Page 84 of Temptations of a Wallflower
“Of course not,” she’d replied, though she hadn’t been able to meet his gaze.
Now he brooded, certain that she found fault with him for searching for the Lady. Yet he meant what he’d said to her. He had one final lead to track down, and if it came to naught, then he would completely abandon his quest and give up his allowance. He and Sarah would return to Rosemead, there to resume their interrupted lives.
A footman entered the parlor, bearing a silver tray with a letter on it. Wordlessly, the servant handed Jeremy the missive before bowing and taking his leave.
Jeremy frowned over the letter. He didn’t recognize the handwriting. His expression still dark, he opened it.
Sir,
I have the item. Meet me at the park in Hackney in half an hour.
There was no signature, but none was necessary. Jeremy knew who it was from and what needed to be done.
After checking on Sarah, who napped in the bedroom, he donned his coat and hat and headed for thepark. Soon all this uncertainty and strain would be over, and everything would go back to normal.
The unnamed park in Hackney was a small square of green, tucked away in a slightly shabby northeast corner of the city. As Jeremy approached it, he observed a man in a somewhat faded jacket sitting on a bench, a brown-paper-wrapped parcel perched beside him. Both the man and the parcel were the objects of Jeremy’s mission.
Here Jeremy was, a man of God, on a clandestine errand. Granted, it was for moral purposes, but it was being carried out in a slightly immoral way. He now immersed himself in the shadier side of life.
Without looking at the poorly shaven man, Jeremy sat down, the package between them.
“Is that it, then?” Jeremy asked, staring out at the scrubby trees surrounded by low iron fences.
“The handwritten manuscript for the latest Lady of Dubious Quality book, aye,” the man answered. “It’s supposed to go straight from our printing house back to the publisher, but I did like you said and nicked it before it could make the journey. I’ll say it went missing.”
“Will you get into trouble?”
The man shrugged. “Might get a talking to, but you said you’d make it worth my while.”
Jeremy handed over a purse heavy with coin. The man tested its weight in his palm before pocketing it. “That’ll do nicely,” he said with a wry smile. “What do you want with that thing, anyway, Vicar? Going to publish your own edition? Have a read and a frig?” He leered. “Think your congregation will want to hear it for Sunday sermon?”
“None of your business,” Jeremy snapped. “You’ve got your payment, now our business is concluded.”
“As you like, Vicar.” The man stood, and then, after a mocking little bow, ambled off.
Jeremy sat alone with the paper-wrapped parcel beside him. After his outing with Marwood, Jeremy had checked on who printed the books, then gone to the printer’s office and, after making discreet inquiries, found a clerk who was willing to go behind his employer’s back.
Jeremy wasn’t entirely certain what it might tell him—other than, perhaps, the true sex of the author, as revealed by the handwriting—but he was grasping at straws now. Searching for any clue he could obtain in order to appease his father.
Given Sarah’s misgivings about uncovering the Lady’s identity, he hoped that the manuscript would tell him nothing and that his search would finally be at an end. Especially now that he’d found contentment with his life, with Sarah as his wife. He didn’t want to be his father’s errand boy anymore. It was time to fully embrace his role as a husband, as a man with a profession.
He set the parcel in his lap. Strangely, his hands hovered over the twine used to tie it up. Coldness passed over him. He looked up, convinced a shadow had crossed the sun. But the sky remained pale and empty.
Pushing away the odd feeling of foreboding, he untied the twine and set it aside. He did the same with the brown paper surrounding the manuscript. He held the naked pages in his gloved hands.
Here it is. Now what?
Perhaps, as he’d suspected, there were some hints or signs in the writing. He didn’t expect the author to write her name and address on the pages, not when she’d gone to so much trouble to ensure her privacy. The penmanship was distinctly feminine, so it was highly likely that she was, as her name indicated, a woman. But other than that, what did he learn?
It was peculiarly intimate to read the Lady’s own handwriting. As though she was penning him a private letter, meant only for his eyes. A letter that contained the most earthy, sensual imaginings. Despite his intention to remain as impartial as possible, his groin stirred, and his pulse increased.
Dymphna cast a lascivious look at the groom. The man was strapping as the stallions he cared for, tall and muscular. He glowed with virility and barely contained sensual impulses. Dymphna could not wait to test his constitution. Her breasts ached for his touch and her quim dampened.
No, he had to stay focused on his task. Shaking his head as if to clear it, he continued to read, searching for anything—marginalia, notes to the editor—that might give some hint as to who the author was.
Yet . . . something seemed peculiarly familiar about the manuscript. As if he’d read it before. But that was impossible. This was a new book, never before printed. He couldn’t have seen it at another time. What was it that seemed to ring so clearly in his memory?
. . . the handwriting.
