Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

A lone in his study at Tolley House, Robert reached for his second glass of whisky. After a long nap, he'd risen and set to reading the letters from the gentleman who wished to see him removed from the position of restaurant reviewer at the Morning Herald . They told the tale of a relationship that had truly soured.

There were several letters addressing his shortfalls as a critic, along with other individually curated reviews of various restaurants. He noted with interest that only the ones which had attacked him personally had been made public. The other missives which were thorough in their discussions of the various worthy and not-so-worthy points of various establishments he'd reviewed over time were well written, but even he had to admit, they didn't make good newspaper copy.

He took a long sip of his drink, then got to his feet. Standing and warming himself in front of the fire, he read aloud from one of the reviews.

"The delicate balance of cream and spice was handled particularly well, and I must agree with your original argument that the recipe should never be challenged."

Robert smiled. The note was for a delightful tavern he'd uncovered in one of the back streets near Westminster. He was proud of his discovery and could confess to being rather chuffed that a Morning Herald reader had gone to the effort to dine there at his recommendation.

The rest of the letters followed a similar pattern. Each week he had written a review, and each week this devoted reader had taken him at his word and ventured to whichever restaurant or tavern Robert had featured.

Whoever this chap was, his devotion to Robert's column couldn't be faulted. And while the letters had all been recently penned, the reviews they covered went back many months, some even years.

The notes covering the earlier pieces had been favorable, but the latter ones which included the more recent reviews, had seen the tone of the correspondence turn dark. Unfettered loyalty had transformed into bitter disappointment. Disappointment now replaced with open contempt. His former faithful follower had decided that Robert was no longer worthy of his time and that he wouldn't be dining at any of the eating establishments the Morning Herald food critic recommended.

He was still mulling over the contents of the most recent notes, when George appeared in the doorway of his study. His man of business rapped on the doorframe. "Your Grace."

"Come in. I'm just reading the letters from the chap who keeps writing to the Morning Herald demanding my resignation." He waved the letter in his hand, before making his way over to his desk, where he dropped the note on top of the rest of the papers.

George poured himself a generous glass of whisky, then sat in the overstuffed leather chair on the opposite side to where Robert now resumed his seat at the desk. The tall, thin Welshman picked up the letter and quickly read it.

"Where did you get these?"

"Paid a visit to the editor of the Morning Herald yesterday morning. He gave them to me, but on the clear understanding that I'm not to call the chap out and demand a duel on Hampstead Heath. Something about me shooting dead readers not being good for business."

George chuckled as his gaze ran over the note. He finished reading it, then picked up another piece of paper. He'd finished a half dozen of the missives, before he sat back in his chair and grinned at Robert. "It's a good thing you didn't go after him."

"Why?" He wasn't afraid of the bloodthirsty agents who worked for the East India Company, so a disgruntled reader shouldn't pose him any sort of danger.

"Because I think your ticked-off correspondent might well be a woman."

Robert's mouth dropped open. "What?!"

Flipping the letter onto the desk, George placed his forefinger over the word Gratin , then leaned forward. "Look at the elegant handwriting. What male writes as neatly as that? None I happen to know. The swoop of the G is a dead giveaway—that's exactly how my wife writes."

A ripple of surprise shot through Robert. Could his restaurant rival actually be a female? No. That would be ludicrous. Then again…

He picked up another of the notes, skimming his gaze over it. It wasn't just the handwriting, it was the tone. There'd been something about the letters he'd not been able to put his finger on. George's words made perfect, horrible sense.

"A woman. A female. Someone of the opposite sex," he muttered.

"Yes, all those things," snorted George. His man of business had more leeway with his employer than most others did and wasn't afraid to call a spade a spade.

Brushing the paper between his fingers, Robert could tell it was of a particularly good quality. The sort of stationery that could only be purchased in one of London's more refined paper shops.

He set the letter down. "Bloody hell. Why would a woman want to get me fired from the job?"

George sipped from his glass. "You can't seriously have assumed that all your readers would be men, did you? My wife reads your column with great interest. Though she doesn't know that it's you. If she did, that might make a difference."

He caught the hint of an insult in George's words but had to laugh. "Let's not start a conversation about your good lady's taste in the finer things in life. She did happen to marry you. The poor thing."

"Touché, Your Grace."

The thought of the letter writer possibly being a female held Robert's interest. Stirred something in his blood. More than likely she was some ancient crone who felt it was her right to put him in his place. The sort of woman who had dined out more times than he could ever hope to do, and who wanted to show him that she knew what she was talking about. And if she wanted to take him on, who was he to refuse a lady's demands?

He glanced at the topmost letter and picked it up once more. There was no post mark.

My dear lady reader, I think I have you.

"None of the letters are post marked. So someone has to make the effort to hand deliver them to the Morning Herald each day," said Robert. If the author of the notes was a lady of quality, they wouldn't do the job themselves. They would have a servant. Or even better, a liveried footman.

And if there was one thing he knew beyond a doubt, it was that a coin or two pressed into the right palm always got him the answers he sought.

"If our correspondent is indeed a female, I need to find out who this woman is. Only then can I decide on the best way to take the battle to her doorstep."

George downed the last of his drink and rose from his chair. He slowly shook his head. "I'm at a loss as to what to think of you taking any action against a lady of quality. Either you are a brave man or a very foolish one."