Page 9 of One Thing Leads to a Lover

Before many minutes had passed, Mrs. Hepplewythe returned, clutching the small green volume with both hands. “Here ’tis, ma’am. Mrs. Trout is most aggrieved and hopes you won’t take things amiss.”

“Certainly not,” Amanda reassured her. She could guess how the larder had been decimated by the failed attempts. “Tell her to send Lewis to the market if she is in need of anything.”

Mrs. Hepplewythe’s posture visibly eased. “Thank you, ma’am. I will.” She curtsied again before reaching out to hand the book to Amanda.

Lord Dulsworthy leaned forward to intercept it. “I say, Lady Kingston. This wouldn’t be the book that chap was here about earlier?” Depositing his teacup on the table with a clatter, he began to thumb idly through it.

“That chap”? Oh, how she longed to correct him! My dear Lord Dulsworthy, you couldn’t possibly be referring to the gentleman who left the intriguing calling card that’s currently tucked in my shift?

Instead, she swallowed that spiteful retort and dipped her head in acknowledgment. “It is. I shall write to him directly and have the matter done with.”

“No need for you to trouble yourself,” he insisted, snapping the volume shut and waving off her suggestion with a flick of the hand that held it. “I’ll take it to the bookshop myself.”

“I don’t—” She thought of the stranger explaining the book’s rarity and value, his insistence on retrieving it. She tried not to think of her own silly disappointment at having no excuse to see the man again. “There really is no need, Lord Dulsworthy.”

“Nonsense. I’ll see to it on my way home.”

Fearing that a weak smile of thanks would betray her displeasure, Amanda only nodded again and lifted her teacup to her lips to hide behind it.

For the next half hour, she chatted amiably, scolded fondly, listened attentively—yet always some corner of her mind, and occasionally even her eye, was drawn to the book, resting on George’s knee, tucked into his greatcoat pocket, and finally carried out the front door of Bartlett House.

She could feel the mask of her good spirits slipping as the door closed behind him. Over a book? What utter foolishness!

Her mother ascribed her suddenly somber mood to a far different cause.

“Do not fret, my dear,” she said, picking up Amanda’s hand and patting the back of it consolingly. “The day will come soon enough when you need never be parted from Lord Dulsworthy again.”

Amanda’s mouth dropped open, and a gurgle escaped from her throat—whether a failed laugh or a strangled scream, even she could not be certain.

Mind your step.

She covered her lips with the fingertips of her other hand and coughed discreetly. “Pardon me, Mama. I’ll just go check on the boys.”

She slipped away before her mother could say anything more. But she did not go in search of her sons. She went to her sitting room, perched on the chair in front of the writing desk and, after sucking in a deep breath, fished in her bodice for the stranger’s calling card.

The rectangle of paper was no longer cool and stiff, but warm and slightly softened, the cream-colored paper now bent in a shape that echoed the gentle curve of her not especially ample breast.

She smoothed the card on the blotter.

A message here will always reach me, Lady Kingston.

Where was “here”? The direction on the card might as well have been in quite some other part of the globe. She certainly did not recognize it.

Nonetheless, she drew a sheet of paper toward her, uncorked her ink bottle, and dipped her pen.

Dear

Pausing, she brushed the tip of the feather across her lips, studying the stark engraving of the bird. Quite well versed in apiology, thanks to the boys’ bee project, but no expert in ornithology, she tipped her head to the side and squinted at the image on the card. It could be some sort of crow. Or maybe a raven? Better to be general, if she was not certain. But no one wanted to get a note addressed to Dear Mr. Middling-Sized Sort of Carrion Bird…

Dear Sir,

I regret

Her regrets were numerous, and at the moment, most of them revolved around allowing Lord Dulsworthy to continue imagining he could have any place in her affections. But a stranger would not care about that.

She twirled the quill between her thumb and fingers. Dusk was starting to settle over the garden. A message here will always reach me, he had said. But she hated to send Lewis out at this hour, hated to think of disturbing the gentleman when the bookshop would soon be closed.

I regret not retrieving the book for you earlier today, she thought of writing.