Page 1 of A Bluestocking’s Secret Courtship

One

From the Diary of Isabelle Darlington

May 1798

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Our second daughter arrived on a blustery spring day, her inquisitive eyes taking in everything around her.

Matthew was amazed by her alertness, and he is convinced she is blessed with a keen mind. I believe he is right. She certainly will not make anyone guess what she thinks about anything. When the midwife swaddled her too tightly, she let her disapproval be known.

Once we had stopped laughing, Matthew asked what we should name our second little angel. I have chosen Evangeline, meaning "bearer of good news." May she always use her cleverness and candor to spread light and truth.

Early August 1820, Athens

Jonathan Hackberry wasn’t an assassin. The only dirt he had ever gotten on his hands was from digging for artifacts.

So how had he arrived here?

He paused at the edge of the twenty-foot-wide dock, shading his eyes against the harsh Mediterranean sun while searching for the ship flying the Union Jack. It no longer mattered how he came to be here. The Collector was dead, and Jonathan was going home.

Fate had done the job, leaving him with a clear conscience. He only hoped Farrin accepted his word, because the proof was scarce.

He spotted the Clara-Rose swaying in the harbor. The ship had dropped anchor in the Port of Piraeus two days ago, and he was determined to be onboard when she set sail again.

His walking stick clicked against the weathered boards as he headed toward a group of passengers gathered at the dock. A rowboat loaded with trunks pushed away from the Clara-Rose, oars slicing through brilliant blue water. A few passengers chatted while the majority tracked the boat's slow progress.

The captain would be the last to leave his ship; Jonathan might be waiting a while. He slowed his pace, giving a wide berth to laborers unloading barrels and crates. The mingling of languages and working men's shouts created a symphony that never grew tiresome.

Returning to England left him with mixed feelings. In the eyes of others, he was a bumbling eccentric obsessed with ancient frame drums, the goddess Athena, and those lovely little cucumber sandwiches his former fiancée used to have laid out when he came round.

The façade had served him well over the years, allowing him to gather French military secrets during the war without anyone being the wiser. Across enemy lines, he had been just another harmless crackpot who bored everyone with his endless chatter.

Arriving at parties with a tear in his jacket from fending off an attack? Look at that poor, clumsy Sir Jonathan. He never watches where he is going.

Found somewhere he shouldn’t be? Well, it is Sir Jonathan. The dotty fellow becomes turned around all the time.

Many times, he wished he had abandoned his persona during his short return to England. Maybe now he would have a second chance.

Through a break in the crowd, a flash of color caught his eye. A young lady, her face hidden by a lemon-yellow parasol, wandered away from a group of travelers waiting for their luggage. Her blinding white skirts flapped in the constant sea breeze as she planted a hand on her bonnet to keep it from flying away.

She walked around the laborers, stopping occasionally to examine a crate filled with olives or grapes. He forgot about his travel plans to follow her progress.

“Oh, look at this,” she said to no one in particular. Her cultured English made him smile. She was a glimpse of home coming to him.

He wasn't the only one to notice her. Two sailors altered their course to intercept her, calling out to her in Flemish. She glanced over her shoulder, straightened her spine, and gave them the cut direct.

The stouter sailor made a lewd gesture behind her back. When dockworkers standing nearby laughed, Jonathan’s grip tightened on his walking stick. Though he had no sisters, he had always imagined he would be protective of them if he did.

He strode toward the sailors, intent on teaching them some manners. The younger one grabbed and shook his companion’s arm, pointing at Jonathan. Both men scurried back toward the end of the dock where a yacht was moored. Jonathan glowered at the dockworkers, and they returned to their tasks, unfazed.

A man and woman disembarked from the yacht and paraded along the dock, an entourage trailing in their wake. The vessel belonged to the Dutch ambassador, known for flaunting his wealth with ostentatious displays.

The young lady abandoned the cargo to watch the spectacle—ambassador, wife, and four armed guards marching past. Next came a maid and two footmen, followed by a distinguished male servant toting a gilded cage with a white cockatoo.

“Oh, my! Aren’t you a beautiful bird?”

The cockatoo preened, fanning its head crest to reveal pale yellow feathers.