Page 83 of The Lady Plays with Fire

Leave it to a scandalous playwright to pick the perfect setting for the first scene of their new life together.

Epilogue

Castle Dunstane, Scotland

Christmas Eve, 1810

“It’s snowing. It never snows on Christmas.”

“It rarely snows in the south of England on Christmas,” Graham corrected, pausing to look up from his desk so he might watch Julia wander in wide-eyed amazement from one window of his study to the next. Snowflakes had already begun to collect in the corners of the leaded windowpanes. “The Highlands are another world.”

“A beautiful one,” she said, praising the stark landscape spread before her, as yet only lightly disguised beneath the snowfall.

“Aye,” he agreed, with eyes only for her. “Now, come here and tell me what this word is.” In just a few weeks, she’d become expert at deciphering his left-handed scrawl. He’d worked to strengthen the fingers of his right, but the dexterity required for wielding a pen with it still eluded him and perhaps always would.

He was surprised by how little it mattered.

Particularly not when Julia perched on his knee, giving him a rather tantalizing view down her bodice. She peered at the pages of the manuscript they’d been working on together, lines and scenes that were half her invention, half his.

“I might be able to make it out,” she mock-scolded, “if you wouldn’t insist on squeezing your bits in between mine.”

Now, that sounded appealing, indeed.

“Never you mind about those pages, lass,” he told her in the gruff voice that pleased her so, chasing away her studious frown with a kiss.

They were interrupted by the sound of Keynes clearing his throat. “I beg your pardon, my lord. My lady.” He bowed, his arms full of papers, as always. As he did, his spectacles, which had been perched on the top of his head, tumbled onto the floor.

“Oh, dear,” exclaimed Julia, leaping to her feet to retrieve them, much to the secretary’s mortification. A high stickler his countess would never be.

“You look well, Keynes,” Graham said, accepting the stack of papers he held out to him. The man was still thin, but some of the grayness had left his complexion since they had returned home.

“Th-thank you, sir. I do believe it’s the fresh Highlands air.”

Graham suspected Keynes’s improvement ought to be chalked up to something other than the brutally cold wind that occasionally swept through Castle Dunstane despite the mason’s best efforts. The fact that his employer no longer barked unreasonable orders at him, for instance. Or the permanent reprieve from scouring the papers for reviews of Blackadder’s plays.

Once Keynes had gone, Graham turned his attention to sorting through the post. “Ah, my love. Here’s an invitation to a ball on Hogmanay.” He would enjoy the chance to show her off.

“Hmm?”

He looked up to find her fully absorbed by something that must have been addressed to her. Between her fingers he spied a familiar Grecian figure.

“The latest issue of the Magazine for Misses?”

“Hm, yes,” came the distracted reply. She was still thumbing through the pages. “I began to think it might never arrive.”

He had wondered whether the mysterious Mrs. Goode might yet close up shop. Though Fanshawe hadn’t succeeded in exposing any of the other women involved, it could not be easy for them to dismiss the danger they’d been in.

“Odd,” she said.

“What is?”

“No ‘Unfashionable Plates’ this month.” She flipped from front to back, as if still in disbelief. “No illustrations at all.”

“Perhaps Miss C. took a holiday,” he suggested, mildly curious about what that might involve. Mrs. Goode, Miss C., and the rest were still as much a mystery as they had ever been. Julia had offered to reveal the secret identities behind the magazine to him, but he had declined. Those women had a right to protect their names, just as he had done, and to reveal them only when and if they were ready.

“Perhaps.” She sounded dubious. “Anyway, there’s this.” As she approached his desk, she creased open the magazine to a page near the middle and laid it before him. Miss on Scene, the bold banner across the top proclaimed.

“You wrote this?” he asked, picking up the magazine. “When did you find the time?”