Page 18 of The Lady Plays with Fire

“I went to the theater to retrieve Mrs. Hayes’s ticket for tonight, and our paths happened to cross” was Julia’s murmured explanation.

“Your paths seem to cross quite often, Miss Addison.”

Julia couldn’t decide whether the countess sounded disapproving or intrigued.

“He offered to convey me where I was going. I thought it would be rude to refuse.”

“And I’m sure the prospect of a ride in a curricle, cozied up to a dashing gentleman, had no bearing on your decision.”

Cozy? Dashing? Julia twisted her head to face Lady Stalbridge, though she knew she was meant to keep looking at the books. “I assure you, ma’am, I—”

Lady Stalbridge’s lips were pressed together, poorly disguising a smile. “Say nothing more, my dear. But if your paths should cross again, may I suggest directing his steps somewhere other than Porter’s? Else he might begin to suspect you’re up to something here.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Julia snatched back her fingers, which had been resting momentarily on the edge of a shelf, near a volume with the name HUME embossed on its spine in faded gold.

With that, Lady Stalbridge glided away.

Julia was the last to arrive at the meeting table, though Lady Stalbridge was still settling herself and drawing a stack of papers from her leather satchel when Julia slid into the seat next to Theo. Because the room was used for storage, sorting, and sometimes repair of damaged volumes, it was in a shifting state of disorder, with stacks of old books scattered about, last time on the little desk tucked into the corner, today on the floor surrounding the oval worktable.

The magazine’s artist, Constantia Cooper, was also already there. Then again, she seemed almost to be a permanent fixture in the room, a handful of half-completed sketches perpetually spread before her and a pencil tucked into her rather frizzy red-blond coiffure.

Equally unsurprising was Miss Busy B.’s absence. Since Lord Deveraux had married Daphne Burke, the former rake had settled quite nicely into life as a country gentleman and had very little difficulty persuading his wife to stay by his side.

Lady Clarissa Sutliffe, whose golden ringlets gleamed even in the meager light that passed through the room’s single, grimy window, was the unexpected addition to the meeting. The talented young pianist who wrote the Domestic Arts and Accomplishments column under the name “Miss R.”—“my mama has always called me ’Rissa,” she had explained when she chose it—would be presented to the queen in the course of the coming Season and would surely take the ton by storm. But she must have had some difficulty in coaxing either her mother or her father or both to leave their seaside estate in Hampshire to come up to Town in autumn.

Together with Julia, they made up the Magazine for Misses’ regular columnists, under the editorial guidance of Lady Stalbridge. In each issue, their work was supplemented by excerpts from important works of the day, poems and entertaining short stories, occasional essays on a variety of interesting subjects, and usually a letter from their figurehead, the famed author of Mrs. Goode’s Guide to Homekeeping—who was really Lady Stalbridge’s stepson, Lord Manwaring.

Lady Stalbridge cleared her throat to call the meeting to order. “I begin with good news, ladies,” she said, lifting the uppermost sheets from the stack before her. “This is an essay by the esteemed botanist, the Duchess of Raynham, which she has agreed to let us publish in our next issue. It will, I believe, not only inform our readers but also provide them with a sensible answer for those who still insist that botany is too scandalous a subject for young ladies.”

Julia wondered whether Daphne had had a hand in procuring it, since the duchess was a former Miss Burke and Daphne’s elder sister. But, of course, Lady Stalbridge was also well-connected and had ways of getting what she wanted for the magazine, all while managing never to reveal her own connection to it.

“That should do very nicely,” Constantia chimed in.

“Will it be too much trouble for you to come up with a picture for it, Miss Cooper?” Lady Stalbridge asked, extending the sheet of paper to her. “Something to set it off.”

Constantia flushed with pride, right to the roots of her hair, where the two shades of red met and clashed. “Not at all.”

“And sadly, Bonaparte’s rapaciousness means you never lack subjects to cover, Miss Nelson.” She handed the next several pages in her stack to Theodosia. “I’ve had a look at your plans for your next column, and I believe your approach is sound, as always. The young ladies in this country may be better informed about political and economic matters than their brothers, at this rate.”

Theo’s pleasure in Lady Stalbridge’s praise was evident, though she only dipped her head in acknowledgment.

Lady Stalbridge turned to the next in line. “I wasn’t expecting you to be here today, Lady Clarissa, though, of course, I am always pleased when you can join us.”

“Mama persuaded Papa that she and I must return to Town a few weeks early, on account of all the visits to the dressmakers and such. But I intend to make the most of it. We have tickets to Covent Garden tonight,” she added with a shy smile at Julia.

“How delightful! Yes, you must do all you can to enjoy yourself.” Lady Stalbridge’s first marriage had been the sort of miserable society match that Clarissa, the daughter of a marquess, might well be expected to make—though one hoped that Lord and Lady Estley, rumored to be very much in love with one another, would look for more than a title and a fortune for their own child. “There’s nothing more for the next issue that you need concern yourself with. I already received the sheet music you sent to be included.” Lady Stalbridge tapped the page now uppermost, and even at a distance, Julia could see musical notes scattered gaily across the paper. “If I’m not mistaken, this must be something of your own.” Clarissa’s demure nod hardly moved a ringlet out of place. “Does your mama suspect you’ve turned your hand to composing?”

“If she does, she’s said nothing, for which I’m grateful, because Papa would insist on my playing it for him.”

“He would be displeased by the discovery?” Lady Stalbridge’s question was sharp. He might be a doting father in every other respect, but everyone knew that Lord Estley had not yet warmed to his daughter’s great ambition to be a concert pianist. Public performances, especially for money, were considered improper for young ladies of her rank.

“Oh, no. He would praise it far beyond its deserts,” Clarissa explained. She paused for a private laugh. “And then, if he ever chanced to hear the same tune coming from some other young lady’s instrument—someone who reads the magazine, I mean—I’m certain he’d make a fuss and try to say they’d stolen it from me.”

Lady Stalbridge’s features softened into a gentle smile, and she patted the girl’s hand, a more maternal gesture than she was usually wont to give any of them. Then again, Lady Clarissa was the youngest member of the magazine staff, not quite seventeen years of age.

For the next few moments, silence hung over the meeting table, marked only by the quiet sounds of Lady Stalbridge leafing through the next set of pages and the scratch of two pencils: Theo making notes on Lady Stalbridge’s editorial suggestions, and Constantia already working on a sketch to accompany the duchess’s botanical essay.

Lady Clarissa’s dainty fingertips danced silently across the edge of the table in front of her, as if she were seated at a pianoforte. Julia watched the movement absently, waiting for Lady Stalbridge to turn her attention to the latest from Miss on Scene.