‘Will you put this in a novel?’ asked Dora.
Jane snorted. ‘No one would believe it. My world is this one’—she nodded to the party—‘not that of international plots and murder. I’m pleased, though, that I was here to see the end of the story. I will tell my sister and no one else. Napoleon will hear nothing from me.’
Dora smiled at the idea of the emperor paying attention to the doings of a lady from an English shire. ‘Will you stay in London much longer?’
‘Sadly, my excuse of a bad cold will not survive much longer. I must return to my mother and sister. You’d like my sister.’
‘And your mother?’
Jane laughed.
‘I see. Then I hope we will meet again.’
‘I will let you know when I next come to town. I havePride and Prejudiceto nurse through the printing press.’ She rubbed her hands in anticipation.
‘And I will make sure I am first on the list of purchasers. You will be working on the next one?’
‘I will. I might even mention the navy because, apparently, I could write well about that.’ She gave Dora a flat look.
Dora held up her hands. ‘You don’t need any advice from me.’ The spirit of mischief took over. ‘I will, however, give you a wager if you care to take it?’
‘Oh?’
‘You have written three of the most attractive heroines in any novel I have ever read in Elinor, Marianne and the wonderful Elizabeth. I dare you to write some pills– people who it is a real challenge for us all to love. Then I will know you are far better than Byron who only writes about brooding heroes that he sees in his own mirror.’
‘That is a difficult task indeed.’ Jane made the slashing gesture of a fencer. ‘Challenge accepted.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
Green Park
Summer in London wasn’t so bad, thought Jacob. Not when you had completed a task to your satisfaction, outwitted a wily enemy, fulfilled your obligation to an old friend and, best of all, were strolling in the sunshine with your lady on your arm in one of the capital’s parks.
‘There truly are cows?’ said Dora, wrinkling her nose.
‘Yes, very pretty ones with matching milkmaids.’
The trees rustled in the breeze, the leaves waving their encouragement. He should speak his piece.
‘Dora, I have been thinking.’
She smiled at him, the sun gilding her beautiful cheeks, her curling hair. Lord, he couldn’t give her up!
‘Go on,’ she encouraged. ‘I’m a captive audience. The only competition is milking time, and you win hands down.’
He smiled at her wit. ‘Your song– at the concert.’
‘Which one?’
‘“Oh, the broom.”’
‘Pretty, isn’t it?’ She began humming it again.
‘Did you mean it?’
‘Mean it in what way?’
‘Mean it as a message to me, that you miss where you came from?’
