Lord Tremayne’s fragrance? She sniffed again. Nay, the crisp outdoors was missing, but it still smelled like him. Why send her—
“Read the note, you ninny.”
Dearest Thea,
I trust you’ll find these items useful, especially the lotion. Put it on your wrist and arm and I can promise the bruises will fade in no time. As to the other items, if anything does not fit or is not to your liking—
“Not to my liking? Has he windmills in his upper garret?” She wiggled one hand free of the fur-lined gloves to stroke bare fingers over the soft leather of the cloak. “Indeed, I like very much.”
Pulling off the second glove as though it was the most precious of Meissen porcelains, she pulled up one long arm of the pelisse and rubbed the cream on one wrist. Whether the bruises disappeared or not, knowing she smelled vaguely like him made her old injuries vanish into the ether.
She inhaled, the scent of him in her lungs taking her back to taking him in her body, when he—
“Thea,” she said tartly, “stop thinking of last night. Read on, missy.”
Oh, but ’twas difficult when every shift of her legs brought to mind new sensations from last night. Grinning like a goofy goat, she slid her fingers back into the gloves and picked up his note.
…not to your liking, I trust you’ll let me know so I can provide something you prefer.
Now, woman, make haste—if you’re reading this, then Swift John is waiting for my promised reply.
I do believe there’s the matter of a poem you’re supposed to share?
Tremayne
PS. I found much pleasure in our evening together. Thank you.
In only as much time as it took to remove the gloves, ready the quill, and add a postscript (or two) to the letter she’d composed yesterday morning, she sent Buttons on his way. But only after asking for clarification first:
“Swift John?” she queried the footman. “I thought your name was Buttons.”
“It’s actually James, ma’am. But my brother and me—we’re twins, you recall? He’s John.”
“Which explains naught. How do you then come by Swift John?” And why did Lord Tremayne not simply call him James or Buttons?
The servant gave her an unrepentant grin. “On account of when we tried to snaffle his lordship’s pocket watch, I’m the one who ran the fastest. My brother, John? Now he got hisself caught.”
“You attempted to steal from Lord Tremayne?”
Buttons rocked back on his heels and gave every appearance of one who loved divulging this particular tale. “We did indeed. Only he wasn’t his lordship back then. Nine, we were, and not particularly adept at the trade but hungry after havin’ just lost our folks to the fever.”
“Oh, James…” Just imagining two boys, so young, alone and grieving—
“Don’t go worrying on about us, Miss H. His lordship’s a real square cove. We couldn’t have picked a better pigeon to try an’ pluck—though we were the ones caught. After chasin’ down my brother, Lord Tremayne stood in the street holding tight to John till he finally caught sight of me. Told us we could keep stealing and like as stretch for our efforts, or we could come with him and do honest work for food and pay without ever having to worry about a noose around our necks.” His chest puffed out. “An’ I’ve been Swift John to him ever since.”
Daniel smiled and read again beneath the raindrop-smeared ink…
Drip. Drip. Drip it goes.
All day long, it grows…
The pile, the dripping,
Gluey, sticky pile…from his nose.
A sonnet (or is it an ode?) dedicated to Mr. Freshley of the Dripping Nose.
Thea (who will hurriedly blow hers and hope she’s not given you a dislike for her magical quill—or her taste in literature)
P.S. The cloak, pelisse, gloves and boots are lovely. And though the sleeves are a fraction long (which I only confess because you’ll see this for yourself since I plan to wear my new garments henceforth when I leave the house), I vow your gifts are perfect.
Perfect! Though you are dreadfully spoiling me, I fear, I quite refuse to give them up. Thank you a thousand times over.
P.S. Again. Bruise Fading Cream? What a concept for a pugilist. Are you secretly an apothecary? Or have one in your employ? I adore how it smells on you and will gratefully slather it on my arms. Thank you, kind sir!
P.S. III. I cannot express enough my appreciation to you for sending Buttons to join our household. Though I feel horribly overindulged, I will cherish his presence nevertheless (and perhaps request he give me directional lessons with all due speed).
P.S. IV. I too found great pleasure in our coming together last night. (My face is about to flame at how I’m putting this to paper, but may I reiterate, Great Pleasure?)
…I’d much rather slather it on for you…
…I said you were too refined to be considered any sort of tavern wench? Another error in judgment it appears. Thank you for pointing it out, as I am one who can appreciate the fine, enthusiastic qualities a tavern wench (or in point of fact, my lovely mistress) might show when we’re together and the bawdy sense of humor she might exhibit, and share, when we’re apart.
As to your ode-worthy companion, I do hope you provided the remarkable, rememberable Mr. Freshley with a handkerchief?
Alas, no. The grizzled Mr. Freshley would have scratched me ere I tried. He was the neighbor’s cat, you see. I wanted to be friends, but he had differing definitions of friendship. (If I approached without a fish head or bird in hand, he wanted nothing to do with me.) ’Twas a true pity. Would you care to know what I penned to commemorate my first scratch?
I shall be turning blue from lack of air until you share.
(Remarkable coincidence, that; it
