Chapter Thirteen

S aturdays at Martin House were usually busy, but the retail gods must have heard Caro's silent plea for a quiet day and taken pity on her. Although she'd done her best to go to bed early, her brain had spun like a dog chasing its tail all night.

Her father used to claim from the pulpit that poor sleep was the sign of a guilty conscience. In her opinion, last night's tossing and turning had more to do with unmet sexual desire and confused feelings about the man responsible for inspiring those thoughts.

Damn Holland's confounding appeal.

Eventually, Hattie had sat up, thumped Caro over the head with a pillow, and demanded she talk. The sudden noise jolted Constance awake as well. By then, Caro had been ready to eject the thoughts whirling through her mind.

Everything spilled out. Kissing Dorian and wanting more. How he'd pinned her with that blue gaze and asked to know her… and then pinned her to the shop's door and a bookcase with an entirely different goal in mind. She told them of the unexpected proposal from Gerard and Leo. The dowager's visit to the library.

It had been like purging a wound, and just as messy. Bless her cousins for reacting exactly as they ought, because getting all of that out of her head meant Caro finally slept, knowing her two closest friends were on her side in all things.

They'd entertained themselves today by teasing her relentlessly about the fading marks on her skin Holland had left.

By the time the bell over the shop door notified them of the arrival of a customer, Hattie had ceased asking pointed questions about the duke designed to make Caro squirm and had occupied herself with shelving the new copies of A Dalliance for Miss Lorraine . Constance whisked around the room with a feather duster in hand but was doing more reading than dusting as she plucked one book from a shelf, read a few pages, then put it back and chose another book from a different shelf.

For her part, the only things keeping Caro on her feet were the counter she leaned against and the cup of strong tea cradled in her hands. She mustered a tired greeting when two women entered the store and headed straight toward Hattie and the crate of books. It was a relief to know she wouldn't have to actively sell them anything as Hattie struck up a rapport with them.

Bits of their conversation filtered through her foggy brain.

"I wish I were talented enough to write the things she does."

"Theodora, your stories are just as good as hers. I keep telling you, you need to send one to a publisher. Take the chance."

Some of Caro's mental haze cleared, and her pulse began to race. Even though she couldn't speak to them as Blanche, she could encourage this woman as a reader. "The world needs every story, miss. Especially when they end happily. Listen to your friend."

The young women glanced in her direction and smiled. "Thank you. It's terribly intimidating, though, isn't it? If only I could speak with someone who's published before. I have so many questions. More than anything, I'm scared they'll reject me."

Hattie raised a brow at Caro as if to say, See, Blanche? They need you. Part of her longed to answer the invitation. That part didn't have logic on its side, only emotional impulse. However, leaving another aspiring writer in the dark wasn't acceptable either.

Caro clutched her teacup tighter and offered the woman an encouraging smile. "A publisher might reject your work. But what if they don't? What if in a year, you had a book on that shelf, and I had the joy of selling it to readers? Contact a publisher and ask questions."

The woman's friend sent her a beaming grin and Caro sent her a conspiratorial wink. A few minutes later, she rang up a sale for each of them while they promised to let her know how the writing went.

It wasn't the same thing as admitting she was Blanche Clementine and having the chance to talk with a fellow writer, but it was close enough to lend a bubble of happiness to her step.

When the bell rang again, and Caro spied a servant wearing the Holland livery, she craned her neck to see who accompanied him even as she backed toward the door to the office. His Grace never brought a servant into the store with him, which left one possible visitor.

The Dowager Duchess of Holland swanned into the store with the confidence of a woman who'd rarely, if ever, been told no. Rather than peruse the displays on the tables, or choose a random aisle and begin to wander, she approached the sales counter with a serious expression that made Caro wince preemptively. Below the counter, Constance waved Caro toward the office, and like a coward, she inched backward until her bum hit her desk and she could breathe a sigh of relief.

The dowager's voice carried all the way into the office. Since the older woman freely admitted to eavesdropping, Caro refused to feel bad about doing the same.

"Everywhere I go, I'm hearing about a book written by an orange woman. I need a copy, and I'll be on my way."

Orange woman? Confusion gave way to… slightly clearer befuddlement. Did she mean—

"Are you referring to Blanche Clementine's latest release?" Constance asked.

"We've been selling so many of her books it's a challenge to keep them on hand. Can you believe we've sold more copies of this title than Byron's Corsair in the last week?" Hattie's voice was syrupy sweet, which immediately sent off an alarm in Caro's brain. "I've just finished setting out the new stock we received this morning. Perhaps this is the one you're looking for, Your Grace?"

"Is that the one all those featherbrains are tittering about behind their fans? They're talking about the hero, but not one of them will elaborate. They had the audacity to laugh and tell me I should get my own copy." Caro had to smile at the dowager's description of the women in her circle.

"Blanche Clementine's novel has been making quite a stir," Constance said.

"It's in such high demand three elegant ladies nearly came to fisticuffs over the last copy when we sold out earlier in the week," Hattie lied with a conspiratorial tone.

What on earth was she up to? If the dowager wanted to buy a copy, her cousins didn't have to work this hard to sell it. Take the silver dragon's money and send her on her way.

Of course, thinking of the dowager reading an erotic novel ( inspired by her son—which was disturbing ) was something Caro didn't want to contemplate.

"Who were the ladies?" the dowager asked, and Caro bit her knuckles to contain a laugh. Somehow, she'd known the woman was a gossip. The worst kind, who refused to see their gossipy ways and condemned others for the same sin.

"We could never betray a customer's confidence in that manner. I'm sure you understand, Your Grace," Connie demurred.

Hattie giggled. Hattie was not a giggler. Now there was no doubt her cousin was concocting a plan on the spot, and Constance was simply going along with it. "I probably shouldn't tell you, because if anyone discovered we had such a unique item in the store, customers would beat down the doors. You see, the author is notoriously elusive. Not even her publisher has met her in person."

Caro had to give credit where credit was due. Hattie had a knack for spinning a tale.

"After losing her chance at purchasing that last copy, one of the women who happens to be extremely high placed in society—who shall remain nameless, of course—asked us to negotiate a special request on their behalf with the publisher. I'm sure everyone with ears will be hearing her crow about the purchase soon enough, then all will be known. Thanks to her relentless pleas, Martin House now has the only signed copy in existence of any Blanche Clementine novel." Hattie dropped that blatant falsehood like a hook into the water and waited for the society matron to take the bait.

Caro plunked into her desk chair, trying to breathe quietly. Were they doing what it sounded like they were doing? Blanche Clementine didn't sign books. Ever. The idea of it sent part of her twisting in silent yearning. To claim her work in such a way was something she'd never planned to do. The rest of her wanted to place her head between her knees until the idea of inviting such pointed attention didn't make black spots dance in her vision. Discussing publishing with a reader and aspiring writer was one thing. Outing her secret identity to the Dowager Duchess of Holland was another matter altogether.

"It was Lady Jersey, wasn't it? That woman will be shouting from the rooftops after such a purchase—just you wait. Mercy, she will be absolutely unsufferable," the dowager grumbled.

A weighty pause made Caro desperately wish she could see their faces. Hattie, when she spoke, struck the perfect balance of calculating and helpful. "Our customer was adamant we try, and we sent a letter to the publisher pleading for their help getting the author to sign for her—I mean, sign for them. At no small cost either. After all, this customer wanted the social coup of owning the only signed copy of the book everyone in the ton is dying to get their hands on."

"We have an extensive clientele of collectors, and half of them would be salivating at the idea of owning this. I still can't believe this customer convinced Blanche Clementine to sign a book." Bless Constance—she knew how to play this game just as well as Hattie.

"It just arrived from the publisher by special courier this morning. In fact, I was sending a messenger this afternoon to notify our nameless customer of the successful acquisition." Hattie's tone turned downright sly. "Such a shame she hasn't paid for the book yet. Anyone willing to usurp her claim to fame could do so, and I'd be powerless to stop them."

Constance gasped, but somehow coming from her, it didn't sound theatrical. "Hattie, are you suggesting we sell Her Grace, Lady Jers—I mean, our unnamed customer's signed copy?"

"Darling, I was merely speculating on a hypothetical scenario. After all, if someone knew of such a rare book and purchased it before anyone else, that would be a simple matter of timing and luck. One person's perfect timing and another's rotten luck."

Did the dowager just laugh at Hattie's jest? Would wonders never cease?

"Either way, we would be doing right by the customer fortunate enough to purchase such an exclusive item. After all, that patron would forever own something another customer was willing to fight so hard to have. Martin House is well respected due to our excellent relationships with customers, and for good reason. We like to make sure our very best patrons remain happy."

"Silence Jersey was one of the three ladies fighting over the last copy?" The dowager's glee was so obvious it was a wonder she wasn't foaming at the mouth. Of course, she might have been and Caro was missing it by hiding at her desk.

"I can neither confirm nor deny the identity of our customers, Your Grace," Hattie stated primly.

"How much was Lady Jersey going to pay for her copy?"

Constance named a price that made Caro's mouth drop open. Even dealing with deep-pocketed collectors on a regular basis didn't prepare her to hear that kind of price for a single book. Especially not her book.

The dowager trilled a laugh. "That woman has more money than sense. How very like her to attempt to purchase social leverage. Some of us are born with prestige, but her grandfather was in trade."

Caro shook her head. Lady Jersey's grandfather left her one of the oldest banks in England in his will. Lady Jersey was one of the richest people in the country, yet the dowager had to nitpick the woman's bloodline.

Just when Caro was convinced they'd overshot the price in their conversation, the dowager sighed heavily, with a studied casual air. "I will take the signed copy, if you please. Silence would be better served to spend that money on more flattering hats."

"Of course, Your Grace," Hattie chirped. "We placed the book in the safe, due to its value. Please excuse me a moment, and I'll fetch it for you."

They didn't have a safe. Caro nearly laughed out loud when she looked at the broken drawer that didn't even lock where they kept their banking receipts. When her cousin entered the office, she found Caroline shaking her head.

She hissed, "What have you done, Hattie MacCrae?"

Hattie's smile was pure devilment, but she kept her voice at a whisper. "Made the Dowager Duchess of Holland pay through the nose for mistreating my cousin." She pulled a copy of Caro's book from her apron pocket. "Now, Blanche. I need you to autograph this, please."

"I can't believe you got her to pay such a price. You're dicked in the nob. Both of you." Caro dipped her pen in the inkwell and opened the copy of A Dalliance for Miss Lorraine . Some of the pages hadn't even been cut yet, and it smelled of fresh ink. She ran her hand over the paper and experienced the same thrill she did every time she held one of her stories.

That the dowager was going to read. Caro winced. Not going to think about that.

With swoops and dips, the black liquid created the familiar lines of her nom de plume.

And despite the customer this copy would go to, signing her work made something in Caro's chest settle into a feeling of undeniable rightness. Like a key fitting into a lock.

The carriage rocked as Oliver stepped into it, then flung himself on the bench opposite Dorian. Immediately, the carriage joined the others on the road and rumbled toward their destination.

"I'm here, as requested. Why the sudden interest in the London stage?"

Dorian cleared his throat and spun the rim of his hat in his hands between his knees. "Remember the letter Miss Danvers found in the library? There are others, and they reference something that might explain Juliet's missing fortune. Also, someone named Sherman wrote them."

Oliver's eyes widened for a second before his logical brain regained control. "Anything else, or just Sherman?"

"There's a line reminiscent of something the playwright Mr. Bartholomew wrote and premiered this past week, despite the letter predating that production by several years."

"Why am I here? Moral support? An alibi?"

"Neither, or both. Perhaps you're here because you're my oldest friend, and errands like these are what friends do for one another."

"Friends accompany one another to visit their dead wife's possible lover? I wasn't aware. Now that I'm informed, I'll do my part." Oliver's droll comment gave Dorian a reason to smile, and that alone was reassurance that he'd done the right thing by inviting him.

"I set up the appointment in Howard's name, so please refer to me that way. He won't mind me impersonating him for a few minutes," Dorian said.

Outside, the coachman called to the horses as the carriage rocked to a stop.

Mr. Bartholomew lived on the third floor of a building that stank of onions and dirty wash water. Stairs creaked and shifted beneath their feet as they climbed toward the flat a man on the street had directed them to.

When they knocked, a deep voice called for them to enter. Were he of an artistic bent, Dorian would have painted the man inside as "writer in repose." The playwright had truly set the stage, as it were, lounging on a fainting couch in a well-worn banyan, smoking a pipe, with a stack of paper and an inkwell within reach.

Just in case inspiration struck, and his muse demanded immediate attention, Dorian supposed.

The scene didn't distract from the piles of… things strewn about the room. The space wasn't full of the comfortable clutter of life debris. Instead, it spoke of a man who didn't see the need to pick up after himself. To the left of the door, one corner overflowed with what might have been costumes or clothing, or simply cloth destined for the rag bin. Every surface was littered with papers that might or might not have been important, dirty plates, and more empty ale mugs than Dorian had seen outside a butler's pantry. If the man didn't have vermin infesting the room and his person, it would be a miracle.

In the middle of the mess sat the battered settee like a velvet island in a sea of jumble.

Mr. Bartholomew jerked upright when Oliver stepped through the door behind Dorian. "Pardon me, I didn't realize you were bringing a friend as well. But"—a cheerful grin lit his face—"I'm always happy to make new acquaintances. Especially when they dress so well."

Dorian opened his mouth, but Oliver spoke first. "Mr. Howard is a terribly busy man, so if we could focus on our reason for being here, that would be much appreciated."

Undeterred, the playwright leaned toward Oliver. "I didn't catch your name, sir."

"I didn't offer it," Oliver replied.

Inserting himself into the awkward silence that fell as Mr. Bartholomew realized they weren't here to offer patronage, Dorian pulled the letter with the quote from the play out of his pocket. "Did you write this?"

The playwright narrowed his eyes and cautiously reached for the paper as if it were liable to bite him. A frown appeared on his face as he read, shook his head, then read once more. Finally, he spoke. "Ah, I see now. Is this the only letter?"

"No, there are more. So you did write that?" Dorian asked. Looking at him and knowing Juliet, Dorian had a hard time believing this man was Sherman. Juliet was a duchess. And this man… didn't appear to understand the concept of bathing and lived in squalor. Where was the appeal? The connection through commonalities needed to steal someone's heart?

"I wrote it, but I didn't write this," Bartholomew said unhelpfully, then waved his hands about as if physically clearing the air of confusion. "Please sit. There's a story here."

Bartholomew bounced up to sweep the contents of a chair to the floor. Everyone ignored the faint sound of glass shattering as the pile hit the wood boards. "Here. Sit, both of you."

Oliver took the chair, and Bartholomew gestured for Dorian to clear the chair flanking the fainting couch. Dorian carefully lifted the chair's burden as a whole and set it aside instead of flinging it.

Perching on the edge of the torn tufted cushion, Dorian prompted, "You said there's a story. Explain."

"Yes. Right." Bartholomew drained a nearby mug without glancing down to verify the contents. A foolhardy risk considering the general state of the room.

"I haven't always been a successful darling of the London stage," the man began with such seriousness and lack of self-awareness that Dorian bit the inside of his lips to stop himself from laughing. "Years ago, I provided a service to a man who approached me in a coffeehouse. Since I've only done it once, I'm fairly certain that man is your letter writer."

Which explained absolutely nothing and sparked several questions.

"Please clarify," Oliver said.

"I wrote letters for him. Poor bloke wasn't blessed with good looks or charm, but he paid well. The plan was he'd copy them in his hand, then woo the lady in question after I smoothed the way with my words." Bartholomew held out his hand. "May I examine the others?"

Without a word, Dorian handed over the rest. After a moment of perusing the pages, Bartholomew grunted. "As I thought. He's pieced these together. Cobbling phrases here and there. Made them his own." Returning the letters, he said, "I hope he won the girl, though I doubt it. He was far from a catch. How did you know I wrote the originals?"

"The jest about ports in a storm. I was in the theater when your play debuted."

Bartholomew beamed. "That was a great line, wasn't it? I confess I write down the better bits and reuse them when appropriate." His attention switched to Oliver. "Are you familiar with my work?"

Oliver nodded. "I am, actually. What do you remember about the fellow?"

The playwright settled back on the chaise. "Honestly, there isn't much to tell. Have you ever eaten thick porridge without any seasoning in it? No honey, no salt, no bacon drippings?"

Oliver curled his top lip in obvious disgust. "Bit like eating paste."

Bartholomew snapped his fingers. "Exactly. Sticks to your mouth until you're desperate for a drink just to rid yourself of the experience. Now, imagine that described a person. This Sherman fellow was like that."

A dark laugh escaped as Dorian shook his head. "I should wander London asking after someone who looks like the human equivalent of eating paste?"

Oliver grinned, then asked, "Do you remember his full name?"

Bartholomew scrunched his face, searching a mental ledger. "Snood? Stupper? Slu—No, that wouldn't be right. Drat, it's right there on the tip of my tongue. Snyder. That was it." He nodded in satisfaction, then shifted back into the role of storyteller. "Sherman Snyder. Horsefaced as can be, poor bloke. Massive nose, no chin at all, just nose and neck. Sounded like a donkey when he laughed."

Oliver appeared reluctantly charmed. "Should I be horrified or amused by that character sketch?"

"Both, I'd think," Bartholomew said. "Horrified, 'cause his personality was worse than his looks. No wit, intelligence, or original thoughts in his head. Rather nasty fellow, truth be told. But his money spent well. If you're amused by my description, it's on account that I'm a brilliant writer."

And so humble too. Dorian smiled wryly. "You have a talent with words, Mr. Bartholomew. So, to sum up, his name is Sherman Snyder and he's entirely unappealing?"

"Boring. Nondescript. We can't all be blessed with my vibrant coloring, more's the pity." With a shrug, Bartholomew concluded, "His own mother would lose him in a crowd, no doubt. Hair, skin, eyes—all the same color."

"Human porridge, indeed," Oliver mused.

"Exactly." Their host slapped his knees and stood. "If that will be all? I'm due at the theater in an hour. Unless you'd like to accompany me and consider offering your patronage…"

Dorian rose, brushing his backside to sweep away errant tufts of chair stuffing. "No, thank you. Do you happen to have this Mr. Snyder's direction?"

Bartholomew laughed. "Good God, that was years ago. Who knows if he's even in the city anymore? If it helps, I remember him waxing poetic about his village in Kent. Tip something."

Dorian froze in the process of placing his hat on his head. The school Juliet was funding and had spoken of so often was in a village called—"Tippering?"

"That's it. Been there? I'd never heard of it," Bartholomew said.

Dorian met Oliver's gaze. "I believe a visit is in my near future." He pulled a sovereign from his pocket and handed it to the playwright. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Bartholomew. If I have further questions, I'll be back."

In the carriage, Dorian heaved a sigh that released some of the tension from his shoulders but did nothing to unknot his gut. "Bloody hell."

"Tippering? Isn't that where Juliet's school was being built?"

"What are the odds she was financing a school in the same village that this Mr. Snyder person called home?"

"You're asking a rhetorical question, but I could do the maths if you'd like. Are we off to Kent right now? Or do I have time to get something to eat? I'm famished and will need to send a note round to Althea canceling our plans. Ironically enough, we'd planned to see that man's play tonight. Oh, and I'll grab a book for the road. Started that saucy one you bought me, and it's just getting to the eyebrow-raising parts. Have you read it yet?"

Dorian contemplated his hands. A smudge of ink remained on his finger from the work he'd done earlier in his study. "No, I've been busy. Or rather, I've been distracted." He glanced up at his friend. "Do you think this is madness? It's been five years since their affair ended. Perhaps Juliet built a school. Or maybe he took her money and ran. Does it even matter at this point?" One possibility taunted him, and it had nothing to do with money. Sherman Snyder was the only person who could tell him why Juliet strayed. Had Dorian done something wrong, or had the affair begun from questionable luck and bad decisions?

Dorian leaned back as the carriage moved into traffic. If he'd wronged Juliet somehow, he wanted to know. It might be too late to fix things with his wife, but he could ensure he didn't make the same mistakes twice. The thought made his chest tighten as if each inhale filled his lungs with gravel. Squeezing his eyes closed, he willed the looming episode away. Now was not the time or place to fall to pieces. Conscious of the mounting effort it took, Dorian sucked air in through his nose, felt it fill the heavy, dark spaces in his body, then released the breath.

He couldn't submit to this if he was busy concocting a plan, so he forged ahead with potential outcomes. He'd travel to Kent and see how many of his questions had answers. And if he traveled to Tippering, there damned well better be a school there. Dorian clenched his teeth, whistling air in, and noticed there was more space within him for the breath to go. That was good.

He could see where this trail to Sherman led. And if it led to evidence that the man defrauded Juliet, he'd bring Snyder before the court and let him rot in prison.

Opening his eyes, Dorian exhaled fully. There. Not so bad now that he had a plan.

Oliver's face settled into a compassionate expression. The kind of look you'd offer someone at a funeral, and one Dorian had seen too many times since his return from the war. "I suspect your desire to find him is about more than money. Whatever your reasons, if you need to find him, I will help." He paused, considering. "Unless he's dead. In which case, we'll find his grave and piss on it together. Plan?"

"Plan."