Page 25 of A Literary Liaison
“Mmm. He learned a great deal in India, it seems. Though sometimes I wonder what else he learned there.” Amelia leaned back, studying Elisha’s face. “But something’s got you practically vibrating with excitement, and I doubt it’s my brother’s diplomatic skills.”
Elisha pulled Steele’s letter from her pocket, holding it like a prize. “Mr. Steele has thrown down a rather spectacular gauntlet.”
Amelia straightened her back, wincing slightly. “Do tell!”
“He wants Miss Lovelace to prove her understanding of romance by writing a novel of her own.” Elisha’s loose curls bounced with each eager gesture. “To be published under yet another pseudonym and judged against his own new work.”
“Good Lord! The arrogance of the man!” Amelia exclaimed, though admiration flickered in her eyes. “I must admit, however, it’s rather brilliant. What are the stakes?”
“If I win, he makes a charitable donation. If he wins…” Elisha’s lips curved. “Miss Lovelace must write him a glowing review and cease critiquing romantic literature for a year.”
“That seems rather uneven,” Amelia frowned. “Your reputation—”
“What if I counter with a specific sum? Say, five hundred pounds sterling for the literacy program?”
Amelia’s eyes widened. “Five hundred… Elisha, that would fund the program for years! We could expand to more workhouses, hire actual teachers instead of relying on volunteers…” She paused, her expression growing shrewd. “Though I notice you’re more concerned with the program’s funding than protecting Miss Lovelace’s reputation.”
“Perhaps Miss Lovelace could benefit from putting her theories to the test,” Elisha said softly. “After all, it’s one thing to critique passion and quite another to create it.”
“Speaking of passion…” Amelia’s tone turned sly. “I saw how the Duke of Lancaster looked at you at the soirée. And now this challenge from Mr. Steele… You seem to be attracting quite a lot of masculine attention lately.”
Elisha’s hands stilled on Amelia’s shoulders. “The duke is a notorious rake who probably saw me as a novel challenge. And Mr. Steele…” She sighed. “Mr. Steele doesn’t even know who I really am.”
“Perhaps that’s why this is the perfect opportunity.” Amelia turned to face her friend. “You can write about love without the constraints of being Elisha Linde, feared correspondent, or Miss Lovelace, feared critic. You can be someone entirely new.”
Elisha’s gaze drifted to the darkening streets outside, where gas lamps were beginning to glow like earthbound stars. “A chance to prove myself as just… a writer.”
“Exactly.” Amelia squeezed her hand.
Elisha moved to her desk, pulling out fresh paper and dipping her pen. The challenge of the novel lay before her, but so did other, moreimmediate concerns. Thornton’s curiosity, Lancaster’s unsettling attention, and now this wager with Steele… When had her life become so complicated?
But as she began to write, she couldn’t quite suppress a smile. After all, complications made for the best stories.
The Wager
Metropolitan Review, 1 April 1840
Dear Mr. Steele,
I hope you were not overwhelmed with regret after issuing me a challenge, for after much deliberation, I have decided to accept. I must, however, make one exception.
Should you win, I cannot refrain from critiquing, as it would negatively impact theMetropolitan Review. Therefore, I shall organize and host a literary salon in your honor, inviting the most influential members of London’s literary society.
May I inquire as to the amount of your charitable donation upon my victory? I’m afraid anything less than five hundred pounds sterling will not suffice. Of course, you will need to make a public acknowledgment of my superior literary prowess as well.
I must confess, your challenge has stirred within me emotions I had not felt so deeply for some time—trepidation about your inability to pay the sum and excitement about your public tribute to yours truly. I suggest you reduce the size of your bowl and chamber pot so that you may squirrel away the requisite funds.
May our pens be sharp and our minds sharper still.
Your most determined critic,
E. Lovelace
Steel sang against steel in the fencing salon, the afternoon light catching the blades with each strike. Edgar pressed forward with a combination of attacks, each thrust carrying the momentum of hisracing thoughts.
“She accepted,” he said, his blade meeting Hereford’s with a sharp clash. “Miss Lovelace actually accepted.”
“En garde!” Hereford called, barely deflecting a particularly aggressive thrust. “I sense this bout has become about more than mere practice. What’s got you so fired up, man?”
