Page 63 of The Lady Plays with Fire

Somehow he had discovered that she was Miss on Scene. Perhaps he had known for some time. Had he orchestrated all of it—the sweet little cottage, the stories of his tragic childhood, the revelation of his secret identity, the proposal—to humiliate her? To ruin her?

Surely he might have been satisfied with mocking the magazine, even revealing her name and exposing her to censure and ridicule.

Did he also have to break her heart?

Well, even if it were true that all her efforts to soften him had been for naught, she still had no intention of letting him have the last word. He had a surprise in store for him at Monday’s rehearsal of The Poison Pen.

She hadn’t told the others at the magazine that Graham was Ransom Blackadder. She had wanted to leave them with a sliver of hope that she still had the power to make things right. Though surprised by Julia’s request, Lady Stalbridge had allowed her to keep the second note that had been sent to her. It crinkled now in her reticule as she prepared to set out.

Aunt Mildred, at least, had continued to improve and had even summoned Mr. Watkins to demonstrate how much. She had managed, with assistance, to descend to the sitting room and was awaiting her caller there now—wrapped up against any possibility of a chill in the air, with her feet propped up on cushions, it was true, but nonetheless, much better than anyone had expected and in half the time the apothecary had predicted.

From below, Julia heard a knock and smiled to think of Mr. Watkins’s astonishment. Then, as she was buttoning her spencer, Nelly appeared at her door. “A gentleman to see you, miss.”

Julia’s hand—body, heart—twitched at the unexpected news. Graham? Threads popped, and a button came away in her hand.

“Oh, dear, miss,” Nelly said. “Best give it to me. I’ll have it fixed in a minute. They’re waiting for you below.”

Torn between flying down the stairs—she did not wish to seem eager, but every moment gave Aunt Mildred more opportunity to say something ridiculous—or appearing in a state of cool and righteous fury, with her chin in the air, she stumbled and nearly fell on the steps.

A dark head appeared in the doorway of the sitting room. “Julia, are you all right?”

“Jeremy!”

She launched herself into her brother’s arms and might have let herself snivel against the shoulder of his coat if his next words had not been, “I understand felicitations are in order?”

“Oh, well—” She drew back enough to peer into the room behind him and saw his wife, Laura; their mother; and Mama’s husband, Mr. Remington, looking at her with expectant faces. “How lovely of you—all of you—to come all this way to deliver them in person.”

The others beamed. Jeremy gave her a fierce squeeze before releasing her. “My little sister—a countess!”

“I shall insist on at least one scraping bow from you, brother dear,” she managed to tease.

Her mother came forward with hands extended. “I’m so happy for you. When shall we meet this Lord Dunstane?”

“I, uh—”

“He’s a busy fellow—”

“—more interested in how Julia met him—”

Beneath the cover of a cacophony of voices, everyone speaking and no one listening, Julia took a chair in front of the window, hoping the light at her back would make her expression more difficult to read. With a wave of her arm, she invited the others to sit down.

“His lordship is patron to some of the most noted playwrights of our day,” Aunt Mildred was explaining to Mr. Remington, a description that made Julia’s belly do an uneasy flip.

One playwright in particular. And notorious might be the better word.

“Though he hardly ever leaves Scotland, you said.” Mama’s soft blue eyes looked worried. “I do hope his coming to Town this Season marks a change of sentiment on the matter. I hate to think of my daughter so far away.”

You say that now, Mama, but when I’m disgraced . . .

“We’ll visit the Highlands,” her husband reassured her. “Lovely spot.”

“You know I’m no stickler,” Jeremy interjected, a statement greeted by a wry lift of his wife’s lips, “and I have every confidence in Julia’s decision, but I do think the man might have written to me.”

“I’m sure he told me he would,” said Aunt Mildred, still determined to believe the best of Lord Dunstane’s intentions.

“We’ve discussed this.” Laura soothed both her husband and her aunt with a gently admonishing shake of her head, setting her short, red-gold curls abob. “You were so eager to get here, Jeremy, you wouldn’t wait for the post. His letter and our coach must have crossed on the road.”

“Yes, my dear. I’m sure you’re right.” Jeremy reached for his wife’s hand. “As you say, what matters is that this Dunstane sounds a decent fellow and our Julia is happy.”