Dangerous Encounters #2
I find myself compelled to clarify that tragedy need not always manifest as a catastrophic event. Indeed, it may present itself with remarkable subtlety, such as in a gentleman’s failure to truly comprehend, coupled with his unwavering conviction in the infallibility of his own opinions.
In a similar vein, true love is not merely a collection of pretty words or sensations, as you have so artfully described. Love, in its truest form, is achieved through the ultimate sacrifice of that which one holds most dear.
Your sacrifice, sir, seems no more taxing than a gentle spring zephyr. I implore you not to despair. Instead, retire your quill and search this vast land for the lady who might just love you in its truest form.
Your most steadfast critic,
E. Lovelace
Hereford looked up with raised eyebrows. “Rather cutting, isn’t she?”
Edgar took a long drink of brandy, then met his friend’s knowing gaze. “About that correspondence… I should tell you something.”
Hereford waited, pausing amidst swirling his brandy.
“I’m Steele.”
Hereford’s eyebrows shot up. “You are the author of Whispers of the Heart?” He exhaled with an astonished mien. “Well, well, that explains rather a lot, including why you have been so preoccupied lately. Two intellectual battles at once—Miss Lovelace in print and Miss Linde in person.”
“I never intended the letters to become such a sensation,” Edgar admitted.
“When Miss Lovelace first criticized my work, I responded as Steele on impulse. But now…” He trailed off, then pulled another letter from his pocket.
“I shall mail this tomorrow.” He handed it to Hereford, who read it with growing interest:
25 March 1840
My Esteemed Miss Lovelace,
Your evasive manner leads me to surmise that you have perhaps not experienced the transformative power of love. I implore you not to despair, for I have a solution…
“Good Lord,” Hereford murmured, refolding the letter. “You’ve thrown down quite the gauntlet. I wonder what our mysterious Miss Lovelace will make of this challenge.”
Edgar remembered the excitement of those written exchanges even as his mind wandered to Elisha’s challenging gaze.
“Now you find yourself entangled with two fascinating women,” Hereford finished. “The mysterious Miss Lovelace who matches you wit for wit in print, and the very real Miss Linde who seems to have thoroughly captured your attention in person.”
“God help me, but yes.” Edgar ran a hand through his hair.
“Miss Lovelace’s letters are brilliant—she understands literature in a way few do.
But Miss Linde, there’s something about her, Hereford.
The way she challenges everything—my assumptions, my privilege, my behavior. I can’t stop thinking about her.”
“My God,” Hereford breathed. “The notorious Duke of Lancaster, undone by a woman who earns her bread through journalism?”
“When I’m with her, none of that seems to matter.” Edgar’s voice was rough. “Her mind, her spirit, she makes me want to be better. To be worthy of her good opinion.”
“And what of Miss Lovelace?”
“The letters are stimulating, but they’re just words on paper. Miss Linde is…” Edgar searched for the right words. “She’s real. Vibrant. When she looks at me with those eyes…”
“This is dangerous territory, old friend. Miss Linde’s station alone—”
“I know. Lord knows I’ve suffered from loving a commoner, loving Lucia.” Edgar stared into his glass. “But I find myself caring less and less about that. Though I doubt Miss Linde would have me even if I offered. She seems to thoroughly disapprove of everything I represent.”
“And yet there was definite tension between you at the soirée,” Hereford observed. “I wasn’t the only one who noticed how you were both following each other across the room.”
Edgar’s fingers tightened around his glass as he recalled those moments. “Perhaps,” he said softly. “But she’s not like the other women I’ve known. She’d never settle for being a mistress no matter how much luxury she is showered with. And a marriage is… I wonder.”
“Good Lord. You actually care for her.”
The usual clamor of the club faded into the background as Edgar considered this.
Since Lucia, he’d kept women at arm’s length, allowing himself only superficial dalliances.
In fact, he had lived aimlessly, fearing the pain may return should he start thinking clearly.
But there was nothing superficial about his reaction to Elisha Linde.
“I think I do,” he admitted finally. “God help me, but I think I do.”
Hereford studied him for a long moment. “Well, my friend, it seems you have a choice to make. Pursue something potentially meaningful with Miss Linde or stop before either of you gets hurt because you will need to fight the ton with everything you possess if you wish to marry her.”
Edgar nodded slowly, his mind filled with images of Elisha. For the first time in years, he found himself willing to risk his heart again even if it meant risking everything else in the process.
*
The morning light streaming through the gazette’s windows caught the crisp paper as Elisha unfolded Steele’s latest correspondence. Her fingers trembled slightly as she read:
Metropolitan Review, 25 March 1840
My Esteemed Miss Lovelace,
Your evasive manner leads me to surmise that you have perhaps not experienced the transformative power of love. I implore you not to despair, for I have a solution.
Rather than me retiring my pen, how about you pick up your quill and do more than smear good authors’ work?
Since you profess to understand the deepest romantic love, why not show us by creating the experience? Share your passion with the world through your words. Author a short romantic tale of your own within the span of five months.
To add a measure of intrigue to our undertaking, I suggest a wager of considerable stakes.
Should your short novel, published under a nom de plume of your choosing, garner more favorable reviews than my own (which shall also be published under a new pseudonym), I pledge to publicly acknowledge your superior understanding of the genre and make a substantial donation to a charitable organization of your selection.
Conversely, should your work fail to captivate the reading public, you must abstain from critiquing romantic literature for a full year.
Furthermore, you shall be obliged to pen a glowing review of my next novel, to be published in your esteemed gazette.
The victor of this challenge shall be revealed on New Year’s Eve of this year.
What say you, Miss Lovelace? Are you prepared to subject your considerable talents to such a test? Or do you prefer the relative safety of your critic’s perch, from whence you may hurl barbs at those who dare to create?
I remain your most intrigued servant,
Aengus Steele
Her mind raced with possibilities. Write a romance novel? The audacity of the man! And yet… what an opportunity to prove her understanding of true passion wasn’t merely theoretical.
Lost in thought, she pushed open the gazette’s office door—and stopped dead. Mr. Thornton was seated at her desk, his elegant fingers rifling through her papers with casual authority.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said, her voice sharp with barely contained alarm. “Those documents are works in progress.”
He looked up, and Elisha felt her breath catch.
She had seen Steven Thornton before, of course, but never in the stark morning light that streamed through the windows.
His eyes were a deep, rich brown, like polished mahogany in shadow, set above proud cheekbones that belied his merchant roots.
But it was the intensity of his gaze that held her—the way he seemed to look straight through her carefully constructed facade.
“Miss Linde.” He rose smoothly, and she noticed how he seemed to fill the small office with his presence. “Forgive my presumption. I find I learn more about people from their absence than presence.”
“And what have you learned from invading my privacy, Mr. Thornton?” She moved to her desk, suppressing her ire and roughly gathering her papers.
His lips curved slightly. “Hardly private when they’re the properties of the Metropolitan.” He gestured to the letter she still held. “New correspondence?”
“From a reader,” she said, tucking it away. “Nothing of consequence.”
“I doubt anything you deem worth reading is inconsequential.” He stepped closer, and Elisha fought the urge to retreat. “Tell me, Miss Linde, how do you find working here? Is there anything you need?”
The last word carried an undertone that made her pulse quicken—whether with warning or anticipation, she wasn’t quite sure.
Schooling her features into a smile, she met his gaze directly. “Actually, Mr. Thornton, Amelia and I believe expanding our coverage to include political literature and policy changes could serve our readers well.”
Delight flickered in his eyes. “Indeed? I made rather useful connections in India. Political circles that could benefit from a sharp mind and sharper pen.” He paused, studying her. “Would you be interested in accompanying me to some of these gatherings? Your perspective could prove invaluable.”
The offer dangled before her like a key to a locked door. But before she could respond, he added, “Of course, such expanded duties would warrant a corresponding increase in compensation.”
Elisha’s eyes narrowed slyly as she ventured, “What are you offering, Mr. Thornton?”
His face brightened with a startled smile. “I’m offering to double your wage, Miss Linde. Your talent is precisely what has made the Metropolitan a success.”
Despite her shock, Elisha was emboldened by his generosity. “Then might I suggest Amelia deserves the same consideration? She works twice as hard as any of us.”
A look of tender amusement crossed his features. “My sister’s raise was approved this morning.”
“Oh.” Elisha felt her cheeks warm with embarrassment. “That is very generous of you. I hope I didn’t offend you with the presumption.”
“Not at all.” His eyes lingered on her face with unmistakable fondness. “Your loyalty to Amelia is one of your most admirable qualities.”
As he turned to leave with a graceful bow, Elisha found herself watching him go with a slight unease settling in her chest.
“I look forward to working closely with you, Miss Linde,” he said from the doorway. “I think we’re going to do great things together.”
Later that evening, the printing presses had fallen silent, their day’s work complete, but the gazette’s office still hummed with nervous energy.
Elisha found Amelia at her desk who was grimacing as she massaged her own shoulders.
The day had been a parade of disgruntled advertisers until Thornton had swept in, wielding charm and solutions with equal measure.
His facility at smoothing ruffled feathers had been almost unsettling to watch.
“He’s rather good at that, isn’t he?” Elisha said, gently moving Amelia’s hands aside to take over the massage. “Your brother, I mean. Like watching a master fencer at work.”
“Mmm. He learned a great deal in India, it seems. Though sometimes I wonder what else he learned there.” Amelia leaned back, studying Elisha’s face. “But something’s got you practically vibrating with excitement, and I doubt it’s my brother’s diplomatic skills.”
Elisha pulled Steele’s letter from her pocket, holding it like a prize. “Mr. Steele has thrown down a rather spectacular gauntlet.”
Amelia straightened her back, wincing slightly. “Do tell!”
“He wants Miss Lovelace to prove her understanding of romance by writing a novel of her own.” Elisha’s loose curls bounced with each eager gesture. “To be published under yet another pseudonym and judged against his own new work.”
“Good Lord! The arrogance of the man!” Amelia exclaimed, though admiration flickered in her eyes. “I must admit, however, it’s rather brilliant. What are the stakes?”
“If I win, he makes a charitable donation. If he wins…” Elisha’s lips curved. “Miss Lovelace must write him a glowing review and cease critiquing romantic literature for a year.”
“That seems rather uneven,” Amelia frowned. “Your reputation—”
“What if I counter with a specific sum? Say, five hundred pounds sterling for the literacy program?”
Amelia’s eyes widened. “Five hundred… Elisha, that would fund the program for years! We could expand to more workhouses, hire actual teachers instead of relying on volunteers…” She paused, her expression growing shrewd.
“Though I notice you’re more concerned with the program’s funding than protecting Miss Lovelace’s reputation. ”
“Perhaps Miss Lovelace could benefit from putting her theories to the test,” Elisha said softly. “After all, it’s one thing to critique passion and quite another to create it.”
“Speaking of passion…” Amelia’s tone turned sly. “I saw how the Duke of Lancaster looked at you at the soirée. And now this challenge from Mr. Steele… You seem to be attracting quite a lot of masculine attention lately.”
Elisha’s hands stilled on Amelia’s shoulders. “The duke is a notorious rake who probably saw me as a novel challenge. And Mr. Steele…” She sighed. “Mr. Steele doesn’t even know who I really am.”
“Perhaps that’s why this is the perfect opportunity.” Amelia turned to face her friend. “You can write about love without the constraints of being Elisha Linde, feared correspondent, or Miss Lovelace, feared critic. You can be someone entirely new.”
Elisha’s gaze drifted to the darkening streets outside, where gas lamps were beginning to glow like earthbound stars. “A chance to prove myself as just… a writer.”
“Exactly.” Amelia squeezed her hand.
Elisha moved to her desk, pulling out fresh paper and dipping her pen. The challenge of the novel lay before her, but so did other, more immediate concerns. Thornton’s curiosity, Lancaster’s unsettling attention, and now this wager with Steele… When had her life become so complicated?
But as she began to write, she couldn’t quite suppress a smile. After all, complications made for the best stories.