Chapter Three

L ottie stood before her full-length mirror, her reflection cast in the soft glow of candlelight. Her gown, a rich sapphire silk adorned with delicate lace, clung to her tall, statuesque figure, accentuating her graceful presence. Her quiet blue eyes and long, wheat-colored hair added to her quiet beauty, but she was the most unremarkable of the three Castlebury sisters. Or so her mother always claimed.

She should have felt elated. After all, it was a night at the theatre—a lavish event filled with music, laughter, and drama. But Lottie’s heart was heavy with an unsettling absence. Her fingers trembled as she reached for her evening bag, a delicate creation made of satin and lace. She carried it with her everywhere, and tonight was no exception. Yet, as her gloved hand brushed against the bag, she felt a sudden chill of dread as her mind reeled back to earlier in Hyde Park.

Her gaze flew to her old bag. The satchel’s once-pristine seam had given way, leaving a frayed gap at the bottom. Lottie’s breath caught in her throat as she saw the empty space where her precious journal should have rested, reminding her. Panic welled up inside her once more as she searched the room, her frantic gaze darting from one piece of furniture to another.

“Where is it?” she muttered, her voice stricken with anxiety. She couldn’t afford to lose that journal—it held not only her personal thoughts and ideas but also her most cherished creations, the plays she had penned in secret! Oh, she had looked everywhere between Tipton House and the park. It had to be in her chambers somewhere. For it was clearly nowhere else on God’s green earth!

Why, yesterday afternoon she’d even sent Bailey, the youngest footman, to comb the neighborhood. He’d found nothing.

“Come on, come on, where are you?”

“Lottie, dear, are you all right?” her mother called suddenly from the adjoining room.

Taking a deep breath to compose herself, Lottie lied, “I’m fine, Mother. Just a moment of forgetfulness.” It was a blatant falsity, one she hoped her mother wouldn’t see through.

The candlelight in the bedchamber cast dancing shadows on the walls as she stood in the center of the room and listened as her mother dismissed her, believing her falsehood.

Her thoughts were consumed by a single, maddening question: where was her journal?

Lottie had carried that weathered journal with her everywhere, a constant companion through the ups and downs of her life. Losing it was unthinkable!

She searched the room meticulously, overturning cushions, rifling through drawers, and even peering under the bed. But the journal remained elusive, like a phantom that refused to be found.

“Miss Lottie, is there something I can help you with?” her maid, Martha, asked tentatively as she entered the room. She had been with the Castlebury family for years and had a keen sense for when something was amiss.

Lottie turned to Martha, her eyes wide with panic. “My journal—I can’t find it anywhere. I had it with me in my bag until I noticed it missing at the park yesterday. I’ve searched all over!”

Martha’s expression mirrored Lottie’s concern. “Your journal, miss? The one you keep your writings in?”

Lottie nodded vigorously, her heart racing. “Yes, that’s the one. I can’t go on without it. It’s…everything to me.”

Her maid stepped closer, her age-lined face filled with empathy. “We’ll find it, miss. Let’s search together. Where was the last place you remember having it?”

Lottie’s mind raced, trying to recall the moments leading up to her frantic search. “I had it on my writing desk,” she replied, her voice trembling. “I was reviewing some notes before I started getting dressed…then I went downstairs and argued with those blockheads…then I walked to the park and home again…”

“Did you take it on the walk with you?”

“I believe so. I mean, I think so?” Lottie thought on it a moment. “I was in a snit when I left, grabbing my bag in a huff. So perhaps I didn’t take it…?” Her gaze fell to her desk.

The two of them hurried to the writing desk, where Lottie had spent countless hours crafting her stories. It was a place of solace and inspiration, and the journal had been a constant presence there. But as they arrived at the desk, it was painfully clear that the journal was missing. Lottie felt a deep sense of loss, as if a part of her had been torn away.

“Miss, could it have fallen somewhere?” Martha asked gently, her eyes scanning the room.

Lottie bit her lip, considering the possibility. “Perhaps,” she replied, her voice tinged with desperation. “But I’ve looked everywhere in this room. I’ve looked all over Hyde Park and Mayfair. I’ve retraced my steps. It’s as if it disappeared.”

Martha didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she began to search the room anew, her experienced eyes spotting details that Lottie might have missed. As they combed through the bedchamber together, Martha’s voice offered a reassuring presence. “We’ll find it, Miss Lottie,” she said, determination in her voice. “I’ll have the other servants help in the search. It couldn’t have gone far.”

Lottie nodded, her gratitude for Martha’s support palpable. Losing her journal felt like losing a piece of herself.

As they continued their search, Lottie couldn’t help but worry about the consequences of its disappearance. Her thoughts were filled with the fear that someone might discover her secret passion for playwriting, a pursuit deemed improper for a lady of her station. But more than that, she felt a profound sense of loss, as if her very own identity was slipping through her fingers. Someone out there could be reading her most personal thoughts .

Good God, no.

“What if someone identifies it as mine?” she worried aloud.

Martha’s eyes widened in understanding. “Oh my, I’m sure it will turn up. Perhaps you left it in the drawing room or the library.”

“Oh, Martha, it’s everything to me. I can’t bear the thought of someone finding it and reading my ideas.”

Martha hurried to her mistress’s side and placed a comforting hand on her arm. “We’ll retrace your steps. We’ll go back and search Hyde Park if we must. We’ll find your journal.”

Lottie’s eyes welled up with tears, and she gave a grateful nod. “Thank you, Martha. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

With determination, Lottie and Martha left her bedchamber. They retraced Lottie’s steps through the grand halls of Tipton House, checking every room and nook she had passed through yesterday. Lottie’s agitation only grew with each empty-handed search. “I’m certain I had it with me when I left the drawing room,” she muttered as they entered the opulent sitting area adorned with gilded furniture and rich tapestries. “I was reading through my notes, going over the dialogue for the new play, when Rainville and Crawford came in and we began arguing.”

Martha scanned the room and then moved toward a large, plush armchair. “Perhaps you left it here.”

Lottie’s heart raced as she rushed over to the chair and began frantically searching its cushions and crevices. Her fingers brushed against the soft fabric, but there was no sign of her beloved journal. “Nothing,” she said, her voice quivering with frustration. “It’s not here.”

“We won’t give up. Let’s retrace your steps from the moment you left this room.” They continued their search throughout Tipton House. Lottie’s anxious energy filled every room they entered, but the journal remained elusive.

As they descended the grand staircase, Lottie’s mother, Lady Castlebury, appeared at the bottom, her expression a mixture of concern and curiosity. She was an elegant and poised woman, her silver-threaded red hair perfectly coiffed, and her eyes filled with maternal worry. “Lottie, dear, what is the matter?” she asked.

Lottie took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. “Mother, I’ve lost my journal—the one where I write all my plays. I can’t find it anywhere.”

Lady Castlebury’s eyes softened with sympathy, and she moved closer to her daughter. “Oh dear. We’ll help you look for it. It must be here somewhere.”

Lottie appreciated her mother’s support but couldn’t help feeling a sense of urgency. The theatre awaited them all, and she couldn’t bear the thought of facing the stage without her precious journal to take notes in. The clock on the wall chimed, a reminder that time slipped away.

Martha suggested they check the library once more, and Lottie reluctantly agreed. As they entered the library, Lottie’s gaze fell on the large oak desk where she often sat. Her heart skipped a beat, and she rushed over to it.

Nothing.

Despite their exhaustive search, the journal remained elusive. Lottie’s heart sank as the minutes ticked away, and the realization set in that she would have to leave for the Rhodes Theatre without it. She looked at the clock on the wall. Time had run out.

Martha shared in Lottie’s distress. “We’ve searched every inch of the house. It’s nowhere to be found. What will you do?”

Lottie’s jaw clenched with determination. She couldn’t delay any longer. “I’ll have to go without it. I can’t keep the family waiting any longer. But we will continue searching as soon as I return.”

But as Lottie rejoined her family in the drawing room, she couldn’t shake the unease gnawing at her. She was surrounded by her loved ones—her mother, her sisters Carenza and Nora, her brothers-in-law Rainville and Damon, her brother Crawford, and his wife Sadie—but a sense of disquiet clung to her. Their chatter, filled with anticipation for the evening’s performance at Rhodes Theatre, felt distant and insignificant as Lottie’s mind raced. She needed her journal, her lifeline to the world of storytelling and creativity. Without it, she felt adrift, unmoored.

As the family prepared to leave, Lottie made a final, desperate search of her bedchamber. But the journal remained elusive, as if it had vanished into thin air. She forced a smile, hoping to conceal her anxiety from her family, and followed them out of the house.

A curse on anyone who touched her precious journal.

*

Rhodes Theatre, an opulent venue in the heart of London, was bathed in a warm glow as the gas lamps lining the entrance illuminated the night. The Castlebury family arrived in style, greeted by the theatre’s staff, who were well acquainted with their status as patrons—and family to the theatre’s owner, the Duke of Somerton.

Inside the theatre, Lottie took her seat with her family in the private box, her nerves on edge. She had attended countless performances here, but tonight was different. Tonight, she had no journal.

As the curtains rose, Lottie’s heart pounded in her chest, her love for the theatre momentarily overriding her worry. The play that unfolded before her eyes was a masterpiece—a brilliant tapestry of wit, drama, and romance. It held her utterly transfixed.

It was a work of art—and it was hers. Every line, every character, every nuance, was unmistakably her creation . Hers. Lady Lottie Castlebury’s. “What in the bloody hell?” she mumbled, dumbfounded.

Her eyes widened in shock as she watched the actors breathe life into the words she had penned in her journal. The scenes unfolded with an eerie familiarity, as if the characters had leaped from the pages of her imagination and onto the stage. All of it—all that lovely, extraordinary creation—was hers.

She couldn’t believe it.

How?

Why?

Oh shite, my journal, she thought with a sinking, greasy feeling. It had to be her from her journal. Blast it, that was her missing play!

Who could have done this?

The words played round and round in her mind as the play continued, and she watched until the perfect third act ending.

Who?

Why?

Then he appeared. Thatcher Goodrich, the renowned playwright, stepped forward to take his bow. The audience erupted in applause, and King William himself declared Goodrich the finest playwright in all of England, a contemporary of Shakespeare. And it hit her.

Thatcher bloody Goodrich . That was who.

Thief.

Thief!

Lottie seethed with anger as she watched Goodrich bask in the adulation. Adulation that should have been hers. He’d stolen her play, claimed her genius as his own—and now he reveled in the praise of the aristocracy and the monarch himself! It was an affront, a betrayal she could not bear. “How dare he?” she seethed between her teeth, digging her nails into her palms.

As the applause continued, Lottie’s vision narrowed to a burning point of fury. The stolen words of her play echoed in her mind. She vowed then that she would confront Goodrich, expose him for the fraud he was, and reclaim her rightful place as the true playwright.

It was her hard work, damn it.