Page 6 of A Literary Liaison
The guttering candlelightcast long shadows across the stone walls of Edgar’s secret chamber, concealed deep within his estate. He stood bent over a makeshift escritoire, crushing the review page of the Metropolitan with his fist.
“‘Immerse yourself in works of genuine literary merit?’” he snarled at the offending paper. “The presumption! The sheer, unmitigated gall!” He began to pace the confined space, his boots echoing against the stone floor. “To lecture me on the sublimity of a sunset, as though I were some untutored schoolboy who has never lifted his eyes to the heavens. And that condescending tone—‘this counsel I offer not in malice.’ Ha!”
He slammed the crumpled paper onto his desk, disturbing the neat piles of salacious literature he had been sorting for distribution. “Well, Miss Lovelace, if you believe your lofty philosophical musings will cow me into silence, you are gravely mistaken. I shall—”
A coded rap interrupted his tirade. The distinctive pattern heralded the arrival of Patrick Adams—son of an exiled nobleman of Warsaw, a trusted friend, erstwhile military officer, and current protection officer for hire.
Adams entered the chamber through a concealed ingress, cleverly disguised as a humble outhouse. His mien, as ever, was one of grave solemnity and reserve. Attired in the garb of a common laborer, he had been tasked by Edgar to investigate the true identity of Miss Lovelace.
Adams’ eyes widened as he surveyed the workspace. “What is this cave? This is what you’ve been digging all this time? You have acquitted yourself admirably, Lancaster. Most admirably indeed.”
“Your approval is much appreciated. The toil was most arduous, but it shall prove worthwhile. We can now hide hundreds of erotic literatures and illicit tomes in here, ready to be distributed at a moment’s notice,” Edgar replied.
Adams nodded, fingering through the Metropolitan newssheets.
“Have you gathered any intelligence regarding the woman?” Edgar asked.
“The pressmen are a taciturn lot. None will disclose any particulars. She is rumored to reside in the Borough and has not been seen at the Metropolitan office. She could be someone in the office, however. Perhaps Miss Elisha Linde or Miss Amelia Thornton. It might prove most efficacious to blackmail the proprietor.”
“Nay to blackmail or any unlawful activities, Adams. I shall attend literary functions and attempt to uncover information about her.”
“How would identifying her benefit you?” Adams asked, leaning his broad frame against the wall. He was practically as wide as he was tall, like a bulldog, an intimidating presence for anyone.
Edgar folded his arms. “It would satisfy my curiosity. I’d also feel better knowing she is an aged spinster, perhaps adorned with a bushy mole on her nose. One look from her will likely freeze the sun.”
“Not very Christian of you,” Adams mused. “Have I not been counseling you to make better use of your life before it’s too late? But you paid no heed to my advice, choosing instead to pursue fleeting pleasures like selling erotic literature. Do you never awaken the following day feeling hollow and disgusted with yourself?”
Edgar regarded his friend with an impassive countenance, though the tension in his muscles betrayed a suppressed urge to deliver a sound thrashing. “Pray, why should I heed the words of a man whose father was exiled from his own country? I have half a mind to ship you back forthwith to face the guillotine.”
“My father’s circumstance was the result of history beyond his control. You, on the other hand, could be taking a more active role as a member of Parliament.”
Edgar glowered at his friend, whose silent glare was more rebuking than any words he could have uttered.
“I am forging my own history,” Edgar spat.
Adams scoffed. “By selling tales of love and erotica?”
Edgar let his quill hover over Adams’ name on the member list. “I presume you are not partaking in the next release of ‘The Forbidden Diaries of Lady X’.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I am. If it’s to transpire regardless of my opinion, I might as well partake in the enjoyment.”
Still glaring, Edgar extended his hand. “Did you bring the fee?”
“I did.” Adams retrieved his wallet. “How fares the profit?”
“I cleared three hundred pounds last week.”
Adams whistled. “Not inconsiderable.” He shook his head in mild exasperation. “How do you contrive to find the time, given your propensity for brothel visitations, bouts of inebriation, and general tomfoolery?”
Edgar’s lips curved in a roguish grin. “I’ve been telling you. One needs to be born with the skills to live the life of a wastrel. Now, lend your assistance in mailing these stories. I must remain anonymous.”
“And I mustn’t? People recognize this handsome face, you know.”
“You have two dozen men at your command. None of them would dare peek inside the envelope, whereas my servants will have the seal melted before I have turned my back.”
“Very well. If I’m incriminating myself by helping you, I want to be a partner in your venture.”
“What happened to doing more with your life, Adams?”
