Read Online Secret Letters by Leah Scheier - Free Book Online Page A

new confidence wrapped tight around me. But somehow, I could not manage it. It was not a fitting thought, perhaps, especially for the daughter of the great detective, but I couldn’t help wishing that just once I could be seen as more than a useful brain.
     
    The following morning, I was hovering by the fireplace like a nervous sentry, waiting desperately for my cousin to declare her schedule for the day. I was hoping she would announce a shopping trip, a stroll across the park, or perhaps another social call; I could refuse any of those plans, and they would take Adelaide from the house and leave me free. It was not until our lunch was finished and she had settled into her armchair by the fire with a book of poetry that I realized that my window for escape had completely vanished. I shrank miserably into the sofa and tried to read her thoughts. She could not possibly intend to sit there for the entire afternoon; it was her second day in London. The Season had already started, and there were shops to visit, people to meet in drawing rooms. What was she doing ?
    Already it was two o’clock, my appointment with Cartwright was drawing near, and still she had not moved. I watched her flip, flip, flip those pages, counted clock strokes, and gnawed the lace around my sleeve. She wasn’t planning to go anywhere; that was obvious. This was my last chance to see Peter, and there was nothing I could do.
    I did not hear Cook enter, I was too busy being furious. She shuffled for a bit and cleared her throat. Adelaide looked up at her, and Cook glanced slyly at me before she spoke. “Lady Forrester, I was wondering if you wanted soup this evening. Or will you be going out?”
    “No, I had no plans today.” My cousin shrugged. “You may put the soup up, if you like.”
    I suddenly hated soup. Poetry, too, and downy armchairs, and fires, and London. I glared my feelings at our servant. She winked quietly at me and then turned back to Adelaide. “I’ve just heard of a new milliner’s shop in Knightsbridge. Supposed to be the latest styles from Paris, better than Fineman’s here on Oxford Street. Today is opening day, ma’am.”
    “That sounds rather interesting,” Adelaide responded, thumbing through her volume. “Perhaps I’ll take a look. Knightsbridge is not so very far. Dora, what do you say?”
    “Well, you ought to go, surely. Your riding hat is just a fright. But I have a little headache, so I think I’ll stay in today.”
    My cousin shrugged and slid lazily off the chair. “I will be back for supper, then. Why don’t you try Dr. Brown’s elixir? It is just the thing for headaches. You will find it on my dresser.”
    “Certainly, Adelaide,” I breathed and scurried off to fetch it.
    My cousin took an age to dress, and it was nearly half past two when she was ready to leave the house. In the meantime, I had thrown a little jacket over my walking dress and had styled my own coiffure (a snaky bun with fifteen little pins to keep the curls down); but it did not matter that it sagged a bit, for when the door shut behind her, I knew that I was finally free.
    As I flew through the servants’ entrance, Cook grinned at me and waved me on my way. “Thank you,” I called to her. “I won’t forget this!” That woman could sell the entire kitchen for all I cared; I would never breathe a word.
     
    I was at Cartwright’s flat in little less than a quarter of an hour. A cab was hardly necessary: it was only several blocks away, and I ran the distance. I wish now that I had been less eager in my entry, for I practically barreled through his door. He was lounging on the sofa when I entered, his long legs stretched out before the fire, a tent of newspapers covering his eyes. As I came in, the sheets slid off; he pushed himself forward on his elbows and regarded my breathless, glowing face with some amusement.
    “All right, Miss Joyce, I missed you too,” he smiled. “Won’t you sit down?”
    I caught a glimpse of my