“Oh, dear,” murmured Joan.
“So now Mama knows Pen has been stealing her copies—and you know what the last issue was about.”
She remembered Lady Constance’s adventure with the rutting Lord Everard all too vividly. The thought of what her own mother would say if she knew Joan had read that sent a shiver down her spine. “How long will she be punished?”
“A week. Mama has forbidden her from every sort of ball and party. She’s not permitted to leave the house except to go to church, and Mama has been opening her letters.”
“But how did you escape trouble?” Joan asked, perplexed. Mrs. Weston must know that anything Penelope did, Abigail was likely to know about.
A faint blush crept into her friend’s cheeks. “Pen swore up and down that I wasn’t part of it, that she’d hidden it from me. I didn’t think that would sway Mama, but somehow she believed it, and I was only warned not to follow my sister’s bad example. So Pen made me vow to repay her by smuggling any new issues into the house, since Mama will be watching her like a hawk.”
“I was amazed at her selflessness, but now I begin to understand it,” said Joan with a grin.
“Yes, very selfless,” agreed Abigail wryly. “It was her own fault, but I’m very grateful not to be confined to my room, too. The only trouble is, she’s badgering me to find a new issue when I don’t know how to get them without drawing Mama’s eye onto me as well. And if Mama discovers that both Pen and I lied to her ...” She shuddered. “I should hate to die young, Joan.”
She choked on a laugh. “Oh, never! Even my mother would only lock me in a convent until I was too old to care about naughty stories.”
Abigail smiled. “True. But I fear Pen really will murder me just out of boredom if I don’t bring her something interesting soon.” She cast a wistful glance down Madox Street, which they were just passing. “But there’s no way I can slip off to inquire about new issues without making Olivia suspicious.”
Joan steadfastly resisted turning her head to look at the unprepossessing bookshop where Tristan Burke had followed her for the sole purpose of insulting and irritating her. “No, don’t risk it. I may have a way to procure issues without any danger to either of us.”
“What?” Abigail’s face lit up. “How?”
She eyed Mrs. Townsend’s back apprehensively. The young widow appeared to pay them no mind, and Abigail had sworn that Olivia Townsend would keep their confidences in any event, but Joan wasn’t so sure. She lowered her voice. “Never mind how. It may not work, but if it does, I promise to share my copies with you and poor Pen.”
“Oh!” Abigail’s eyes grew wide. “Don’t tell me your aunt allows you—?”
“Hush!” Joan pinched her arm frantically. “As if I would even ask! My father made her vow to behave, just as he did me, and somehow I doubt even Evangeline would think50 Ways to Sinis polite reading material for a young lady.”
“How can you be certain? For all you know, she’s the author.”
“Abigail!” she gasped in horror.
Her friend ducked her head. “Sorry. Of course that was appallingly insensitive. But don’t you think Lady Constance is begging to be exposed?”
“You mean to London at large, rather than just to one gentleman at a time?”
Abigail snorted with amusement. “Yes! How can she not know she’s tempting fate to engage in such acts at the theater? I overheard Lady Willets talking with Lady Moulter the other night, and they both were at that performance, when the violinist broke his bow, and they both agreed they did hear moans such as a person in—in—in extremis might utter. She must have been very near them!”
“But who uttered them? Who is Constance, and who is Sir Gallant and Lord Everard?”
“I’m positive Sir Gallant is Sir Perry Cole,” Abigail said. “It must be! He was overheard expressing his exceeding fondness for opera, and he’s a handsome military man who lost his hand. It has to be Sir Perry.”
“But he declared to all that he was not at the opera house that night. If it truly happened—as Lady Willets heard—then he had to have been there.”
Her friend shook her head. “He might lie to conceal it. But I’ve no idea who Lord Everard is.” A frown knit her brow. “I’m sure half the men in London know. I expect Jamie knows.” She grabbed Joan’s arm. “And Lord Burkemustknow!”
For some reason a flush burned her face. “I doubt it,” she mumbled. “I don’t think he reads them.”
Abigail stopped dead. “Did you ask him? Oh mercy—Joan. He’s going to get the new issues for us, isn’t he?”
“Not if you tell all of Bond Street!” Joan hissed in a nearly silent whisper. “He might get them for me, if the infuriating man can be trusted to keep his word, but I am quite, quite sure he doesn’t know what it is.”
“Why not?” Abigail lurched forward when Mrs. Townsend looked back at them curiously. “How do you know he isn’t interested in them?”
“He would have teased me mercilessly if he did,” she said honestly. If Tristan Burke would threaten to kiss her just to get her to dance with him, what would he demand in return for procuring the most prurient pamphlet in London? The only reason Joan could find for his almost careless agreement to do so was that he had no idea what they were.
“Ah.” Her friend tilted her head. “So you’re on better terms with His Lordship, are you? No more Lord Boor?”
