Page 54 of A Literary Liaison
“My men followed her to the outskirts of town last night. She took considerable precaution against being followed. Quite skilled at it, actually.” Adams’ tone held a note of admiration. “She led us to a small print shop. The proprietor, Mr. Symon, seems a decent sort. Takes precautions, keeps no records.” Adams cleared his throat. “However, others have begun asking questions. It may not remain secure much longer.”
Edgar rose and leaned against the windowpane, his shoulders burdened by this news. The London night spread before him, a maze of shadows and gaslit streets where Elisha moved in secret, risking everything for her beliefs. “Buy the shop. Install someone trustworthy, someone who’ll create identical plates with slight variations. If authorities seize them—”
“They’ll believe they have the wrong press,” Adams finished, nodding in approval. “Clever. And the real plates?”
“We’ll find a new home here, alongside our other ventures.” Edgar’s lips curved slightly. “After all, who would suspect the duke of harboring radical literature alongside his collection of erotic tales?”
Adams studied his friend’s face with obvious concern. “This is dangerous territory, Lancaster. If you’re caught protecting reform writers…”
“Then I’ll have excellent company in Newgate,” Edgar replied dryly. “Set up the purchase. And Adams?” He caught his friend’s eye. “Have your men keep watching her. Discreetly.”
After Adams departed, Edgar returned to his desk, pulling out fresh paper. If he was to truly help her cause, he would need to expand his distribution network. He recalled a conversation he had overheard about the proprietor of the Royal Mail Coach Company retiring. Perhaps it was time the Mayfair Mavericks found a more meaningful pursuit than mere pleasure.
But first, he had a letter to write—one that would provoke Miss Lovelace into accepting his grand challenge.
Edgar winced as he composed the letter. Writing such harsh words to Elisha felt like driving daggers into his own heart, but it was necessary for their plan. She would be furious—and that fury would drive her to accept his challenge, setting their grand scheme in motion.
*
Several days later,Edgar found himself in his carriage, heading to Lancaster Hall. The wheels crunched rhythmically against the gravel drive, each rotation bringing him closer to the ancestral seat of the Dukes of Lancaster. Through the carriage window, weak afternoon sunlight filtered through a veil of clouds, casting the imposing Georgian facade in shades of amber and shadow. Edgar leaned back against the plush leather seat, his fingers drumming an irregular pattern on his thigh as the familiar weight of expectation and guiltsettled over him.
As the carriage drew to a halt before the grand entrance, Edgar caught sight of Simmons waiting at attention. The elderly butler had served the Lancaster family for three decades, his silver hair and lined face as much a part of Lancaster as its weathered stone walls.
“Your Grace, we had not expected you.” Simmons’ voice held carefully measured surprise. “Shall I inform the duchess of your arrival?”
“Yes, Simmons, thank you,” Edgar replied, surrendering his hat and gloves. The familiar scent of beeswax and leather enveloped him as he stepped into the entrance hall. “I’ll be in the blue drawing room.”
The blue drawing room had always been his mother’s favorite, its walls adorned with the accumulated treasures of generations of Lancasters. As Edgar paced the Turkish carpet, his gaze traced the familiar contours of antique vases and ornate picture frames. Each object seemed to whisper of past glories and long-held secrets, their presence both comforting and accusatory.
A delicate Chinese vase caught his attention—his father’s gift to his mother on their twentieth wedding anniversary. The painted cranes seemed to watch him with ancient, knowing eyes as he touched the cool porcelain. The house felt alive with memories, each corner holding echoes of expectations he had failed to meet.
The soft click of the door opening announced his mother’s arrival. The Duchess of Lancaster entered with the quiet authority that had always characterized her presence. Though her dark hair had begun to silver at the temples, Edgar noted that her eyes remained as sharp as ever as they assessed him.
“Edgar,” she said, drawing him into a brief embrace that carried the subtle scent of rose. “This is an unexpected pleasure. I was not expecting you until Essie’s birthday.”
“Mother,” he said warmly, noting his mother’s subtle reminder of his sister’s birthday. “I trust I find you well?”
The duchess settled herself on a chaise longue, her posture remaining as impeccable as it had been during his youth. “As well as can be expected for a woman whose son’s exploits are the talk of London,” she replied, her tone carrying gentle reproach. “Please tell me last week’s article is not true. Surely you haven’t been involved in a brawl at that notorious gaming hell on Jermyn Street?”
Edgar sighed heavily, sinking into a nearby armchair. The leather creaked softly beneath him. “I assure you, Mother, I have not set foot in that establishment in months. These reports are entirely fabricated.”
Relief seemed to soften his mother’s features. “I believe you, my boy. Still, these constant rumors are most distressing.” She smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her silk skirts. “But then, what brings you home so unexpectedly?”
“Can a son not call upon his mother without an ulterior motive?”
Her knowing look, so familiar from his childhood escapades, told him she was not fooled. “Not when that son is you, my dear. You’ve hardly darkened my door these past weeks. Now, tell me truly, what brings you here?”
Edgar leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees—a posture his mother would normally chide him for. The weight of his purpose pressed heavily upon him. “I’ve been reflecting. On my life, my choices.” He paused, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “On Lucia.”
The name hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken sorrow. Afternoon light caught the crystal drops of the chandelier, casting rainbow prisms across the walls. Edgar watched his mother’s face soften, maternal concern replacing her earlier assessment.
“Oh, my dear boy. It’s been years since you’ve spoken of her.”
“Five years,” Edgar said softly.
His mother reached out, placing a comforting hand on his arm. Her fingers, though delicate, carried surprising strength. “Edgar, you mustn’t continue to blame yourself for what happened with Lucia.”
“How can I not?” Edgar’s voice cracked with emotion, the carefully maintained facade of the rakish duke crumbling. “I was supposed to protect her, marry her, defy convention and expectation. How naïve I was.”
