One
“It was with great interest that I read your latest essay, sir. The ideas expressed are intriguing, to say the least, though I fear that they will hardly elicit any applause among the audience you wish to influence. In my experience, there are precious few people willing to admit that callousness and self-interest, however cleverly couched your chidings, apply to them. Nevertheless, your command of the written word, coupled with an originality of thought and razor wit, have won over at least one humble admirer by your singular intellect. I must admit it has been years since anything has moved me to pick up a pen, but your words have sparked a few questions that perhaps you might have time to clarify for me. Might I be bold enough to ask whether you might consent to an occasion of private correspondence? The passage of yourlatest essay which has caused me to reflect on the nuances of its meaning begins with ….
It was some time later that Marcus Leete, the Earl of Dunham, laid aside the sheets of paper and removed his gold-rimmed spectacles. With a rueful grimace, he tucked them away in his desk drawer, thinking how utterly nonplussed his friends would be to see the Iron Adonis with such a foreign object in the grasp of his fingers, rather than a bottle of brandy or a deck of cards—or the latest luscious opera dancer.
No doubt even more shocking would be the fact that for the last several hours his thoughts had been preoccupied by matters considerably more complex than the upcoming sales at Tattersall’s or the odds on whether Trowbridge would offer for the Wainwright chit before week’s end.
He raked his hand through his dark locks and another quick spasm tugged at his lips as he considered the truth of such a realization.Lud, had he really become such a shallow fribble as that?Oh, it was not that others saw him in such a light. On the contrary. In fact, he was quite aware that most of thetonregarded him with a respect that bordered on awe. No one dared question his opinions, lest they fall victim to his acerbic wit and end up skewered on his rapier-sharp tongue. Just as no one risked raising his ire, not with the prowess he displayed with his pistol at Manton’s shooting range and his fists at Jackson’s boxing establishment. That the scoundrel Montfort, a Captain Sharpe at cards who had ruined several green cubs, had provoked a duel and been forced to skulk away to the country with a permanent limp only seemed to have added to his stature.
He shook his head. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed rather absurd.
Young sprigs tried to emulate his sardonic stare as well as the knot of his cravat, while more ladies than he cared to count vied for his attention. His own circle of acquaintances was no less adoring, for despite his penchant for occasional fits of temper or practical jokes that went too far, he was admired as a generous host, a bruising sportsman, and a loyal friend. Even the highest sticklers curried his favor, excusing his rather rakish reputation because, along with his wealth and title, he was accorded to be a gentleman of impeccable manners and taste.
But of late, he found that his own judgment of himself was far less flattering.
With a heavy sigh he rose and went to the sideboard and poured himself a stiff brandy. Though he returned to his chair, a certain restlessness of spirit had his eyes wandering from the blazing fire in the hearth to the rows of leatherbound books lining the heavy oak shelves. He had used to enjoy cracking their spines, he mused. There had been a time when the ideas and insights contained within them had sparked a flame in his breast nearly as bright and lively as the ones he watched now.
How had he let it die out?
Had he merely been lazy? After a moment, his mouth compressed in a thin line. No—self-indulgent was more apt. The boisterous gaiety of shared spirits, the sweet softness of a willing lady, the frisson of excitement at the turn of a card … all had turned his attention from serious matters that required more effort.
It had all come so easily, the ability to excel at the sorts of things his friends held in such high regard—gambling, riding, shooting, cutting a swath through the ladies. He had been seduced by their admiration, drunk with the notion of his own consequence.
His fingers came up to massage at his temples. Lud, he had to admit that he had made some foolish choices in his youth.
And now he was paying for them, for he found his life was becoming an interminable bore. It was flat, smooth, without any unexpected edge to cut his ennui. Another Season was fast approaching, along with his thirty-second birthday and what did it offer? The idea of yet another round of carousing with his friends, or racing his curricle to Bath on a wager, or even a visit to his latest mistress left him feeling nothing but a disquieting coldness in the pit of his stomach.
Marcus fingered his pen as his gaze fell to the finished letter on his blotter. An amused chuckle rumbled in his throat. ‘Firebrand’ was how the anonymous writer signed his essays. It was an apt moniker, indeed, given the heated words. He hoped that his missive, to be delivered to the man’s publisher in the morning, would reach the mysterious author and be given the favor of a reply. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to rekindle an interest in something deeper than a glass of brandy.
On impulse, he reached out and scribbled a final signature. He had been debating whether to reveal his own identity, but was loath to have “Firebrand” judge him by reputation alone. As he regarded the name staring up from the paper ,it seemed much more fitting to sign his missive this way.
He hoped the fellow would appreciate the humorous touch.
Lady Augusta Peabodychoked down a burble of laughter.
“Gus!”
She quickly folded the paper and stuffed it into her desk as her younger sister flew into the little room she used as her study. “Do slow down, Marianne. Mama would no doubt swoon over such an unladylike entrance,” she admonished, though her smile took any of the sting out of her words.
“Oh, I am heartily sick of being all that is proper,” answered the young lady, dropping onto the comfortable armchair with a flounce that sent her elegant gown into a welter of wrinkles.
“Heresy from the Goddess of Greenfield,” murmured Augusta.
Marianne stuck out her tongue. “If you, of all people, dare repeat that sickening sobriquet out loud, I shall plant you a facer!” She tucked her dainty feet up under her skirts and let her chin droop. “Really, I do wish we could steal out for a gallop through the fields. All these morning calls with Mama are tedious to the extreme.”
Augusta’s brows arched upward. “I thought you were enjoying yourself.”
“Well, I am,” admitted Marianne. “I do like the balls and routs and such, but I am never allowed a moment to myself. You on the other hand?—”
“I, on the other hand, am firmly on the shelf. Mama has finally shown signs of giving up trying to threaten, beg, or force me into some semblance of proper behavior. Her attention is now firmly focused on you—and with good reason.” She surveyed her sister’s blonde curls, cherubic features, and diminutive figure. Even the most critical eye would be hard-pressed to find fault with the girl. Cornflower blue eyes radiated a winsome innocence, while lips as plump as cherries …
Good lord, she admonished herself, she was in danger of waxing as ridiculous as the besotted young viscount who had dubbed Marianne the Goddess of Greenfield in a fit of rapture after their first dance. Still, there was no denying that the girl was a Diamond of the First Water, with any number of eligible suitors already dangling on her sleeve even though the Season had hardly begun.
“You have, as Mama would say, taken rather well.”
Marianne scrunched up those perfect lips. “If you made even the slightest effort to attract attention, you would leave me in the dust, Gus. I wish I had your height and those glorious cheekbones. Instead I am short and have a plumpness to my face that reminds me of a squirrel. And I wish I had your brains?—”
Augusta grimaced. “Neverlet Mama hear you say such a thing. I am enough of a trial as it is. Two such daughters would send her into permanent decline. Besides, you are hardly a ninny, my dear. You simply know when to keep your mouth shut, which is something I have never managed to learn.”
