Page 61 of The Lady Plays with Fire

Lady Stalbridge demurred. “I did not.”

“But—but this means, someone else knows who we all are, even where we live!”

At Theo’s words, Constantia pushed back from the table, her chair scraping noisily across the floor. “You’ll excuse me, please,” she said with a nod and a curtsy. The door shut softly behind her.

She’d left her sketches strewn across the table.

“It’s worse than that, I fear,” said Lady Stalbridge, retrieving another letter from her small, beaded bag. “This was enclosed with the first.” She unfolded the note, spread it smooth with her palm, and scooted it first toward Julia.

You’re not as clever as you thought you were, or it wouldn’t have been so easy for me to learn the identities of Mrs. Goode, Miss on Scene, and the rest.

Next week, at opening night of my new play, you’ll see what I’ve done with this valuable information. Soon, everyone will know.

—R. B.

Julia shut her eyes and pushed the paper toward Theo.

“Ransom Blackadder.” Theodosia spat out the name as she reached the end of the second letter. “How did he find out?”

“I don’t know yet,” Lady Stalbridge admitted. “I suppose it really doesn’t matter. I’m afraid this is goodbye to the magazine. I’d hoped we’d at least last out the year.” She reached out a hand and covered Julia’s where it lay on the table. “I’m sorry, my dear. It seems all your efforts with Lord Dunstane were for naught.”

* * *

Graham grumbled beneath his breath as he pushed open the shop door and ducked inside. Above his head—but only barely—a little brass bell tinkled to announce his arrival.

After hours of searching, he’d left the bright, polished storefronts of Bond and Oxford Streets behind.

That’s rather an old-fashioned style, sir. I’m afraid we’ve nothing like it here.

No, my lord. I’ve seen nothing to match that description in years.

Surely, you’d rather choose something grander, more suited to grace the hand of the Countess of Dunstane?

This dingy little jewelry shop was his last hope. Or at least, his last attempt before he surrendered to the consolations of a glass of whisky and one of the gaudy pieces that had been pressed upon him earlier in the day.

“How can I assist you, sir?” said the man behind the counter, tucking away a dusty rag that needed to be put to more frequent use. He was sixty if he was a day, white-haired, with small, square-rimmed spectacles perched on his forehead, whose existence he appeared to have forgotten some time ago.

But none of that was what struck Graham first. “You’re a Scot?”

“Aye, sir. That I am. Hamish Armstrong of Dundee, at your service.”

It was an omen, if ever he had heard one. He’d searched the town through for a man who would understand.

“I need a ring for a lass,” he began.

The man gave a knowing smile. “Your lass?”

“Aye.” His. “She’s sweet as the honey made from spring heather.”

“But I’ll wager she’s got a twinkle in her eye, too.” Hamish looked him up and down. “She’ll need it, if she’s to take up with a man the likes of you.”

“Aye, that she does,” Graham agreed with a soft chuckle.

Then he set about describing a ring that existed only in the haziest reaches of his memory, the betrothal ring his mother had worn, set round with pearls and some purplish gem.

“Amethyst,” the jeweler supplied with another smile. “Go on.”

There were no McKay family jewels left. No McKay family left. As Blackadder, he had spent years tearing down everything that carried even a whiff of sentiment. But now Graham had been given an unexpected chance to rebuild what he’d lost, with Julia at his side.