“Did the duke truly arrive sopping wet?”
“Indeed he did, but I’m afraid the reason behind it is not so amusing.” Maria succinctly outlined the events of the previous evening as she inspected the spines on her bookshelves.
“Blimey,” Thomas breathed, his face scrunching in a twitch. “Have you plans on—grunt—how to proceed with your search for Mr. Sinclair?”
She hummed. “I intend to search through my works of Shakespeare here for the quotes that Francis used in his notes to Jasper. I’ll search through my collection at home should I not find what I seek. I’ve been introduced to a secretary in the magistrate’s offices, with whom I must develop a friendship. I believe I shall write to her once I’ve concluded my search, and then work on my novel.”
He grinned. “The timing is fortuitous, then. It would seem that you have quite the eager—grunt—group of readers awaiting the next Mr. Mystery novel.” He shook the newspaper once more.
Pride raced through her, warming her briefly from within.
“The printing press has the next instalment. It shan’t be long now.” Smirking, Maria strode to her writing desk and arranged her notes and new manuscript before sitting. “It’sthismanuscript that is causing me grief. I cannot yet conjure a reason for Mr. Grayson to attend the country dance where the second murder must happen. He reviles dances and cannot tolerate large groups of people.”
“Have the murder occur someplace else,” Thomas offered.
Maria shook her head. “It cannot! The remainder of my plot depends entirely upon the murder occurring at that dance.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then.”Grunt.He pushed off the arms of the chair and stood. “I have new fabrics to turn into waistcoats.”
“Sounds lovely, dearest.”
She returned to the bookshelves, withdrew a copy of Shakespeare’sOthello, and sat down to read. Then a thought occurred to her. “Oh!” She glanced up at her brother’s retreating form. “We have guests coming for tea this afternoon.”
He nodded and waved her on, turning toward the corridor leading to the bedchambers.
Several long minutes went by while she scannedOthellobefore she returned it to the shelf and retrievedMacbeth, thenJulius Caesar…
Nearly an hour and three more notable works passed before she froze. “…In my corrupted blood,” she muttered, darting out of her seat and hurrying to her desk to retrieve the quote.
Setting the parchment beside Shakespeare’sKing Lear, Maria read: “Thou art a boil / A plague-sore or embossèd carbuncle / In my corrupted blood.” She lifted her hands in the air with a cry of victory. She’d done it!
But whyKing Lear? Resuming her seat, she read through the play, then set it aside.King Learhad been forbidden since 1810—over seven years. Why quote it?
The play was full of family distrust, betrayal…and death. Rather a lot of death. A tremor of fear raced up her spine, spreading gooseflesh in its wake.
Francis meant to useKing Learas a threat—or promise—to kill to achieve his aim. Maria’s spine stiffened against her chair’s back, resolve steeling her nerve. She would not allow him to do so.
That thought, of course, brought her to her next task: penning a note to the magistrate’s secretary. She set the book aside and swiftly jotted a friendly greeting and request for correspondence. It was light and brief, but she would write again on the morrow, perhaps, to begin exchanging tales and exploring shared woes, until their acquaintance developed into something of a friendship. The association would be invaluable, but the prospect of a new friendship was rather exciting, for it was not something she ordinarily pursued. This woman, however, would know Maria as a runner, which meant there was one fewer thing for her to hide.
Placing the folded and addressed missive on her desk’s corner, her gaze once more caught onKing Lear. Agitation crawled up her back and tightened her shoulders. Would that she had greater control over Francis’ actions, and of their search for him.
A sigh escaped her. Shedidhave control over her writing, however.
Adjusting her leather writing gloves, Maria settled in to her desk’s chair and, within moments, was lost in her writing. Despite her troublesome plot, words flowed, the ink scratching along each piece of parchment, scarcely legible from the haste of her hand’s movements.
“Maria, for God’s sake!” A sharp, feminine voice broke through her writing fog.
Maria’s back creaked as she turned to find her friends standing in her sitting area, watching her with amusement.
“Oh!” Maria placed her pen aside and stood. “My apologies; I was lost in my work.” She strode forward and noted the mirth shining in her friends’ eyes.
“You’ve got a little something…” Heather pointed at her own chin, and at once Maria became very aware of what they found so amusing.
Glancing down at herself confirmed it: she was still dressed as Mr. Robertson, with matching grey breeches and coat, a blue waistcoat, starched white cravat, gleaming black Hessians, and the shadow of a beard dusted lightly on the lower half of her face. “Drat.”
“Handsome as ever.” Juliana winked at her.
Maria shook her head. “Please excuse me while I change.”
