Page 7 of Presenting Miss Letitia (Once a Wallflower 1)

She really should be grateful. Here she was in London at a fabulous ball. She should not expect too much too soon. Things would surely improve. But when

she left the withdrawing room, Miss Somersby, in yet another beautiful gown, stood in Letty’s path while talking to a woman in emerald green. The humiliation was too much. The need to compose herself drove Letty from the ballroom in search of a quiet corner. Surely, this enormous house would have a library, which might be unoccupied, and the chance of overhearing lovers again seemed remote.

Letty soon discovered the library with its high, coffered ceiling, the walls covered in shelves of tightly packed gilt-edged books, and sighed with relief to find it empty. She sat in a brocade armchair and toasted herself by the fire. She would just stay for a few minutes, then return to her aunt. By then, Miss Somersby might be on the dance floor.

Letty enjoyed the quiet room, the scent of old books and leather and the crackle of the fire, so soothing, but at the sound of footsteps outside in the corridor, she leapt up.

Having anticipated this possibility, she’d located a hiding place before she sat down. The cloak cupboard in the wainscoting was roomy enough for her to be comfortable until she could leave again. Letty darted inside and shut the door.

The library door opened and closed, then footsteps crossed the carpet. With a gasp, Letty stiffened and edged back into the corner. A moment later, the cupboard door was pulled open, and the smell of tobacco and spicy cologne wafted into the space along with a large body, who closed the door after him.

In the total darkness, Letty tried not to breathe and to remain as still as death. But apparently not still enough. A deep voice cursed, and a heavy hand settled on her shoulder. Letty jumped and fought not to squeak.

“Violets,” came a surprised comment as a big hand moved down to wrap strong fingers tightly around her arm.

The door opened, and she was pulled unceremoniously into the light.

A tall, dark-haired gentleman stood staring down at her. His dark eyebrows arched over angry blue eyes. “What the devil…”

At the sound of men’s voices outside the door, without a word, the gentleman rudely pushed her back inside the cupboard again.

Letty opened her mouth to complain, but a hand smothered her words. “Shush,” came a fierce whisper.

Affronted, she wanted to protest, but he pushed her down onto her bottom on the floor. A hard, masculine shoulder settled against hers. Considering it wise to obey him, she sat mutely, drawing in his sharp cologne with each anxious breath.

Outside their hiding place, a conversation had begun which appeared this man was intent on hearing.

From what she could gather, there were two gentlemen. The Englishman said something about France. Letty couldn’t make head nor tail of it. Then the gentleman with a French accent, who sounded younger, raised his voice.

“Mon Dieu, Fraughton. We must act to find that cursed Journal Noir.”

“It was supposed to come to me, but never arrived. Lavalette intercepted it,” Fraughton said.

“If he survives the guillotine,” the Frenchman said, “he must be relieved of it and then silenced before he can give away too many secrets. Unless you wish to hang as a traitor!”

Laughter drifted in from the corridor outside the library.

“Quiet, Pierse!” the older man urged. “I fully understand the urgency. This was not a good idea. We might be overheard.”

He must have risen quickly for something heavy fell to the floor with a clatter. “Hell’s teeth! Pick up that table. You French have such short fuses. We cannot speak here. Whitehall could be closing in on us. We shall meet somewhere more discreet. The Anchor Tavern at the docks at eight Friday evening. No one will know us there.”

“But it’s a most unsavory area,” the Frenchman complained. “Filled with cutthroats with a deep-seated hatred of the French! I could end up with a knife in my ribs.”

“Come armed then.”

“Mon Dieu! You think I wouldn’t be?” A voluble string of French peppered with unfamiliar words followed the older man from the room. The door closed.

Silence fell. Letty had managed to control her breathing and attempted to climb to her feet.

“Sit still,” the gentleman ordered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re English then. Who the devil are you? Who do you work for?”

“I don’t work for anyone. This is my first trip to London. It’s my come-out.”

“Don’t give me that! Debutantes don’t hide in library cupboards.” The man’s voice might be pleasant if he wasn’t so accusatory.

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