The Literary Secrets
The air inHereford’s private study at his country estate hung thick with cigar smoke and laughter. The large oak doors were firmly locked, servants dismissed for the evening with strict instructions not to disturb. Two crystal decanters, one brandy, one whiskey, stood half-empty on the desk between them.
“Good God, man,” Patrick Adams wiped tears of mirth from his eyes, holding up several pages of elegant script. “Listen to this passage: ‘His mouth descended upon her heaving bosom like a starving man presented with a feast, his aristocratic reserve abandoned as completely as her corset.’”
Hereford snorted, nearly choking on his brandy. “Keep reading,” he managed, loosening his cravat as he settled deeper into his leather chair.
“‘She moaned as his noble fingers—’” Patrick broke off, overcome with laughter again. “Noble fingers! As if breeding makes one’s digits particularly skilled!”
“I assure you, it does,” Hereford drawled, plucking the manuscript from Patrick’s hands. His eyes scanned the page, brows rising. “Well, our new authoress certainly has a vivid imagination. And an unusually comprehensive knowledge of male anatomy. She must be a mistress or at least married many times over.”
The private study beneath Hereford’s country manor had become the unofficial headquarters of their clandestine publishing venture, asurprisingly profitable business that had started under the leadership of the Duke of Lancaster. What had begun three years ago with a single anonymous manuscript had blossomed into a network of women writers crafting what Society would call “inappropriate literature.” Stories of passion, desire, and women’s pleasure that proper Society pretended didn’t exist.
“Lancaster asked about our latest scandalous story yesterday,” Patrick said, reaching for a leather ledger.
“Of course he did,” Hereford chuckled. “He may have removed himself from our venture since marrying, but his true nature remains unchanged.”
Patrick reached for a leather ledger, flipping through pages of careful accounting. “He particularly inquired after the woman who lost her livelihood after she was got with child, which symbol is she? She’s used her first payment to secure lodgings away from her disapproving parents.”
“Ah, Gamma. I am pleased to hear it,” Hereford nodded, his playful expression sobering. “And Sigma? Has she managed to pay off her father’s creditors?”
“Nearly. Another two stories should clear the debt entirely.” Patrick made a notation in the margin.
As they worked in companionable silence, Hereford found himself studying his friend. Few knew that Patrick Adams—private investigator, security specialist, and publisher of scandalous literature—was not the man’s birth name, but rather the anglicized version he’d adopted upon arriving in England fifteen years ago.
“You’re unusually quiet tonight,” Patrick observed, not looking up from his ledger. “Something troubling you?”
“Not at all,” Hereford replied. “I was just thinking about how far we’ve come since Lancaster introduced us.”
Patrick’s lips quirked into a half-smile. “Who would have thought?”
“Patryk Adamski, nobleman of Warsaw, proudly peddling salacious novels,” Hereford announced to an imaginary audience.
“My father would be proud. He understood survival,” Patrick said with a melancholic smile. “When Russia seized our family lands after the uprising, I learned quickly that principles without pragmatism lead to death.”
Hereford nodded, respecting the man’s survival instinct. Few knew the full extent of what Patrick had endured.
“Speaking of survival, the new one, the violet ink, is becoming rather popular,” Patrick commented, sorting through their accounting. “Four stories in two months, each better than the last. The printer says her latest sold out within a week.”
“She has a gift for the dramatic,” Hereford agreed, slitting open the newest submission marked with a delicate snowflake in the corner. His eyes widened as he scanned the first page. “Well, well. Our mysterious Snowflake has outdone herself.”
Patrick looked up with interest. “That good?”
“Better.” Hereford passed him the first page, a slow smile spreading across his aristocratic features. “She’s written something different. A widow seducing a younger man this time. A common-born businessman, no less.”
“Scandalous,” Patrick murmured, skimming the elegant script. “And rather politically radical, suggesting a nobleman’s widow might lower herself thus.”
“Indeed. Yet written with such conviction one might almost believe she’d experienced it firsthand.” Hereford’s fingers traced the snowflake symbol thoughtfully. “I wonder who she is.”
“Anonymity is part of what makes these stories exciting,” Patrick reminded him.
“And what allows them to write so freely,” Hereford added.
“Speaking of secrets,” Patrick said, his voice dropping slightly, “I received word from Warsaw yesterday. Three more families needpassage to England.”
Hereford nodded. Since taking over the Midnight Press, a significant portion of the profits had quietly funded the escape of Polish political dissidents and their families—a cause dear to Patrick’s heart that both Lancaster and Hereford had come to support without reservation.
“Will the usual channels suffice?” he asked.
