Page 31 of The Lady Plays with Fire

“Can’t you see how flushed she is?” Mrs. Hayes chided. “I’ll see to it you have one of my special tonics when we’re home.”

Julia wanted to protest, but when Mrs. Hayes promised it would bring with it the blessed oblivion of sleep, she nodded and let the widow take her arm and walked with her to the waiting coach.

Then again, sleep was not without its risks. It might bring dreams—dreams of the sort young ladies were not supposed to have.

In the dimness of the carriage, she pressed gloved fingertips to her mouth. Her lips felt the same as they always had, not swollen or tender as she had half expected to find them. She hadn’t known there were such kisses—or rather, hadn’t suspected she would enjoy them so thoroughly, particularly not from a man like Lord Dunstane: so arrogant and so cold.

No. Not cold at all.

Hot as a freshly stoked fire.

She could still hear his voice, the thickening of his brogue, as if passion unleashed some other side of him—as if her kiss had caused his mask to slip.

Friday’s rehearsal would give her the opportunity to see him again. Was she willing to risk . . . everything to find out what another encounter might reveal?

A shiver passed through her. She was beginning to fear that the answer might be yes. In the chill evening air, she found herself longing for heat—no matter how dangerous.

When she had been wrapped in his arms, protecting the magazine had been the last thing on her mind. She had simply thrown herself headlong into the flames.

“I think you might be feverish,” said Mrs. Hayes. Her expression was indecipherable in the semidarkness, but her voice was full of concern.

Julia gnawed at her lower lip and nodded. “I think you might be right.”

Back in Clapham, Mrs. Hayes called for her maid and ordered Julia straight to bed. Julia hardly had time to slip into her nightdress before Mrs. Whyte, the housekeeper and Daniel’s mother, appeared at her door.

“Warm milk,” she said, proffering a pewter cup, “with two drops of Mrs. Hayes’s sleeping tonic, on her orders. Rest is the best thing for you, Miss Julia.”

With an unsteady hand, Julia reached for the cup and pretended to take a sip, then wiped warm foam from her upper lip with the back of her other hand. “Mmm, thank you. I’m sure I’ll be right as rain in the morning,” she insisted. “After a good night’s sleep.”

Mrs. Whyte’s brows were knitted together in a frown of concern. “Drink it all, then straight to bed.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

As soon as the door was shut behind the housekeeper, Julia put the cup aside and stood staring out the small, square window into the darkness. Eventually she tipped her forehead against the blessedly cool glass.

Could she save Miss on Scene and Mrs. Goode without getting burned?

Gradually, from the hopeless jumble of her thoughts—memories of what had been said at the last staff meeting, of what Lord Manwaring had revealed, of Lord Dunstane’s searing touch—a single note of clarity emerged.

She must fight fire with fire.

She sat down at the little dressing table, which sometimes doubled as a writing desk. The room itself was so narrow that when the stool was not tucked beneath the table, it nestled against the bed.

Withdrawing a sheet of paper from the drawer with one hand, she dipped her pen with the other and dashed off a few lines, pausing only to read them through once before folding the letter and sealing it—along with, perhaps, her fate. Then, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, she opened the door again and peered out into the darkened house. From all appearances, everyone else was abed.

With cautious, silent steps, she descended into the kitchen. As she had hoped, Mrs. Whyte had retired after delivering the warm milk; only Daniel was still within, banking the fire before settling in for the night.

She cleared her throat, and he jerked about, poker upraised, obviously startled. “Oh! It’s you.” He lowered his weapon apologetically. “I expected you’d sleep until noon, Miss Julia. That dose usually does it, even for Mrs. Hayes. You must have the constitution of a horse. Beggin’ your pardon,” he added, with a lopsided grin.

She gave a silent chuckle and lifted one shoulder. “Every body’s different, I guess.”

“What are you doing down here? Hungry?” Gradually, his voice had risen from a shocked whisper to something almost conversational. With a clatter and a clang, he thrust the poker back into the iron cage that held the other fire tools.

She held up the letter and raised a finger to her lips. “I need you to take this to Lady Stalbridge.”

She had written a brief addendum to her latest column and hoped it was not too late to get it to the printer. Surely if Miss on Scene issued another salvo at Ransom Blackadder, it would redirect his patron’s attention to the business at hand. Then, during the rehearsal, Lord Dunstane would be focused on the play’s success, not on her.

“Now?” Daniel mouthed the word, eyes round. But his expression was eager, too; he was always up for an adventure.