The Wager
Dear Mr. Steele,
I hope you were not overwhelmed with regret after issuing me a challenge, for after much deliberation, I have decided to accept. I must, however, make one exception.
Should you win, I cannot refrain from critiquing, as it would negatively impact the Metropolitan Review. Therefore, I shall organize and host a literary salon in your honor, inviting the most influential members of London’s literary society.
May I inquire as to the amount of your charitable donation upon my victory? I’m afraid anything less than five hundred pounds sterling will not suffice. Of course, you will need to make a public acknowledgment of my superior literary prowess as well.
I must confess, your challenge has stirred within me emotions I had not felt so deeply for some time—trepidation about your inability to pay the sum and excitement about your public tribute to yours truly.
I suggest you reduce the size of your bowl and chamber pot so that you may squirrel away the requisite funds.
May our pens be sharp and our minds sharper still.
Your most determined critic,
E. Lovelace
Steel sang against steel in the fencing salon, the afternoon light catching the blades with each strike. Edgar pressed forward with a combination of attacks, each thrust carrying the momentum of his racing thoughts.
“She accepted,” he said, his blade meeting Hereford’s with a sharp clash. “Miss Lovelace actually accepted.”
“En garde!” Hereford called, barely deflecting a particularly aggressive thrust. “I sense this bout has become about more than mere practice. What’s got you so fired up, man?”
Edgar advanced again, his movements reflecting his inner turmoil. “The stakes,” he said between exchanges. “They’re not enough. A literary salon? It’s…” He broke off as Hereford nearly caught him with a clever riposte. “It’s too easy.”
Hereford stepped back, lowering his foil. “And what would satisfy the great Aengus Steele? Or should I say, the even greater Duke of Lancaster?”
Edgar removed his mask, his face flushed and breathless with more than just exertion. “What if… she had to serve as his personal secretary for a month?”
“Good God!” Hereford’s eyebrows shot up. “Having the caustic Miss Lovelace at your beck and call? That’s deliciously cruel.”
“And a public reading,” Edgar continued, warming to the idea even as something twisted uncomfortably in his chest. “In Hyde Park. Let her proclaim the greatness of my prose to all of London.”
“Lancaster…” Hereford studied him thoughtfully. “This feels rather personal for a mere literary debate. Has Miss Lovelace struck a nerve?”
Edgar turned away, ostensibly to retrieve his water flask. “Perhaps.” His mind drifted to Elisha again—her fierce intelligence, her proud bearing. Would she show the same fire as Miss Lovelace if she knew his author identity? “Though lately I find myself more intrigued by another lady.”
“Ah, yes, the writer.” Hereford’s tone was knowing. “How does it feel, pursuing one woman while plotting the humiliation of another?”
Edgar’s hand tightened on his foil. “When you put it that way, it sounds rather ungentlemanly.”
“And yet you persist.” Hereford raised his blade again. “So what name will you publish under? Since Steele must remain anonymous in this challenge.”
Edgar parried Hereford’s attack, his movements almost distracted. “I was thinking… Edmund C. A.”
“Your brother’s name?” Hereford’s blade faltered in surprise. “He’ll be furious.”
“Perhaps.” Edgar executed a perfect lunge, scoring a hit. “But there’s something fitting about it. Edmund always was the better man—more honorable, more genuine. Everything I pretend to be as Steele.”
“And everything Miss Linde seems to inspire you to want to be?” Hereford’s observation struck as precisely as any blade.
Edgar lowered his foil, suddenly weary. “God help me, Hereford. What am I doing? Playing at being Steele, coveting Miss Linde’s good opinion, plotting to humiliate Miss Lovelace…”
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” Hereford agreed, removing his mask. “The question is, what matters more: winning the game or becoming the man worthy of Miss Linde’s heart?”
Edgar stared at his reflection in the polished blade of his foil, seeing the duke, the author, and somewhere beneath it all, the man he might yet become. “The truly damning thing is… I’m no longer certain.”
“Then perhaps,” Hereford said quietly, “this challenge is about more than just literary prowess.”
Edgar raised his blade once more, falling into position. “Again,” he commanded, needing the physical exertion to quiet his troubled thoughts. As their blades met once more, he couldn’t help but wonder if this battle with steel could ever resolve the one waging in his heart.
*
Metropolitan Review, 4 April 1840
My Most Esteemed Miss Lovelace,
I am delighted that you have accepted my challenge. Your trepidation is noted, and I assure you, I will employ a part-time valet who only irons the visible portions of my shirts. If you would be so good as to raise a carrier pigeon, I could save on Penny Blacks as well.
While I find your suggestion of a literary salon charming, it may not fully capture the spirit of our wager. Therefore, I propose the following amendments to our agreement:
In the event of your defeat, you shall serve as my personal secretary for one month and read passages from my winning tale aloud at Hyde Park, one day a week for a month.
Should you emerge victorious, I shall indeed make a public acknowledgment of your superior understanding of romantic literature. Furthermore, I shall give a charitable donation of 1000 pounds sterling to an organization of your choosing.
I believe these terms more accurately reflect the magnitude of our challenge and the stakes at hand. After all, if we are to engage in this literary duel, should we not commit ourselves fully to the fray?
Your most determined servant,
Aengus Steele
“The utter gall of that insufferable man!” She thrust the letter toward Amelia, rising from her chair in a rustle of modest brown muslin. “Read for yourself what he proposes as our wager!”
As Amelia read, Elisha began to pace the confines of her small office, her skirts swishing against the worn carpet.
The man’s arrogance was breathtaking. To suggest she become his secretary—her, a woman who had worked her way up from cleaning hallways to become one of London’s most respected literary critics!
And the public reading in Hyde Park… her mind conjured the mortifying scene of being forced to recite his florid prose before a crowd of sneering onlookers.
“He has doubled the charitable donation,” Amelia noted carefully. “One thousand pounds sterling is no small sum, Elisha. Think of what we could do for the literacy program with such funds.”
Elisha paused in her pacing, her fingers worrying at the cameo brooch at her throat. “You cannot possibly suggest I accept these terms? To be paraded about like some… some trained monkey for his amusement?”
“Perhaps,” Amelia said slowly, smoothing the crumpled letter on the desk, “we might consider what lies beneath his apparent provocations. Mr. Steele has doubled his own stakes, after all. And his suggestion of public readings…” She trailed off meaningfully.
Before Elisha could formulate a response, another knock at the door interrupted their conversation. The office boy’s nervous voice carried through the wooden panel: “Miss Linde, Miss Thornton, the Duke of Lancaster requests your presence.”
Elisha and Amelia exchanged startled glances, their earlier discussion forgotten. The Duke of Lancaster? Here, in their modest offices above Fleet Street?
The duke’s entrance transformed their small office, making it seem suddenly cramped and shabby by comparison.
He filled the doorframe with his impressive height, his dark blue coat tailored to perfection across broad shoulders.
Yet it was his eyes that captured Elisha’s attention—keen and observant, with an intensity that seemed to peer straight through her carefully maintained facade.
“Your Grace,” they said as they curtsied in unison, though with mortification, Elisha noticed a spot of ink on her sleeve as she did so.
“Ladies.” His voice was deep and cultured. “I must beg your pardon for this unannounced intrusion. I had hoped to make the acquaintance of Miss Lovelace, but I’m told she conducts her affairs from a remote location.”
Elisha forced her features to remain neutral as she replied, “Indeed, Your Grace. Miss Lovelace values her privacy most highly.”
“So I’ve gathered. Though I find myself equally intrigued by her representatives. I understand you handle her correspondence with Mr. Steele?”
Amelia chose that moment to make her excuse about refreshments, abandoning Elisha to face the duke’s penetrating gaze alone.
“Please, be seated, Your Grace,” Elisha managed, gesturing to the chair recently vacated by Amelia. As he settled his impressive frame into the modest furniture, she couldn’t help but notice how his presence seemed to fill not just the space, but her awareness.
“I trust you’ll forgive my curiosity, Miss Linde,” he said. “I’ve found great entertainment in following this literary debate between Miss Lovelace and Mr. Steele. In fact, I’ve just come from his club where he was composing his latest novel with particular enthusiasm.”
Elisha’s hand strayed to Steele’s letter, still lying crumpled on her desk. “I fear Mr. Steele’s enthusiasm has led him to make some rather presumptuous demands.”
“May I?” He held out his hand for the letter, and Elisha found herself surrendering it before she could think better of the action. She watched as he smoothed the paper with long, elegant fingers, his expression thoughtful as he read.
“You find these terms offensive?” he asked finally, looking up to meet her gaze.
“I find them…” Elisha paused, choosing her words carefully. “I believe Mr. Steele intends to humble Miss Lovelace through public spectacle.”
The duke leaned forward slightly, his expression intent. “An interesting interpretation. Might I offer another?”
Something in his tone made Elisha’s breath catch. “Please do, Your Grace.”
“Consider that Mr. Steele, having engaged in this battle of wits from a distance, now seeks closer acquaintance through the only means available to him. The position of secretary, while perhaps lacking in delicacy, would provide daily interaction. And the public readings…” He paused, his blue eyes holding hers.
“What better way to gauge an audience’s true reaction to one’s work? ”
Elisha felt her cheeks warm under his steady gaze. “You suggest his motivation is professional rather than punitive?”
“I suggest, Miss Linde, that sometimes we see what we expect to see, rather than what truly lies before us.” He gestured to their surroundings. “For instance, I came here expecting to find mere employees of an absent authoress. Instead, I’ve discovered something far more… intriguing.”
The weight of his words hung in the air between them. Before she could formulate a response, he changed tack with expert precision.
“Tell me about your literacy program, Miss Linde. I understand it’s the intended beneficiary of Miss Lovelace’s potential winnings?”
Grateful for the safer topic, Elisha found herself describing their evening classes, the challenges of teaching adults who’d never held a pen, the joy of watching them write their names for the first time.
As she spoke, she noticed the duke’s attention never wavered—he asked intelligent questions about their methods, their costs, their dreams for expansion.
“And what inspired such a noble endeavor?” he asked, his tone genuine.
Elisha hesitated, then decided to offer him the same honesty he’d shown her. “I learned to read by watching through schoolroom windows while cleaning halls, Your Grace. Every child peering through those same windows today deserves better.”
Something shifted in his expression—not pity, but a deeper understanding. “Indeed they do, Miss Linde.”
As he prepared to leave, he paused at the door, turning back to meet Elisha’s gaze.
For a moment, she thought he might say something more, something that would shatter the careful balance they’d maintained throughout his visit.
Instead, he merely tipped his hat and departed, leaving Elisha to wonder if she’d imagined the look of admiration—and something more—in his eyes.
“Well,” Amelia said, once they were alone again. “That was…”
“Indeed,” Elisha replied softly, her mind already composing her response to Mr. Steele’s letter. Perhaps it was time to view this challenge from a different perspective entirely.