There was a moment of absolute silence, then with crisp finality, the door slammed shut behind him. “Sodding hell!” Jasper exclaimed, gripping his chest as he spun.
His butler’s clipped footfalls approached from the kitchens before the man appeared at the far end of the foyer. Jasper’s pulse gradually returned to normal as he noted the shuffle of movement from his maids and footmen abovestairs and the off-key humming of his housekeeper.
“My humble apologies, Your Grace,” William breathed as he accepted Jasper’s hat and gloves.
“Not at all.” Jasper’s lips quirked in a tight smile. “I’m to pen an urgent missive to the magistrate then call on the Marchioness of Livingston. Please have the carriage ready.” He stepped away, but turned back to the man. “And do not permit callers, William. My cousin has escaped the noose, and I’ll not risk the safety of the staff.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
With a nod, Jasper crossed the foyer and strode to his study. A fire was lit in the hearth but, despite the warmth to the room, a chill danced down his spine. He turned to close the door and his heart all but stopped in his chest.
There, jutting from the wood of the door was a dagger piercing a folded piece of parchment with his name penned on the front.
His pulse tripped, and he leaned forward to inspect it. He knew that slanted, untidy penmanship.
Inhaling deeply, he prepared to call out for his butler. But an odd fragrance stopped him. Cautiously, he sniffed at the paper.Bitter almonds. Jasper reared back in alarm and hastily retrieved a spare set of gloves from the drawer of a side table.
With a muttered curse and trembling fingers, Jasper donned the gloves and tugged the note free, striding toward the hearth.
Thou aRt a boil,
A plague-sore or embossèd carbuncle
In my corrupted blood.
Jasper’s skin grew cold.Francis had been inside his sodding house. And damn, but the quote was familiar, but he couldn’t bloody well place it. It sounded like Shakespeare…
With a slight hiss, the parchment caught as he tossed it upon the fire. Then Jasper looked at his leather gloves. If Francis had meant to poison him through contact with his skin, his gloves were unquestionably soiled. He sighed. Damnable loss. Carefully, Jasper plucked at the fingertips of both gloves until he was able to flick them into the fire.
Whomp. Bright flames warped the leather, curling and distorting them until naught was left but a charcoal mass.
* * *
With a final scratchof her pen, Maria sat back in her chair and revelled in the success of completion. Warmth spread across her chest and a little bubble of happiness filled her abdomen. It did not matter how many articles she had written over the past years, she still felt the same upon their conclusion.
Someone rushed past, the movement rustling her parchment. Maria glanced up. The newspaper offices were bustling with activity. Some men sat writing news articles behind three neat rows of two small desks, while others went about their business, hurrying between the desks or out to the main corridor.
The wood-panelled walls were dark and confining, but two large windows along one side of the room flooded the space with natural light.
“Is that the article for this week, Mr. Robertson?” a young paper boy asked, suddenly appearing at her side.
Maria nodded, and replied in her practiced deepened voice. “Just finished.” She handed the parchment to the lad with another nod, and he scampered to her superior’s office.
With a flourish, she rose and lifted her coat from the back of her chair, smoothly sliding her arms through the sleeves before straightening the cuffs. It was her final day in the office that week, and she could scarcely countenance another moment away from her apartments.
How does Juliana fare?The thought ran through her mind, as it had all day. Juliana’s cousins had been hanged that morning; Maria could only imagine that Juliana would need comfort at such a time. Mayhap she ought to fetch Heather, and they three could sit for tea. Although, she supposed Julianadidhave her husband now.
Raised voices came from the building’s foyer, causing Maria to pause in the act of putting on her hat. She trained her ears.
“…wasn’t the right man!”
“This is a story; someone start writing!”
“Fetch Mr. Balfour; this ought to be tomorrow’s headline!”
Along with several of her fellow writers, Maria rushed to the foyer.
“What has happened?” one man asked.
