Page 48 of Temptations of a Wallflower
“A letter for you, Lady Sarah,” said a footman, appearing with a silver tray.
“Invitations go to my mother first,” she answered.
“This looks like a regular letter,” the servant said. “If a trifle big. And it’s addressed to you, not Her Grace.”
Sarah took the large envelope, frowning. She seldom received much direct correspondence. Nearly all the letters went through the duchess before Sarah looked at them, since most that came to the house during the Season were generally invites to one social gathering or another.
She recognized the handwriting on the envelope as her third-party intermediary who carefully routed all her Lady of Dubious Quality letters to her. The intermediary was a crossing sweep who collected mail for her from a pub in Bishopsgate, and he was well versed in keeping anyone off his trail.
“Thank you, Paul,” she said, dismissing the servant.
As soon as he bowed and left, she was on her feet at once, breaking the wafers on the envelope.
One was from her publisher. The other was from Mrs. Hart. She read them both in quick succession. The first alarmed her. The second terrified her.
The coded letter from her publisher informed her that Amina, of the masquerade house, had let him know that a man in a blue mask had been looking for a woman in gold, a woman, he seemed to intimate, who was also the Lady of Dubious Quality.
The second missive came from the proprietress of the shop that served as “Mrs. Chalbury’s” residence. Mrs. Hart informed Sarah that, per her instructions, she kept track of anyone searching for a woman by that fictitious name. And a man had, in fact, been in recently, asking after Mrs. Chalbury. What should Mrs. Hart do if anyone was to return and ask more questions?
Sarah immediately hurried to the fire and threw the letters on the blaze. She watched the paper blacken and flake, but it was a futile hope to wish that the fire could erase the danger.
For danger it was. Fear clawed at Sarah, climbing up her throat as she paced the length of the room, back and forth. Someone was searching out her true identity and was coming so close, so terribly close, to discovering the truth.
God—if that was the case? What was she to do? If anyone found out who she was . . . She would be ruined. Cast out from polite Society. Her parents’ reputations would be in tatters. Everything would be ripped apart, never to be repaired again.
She had to do something to fix this. But what?
She couldn’t think while trapped within the walls of her family’s home.
In a moment, she’d rung for her maid and announced that they would be heading to McKinnon’s. She’d no desire to peruse books, but it gave her a destination, an objective, since she couldn’t just wander the streets of London in a panicked fog.
After donning her bonnet and redingote, and with her maid keeping pace behind her, Sarah quickly made her way down the front steps.
“The carriage, my lady?” her maid asked.
She shook her head. “On foot today.”
Her servant didn’t look particularly happy with the news that they would be walking, especially since McKinnon’s was at least two miles away, but Sarah was too distracted and fearful to do more than allow herself to move. So she strode with long, unladylike paces toward the bookshop, her mind in a fury of agitation.
What was she to do? How could she protect herself with danger lurking so close? Even if she were to abandon writing—which she could never do, since it was so much a part of herself that she might as well cut off her hands—it wouldn’t stop the threat that prowled near. As a single woman of good name and sterling virtue, her position was desperately precarious. She had nothing to protect her. Only her parents and their title, but a young woman without a husband was still all too vulnerable.
Was that the answer? Marriage?
If she did take a husband, she would have the protection of his name.
There was one girl who’d been out a few years ago—Miss Crane, the daughter of a country gentleman. Miss Crane had been a bit wild, given to trips toBrighton and Bath, associating with soldiers and fast company. Rumors had flown about her . . . until she’d taken a husband. She’d been a wild bride, too, but the gossip had almost completely stopped as soon as she’d wed. Miss Crane, now Lady Beauchamp, was never turned away from any door. She was whispered about, but with more amusement than shock and revulsion. Amusement was far less damaging than horror.
In some ways, a wife had more freedom than an unmarried woman. Though she was her husband’s possession, she traded one kind of liberty for another. She didn’t need to shelter her reputation as much. She wasn’t looked at as though she was in constant danger of having her chastity assailed or challenged.
Wives had power that unmarried young women did not.
As Sarah hurried from the west toward the commercial center of London, her thoughts kept spinning, traveling leagues in a second when her feet could only take her a few miles an hour.
Perhaps Sarah would be protected from slander by the asset of being someone’s wife.
“My lady,” her maid huffed behind her. “Please . . . slow down . . . I can’t keep . . . up.”
“Sorry,” Sarah answered distractedly, trying to shorten her paces.
