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Authors: Suzanne Adair
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story
unless she officially accepted the assignment. Fair enough. "Prescott
won't mind rewriting. Attorneys do it
all the time, and he seems to enjoy it more than most."
"I'd
insist that you cover Enid's expenses from your salary," growled Badley.
Helen shrugged,
nonchalant. "Oh, before I forget,
what did you say was the name of the editor at the Chronicle , the one
who founded the new magazine?"
"That's
entirely superfluous information for you."
She glowered a
bluff back at him. "I don't have
time for this nonsense. Good day."
"Samuel
Kerr!" Badley barked.
"And how
did you and Mr. Fairfax become associated in pursuit of such a righteous
cause?"
"A mutual
acquaintance. Lieutenant Adam
Neville."
Adam Neville:
no doubt she'd hear the name again. "Yes, tea sounds delightful, Mr. Badley. Thank you for inviting me." And she lowered herself to the cushion with grace.
Chapter Seven
BY THE TIME the
affair concluded, she felt a migraine in her left temple: less from Badley's
jabber and Fairfax's observations of their interaction than from the suspicion
that somewhere during the afternoon, she'd sold her soul to the devil. As if to assuage her uneasiness over her
capitulation, Badley had handed her the advance she demanded — more than enough
for her to hire an attorney — and notes to mantua-makers and a shoemaker in
town with whom he'd contracted. Her
appointments with them on the morrow guaranteed her a wardrobe for the assignment
equal in stylishness to that which she'd sold to help pay off Silas's
debts. Most women would be giddy with
delight. Instead, Helen had a headache.
What happened
to David? Had he escaped
Wilmington? Would she ever see him
again?
Half a block
from Badley's house, faux-Carolina accent honeyed the air behind her. "Dear sister, hold up so we might
chat."
Over her
shoulder, she spotted Fairfax on horseback, trotting to overtake her, every
movement that of a gentleman planter, five men on horseback accompanying
him. She continued walking, and he
caught up with her afoot. At a discreet
distance, his men followed, still mounted, his horse in tow. She said, "Major André took acting
lessons from the wrong coxcomb."
"Thank
you, madam." The Carolina honey
fled his voice, and a faint smile on his lips didn't carry to his eyes, the
color of green quartz. "You
intrigue me. You identified me by name
and rank in the parlor this afternoon before Badley had even introduced
us."
Her skin
crawled. "What are you talking
about?"
"He
introduced us after we'd sat for tea, but just a few minutes earlier, you'd
said to him, 'Mr. Badley, I will not participate in an assignment with Lieutenant
Fairfax on the terms you specified yesterday.'"
Anxiety drove a
flush into her cheeks. Gods, she'd
slipped, and Fairfax had picked up on it. How could she prevent herself from blundering like that again? She scowled, building bluster. "Badley told me your name yesterday
while he and I were having tea."
"Good of
you to clarify that." He affected
a disarming shrug, his eyes cold. "I presumed David St. James warned you about me during his visit
early this morning."
"I've
already said —"
"— you
don't know him, oh, that's right. Well,
then, why not save us all some time and tell me what old Badley is up to?"
She stared
ahead, tried to calm her pulse. "Is old Badley up to something?"
"The London
Chronicle has no editor named Samuel Kerr."
Eyes widened
with surprise, she swiveled her head to look at him. "Are you certain of that, Mr. Fairfax?"
"Dunstan. Dunstan Fairfax. Yes, I'm as certain of it as I am that Sutton and Miles haven't
been in business above five years."
She frowned at
him. "Sutton and Miles? Who are they?"
"The
makers of that fashionable hat adorning your bedpost."
Heat snaked up
her neck. She jerked back around and
again focused ahead.
He never
gives up on a scent , David had said.
unless she officially accepted the assignment. Fair enough. "Prescott
won't mind rewriting. Attorneys do it
all the time, and he seems to enjoy it more than most."
"I'd
insist that you cover Enid's expenses from your salary," growled Badley.
Helen shrugged,
nonchalant. "Oh, before I forget,
what did you say was the name of the editor at the Chronicle , the one
who founded the new magazine?"
"That's
entirely superfluous information for you."
She glowered a
bluff back at him. "I don't have
time for this nonsense. Good day."
"Samuel
Kerr!" Badley barked.
"And how
did you and Mr. Fairfax become associated in pursuit of such a righteous
cause?"
"A mutual
acquaintance. Lieutenant Adam
Neville."
Adam Neville:
no doubt she'd hear the name again. "Yes, tea sounds delightful, Mr. Badley. Thank you for inviting me." And she lowered herself to the cushion with grace.
Chapter Seven
BY THE TIME the
affair concluded, she felt a migraine in her left temple: less from Badley's
jabber and Fairfax's observations of their interaction than from the suspicion
that somewhere during the afternoon, she'd sold her soul to the devil. As if to assuage her uneasiness over her
capitulation, Badley had handed her the advance she demanded — more than enough
for her to hire an attorney — and notes to mantua-makers and a shoemaker in
town with whom he'd contracted. Her
appointments with them on the morrow guaranteed her a wardrobe for the assignment
equal in stylishness to that which she'd sold to help pay off Silas's
debts. Most women would be giddy with
delight. Instead, Helen had a headache.
What happened
to David? Had he escaped
Wilmington? Would she ever see him
again?
Half a block
from Badley's house, faux-Carolina accent honeyed the air behind her. "Dear sister, hold up so we might
chat."
Over her
shoulder, she spotted Fairfax on horseback, trotting to overtake her, every
movement that of a gentleman planter, five men on horseback accompanying
him. She continued walking, and he
caught up with her afoot. At a discreet
distance, his men followed, still mounted, his horse in tow. She said, "Major André took acting
lessons from the wrong coxcomb."
"Thank
you, madam." The Carolina honey
fled his voice, and a faint smile on his lips didn't carry to his eyes, the
color of green quartz. "You
intrigue me. You identified me by name
and rank in the parlor this afternoon before Badley had even introduced
us."
Her skin
crawled. "What are you talking
about?"
"He
introduced us after we'd sat for tea, but just a few minutes earlier, you'd
said to him, 'Mr. Badley, I will not participate in an assignment with Lieutenant
Fairfax on the terms you specified yesterday.'"
Anxiety drove a
flush into her cheeks. Gods, she'd
slipped, and Fairfax had picked up on it. How could she prevent herself from blundering like that again? She scowled, building bluster. "Badley told me your name yesterday
while he and I were having tea."
"Good of
you to clarify that." He affected
a disarming shrug, his eyes cold. "I presumed David St. James warned you about me during his visit
early this morning."
"I've
already said —"
"— you
don't know him, oh, that's right. Well,
then, why not save us all some time and tell me what old Badley is up to?"
She stared
ahead, tried to calm her pulse. "Is old Badley up to something?"
"The London
Chronicle has no editor named Samuel Kerr."
Eyes widened
with surprise, she swiveled her head to look at him. "Are you certain of that, Mr. Fairfax?"
"Dunstan. Dunstan Fairfax. Yes, I'm as certain of it as I am that Sutton and Miles haven't
been in business above five years."
She frowned at
him. "Sutton and Miles? Who are they?"
"The
makers of that fashionable hat adorning your bedpost."
Heat snaked up
her neck. She jerked back around and
again focused ahead.
He never
gives up on a scent , David had said.
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