Stunned, Miranda nearly choked on her tea. After all, Lady Harriet’s suggestion was in keeping with her own wish to write a short story, based on real life. When she could speak, she asked, “Not for the public, you don’t mean?”
“If you’re a good writer, why not share it so we can all be amused? Do you know why the newspapers put the nobility and the mushrooms in its columns?”
Before Miranda could ask why there would be mushrooms mentioned in the society pages, Lady Harriet answered her own question.
“Because the nobs like to be talked about, as do the half-swells and chicken nabobs. They love the notoriety. Why, they even send word of their own antics to the editors in order not to be left out.” She shook her head disapprovingly.
“Really?” Miranda asked. She’d always assumed the opposite.
“Notmyfamily, you understand,” Lady Harriet continued. “We don’t need any more fame or accolades. That is why you’ve never seen our names in the papers, I would warrant. At least not connected to any scandal.” She paused. “Have you?”
“No,” Miranda agreed. “I never have.”
“Then as long as you don’t discuss my family, I would highly support your endeavors. I shall explain how best to change the names while making clear by other means about whom you’re writing, with a physical description and some obvious clues.”
Lady Harriet sat up straighter. “In fact, letmebe your patron.” She tapped her chin. “It will be great fun. You can write your stories about the Season, and then I will pay for it to be printed and distributed.”
This was all happening too fast. Miranda had a feeling there was a reason this had not been done before. She needed to rein in Lady Harriet.
“I am not sure my father would wish me to become a published writer.”
Lady Harriet shrugged away the protest. “Then write under a clever disguise. Let’s think of one. I think you ought to remain female as you shall be a more sympathetic figure should anyone become annoyed.”
“Annoyed?” Miranda echoed.
“Never mind. I don’t know what I was thinking. As your patron, I will make sure everything goes smoothly. As your friend, I will steer you away from trouble.” She smiled, and Miranda relaxed.
After all, Lady Harriet knew her way around thehaut tonin a way Miranda never could. Now, the earl’s daughter was thinking aloud.
“Bright makes me think ofluminous, beaming, vivid, blazing. Yes, Miss Blaze! What do you think?”
Miranda didn’t know what to think about this turn of events. She had a patron and was writing a novel that was really a gossip column in disguise. Yet she hated to disappoint Lady Harriet, who had shown her such kindness. Moreover, she couldn’t see any harm in going along with her.
“Miss Blaze seems suitable,” she began.
“Of course it does! Miss Marian Blaze. No one will ever suspect it’s you. And people will be passing it around as a gift at Christmastime.”
“Oh,” was all Miranda could say. It hardly seemed the correct gift for a time of peace and good will.
She added, “I promise I shall think about your offer. But for now, I would prefer to write only for my cousins.”
Lady Harriet sighed. “Whatever you say.” Then she grinned. “I know I will change your mind. Oh, Miss Bright, let’s make it grand!”
Chapter Seven
As Philip made his way into the Custom House on Lower Thames Street, he reminded himself of two things. Firstly, he was innocent of any wrong-doing where Miss Waltham was concerned. Secondly, he was a man in possession of some damn fine brandy, and he needed to bring every drop to Britain.
Few knew how poorly his estate had been handled while he was on the Continent fighting Napoleon’s army, and he wanted to keep it that way. If he didn’t quickly become a man of business with the same acumen as he had been a successful soldier, he would lose his family’s estate by year’s end. And he didn’t intend to let that happen.
Instead, he planned to exploit the brandy business to its lucrative fullness and refill the drained Mercer coffers. To that end he had spent a sizable sum buying an existing wine distillery in southern France that had produced brandy for a decade. The pale amberbrantwijn, or “burnt wine” already aged in barrels was the finest Philip had ever tasted. When he’d returned home, he had given a shipping deposit to Waltham.
If they had a falling out, Philip would not be able to start again unless the man gave him back every penny without delay. And even if he did, no one had offered him as favorable terms.
At that point, his only option was to return to France and drink every last drop himself.
With that cheerful thought, he navigated the warren of one-hundred and seventy offices on three levels, getting lost once before he opened the heavy oak door to the rooms that housed Waltham Shipping. In the first office, two clerks sat at two desks, their heads down, scribbling away. The very act of writing reminded him of Miss Bright’s ridiculous paper and pencil that she always had with her.
Both young men looked up, and then, upon seeing the caliber of the person who’d entered, probably noticing Philip’s fine silk topper and rich blue coat with gold buttons, one rose quickly to his feet.
