Page 2 of The Lady Plays with Fire

Keynes adjusted his grip on the magazine, holding it farther from him, as if he struggled to bring the print into focus. Or couldn’t quite believe what it said.

“ ‘This reviewer, however, doubts Mr. Blackadder’s goals are so noble,’ ” he read. “ ‘And if I am right in my conjectures, what a pity to waste such a formidable talent on mere disdain for one’s fellow creatures.’ ”

Graham dragged in a sharp breath through his nostrils. It wasn’t exactly praise, at least—though formidable talent came dangerously close.

He had been even less prepared for pity.

“Who?” he demanded. “Where?”

Keynes jumped at the questions. “A newish publication, sir. Mrs. Goode’s Magazine for Misses.”

“Misses?” Graham echoed, incredulous. “A ladies’ magazine?”

“Young ladies, sir,” Keynes clarified—a trifle gloatingly, to Graham’s ear. “And as to who wrote it . . . Well, all the columns are anonymous, except for one by Mrs. Goode, and I suspect even that is an assumed name. This review is attributed to ‘Miss on Scene.’ ”

“ ‘Miss on Scene,’ ” Graham repeated beneath his breath. “ ‘Miss on—’ ” In spite of himself, he broke off on a wry chuckle. “Ah. Clever.”

He didn’t intend the remark as a compliment.

Keynes didn’t seem to get the joke.

“Mise en scène,” Graham said. “French for stagecraft.” He thrust out his arm, palm upward. As Keynes approached the desk, he let the magazine fan closed before handing it to Graham.

The edges of the paper were soft and tattered, as if this particular copy had been read repeatedly and given up reluctantly. On the cover, two caryatids—columns in the shape of women—framed the title: Mrs. Goode’s Magazine for Misses. Below, the magazine purported to “Promote Rational Conduct and Improve Wisdom among Young Persons of the Fair Sex.”

Someone had crossed out the word Misses and inked in another above it: Mischief.

Graham glanced up at Keynes for an explanation. “The content of the magazine is not necessarily what most would deem proper for young ladies,” the secretary said.

Was it Graham’s imagination, or was that a smile twitching at the corner of the man’s mouth?

“Obviously,” Graham shot back. “What would proper young ladies need with a review of Vice?”

To the extent that he wrote for such an audience at all, he certainly did not do so for their amusement. And he cared not at all for their opinions, good or otherwise.

“Some go so far as to call it Mrs. Goode’s Guide to Misconduct,” the secretary continued, after dipping his head in acknowledgment—and perhaps to hide another smirk. “The associated scandal has only increased the publication’s popularity . . . not unlike the work of a certain playwright. Forbidden by parents, governesses, and the like, the magazine mostly circulates surreptitiously, from hand to hand. Hence the rather battered appearance of this copy. I had to pay dearly to get it. From what I’ve been able to determine, every fashionable young lady in London knows what the Magazine for Misses has to say, even when they personally have not been fortunate enough to see the latest issue for themselves.”

As Keynes spoke, Graham leafed through the well-read pages. At first glance, nothing struck him as remarkable: sketches of the latest fashions; gossip passed off as news; advice.

But when he attended more closely, he discovered the advice columnist urged the shocking step of breaking off an engagement with a notorious rake (“better a contented spinster than a miserable wife,” opined someone calling herself Miss Busy B.), and the fashion plates were satirical renderings of the fashionable nearly worthy of one of Ransom Blackadder’s plays.

And speaking of . . .

The paper crinkled beneath his fingertips as he sought and found the review by Miss on Scene. Settling in to read, he was interrupted by Keynes’s shadow falling across the page.

“The estate business will wait until tomorrow,” Graham said. He did not look up but twitched his fingertips in a dismissive wave. “You may go.”

He heard Keynes’s intake of breath, the prelude to some objection or rebuttal. The estate business was surely more important than some silly review; his secretary had been away for a fortnight, during which time correspondence had been piling up. Graham knew it all too well.

But in the end, Keynes said nothing, merely turned and walked away, closing the heavy door with a soft click. Graham wasn’t even sure the man had bothered with the customary courtesy of a bow.

He was too absorbed in his reading to care.

What a pity to waste such a formidable talent . . .

Slapping the magazine shut, he moved as if to fling it in the direction of the empty hearth. But at the last second, he caught himself, dropping the magazine on his desktop instead and smoothing the wrinkled cover with his palm.

What a pity . . .