James arched an eyebrow. “Naturally. I’m not a thief.”
Greene glanced at the shambles that was his printing works. But he didn’t utter a word.
“Did you have enough money?” James asked his coachman when he went downstairs.
“Yes, m’lord. With three and six left over.”
“Keep it.”
James and Gerald fitted themselves in around the boxes of books. “That was fun,” Gerald said as they drove off. “Filthy work, though. Ruined my gloves.” He pulled his ink-stained gloves off and tossed them out of the window. “Probably wrecked my boots, too, but it was worth it.” After a moment he added, “Lucky your coachman had enough change on him.”
James gave him a sideways glance. “Luck never came into it. You should know from your years in the army that preparation is all.”
“Of course. Clever.” After a moment Gerald asked, “What will you do with all these books?”
“Burn ’em.”
They drove in silence for a while. “You don’t look as happy as I expected,” Gerald said. “I thought it went quite well.”
James shook his head. “These damned leather-bound copies are still out there.”
“Oh hell, I never thought of that. How many do you think went out?”
“Twenty-four, not counting your mother’s copy. I got the list from Greene while you were busy smashing things.”
* * *
* * *
You can’t be sure that’s what they were whispering about,” Lucy insisted. She and Alice had returned from seeing Miss Chance. Alice had found the experience uncomfortable. The minute they’d arrived, two ladies in the shop had fallen silent. Then they’d started whispering, glancing at Alice from time to time as they did.
Miss Chance had taken her and Lucy into the back for a private consultation, and when they returned, all the other ladies in the shop were covertly staring at Alice, some with expressions of sympathy, others with ill-disguised salacious glee. It was obvious to her that they knew about the letters.
“I think we can assume that it was,” Alice said. “Gossip travels like wildfire.”
Tweed was hovering, looking concerned. He didn’t know quite what was up, but he could tell she wasn’t herself. Alice ordered tea and biscuits.
Lucy frowned. “What are we going to do about the Reynolds’s ball tomorrow night?”
What indeed? Alice was warmed by Lucy’s use of we, indicating she would loyally stand by Alice. But by tomorrow night, barely a soul in the ton would be unaware of the letters. Word of mouth would happen first—whispers carried from house to house during morning calls, and details shared and discussed, details of the most humiliating moments of her past brought to life by Thaddeus’s clever, vicious pen.
Scandalous stories about one of their own. Servants would be sent to the bookshops, the books would fly off the shelves and later be passed around.
James and Gerald arrived and Alice called for more biscuits and a fresh pot. James asked for a fire to be lit, which was odd because it wasn’t a cold day, but she asked Tweed to light the fire anyway.
While the fire was getting started and the tea and biscuits were being handed around, Gerald enthusiastically described their adventure at the publisher’s.
“And now, here’s something for you,” James said, passing a small bundle to Alice. A thick sheaf of letters bound with a puce ribbon.
And suddenly Alice realized why he’d wanted a fire lit. She received the letters with nerveless fingers.
“You do want to destroy them, I presume,” James said when she’d sat in silence for several minutes.
“Oh yes, oh yes indeed.” She knelt before the fire, pulled the ribbon off and fed the letters one by one into the fire. She watched as each one smoked and twisted, then burst into flames. Sparks danced up the chimney, leaving a pile of gray ash behind.
With every letter burned, she felt lighter, freer. It was a cathartic experience—she was purging herself of Thaddeus, finally and forever.
The last letter curled up and crumpled into ash, and she dusted off her hands and rose. Turning, she saw the little red leather book sitting on the side table. She would like to burn it, too, but it would make a terrible stench, and she didn’t want it polluting her home. The purge was not yet complete, but she felt so much better already. “Did you secure all the copies?” she asked.
“All but the leather-bound copies that were sent out in advance,” James said.
“Like that one of Mama’s.” Gerald indicated his copy.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get them back,” James assured her. “There are only twenty-four, and I have a list.”
Yes, but if Almeria had already read it cover to cover, then others would have. Alice could tell by his somber expression that James knew that. Pandora’s box was already open.
“Maybe we should send our apologies to Lady Reynolds,” Lucy said. “She and Sir Alan are very kind—they’ll understand.”
“Lord, yes, the Reynolds’s ball tomorrow night,” Gerald exclaimed. “I forgot about that. Of course you won’t want to go.”
James nodded. “If you like, I could take you—and my girls—Lucy, too, of course—to Towers, my country estate. We could stay there as long as you want, wait until this thing blows over.”
Alice sipped her tea in silence. Run from the gossip? Hide?
Thaddeus had already done his best to ruin her life. Now it was Bamber using Thaddeus’s words from the grave—and what a fool she’d been to trust the promise of a blackmailer. She thought about her sister-in-law, Almeria, avidly devouring the letters that shamed her. She thought about the ladies in Miss Chance’s shop and their ill-natured whispering.
She put down her cup with a snap. “I’ve had enough.” They all looked at her cup, which was three-quarters full. “I won’t run. I won’t hide. I refuse to be a victim a moment longer.”
They blinked at her in surprise. “I am eight-and-thirty years old, and I don’t care what others think of me—especially ill-natured gossips who mouth pious words of sympathy while secretly enjoying my misfortune.”
She gestured to the ash in the fireplace. “I am not the same girl whose misery those letters described so despicably. I am a different woman now—my own woman—and I refuse to hide away from awkward social encounters or cower in the country, no matter how beautiful and welcoming I’m sure Towers is.”
Her glance took in all of them. “This horrid little book will reveal people for who they truly are. You, my friends, offered instant support. There will be a few others, I know. And those who don’t, those who secretly revel in what they will see as my humiliation—well, who needs that sort of friend anyway? Not I.” She rose to her feet. “And I am going to the ball.”