His uncle sat at a burled mahogany table, a breakfast of eggs, blood pudding, and rashers of bacon before him. A large painting of horses and hounds chasing a fox hung above his head—their rented townhouse was staunchly hunting-themed in its decor. The usual stack of newspapers lay folded at his uncle’s elbow. George Leith liked to know exactly what was being said about his nephew at all times.
In short, Uncle Leith appeared utterly in his element for a Thursday morning.
“Pardon?” Ethan conjured a smile for his uncle.
Uncle Leith nodded toward the window which faced the busy street outside. “I awoke to a phalanx of reporters camped upon our stoop this morning.”
Ethan froze, unsure from his uncle’s tonehowhe was to react.
Were reporters a good thing in this particular instance? Or . . . no?
A quick mental review of his activities over the past few weeks turned up nothing of import. Ethan had learned long ago to keep his behavior strictly in line with his uncle’s parameters.
Life was easier that way.
Chasing after Lady Allegra last night marked the first time in three years that Ethan had done something contrary to his uncle’s edicts. But even then, a reporter would hardly consider that action newsworthy.
Stepping over to the window, Ethan parted the gauzy curtains and looked out to the street.
One, two, three . . .
He quickly counted six reporters pacing the flagstone pavement.
Even for Ethan, six reporters appearing on the doorstep before breakfast was unprecedented. But, again, was it a positive development?
“Has something happened?” Ethan crossed to the sideboard—a painting of a Highland stag rimmed against a red sunset hanging above—and dished himself some eggs.
He had planned to forgo breakfast, but now that he was here . . .
Sitting at the table, he placed a napkin on his lap and nodded his thanks to the butler who poured coffee from a teapot.
Uncle Leith did not keep Ethan in suspense.
Tucking the broadsheet into a roll, his uncle sent it skimming down the table to Ethan. “The London Reveler, third page, top of the society column.”
Ah. So somethinghadhappened.
Lifting his eyebrows, Ethan flipped to the appropriate section.
The headline jumped out immediately.
Is Mr. Penn-Leith’s Celebrated Poem Autobiographical?
Frowning, Ethan leaned over the page.
It has come to the attention of this newspaper that Mr. Ethan Penn-Leith’s celebrated poem, “One Kiss Alone,” might be based on a real-life adventure. In speaking with an anonymous source, we have learned that the events Mr. Penn-Leith details in his famous poem—namely a stagecoach ride where the main hero is robbed at gunpoint, double-crossed by a beautiful woman, and then scandalously kissed by that same woman—are true events which befell Mr. Penn-Leith on his last trip to Italy. Why the Highland Poet has chosen to cloak the story in fiction, we cannot say. Perhaps it is due to his own sense of poetic form. Or, could it be to protect the lady in question? Our source tells us that the infamous Italian woman in the poem is, in fact, English and currently residing at a fashionable address in London. We wait anxiously with the rest of the English-speaking world to hear if Mr. Penn-Leith will confirm or deny these reports.
“Bloody hell.” Ethan pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose.
“Language, boy,” his uncle countered.
Who had uncovered this secret? Ethan himself had realized only last night that hisladrawas Lady Allegra. How had someone else managed to unearth the truth so quickly?
No wonder reporters were on the prowl this morning.
TossingThe London Reveleronto the table, Ethan looked at his uncle.
“So it’s true then.” His uncle did not frame the words as a question.
