LITMIR.BIZ

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“Do not trouble yourself, Mr. Knighton. Really, my vanity can survive a morning without it being complimented.”

      She sent Lucy a warning glance, which her cousin, of course, ignored. Sinking onto the chair beside hers, Lucy reached for a cup of tea and brought it to her mouth for a delicate sip before replacing the cup in the saucer with a slight chink. “You must tell us what is so exciting, Mr. Knighton.”

      “I am to be initiated into the Brotherhood, my lady. The Masons,” Wendell said with a mix of pride and awe.

      “Are you?” Lucy asked. “Did my father offer to sponsor you?”

      “In fact, no. Lord Black did.”

      “Black?” Lucy asked, her auburn brow furled as she glanced at her.

      Wendell took a sip of his tea, then nodded. “Indeed, Black. Very amiable fellow. There is to be a special meeting tonight, an initiation which I will not be privy to. But before that, Black will offer to sponsor me.”

      Lucy slid her gaze to Isabella. “Well, then, I do believe you are free tonight, cousin.”

      Isabella hid a groan. Not that séance business again. Her head was paining her, and she felt queasy, and the thought of attending Lucy’s morbid curiosity only made her feel worse.

      “Oh, yes, please,” Wendell said as he rose from the settee. “Please, Miss Fairmont, go out and enjoy the evening. There will be few nice ones left before the winter comes. Do not let my plans interfere with yours.”

      Isabella accepted Wendell’s hand and allowed him to help her from her chair. With a chaste kiss, he kissed her hand, then reached for his hat. “Good day, Miss Fairmont. Please do enjoy it.”

      They watched him leave the parlor, and when the door closed behind him, Isabella sunk into an ungraceful heap onto the chair. She felt … let down for some reason, but why, she could not fathom. Wendell’s visit had been like all his other ones, and she had never felt anything less then satisfied when he had left.

      Lucy must have known her thoughts, for she kept her lips pressed firmly together as she toyed with an imaginary speck of lint on her skirts.

      “I wonder what Lord Black is playing at, sponsoring Mr. Knighton?”

      Isabella took a sip of her tea. “Perhaps he is just being kind, Luce. Not everyone has ulterior motives.”

      Lucy’s gaze met hers. “Think back to our conversation last night, Issy. Did I not tell you that Black would not be deterred?”

      “Deterred from what?”

      Like a sly kitten, Lucy smiled. “You know very well from what.”

      “In fact, I don’t. What is it you’re trying to say?” Isabella asked, irritability making her voice sharper than she intended. The mild headache she had been suffering under all morning became a loud and painful throbbing. Now she knew for certain, it was one of those headaches, she thought. Rubbing her temple, she tried focusing on her cousin.

      “What I am trying to make you see, dear Issy, is that Black has just removed an obstacle.”

      Isabella dropped her hand from her temple. “I beg your pardon? I’m not following your line of thinking.”

      “He has removed Knighton from your side, and quite effectively, in fact, for Mr. Knighton will be studying for weeks to make it through the first degrees, thereby leaving you alone, and available for the evenings.”

      The door opened, thankfully relieving Isabella of the task of rebutting Lucy’s wild suggestion. Stonebrook’s butler, Jennings, appeared, his face austere and wrinkled. He was ancient and frightfully proper. Isabella had been terrified of him when she had first come to live with Lucy and her father. But since that time, she had softened to crusty old Jennings.

      “For you, miss.”

      Jennings presented a silver salver with one perfect bloodred bloom, with an ivory card attached to the stem by a black satin ribbon.

      “For me?” she asked, even though she could read quite clearly that the card had her name written on it, in bold, black lettering.

      “Indeed,” Jennings murmured.

      “Thank you,” she returned as she lifted the delicate flower from its resting place. Oh, it was perfect. And the sender had removed the leaves and thorns as well.

      Jennings departed, and with a quick glance at her cousin, who was pressing forward in her chair, Isabella turned the card over and noted that there was no seal imprinted on the wax. The only thing keeping the edges together was a large blob of black wax.

      “Well?” Lucy asked. “I can hardly bear the suspense, Issy. Open the blasted thing.”

      “Your language,” Isabella reprimanded her, feeling every bit as anxious as Lucy.

      “Oh, get on with it,” Lucy commanded. “It’s only you and I, for mercy’s sake.”

      The wax seal broke, and she opened the card to more of the elegant black script.

       ‘Tis the last rose of summer

       Left blooming alone;

       All her lovely companions

       Are faded and gone;

       No flower of her kindred,

       No rosebud is nigh

       To reflect back her blushes

       To give sigh for sigh.

       I dreamed of your sighs last night, Isabella—a most haunting, beautiful sound that I hope, most fervently, I might hear again very soon.

       Your servant, Black

      Isabella tried to hastily fold the card before Lucy could read it. But her cousin was too quick, and managed to read Lord Black’s missive before she could hide the card.

      “Well,” Lucy drawled with amusement, “how could Lord Black know that you have a fondness for Thomas Moore’s poetry?”

      Puzzled, Isabella looked up at her cousin. “I don’t know.”

      With a smile Lucy breezed past her then stopped at the door. With a glance over her shoulder, she said, “You know, Issy, I would bet my dowry that Lord Black would not command you to see to your own amusement in the evenings—not like Mr. Knighton. Something tells me that Black would keep you exceedingly busy, and delightfully amused, all night long.”

      CHAPTER FOUR

      PALL MALL AND COCKSPUR STREETS were bustling with trade. Elegant carriages transported the rich and fashionable down the cobbles for an afternoon of shopping, while wooden carts carrying fresh vegetables and apples wound their way to Covent Garden where the goods would go up for sale in the market.

      On the sidewalks, people walked shoulder to shoulder, some in a hurry to carry out their business, others at a more leisurely pace, stopping occasionally to peer into a shop window or to purchase a newspaper from one of the many young boys selling them on the street corners.

      “Wolf escaped from London Zoo! Still at large!” called one such boy as Isabella passed him.

      “Mystery in Spitalfields!” cried another. “Bodies found murdered! Read all about it in the Standard!”

      Pressing on, Isabella ignored the chilling headlines of the day and continued down Cockspur Street to Jacobson’s, the preeminent apothecary in London. Her headache would not give up, not even after a pot of tea and a nap. When she’d left the house, Lucy was still napping, so Isabella had taken a footman with her. The footman, Isabella noted, was lingering behind, talking to a buxom shopgirl who was trying to sell the young man a haunch of pork—and other wares, Isabella was certain. It didn’t matter that she was

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