sardonic, cynical and decidedly rakish Earl of Sheffield! How apt that "Tinder" was the moniker he had chosen for his other, hidden self, for he had certainly set her world on fire.

  Augusta's hands slid down to cover her burning cheeks and more than several of the newly learned oaths came to mind. It was one thing to have developed a tendre for someone who only existed on paper. After all, it was merely an... intellectual exercise. But it was quite another thing to find that the compassionate thinker whose bent of mind was so in harmony with hers was also, in the flesh, a maddeningly attractive gentleman with flashing blue eyes and a raffish smile that sent a frisson of heat spiraling deep inside her. Suddenly the passion was all too real.

  She pressed her eyes closed, as if she could avoid seeing the awful truth. But brutal honesty compelled her to admit it—she was in love with him.

  It wasn't as if she wished to be, but she was.

  Pushing up from her chair, she rose and began to pace back and forth before the blazing fire. Each crackle and hiss of the logs seemed to echo the emotions flaming inside her. Goddamn son of a poxed whore! Now the question was what was she going to do about it. It was a devilishly difficult situation, but the more she thought about it, the more one thing became very clear. The only notion more absurd than finding herself in love with the Earl of Sheffield was to imagine that he might ever feel a shred of such sentiment in regard to her.

  Augusta's steps faltered as a number of his words came echoing back in her head. He had made it quite clear that the list of things that attracted him to a female did not include a brain, but rather other, more obvious, physical attributes. In addition, he had made reference to the fact that his vast experience with the opposite sex had led him to form a firm opinion that even if they had a brain, they were incapable of using it for any meaningful endeavor. In short, he had no use for any of them, that is, no use but one.

  She swallowed hard. So he would no doubt be shocked if it came to light that the male friend whose opinions he held in such high esteem was... her.

  Actually, he would be more than shocked. He would be furious.

  If she had understood Edwin correctly, the sort of things Sheffield had revealed to her in his letters were intimacies that one might only discuss with a close friend after more than a few bottles of port at their club. She had a feeling that the same sort of silly pride that made gentlemen aim pistols at each other from twenty paces would make it impossible for him to acknowledge that the counsel and camaraderie the two of them had shared was no less real simply because she did not wear breeches and boots—well, at least not most of the time.

  Drat Society! Drat convention! She was beginning to feel angry in her own right, for it appeared that something that she had come to value above all things was going to be destroyed for no sensible reason. Blinking back the prick of tears, she realized how important the honesty and trust that had developed between them had become to her, and how loath she was to give it up. For several minutes, her half boots beat an angry tattoo over the thick Oriental carpet, then her steps slowed and her hand reached out to pick up his latest letter.

  As she toyed with the thick paper, taking in the faint scent of bay rum and tobacco, it slowly occurred to her that things didn't have to change, not if he never learned the true identity of "Firebrand." She might not ever be able to hope for his love, but she had his friendship and that was equally as precious. She meant to keep it.

  She began pacing with renewed vigor. Though he suspected some common thread somehow tied the two crimes together, she was sure he had not begun to guess at the real truth. The note she had just sent off in which she announced the hiring of the Runners might serve to delay any further action on Firebrand's behalf for a bit. He was too astute to be fobbed off for long, but in the meantime, she would have a chance to think of something other reason to put him off—or to solve the crimes herself.

  Dealing with the Earl on paper was one thing. Facing those mesmerizing blue eyes was quite another. She made another turn around the room, then paused once again before the desk. Her jaw set on edge. There was really no choice but to sever all contact with him, and the sooner the better. The waltzes, the carriage rides, the conspiratorial walks in the garden would all have to end. It was far too dangerous otherwise—for a number of reasons. She feared his deductive powers were too sharp not to eventually cut through the shroud of mystery surrounding this entire affair, leaving her exposed as the incendiary reformer.. But more than that, she feared she would never be able to hide her true feelings from his penetrating gaze. Would he find it amusing that even an aging bluestocking was not immune to his charms? Or merely pitiable? That she wasn't sure she could bear.

  No, she had already revealed too much of her soul, however unwittingly, to the Earl of Sheffield. The state of her heart she preferred to keep her own little secret.

  Of course there would have to be a reason to cut things off. A bitter smile played on her lips as she picked up the brass letter opener and ran her thumb along its edge. It should not be so difficult to find a reason to quarrel—after all, they had a good deal of practice in it. This time, however, she would have to make sure that, despite his feelings of duty to the memory of her brother, he was put off for good.

  "Gus?" The note of concern was evident in Marianne's whisper as she took her sister by the arm and drew her aside at the entrance to the drawing room. "You look as though you haven't slept a wink all night." Her eyes narrowed. "You and Jamison haven't—"

  Augusta gave a tight smile. "No," she answered. "I promise you I haven't engaged in any more nocturnal adventures. I'm afraid this time my claim to being indisposed by a headache is all too real."

  Marianne's tone sharpened. "What has happened?"

  "Nothing has happened save for this throbbing at my temples which you are only making worse."

  "Fustian! You never have headaches. Did Lord—" Her words cut off abruptly as the ample form of Lady Thorlow sailed past them in a flutter of mauve flounced silk to join the other morning callers already clustered around the tray of cakes. Augusta made to follow in her wake, but Marianne's hand remained on her sleeve. "Don't try to put me off. Did Lord Sheffield discover anything of note in the papers you showed him?"

  "Only that we may eliminate Dunham as a suspect."

  "Well, what does he suggest—"

  "I have no idea, since I didn't ask." Augusta hoped her voice did not sound as brittle as it did to her own ears. "His Lordship merely filled me in on several facts that explain the contents of the papers I discovered in Dunham's drawer. Aside from that, I have no intention of involving him any further in this matter."

  Marianne did not look to be satisfied with the explanation. "But—"

  A pointed cough from their mother made further private conversation impossible. With a resigned shrug, Marianne moved off to join Lady Hawley's two daughters, who were busy perusing the latest copy of La Belle Assemble. However, the look on her face before she turned away promised that the interruption was by no means an end to the matter.

  Augusta took a seat near the tall, mullioned windows and prayed that no one would take much notice of her presence. The clink of china and the trill of voices echoed through the room, but she found herself unable to pay the slightest heed to what was being said. Instead her gaze wandered to where the first drops of rain were running down the paned glass and her thoughts strayed far from any discussion of the shocking color of Lady Walton's latest gown or the size of Miss Hepplewhite's dowry.

  ".... I heard it was Lord Sheffield who held the poor boy's vowels. The man certainly has a reputation for uncanny luck. His winnings were over two thousand pounds in less than an hour."

  There was a slight titter. "The reputation is for more than luck, my dear Honoria. But pray, what happened?"

  Augusta's attention was suddenly engaged. Her head turned discreetly toward the nearby settee where two of her mother's acquaintances were bent to
gether in earnest gossip.

  "Oh, Linton was forced home to Yorkshire in disgrace, and just when he was on the verge of making the Grenville chit an offer," replied Lady Reston.

  Her friend made a disapproving cluck. "I heard the young man was obviously in his cups. Really, has the Earl no scruples, making sport of mere boys?"

  It was the other lady's turn to give a slight laugh. "Why, of course he has no scruples. That's what makes him so... interesting. Why, have you heard who his latest conquest among the ton is rumored to be? Lady Stansfield has not been a widow these three months and yet.... " The voices dropped into a flurry of whispers too low to be followed, but Augusta had heard enough.

  Her mouth thinned to a grim line as she let her eyes drift back to the windows. Though the sight of the leaden skies only served to further dampen her already heavy spirits, she forced herself to consider what she had just overheard with a purely rational detachment. It would seem these latest rounds of innuendo, however specious, gave her more than enough ammunition with which to slay any lingering feelings of obligation that Sheffield might feel in regard to her.