They needn’t have worried. If, by chance, those circumstances came to pass, then she was perfectly willing to accept the consequences. But she would not risk the life she had unless she was certain the alternative was better.
“I am not going on a date with Brendan Wiles.”
Mabel looked defeated, but Lillian pursed her lips and fixed Eleanor with a mutinous stare. “It is your turn. I spent a full two hours walking with Nathanial Peabody at the night markets last week, and Mabel met that Hawthorn boy for lunch last Thursday. Neither was a match, but we made the attempt.”
“You did promise to be open-minded at least,” Mabel added.
Eleanorhadbeen open-minded. She’d danced with the duke, had she not? She was writing to the Captain. Of course, she hadn’t told them that because then they’d ask too many questions that she wasn’t sure how to answer. They’d have expectations of her that she wasn’t sure she could meet.
Ifshe was going to marry a man, it might be him. She could picture him sitting at the other end of her sofa. He might have his feet in her lap, or maybe she would lie with her head on his shoulder and listen to him read aloud. Perhaps he was a half-decent cook. That would be a bonus. Maybe she would make coffee, and he would make breakfast, and they would exchange thoughts over toast before leaving for work. Maybe she would want shorter days in the printing house and longer evenings at home.
Yet maybe she would find herself cooking and cleaning for two when cooking and cleaning for one was hard enough. Maybe she was only enjoying this friendship because neither ofthem was revealing their full selves and in real life they’d both be disappointed.
Maybe it was time to confess the liaison to her friends so these thoughts could bounce around in someone else’s head for a while. “I am already communicating with a man who is far more suitable than Brendan Wiles or Mr. Osbourne.”
“What?” The dual-toned shriek vibrated in her ears.
“Since when? How?” Lillian asked.
“Who is he? What does he look like?”
“Do we know him? Why have you not said anything?”
“For a few weeks,” she grudgingly admitted. “We’re exchanging letters. I don’t know who he is or what he looks like, just that he is well read, well educated, and witty.” And the thought of a letter from him waiting at home for her made the butterflies in her stomach dance like it was summer.
Lillian narrowed her eyes. “And you didn’t tell us earlier because…?”
Eleanor sighed. She hadn’t told her friends earlier because she’d been so vocal about not wanting or needing any man, and now here she was, spending much of her time waiting earnestly for a letter from one. What had started as a polite conversation with the brother of her pen pal had developed into something deeper, and she didn’t want to hear “I told you so.”
Lillian pursed her lips, a crease forming between her brows. “You don’t know his name, or what he looks like? What of his work and his family?”
“It is a deliberate choice to keep all identifying information out of the conversation.” Even as she said the words, they sounded stupid. “It adds to the intrigue,” she added weakly.
“Eleanor!” Lillian stood, arms akimbo. “It could be anyone. It could actuallybeMr. Osbourne and then where would yoube? Fourth wife to an octogenarian who may or may not have killed his previous wives.”
“It is not Mr. Osbourne.”
“But is it someone of equal disrepute? Is he keeping his identity a secret because no sane woman would converse with him otherwise?”
Eleanor’s throat tightened. This was not the excited response she’d anticipated. “It was my decision to remain anonymous.”
Lillian’s eyes bugged. “Truly, Eleanor, that was a significant lapse in judgment.”
She couldn’t help bristling. No one accused her of poor judgment these days. She ran thoughts and decisions over a dozen times before she voiced them, so she could do so without the risk of being criticized. In fact, the only impulsive choice she’d made in adulthood was last night with the duke, and that was only because he was so damned infuriating that her good sense had been overwhelmed.
“I have to agree with Lillian,” Mabel said. “The longer this goes on without you knowing his suitability, the higher chance there is that you’ll be heartbroken.”
“That she’ll be murdered on her doorstep was my actual point.”
Mabel shooed Lillian away. “There is no benefit to not knowing his identity, only risk.”
But there was a risk in knowing, too. She risked being disappointed. As long as she didn’t know who he was, he could be exactly what her imagination wanted him to be. In real life, he might be the opposite. Or worse. There was the risk that he’d be so much more than her imagination could fathom—enough to make her question her resolve to live life with no obligation to adapt to another person’s comfort. She wasn’t ready for that.
Lillian tapped a pencil to her lips, as she did whenever she was trying to solve a mystery. “You must have his address if you’re writing to him. We could drive by his house.”
“Absolutely not.” The words were spoken faster than they were thought. “I will not break my agreement with him. Besides, all of our communication is filtered through the post office at Piccadilly Circus. His sister, the Tattler, set it up. I think there are runners involved because deliveries do not follow the usual postal schedule.”
Lillian slumped, but she did not look like she’d given up. She simply tapped the pencil against her thigh instead.
