Dangerous Encounters
The gas lamps cast long shadows on the cobblestone streets of London’s East End as Edgar emerged from the nondescript building.
Dressed in the plain clothes of a merchant, he tugged his cap lower, concealing his aristocratic features.
The meeting with his associates had run late, and he was eager to return to the safety of his townhouse.
A bitter wind whipped through the narrow alley as he rounded a corner, only to find his path blocked by three rough-looking men.
Their leader, a burly fellow with a scar running from eye to jaw, stepped forward into the lamplight.
“Well, well. If it ain’t Mr. Flack. Thought you could skip town without settling your debts, did ya? ”
Edgar’s mind raced through his options. He couldn’t reveal his true identity—that would raise far too many questions about why a duke was skulking around the East End.
And without his signet ring or other identifiers, all of which were safely stored at home, he had no way to prove he wasn’t this Flack character.
Just as the men began to close in, their intentions clear in their clenched fists and ugly smiles, a clear, feminine voice rang out through the darkness. “Darling! There you are!”
Edgar turned, his heart skipping when he saw Miss Linde hurrying toward him.
His thoughts quickly drifted to how he would keep her safe from these blackguards.
She wore an expression of relief and exasperation, presumably playing a role as his savior.
He stepped toward her when one of the men caught him by the arm.
He watched as the woman who had so thoroughly captured his attention approached the dangerous scene with remarkable composure.
She reached his side, linking her arm through his as naturally as if they’d been married for years. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, my love.”
Despite the role-playing, her words sent warmth through his chest. She turned to the group of men, her expression shifting to one of polite confusion. “Is there a problem, gentlemen?”
The scarred man frowned, his gaze shifting between them with suspicion. “This man owes us a considerable sum.”
Miss Linde laughed, a sound of genuine amusement that somehow cut through the tension.
“That is not possible. We’ve been living in France, you see.
” She addressed the men, her tone shifting to one of confidential friendliness that Edgar found himself admiring.
“This is Mr. Edward Crook, my soon-to-be husband. We’re in the East End sourcing fabrics for our new print shop. ”
Edgar caught her cue and patted her hand affectionately, adopting a jovial smile and thanking the stars for her quick thinking.
“Who is it you are looking for?” she asked, her tone innocent.
“Mr. Flack,” the leader said, some of his earlier certainty wavering.
Miss Linde looked up at Edgar quizzically before turning back to the increasingly confused group.
“We don’t know anyone by that name, but then, we don’t know many people in England.
You see, we’re expanding my father’s business.
In fact, we just left a meeting with Mr. Jameson about a shipment of Indian cotton.
You know Jameson’s Imports, of course? Just down on Brick Lane? ”
The leader’s aggressive stance faltered. “Jameson, yeah. We know him.”
“Wonderful!” she beamed, her enthusiasm so convincing that Edgar had to admire her skill at deception. “Then you must join us for the grand opening next month. I insist! Bring your friends. Drinks are on us.”
Edgar squeezed her hand in warning—she was pushing their luck—but her confidence never wavered.
The men exchanged uncertain glances. Finally, the leader shrugged. “Right. We’ll be there, Mrs. Crook, Mr. Crook. Be careful out here. These streets ain’t always forgiving.”
As the group shuffled away, Edgar released his breath. “Mr. Crook? Is that the first name that came to your mind when you encountered my visage?”
“No. Savage came to me first, but I didn’t think you’d appreciate that very much. Nor would you have liked the other alternatives.” Her eyes sparkled even as relief colored her voice.
“I cannot thank you enough for sparing me the name of Savage and the fate of Mr. Flack.”
Her eyes regarded him coolly, then she turned wordlessly, walking back in the direction she came. Edgar trailed after her like a scolded puppy, his ducal dignity shrinking with every step.
“What business did you have here at this hour?” he asked, noting how confidently she navigated the treacherous streets.
“I was visiting a bookshop. I lost track of time, talking to the proprietor. And you, Your Grace? If this is your way of understanding the plights of the poor, you’re going about it wrong.”
Edgar ignored her question and said, “I shall escort you home.”
“I don’t need an escort, Your Grace. I’m a grown woman. I’ve been traversing these alleys since I was a little girl.”
“Is there something else I can offer to repay your kindness?”
Miss Linde suddenly stopped and turned to face him. “You could tell me why the Duke of Lancaster is skulking around the East End in disguise. That would be a good start.”
“I am afraid I cannot.”
Shrugging, she continued on her way. “I assume your presence here is related to your salacious interests.”
Edgar hurried to close the distance between them, drawn by her fearlessness.
“I am in your debt. How can I repay you?”
Miss Linde stopped to stare. “If it would help you sleep more soundly at night, there is one thing you can grant me,” she said, her face serious in the dim light.
“Certainly. Let me hear it.”
“These erotic pamphlets circulating through London—The Forbidden Diaries of Lady X and such—they’re causing quite a stir. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about their distribution?” Her eyes studied him intently. “They seem to originate from this area.”
Edgar’s expression froze for a moment before he recovered his composure. “I’m afraid I can’t help you with your inquiry.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Very well, Your Grace. I believe I have my answer. Good evening.”
She turned and climbed into a waiting hackney coach.
As it pulled away, Edgar watched her disappear into the darkness, cursing silently.
She was far too perceptive for his comfort—and far too dangerous for his heart.
Yet something about her fearless pursuit of truth stirred his blood like nothing had in years.
He had to admire her cleverness. In one brief exchange, she’d managed to confirm her suspicions about his activities while making it clear she was someone to be reckoned with. It would be wise to keep his distance from Miss Linde but somehow, he suspected that would prove impossible.
Back in his bedchamber when the night was at its darkest, Edgar reclined on his chaise longue by the hearth, a tumbler of brandy cradled in his hand.
Though the hour was late and fatigue weighed heavily upon him, his mind remained in a state of turbulent contemplation, fixated on the memory of the woman who had held his gaze.
Miss Linde’s countenance, etched with astonishment, her bosom heaving as he closed the distance, her warm breath caressing his jaw as he had leaned toward her.
These recollections intermingled with the vivid memory of their spirited discourse, wherein they had crossed verbal swords as equal adversaries.
She had shown no deference to his ducal status, meeting him as an intellectual equal. He found himself pondering what circumstances had imbued a woman of such humble origins with such remarkable courage and self-assurance.
As he sipped the brandy, the amber liquid warming his throat, Edgar marveled at her undeniable allure which sparked a fascination within him that he found both exhilarating and disquieting.
It was a sensation both foreign and oddly familiar, one that promised to occupy his thoughts for many nights to come, and one that had his member excited.
He reached down and unfastened his falls, gripping his thick girth in his hand and stroking to the remembered sound, scent, and vision of her.
It would be thrilling to have her beneath him, panting and gasping, relinquishing her pride and begging him to bring her pleasure. His hand moved faster at the thought.
He knew she’d be a passionate lover, uninhibited and wholly dedicated to pleasure. The thought pushed him into his climax, her name at the tip of his tongue as he imagined sliding his member between her mounds.
The next day found Edgar at the Athenaeum Club, which pulsed with the convivial atmosphere of gentlemen at their leisure.
In a secluded corner, partially shielded by a large potted palm, he sat lost in thought, barely registering Hereford’s presence across from him.
His mind kept returning to the soirée—to the flash of intelligence in Miss Linde’s eyes, the way her sharp wit had both challenged and enthralled him.
“I say, Lancaster,” Hereford drawled, swirling his brandy, “that was quite a performance you and Miss Linde put on at the soirée. I daresay you’ve set tongues wagging across London.”
Edgar’s lips quirked in a half smile. “She’s… extraordinary,” he admitted, surprising himself with his candor. “Unlike anyone I’ve encountered before. The way she stands her ground, that brilliant mind of hers…”
“Your exchange with Miss Linde reminded me rather of Steele’s ongoing correspondence with Miss Lovelace,” Hereford observed.
Edgar reached into his jacket and withdrew a folded paper. “Actually, before I tell you something rather significant, you should see this. It arrived this morning.”
He handed over the gazette, watching as Hereford unfolded it and began to read aloud:
Metropolitan Review, 18 March 1840
Dear Mr. Steele,