Letters to a Wallflower

Chapter 7

Later that evening, Helen came downstairs, looking for her grandmother. She was wearing her rose colored dress, as it looked so well on her and Ben had never seen it. Carrying her wrap, she ventured into the parlor, where she found her grandmother, fully dressed for the evening, but with her eyes closed and her head resting against the back of the sofa.

Alarm rang in Helen’s breast. “Grandmama, are you well?”

Her grandmother’s eyes blinked open. “What’s that? Oh, Helen, dear. Yes. I am perfectly well. Just resting. The carriage is not quite ready yet.”

Concern overrode Helen’s desire to go out and even her wish to see Ben again. “Perhaps we should stay in tonight? We can have a quiet evening at home together.”

“No, no” Her grandmother straightened. “I’m already dressed. And I’ve had word from Minerva. She has news to share. I do not wish to be last to hear it.”

“Perhaps we can return early, then? I don’t wish you to overdo.”

“I will not overdo. I vow it, my dear. But I admit, I won’t mind making an early night of it.”

“There’s our plan, then,” Helen stated. Silently hoping they would stay past midnight, she sat down on a nearby chair. “Grandmama, I have a question for you. When everything was going on, with my letters in the paper, you tried to have the paper stop publishing them. Did you ever meet with the editor of the Prattler, in your efforts?”

Her grandmother’s eyes had been about to close again, but at the question, she blinked awake and sat up. “No. I did not. Why do you ask? Have you heard the gossip?”

Helen stared. “What gossip?”

Grandmama was fully awake now. “There’s been a buzz going about the ton. The London Town Prattler has been focusing fully on reporting the peccadillos of high society for some time now. Oh, they always had an eye for a good scandal, but it lately seems to be their raison d”être, if you will. And they seem to be acquainted with some very select knowledge. Your own reemergence has also served to stir people up. They remember your insistence that you never posted those letters. And they begin to wonder. Just how does that scandal rag acquire their stories? It certainly seems to be more than just servant’s gossip, lately.”

Helen leaned forward. “Grandmama, do you know the name of the editor of the paper?”

Her grandmother straightened. “No. That’s just it. My man of business never could corner him. It seemed the paper changed hands right when your letters and the accompanying articles were being published. He never managed to present the scoundrel with my demands, but the articles stopped and I let it drop.” She raised her brows. “Now we hear curious stories circulating. It appears that no one has successfully brought a complaint to the new editor. It is being said that he prefers to remain anonymous!”

“Anonymous?” Helen repeated, disappointed. “Can he do that?”

“It appears that he has successfully done so for at least two years. But my dowagers and I have a theory.”

“On who he might be?”

“Oh, we have not got that far yet, but we believe, my dear, that he must be one of us!”

“Us? You mean a member of the beau monde?”

“Surely it must be. Whoever he is, he knows the most select details. The gossip and mishaps from the parties of the highest sticklers in the ton. Everything from political arguments to ridiculous bets that take place in the most exclusive clubs. The paper somehow discovers the guest lists from private parties and it reports on affairs and flirtations that even we have yet to hear of.”

No wonder the old ladies were indignant.

“It’s more than just a good network of servants, porters and coachmen, that’s for sure. It must be one of our own.”

Helen frowned, thinking. “But who could it be?”

“Oh, do not worry, my dear. The dowagers are on the job now. We will find him. Now, I hear the carriage. Let us go see if we can squeeze into Lady Kershaw’s rout.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I cannot tell you what I don’t know.” The previously bribable clerk had turned recalcitrant. “The editor of the Prattler prefers to remain anonymous. Even from us.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Ben snorted.

“Nevertheless.” The clerk carried on with his perusal of a page layout. “It’s the truth. One I’ve had to repeat fairly often, of late.”

“How could he possibly hide his identity from you?”

“He works hard at it, sir. He has devised a process that allows us to interact, but not in person.”

Ben was just reaching for the pouch of coins he’d laid on a table when a door opened beyond the clerk and another man, in his shirtsleeves, entered.

“When is Shipford due in?” the second clerk asked, staring down at the paper in his hands. “I’ve done what I can with this bit, but honestly, I don’t think anyone will care whether a cabinet minister spends more on his dog’s grooming than his wife’s hair-dresser.” He shrugged. “But he wants what he wants, eh?” He looked up then and started when he caught sight of Ben. “Oh, good evening.”

Ben nodded, but looked back as the first clerk met his eye and slowly reached out to claim the pouch of coins. “Shipford will be here soon,” he told his fellow employee. “Hurry and get that piece on Vauxhall done before he comes.”

“Aye. Take this, then.” The second man shoved his article at the first and went back where he’d come from.

“Shipford will be here soon,” Ben’s clerk repeated quietly as he slid the article into a leather portfolio, “to take the pieces for editing.” He pocketed the purse and turned away.

With a grateful nod, Ben spun on his heel and left. Standing outside on the street, he looked around. There. The sun was setting. That doorway across the way and down a building would afford a view of the office and enough shadow to hide him. He settled in.

The temperature dropped when the sun went down. He tucked his hands beneath his arms and thought back to Helen’s letters, letting her words warm him.

I love to watch you and my father play chess. He plays with all of us, but he enjoys his matches with you because you challenge him more than anyone else. He delights in watching the way your mind works, how you can see so many steps ahead. I listen to the two of you discussing famous battles and strategy and I know you will do well when you finally purchase your commission. All of those skills will work to your advantage.

Helen had believed in him. She still did. He meant to live up to her faith in him, not least because all of this had forced him to look at her in a new way, at the woman she’d become—and he was smitten. More than that, perhaps. And he was utterly determined that she would be given the choice to choose her way to happiness. He was also anxiously hopeful that he would get to walk it with her.

Ben straightened as, across the street, a man paused and entered the Prattler’s office. In just a few moments, he came back out, the portfolio under his arm. He set off, heading north. Ben stepped out of the shadowed doorway and followed, keeping an eye on the man from across the street. He followed Shipford all the way nearly to Holborn, where the man turned into a street lined with semi-respectable houses. The place had seen better days, but had not yet slipped into obscurity.

Shipford stopped and entered what looked to be a boarding house, with a clean-swept stoop. Ben came behind, moving silently. There was no one in the entry hall when he eased in, but he could hear footsteps climbing the stairs. Keeping to the edge, he followed. He stopped in the stairwell when the courier left the stairs at the third floor and knocked on a door.

Carefully, Ben climbed until he could just see the man. The courier knocked again and cursed under his breath. After a third pounding went unanswered, he slid the portfolio under the door.

Ben quickly ducked and slunk down to the second floor. He let Shipford pass him by and watched him head back out before he went and listened at the door the man had been knocking on. He heard nothing. He tried the latch, but it was locked. Thoughtfully, Ben strode back down. He stopped next to a door on the ground floor, where a sign had been posted.

Mrs. Goodnight, Proprietor

The landlady. He could see no light coming from under her door. He contemplated knocking, but guessed he would do better with the mistress of the house if he did not drag her from her bed. Deciding to return in the morning, he left and headed toward Mayfair.

Nearly an hour later, Ben was literally squeezing through the rooms of Lady Kershaw’s townhouse. An intelligent woman, she’d removed most of the furniture before inviting three hundred of her closest friends, but it was still a stifling crowd to maneuver through.

He caught a glimpse of Ward, laughing with some gentlemen. Further on, he spotted Akers, bent a little too closely over the widowed Lady Littleton, whispering something in her ear. The lady looked unhappy. Ben paused, wondering if he should intervene, but Akers looked up and caught his eye. Malice glittered in the baron’s gaze, almost as brightly as the ruby stick pin in his cravat.

The stickpin Ward had mentioned. It set something niggling in the back of Ben’s brain. He frowned and stepped forward, but the case clock, which had not been removed from the drawing room, began to chime midnight.

Helen. Ben moved on, searching for the dowagers. He found them, and sure enough, Helen was hovering behind her grandmother. She was searching the crowd, however. When she sighted him, a broad smile broke over her face and Ben’s breath caught.

She schooled herself, though, and nodded toward the dining room. Whispering something to her grandmother, she slipped away in that direction and Ben followed, several steps behind.