Page 26 of A Literary Liaison
Edgar advanced again, his movements reflecting his inner turmoil. “The stakes,” he said between exchanges. “They’re not enough. A literary salon? It’s…” He broke off as Hereford nearly caught him with a clever riposte. “It’s too easy.”
Hereford stepped back, lowering his foil. “And what would satisfy the great Aengus Steele? Or should I say, the even greater Duke of Lancaster?”
Edgar removed his mask, his face flushed and breathless with more than just exertion. “What if… she had to serve as his personal secretary for a month?”
“Good God!” Hereford’s eyebrows shot up. “Having the caustic Miss Lovelace at your beck and call? That’s deliciously cruel.”
“And a public reading,” Edgar continued, warming to the idea even as something twisted uncomfortably in his chest. “In Hyde Park. Let her proclaim the greatness of my prose to all of London.”
“Lancaster…” Hereford studied him thoughtfully. “This feels rather personal for a mere literary debate. Has Miss Lovelace struck a nerve?”
Edgar turned away, ostensibly to retrieve his water flask. “Perhaps.” His mind drifted to Elisha again—her fierce intelligence, her proud bearing. Would she show the same fire as Miss Lovelace if she knew his author identity? “Though lately I find myself more intrigued by another lady.”
“Ah, yes, the writer.” Hereford’s tone was knowing. “How does it feel, pursuing one woman while plotting the humiliation of another?”
Edgar’s hand tightened on his foil. “When you put it that way, itsounds rather ungentlemanly.”
“And yet you persist.” Hereford raised his blade again. “So what name will you publish under? Since Steele must remain anonymous in this challenge.”
Edgar parried Hereford’s attack, his movements almost distracted. “I was thinking… Edmund C. A.”
“Your brother’s name?” Hereford’s blade faltered in surprise. “He’ll be furious.”
“Perhaps.” Edgar executed a perfect lunge, scoring a hit. “But there’s something fitting about it. Edmund always was the better man—more honorable, more genuine. Everything I pretend to be as Steele.”
“And everything Miss Linde seems to inspire you to want to be?” Hereford’s observation struck as precisely as any blade.
Edgar lowered his foil, suddenly weary. “God help me, Hereford. What am I doing? Playing at being Steele, coveting Miss Linde’s good opinion, plotting to humiliate Miss Lovelace…”
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” Hereford agreed, removing his mask. “The question is, what matters more: winning the game or becoming the man worthy of Miss Linde’s heart?”
Edgar stared at his reflection in the polished blade of his foil, seeing the duke, the author, and somewhere beneath it all, the man he might yet become. “The truly damning thing is… I’m no longer certain.”
“Then perhaps,” Hereford said quietly, “this challenge is about more than just literary prowess.”
Edgar raised his blade once more, falling into position. “Again,” he commanded, needing the physical exertion to quiet his troubled thoughts. As their blades met once more, he couldn’t help but wonder if this battle with steel could ever resolve the one waging in his heart.
*
Metropolitan Review, 4 April 1840
My Most Esteemed Miss Lovelace,
I am delighted that you have accepted my challenge. Your trepidation is noted, and I assure you, I will employ a part-time valet who only irons the visible portions of my shirts. If you would be so good as to raise a carrier pigeon, I could save on Penny Blacks as well.
While I find your suggestion of a literary salon charming, it may not fully capture the spirit of our wager. Therefore, I propose the following amendments to our agreement:
In the event of your defeat, you shall serve as my personal secretary for one month and read passages from my winning tale aloud at Hyde Park, one day a week for a month.
Should you emerge victorious, I shall indeed make a public acknowledgment of your superior understanding of romantic literature. Furthermore, I shall give a charitable donation of 1000 pounds sterling to an organization of your choosing.
I believe these terms more accurately reflect the magnitude of our challenge and the stakes at hand. After all, if we are to engage in this literary duel, should we not commit ourselves fully to the fray?
Your most determined servant,
Aengus Steele
“The utter gall of that insufferable man!” She thrust the letter toward Amelia, rising from her chair in a rustle of modest brown muslin. “Read for yourself what he proposes as our wager!”
