Page 12 of A Literary Liaison
The question hung in the air between them. Edgar’s mind drifted to Lucia—the way she’d fit perfectly in his arms, the taste of tears on her lips when they’d said goodbye for the last time.
“I was capable once,” he said quietly. “Perhaps too capable.”
“Then show her. This correspondence has half of London riveted—use it.”
“Use it for what?”
“To remember who you were before guilt convinced you that you had died with her.”
The weight of truth in those words made Edgar’s chest ache. When had he stopped being a man and become merely a ghost haunting his own life?
“Your brilliant mind made Midnight Press London’s most profitable underground venture,” Hereford continued. “Who else but the Duke of Lancaster could distribute erotic literature under the authorities’ noses? Yet you act as though you’re capable of nothing but emptiness.”
“Perhaps because emptiness feels safer than the alternative.”
“Which is?”
“Feeling everything again.” Edgar’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “Risking that kind of loss twice.”
They worked in companionable silence, plotting distribution routes across London. But Edgar’s thoughts kept returning to Miss Lovelace’s challenge. She wanted to know about his grand passion? Very well.
The clock struck ten, signaling their departure for the night’s clandestine business. Edgar donned his darkest coat while Hereford checked his concealed pistol. They moved through gas-lit streets with practiced stealth, Edgar’s pulse quickening with the familiar thrill of danger.
Their contact emerged from the shadows—a grizzled printing press operator whose discretion was bought with generous coin.
“Fresh from the press,” the man said, producing a cloth-wrapped bundle.
Edgar examined the pamphlets, their pages still warm with ink. “Excellent work.” He dropped payment into the man’s palm, who vanished as quickly as he’d appeared.
“Distribution?” Hereford whispered as they walked toward their carriage.
“I’ve arranged for Royal Mail cooperation. Should expedite delivery significantly.”
“Any word on those rumors of investigation?”
“Not yet. But our literary feud provides perfect cover—everyone’s too distracted by Steele versus Lovelace to notice our real business.”
As their carriage rolled through darkened streets, Edgar fingered Miss Lovelace’s letter in his pocket. The irony wasn’t lost on him—while trading barbs about love and passion, he was simultaneously profiting from London’s baser desires.
Tomorrow, he would craft his response. The question was whether to use Lucia’s memory as a weapon against this presumptuous critic—or as the key to unlocking the heart he’d thought permanently sealed.
Miss Lovelace demanded the particulars of his grand passion. Perhaps it was time to give them to her, consequences be damned. After all, what did a dead man have left to lose?
Blood Sport
Metropolitan Review, 26 February 1840
My Esteemed Miss Lovelace,
I am thrilled to have my thoughts compared to a chamber pot, for my chamber pot is sizable.
It was her hair that undid me—a cascade of sun-kissed silver and gold against gilded grasses. As spring breezes caressed her alabaster skin, I yearned to become the wind itself, suffusing her being, entwining with her mortal form for eternity.
Without a moment’s hesitation or doubt, I found myself willing to surrender my own being, to relinquish my corporeal form, if only to become an intrinsic part of her existence.
Such, my dear Miss Lovelace, is the nature of the perfect love you bid me to describe. I lay bare before you the depths of my most intimate emotions, trusting that you will receive them with the gravity they deserve.
I remain your most humble and obedient servant,
