Lady Ines Scandalous Hobby-Chapter 139 - Hundred And Thirty Nine

The fog in London was thick enough to taste. It clung to the cobblestones and swirled around the gas lamps, turning the afternoon into a premature twilight. In a secluded alleyway behind the park, a black carriage sat waiting. There was no crest on the door. The curtains were drawn tight.

Parker stood shivering next to the carriage wheel. He hugged the brown paper package to his chest. He looked left, then right. He felt important, like a spy in a grand novel, but mostly he felt cold.

The carriage window slid down just an inch.

"Well?" a female voice asked from the darkness inside. The voice was sharp and impatient.

Parker stepped closer. He licked his dry lips. "I have it, My Lady. Just as you asked."

"Pass it through," the voice commanded.

Parker hesitated. "The... the payment? You promised fifty guineas."

There was a scoff from inside the carriage. A gloved hand emerged from the gap in the window. It held a heavy velvet pouch. The pouch hit Parker’s chest with a satisfying thud.

"Take it," the voice snapped. "And disappear. If anyone asks where you got that money, you tell them you won it at dice. Do not speak my name. Do not speak of this meeting."

Parker grabbed the money pouch. He didn’t check the coins; the weight alone told him it was more money than he would make in ten years of sweeping floors at the print shop.

"Yes, My Lady. Of course, My Lady."

He pushed the brown paper package through the window. The gloved hand snatched it away greedily.

"Go," the voice ordered.

The window slid shut with a sharp click.

Parker didn’t wait. He turned and ran down the alley, his boots splashing in the puddles, the heavy pouch of gold bouncing against his hip. He was rich. He was free. He didn’t care what was in the book or who it hurt.

Inside the carriage, Priscilla sat alone in the dim light.

She looked at the package on her lap. It was wrapped in rough butcher paper and tied with cheap twine. It looked ugly. But to Priscilla, it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

She picked up a small silver letter opener she kept in her reticule. She sliced through the twine with a savage motion. The string fell away. She tore the paper open.

Inside lay the book.

It was bound in black leather, smooth and cold to the touch. It had no title. It looked forbidden. It looked like a secret that wanted to be kept.

Priscilla ran her fingers over the cover. She smiled.

"Finally," she whispered. "I have you, Ines."

She tapped on the roof of the carriage with her fan. "Home!" she shouted to the driver. "And drive fast!"

The carriage lurched forward, rattling over the stones. Priscilla didn’t look out the window. She couldn’t take her eyes off the black book.

Twenty minutes later, she was in her private boudoir. She had dismissed her maids. She had locked the door. She sat at her vanity table, surrounded by pots of rouge and bottles of perfume.

She placed the black book in the center of the table, pushing aside her jewelry box.

Her heart was racing. This was the weapon she needed. For weeks, she had suspected. She had seen the ink stains on Ines’s fingers. She had heard the rumors. She had even read the story herself. But suspicion was not proof. The Queen would not ostracize a member of the Ton based on gossip. The Queen needed evidence.

And this was all the evidence she needed.

Priscilla opened the black cover.

The first page was stark white. In the center, written in elegant, flowing handwriting, was a single line.

A special Chapter. For my lover.

Priscilla let out a breathless laugh. It was a sound of pure triumph.

"I knew it," she hissed.

She read the words again. For my lover. But this wasn’t Arthur Pendleton’s handwriting. Maybe it’s an author thing to use decorative handwriting at the cover of the page; nevertheless ,It was exactly what she had hoped for. Ines was writing smut. She was writing filth, using the Duke as a model for it.

Priscilla was convinced that the pages following this title would be filled with detailed, scandalous descriptions of Ines’s illicit affairs.

She didn’t turn the page yet. She didn’t need to read the details right this second. The title page alone was damning. A proper lady did not write "special Chapters" for lovers. A proper lady did not bind her thoughts and sell them in back alleys.

Priscilla leaned back in her chair, clutching the book to her chest. A wicked idea began to form in her mind.

The book was powerful. It was devastating. If she read this aloud at the Masquerade Ball, Ines would be humiliated. Carcel would have no choice but to abandon her to save his own reputation.

But...

Priscilla frowned slightly. A small seed of doubt crept in.

Ines was clever. Priscilla had seen how Ines handled herself at the tea party. Ines might deny it. She might say the handwriting was forged. She might say it was a prank.

The book was written by "Arthur Pendleton." Everyone knew Arthur Pendleton was a pseudonym. What if Ines claimed she had never seen this book before? What if Carcel stood by her and claimed it was a lie planted by an enemy?

Priscilla tapped her finger against the leather cover.

"I need more," she murmured to her reflection in the mirror. "I need a witness."

She thought about the chain of custody. The boy, Parker, was useless. He was a gambler and a fool; no one would believe him.

But there was someone else.

The woman who delivered the manuscripts. The woman in the brown cloak.

Priscilla had seen her coming and going from the print shop. She was Ines’s friend. Gladys.

If Gladys confessed... if Gladys stood in front of the ton and admitted, "Yes, I delivered this book for Lady Ines"... then there would be no escape. Ines could not deny her own best friend.

Priscilla’s smile returned, wider and colder than before.

"Yes," she said softly. "A confession."

She stood up and walked to the bell pull. She rang it three times—the signal for her a man named Mr. Finch. Finch was not a gentle man. He was a man who solved problems that required muscle rather than manners. He’s the man who Gladys was talking about in her letter. The Broker who hunted her.

A few minutes later, there was a heavy knock on the door.

Priscilla unlocked it. Mr. Finch stood there, hat in hand. He was a giant of a man with a scarred nose and hands the size of hams.

"You rang, My Lady?" Finch rumbled.

"I have a job for you, Finch," Priscilla said. She walked back to the table and picked up the black book, stroking it lovingly. "It requires... discretion. And force."

"I am good at force," Finch said simply.

"There is a woman," Priscilla said. "Her name is Gladys. She is a commoner. She lives near the market district. She is small, brown hair. You have met her before."

"I know the type," Finch grunted.

"I want her," Priscilla said. She turned to face him, her eyes burning with malice. "I want you to find her. Before the sun sets."

"You want me to scare her?" Finch asked.

"No," Priscilla corrected. "I want you to take her. Bring her to the old carriage house at the edge of the estate. Tie her up. Keep her there."

Finch raised a bushy eyebrow. "Kidnapping, My Lady? That is risky business."

"I will pay you double your yearly wage," Priscilla said coolly. "And I will give you a bonus if she is ready to talk at the appropriate time."

Finch smiled, revealing yellow teeth. "For double wages, I will make her sing like a bird."

"Good," Priscilla said. "She has a secret. I want that secret squeezed out of her. I want a written confession that this book"—she held up the black leather volume—"belongs to Lady Ines Hamilton."

"Consider it done," Finch said. He bowed and backed out of the room.

Priscilla locked the door again. She sat back down at her vanity. She opened the book to the first page again.

For my lover.

"Oh, Ines," Priscilla whispered, tracing the ink. "You thought you could have everything. The Duke. The title. The career. But you forgot one thing."

She looked at her own reflection. Her eyes were bright with madness.

"You forgot that I always get what I want."

~ ••••• ~

Across London, the fog was getting thicker.

Gladys was walking home. She had left the print shop hours ago, shaken by the attack a week ago in the alley but comforted by the Duke’s men. She thought the danger was over. She thought that by leaving the fake book with Parker, she had done her part.

She was walking down a quiet street near her father’s house. She was humming a little tune, thinking about the wedding. She was looking forward to seeing Ines in her white dress.

She heard a carriage approaching from behind.

It was moving slowly. Too slowly.

Gladys stopped humming. She gripped her basket tighter. She remembered the men in the alley. She quickened her pace.

The carriage sped up.

Gladys broke into a run. She turned toward a narrow lane that led to the market, hoping to lose them in the crowd.

But as she turned the corner, a massive figure stepped out of the shadows.

It was Mr. Finch.