A 19th century London courtesan agrees to a phony courtship with a navy captain and finds herself negotiating uncharted territory outside the boudoir.
*****
The year is eighteen-t...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I had deduced, after nearly three decades of life, that trouble often came in pairs. I could not help recalling this bothersome superstition shortly after the captain's unexpected kiss on my hand. Then, again, upon entering the foyer of my home. There, placed on the Chippendale table below the staircase, a large bouquet of silk roses awaited me.
While I was no stranger to receiving lovely gifts from my benefactors, after the day I'd had, my stomach reacted as if a tomcat had found his way into my home and tore my best damask curtains. Who, in heaven's name, had sent me flowers?
Fortunately, Tilda appeared to distract me. "Mistress Hayes. We had begun to worry. You have been absent all day. And with this terrible weather..."
"The weather is always terrible in winter. But I appreciate your concern. I did have an eventful day, which ended rather unpleasantly. Although, not all of it."
At my nonsensical rambling, my kindly maid looked at me with concern in her eyes. "Let me draw you a warm bath. We'll have you feeling right as rain."
"Thank you. That sounds lovely."
"And you can save those missives to read later. No sense tempting fate if they bring distressing news." She said this as she gestured to the parlor. The curtain had been tied back, offering an easy view of my writing desk. On it sat two letters, one included the Earl of Oxford's seal. I shook my head, wishing Tilda had not mentioned the missives until after my bath.
"I believe I will take your advice with regard to the missives, but I'm sure I won't be able to relax without knowing who sent the flowers." I reached for the notecard, steadying myself with a restorative breath as I read the inscription.
To the loveliest flower in the garden. Yours earnestly, Lord Albert Kingsley
Blast.
I replaced the card on the table and walked upstairs without speaking a word about it to Tilda. I felt certain she already knew who sent the flowers, but she had no inkling of the complications running between me and the young lord. Clearly, whatever Jules said to put him off at the Thompson's did not stick.
Tilda had been spot-on with her suggestion that I take comfort in a warm bath, and when I had dried and wrapped up in my dressing gown, I wanted nothing more than to leave the missives sitting on my desk and recline in front of the fire with my cherry aperitif. The bottle had come from Mister Faircloth. A gift on my last birthday. I'd been saving it for an occasion, which I decided was today.
Of course, missives could not be ignored. They often contained vital information that the sender wished to communicate. I really had no choice but to read them now or suffer the consequence should I be caught unawares. I chose not to read the letter with the wax seal first. Instead, I began with the letter that came from the Thompson residence. I expected it was a return missive from Alice, and I was not disappointed.
