“If he hasn’t proposed already, knowing I read this sort of story might prevent him from ever proposing,” Lady Beatrice argued. “Gentlemen prefer pure and innocent maidens, don’t they?”
Lenore was certain she would have had a reply to that if the words of the story she scanned through—one of the author of Nocturne’s most sinful yet—hadn’t caused her heart to drop into her stomach to play with the butterflies that were running riot there. The feature story in the new issue was about a certain Lady A who was locked in a tower by her overbearing mother. That didn’t stop the suitors from climbing up the tower walls to have their wicked way with the hapless but lusty Lady A. Lenore scanned the rest of the pages of the story, which seemed to be little more than a series of intimate encounters with the men bold and brave enough to make it past Lady A’s battleax of a mother and scale the tower walls. It was a few, particular lines of dialog that arrested Lenore’s attention, though.
“Do you have any smelling salts? I fear I might need them,” Lady A in the story said to her lusty maid at one point in the story. The line rang more than a few bells in Lenore’s mind. She glanced up in her reading and sent a pointed look Phineas’s way. Phineas seemed more than usually interested in the older gentleman who had just taken up a position by the piano to sing an operatic ballad.
Lenore read on, searching for more clues that would confirm her suspicions. She found one almost immediately when the about-to-be-ravished heroine declared that she was simply doing her duty by her family to find a husband, and that she didn’t mind the gentlemen invading her tower, because she would rather stay at home than go out. Lenore’s eyes went wide. There was no mistaking who Lady A in the story was, though she found it a bit cruel that anyone would write such a story about poor Lady Agnes Hamilton. What startled her even more was that, as far as Lenore knew, excluding herself, only one other person had heard Lady Agnes ask for smelling salts or declare that she would rather have stayed home.
Lenore cleared her throat and handed the journal to Lady Diana. “I find that quite curious indeed,” she said rather stiffly, staring hard at Phineas. “Revealing, in fact.”
“Of course, everyone knows the subject is Agnes Hamilton,” Diana whispered what Lenore had already concluded. She winced. “I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t invited her this evening.”
Lenore’s brow flew up. Strangely, Phineas’s did as well. “Is she here?” Phineas asked.
“Her mother is,” Lady Diana said, standing straighter to survey her guests. She let out a breath and sagged a bit. “I really should organize everyone to listen to the music instead of talking over it. Miss Olson was rather put out that no one listened to her set. If you will excuse me.”
Lady Diana walked away, Lady Beatrice on her heels. As soon as they’d departed, Lenore snapped to face Phineas.
“Mr. Mercer, you sly dog,” she said with a victorious grin.
Phineas had the audacity to look baffled. “Is something amiss, Miss Garrett.”
Lenore crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at him. “You have written something I’ve read,” she said, her grin growing.
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean,” he said, adjusting his glasses and looking about as innocent as a satyr.
Lenore stepped close to him, probably too close for a public event. “You’re the author of Nocturne,” she hissed, triumphant.
“I can assure you, you’re mistaken,” he replied with a grave look, his blue eyes sparkling.
“I most certainly am not.” She inched even closer to him, so much so that she could smell the scent of his shaving soap. It sent tingles down her spine and pooled warmth deep within her. “You and I were the only two who heard Lady Agnes say those things. You wrote them directly into your story.”
“Perhaps you are the author,” Phineas suggested.
“Oh, no.” Lenore leaned back, shaking her head. “I’ll have you know, sir, that I am a champion in the art of figuring things out. I was famous for it back home. Infamous, some might say. I was the one who discovered who put boot black all over Vivian Bonneville’s saddle, though she deserved it, if you ask me.”
“Did she?” Phineas broke into a smile.
“I was the one who wheedled the truth out of Talia Knighton before she admitted to anyone else she was pregnant, yet again,” Lenore went on, inadvertently shocking the matronly woman standing close enough to her and Phineas to hear her use of the scandalous and unmentionable word “pregnant”.
“How very clever of you,” Phineas said, obviously amused by her stories. “You should offer your services as a detective.”
“I should,” Lenore went on. She turned sober as she finished with, “I was the one who discovered the truth about the murders on Frank Waverly’s ranch.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. They left a bitter taste in her mouth that she swallowed, pressing a hand to her stomach. “Do you suppose there is any wine at this event?” she asked, hating how hoarse she suddenly was.
Phineas went from smiling indulgently at her to frowning in curiosity. “Yes, I believe there are refreshments in the other room. Allow me to escort you.” He rested a hand on the small of Lenore’s back as they started across the room. “Besides, it looks as though Lady Diana was serious about ending the conversations in the room so that her guests will pay attention to the musical performers.”
Lenore’s burst
