Page 111 of A Literary Liaison
Elisha ascended the stage with as much dignity as she could muster, her cheeks burning under the scrutiny of London’s literary establishment. This was her moment of triumph, the vindication of everything she had worked for.
As she reached Thornton’s side on the stage, he leaned slightly toward her, his voice pitched for her ears alone.
“My heartiest congratulations,” he murmured, maintaining proper distance. “I had always been certain of your triumph.”
“Thank you, Mr. Thornton,” she replied, acutely aware of the hundreds of eyes upon them. “I’m grateful for your support.”
As they turned to face the assembled crowd, Elisha felt the weight of hundreds of eyes upon her. The thunderous applause seemed to fade into the background as her gaze swept the room, still desperately hoping against hope that Edgar might have arrived at the last moment to witness her triumph.
And then, in the far corner of the chamber, she saw a familiar figure.
Edgar stood half-hidden in shadow, his tall frame unmistakabledespite his altered appearance. His dark hair was longer than she remembered, and he was dressed in the simple clothes of a working man rather than his usual aristocratic finery. Their eyes met across the crowded room, and she saw him offer her a warm, proud smile.
He was here. He had come to see her moment of victory.
Relief flooded through her so powerfully that she felt her knees weaken. Whatever urgent business had kept him away for three months, he had managed to return for this moment. The hollow ache in her chest began to ease for the first time in months.
But something in Thornton’s sudden stillness beside her made her glance at him. His face had gone pale, his eyes fixed on Edgar’s location with what looked like shock and something approaching panic. His composed demeanor cracked for just an instant before he recovered himself.
“Mr. Thornton?” she whispered. “Are you quite well?”
“Perfectly,” he replied, though his voice sounded strained. “Simply… surprised by an unexpected guest.”
Why would Edgar’s presence surprise Thornton so much? And why did the man look almost… frightened?
The questions sent a chill down her spine, but before she could analyze them further, the crowd’s continued applause demanded her attention. Whatever was happening between Edgar and Thornton, she sensed it was far more significant than a simple social awkwardness.
The Truth
The applause graduallysubsided as the assembled crowd settled into expectant silence, waiting to see what would happen next. Elisha remained on the stage beside Thornton, her heart still racing from the joy of seeing Edgar after three long months of absence. Whatever had kept him away, at least he was safe and had returned to her. To his family.
But Thornton’s continued pallor and the rigid set of his shoulders suggested something was terribly wrong. His eyes remained fixed on Edgar’s corner of the room with an intensity that made Elisha’s skin crawl.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Thornton began, his voice carrying clearly despite a slight tremor that only someone standing close could detect, “before we conclude this evening’s festivities, I believe there is one more revelation that London’s literary society deserves to witness.”
A murmur of curiosity rippled through the crowd. Elisha turned to look at him, confusion evident on her face. This wasn’t part of the program they had discussed.
“Mr. Thornton?” she whispered, but he held up a hand to forestall her question.
“You see,” Thornton continued, his composure returning as he seemed to draw strength from some internal resolve, “we have spent these many months entertained by the rivalry between Miss Lovelaceand the mysterious Mr. Steele. Their exchanges of wit, their verbal sparring, their passionate defenses of opposing viewpoints—all of it has captivated our fair city.”
Elisha felt a growing sense of unease. Something in Thornton’s tone suggested this was building toward something she wasn’t prepared for.
“But I believe,” Thornton said, his voice rising with theatrical authority, “that the time for mystery has passed. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the man behind the nom de plume that has so enthralled London’s literary circles—Mr. Steele is none other than His Grace, the Duke of Lancaster!” Thornton dramatically pointed to Edgar who remained standing, motionless.
The words rang out across the stunned assembly, but instead of the gasps of recognition Thornton clearly expected, a murmur of confusion rippled through the crowd. Heads turned toward Edgar’s corner, where several people squinted in the dim light, trying to make out his features beneath the long hair and working man’s clothes.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Thornton,” called out Lord Whitworth from the front row, “but that gentleman hardly resembles the Duke of Lancaster. Are you quite certain of this identification?”
“Indeed,” added Lady Worthington, raising her lorgnette to peer more closely. “The hair, the attire… surely you are mistaken?”
Thornton’s confident smile faltered slightly. “I assure you, that is indeed His Grace. Perhaps if he would join us on the stage, the resemblance will become clearer.”
“Come forward, Your Grace!” Thornton called out, though his voice now carried a note of uncertainty. “Surely you won’t let doubt linger about your identity?”
The crowd’s attention focused on the corner where Edgar stood, though many still looked skeptical. Murmurs of “Could it be?” and “Impossible!” drifted through the room as Edgar began making his way through the assembly.
As Edgar reached the stage and ascended to the platform, Thornton seemed to regain his confidence.
