A 19th century London courtesan agrees to a phony courtship with a navy captain and finds herself negotiating uncharted territory outside the boudoir.
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The year is eighteen-t...
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London never looked prettier. Sure, the snowbanks were stained with soot and the street noise sounded like an orchestra of elephants, but the familiar sights and sounds of city life offered reassurance as my coach carried me away from the headquarters of the army paymaster.
Now that I knew the battle I faced to forward the cause of disabled soldiers, I considered engaging the help of an assistant. Someone with experience handling self-important officers who can't keep their hands to themselves. What provoked these men to think it was acceptable to behave so inappropriately?
While I had experience with men exhibiting every variation of manners, I did not claim to be an expert on their inexplicable behaviours. Clearly, the situation with Colonel Whitaker would need to be dealt with in the most delicate fashion. He had the power to help me or hurt me, and I expected an ultimatum to come at any moment. The thought had me fisting my hands, and I nearly cursed when the carriage came to an abrupt stop to avoid a staggering pedestrian.
While we waited for the road to clear, I continued my thoughtful debate. I needed an ally. Preferably someone within the paymaster's office who could rescue me should my circumstance deteriorate to that level. The secretary seemed the most convenient choice, since he sat right outside the colonel's office. But the man struck me as a miserable sot. Was it because he hated his position? Was the colonel responsible for his wretched temperament?
At that moment, a thought hit me, and I popped my head outside the carriage window, shouting at the driver to change our course. A few minutes later, we were pulling in front of Faulkner and Batts, the finest stationary shoppe in central London. As the coachman helped me navigate the slippery sidewalk, I palmed a coin into his hand, asking that he wait unless he received a larger fare.
The smell of fresh parchment greeted me as I entered the store, immediately easing my worried mind. Some of my best memories were tied to my writing desk, where I had penned saucy missives to Alexander the First, who had also been my first. He was Emperor of Russia now and didn't have time for such frivolousness.
Knowing my way quite well, I walked to the table where the newest pens were displayed. While I enjoyed the feel of a quill and the familiar, acrid smell of ink, I did appreciate the convenience of these newfangled devices. And I thought someone who spent a good amount of time making official notations would appreciate it as well.
After looking over all the options, I picked up a box holding a handsome pen with a pair of metal nibs. The casing had been fashioned out of tortoise shell, something I had not seen before, and it boasted an impressive weight. Certainly, the miserable secretary would be cheered by such a gift. With luck, the quality would equal the price.
I found my coachman still waiting when I stepped outside, and as I accepted his proffered hand to climb into the carriage, my gaze fell on a figure across the street dressed in a naval officer's uniform. The man stood in a familiar pose, stiff and guarded, a typical stance for a military man who had seen battle. But I could not ignore the strange pull as I studied him from a distance. I knew this man.
