Page 18 of Murder in Matrimony (A Lady of Letters Mystery #4)

“Lord Applegate said something the other night at Lord Bainbridge’s dinner party that might be of interest.” Amelia thought back to the moment in the drawing room before dinner.

“He was discussing the thefts and used the words ‘concerned citizen.’ It may be nothing, but it may be he is the concerned citizen who wrote this letter.”

“It is worth checking into.” Lord Drake buttoned his coat and stood. “After you make certain it is not Lady Tabitha, that is. I would rather jump in the Thames than have it be her.”

“You and me both,” Amelia muttered.

After he left, she walked to Aunt Tabitha’s study, which amounted to an antechamber connected to her bedroom.

After a late breakfast, Tabitha either wrote letters at her exquisite mahogany writing desk or took a short nap.

Amelia paused, listening for the tell-tale scratch of her pen.

It always reminded Amelia of a painter’s knife on a canvas.

Hearing nothing, Amelia continued to her bedroom door.

A soft snore greeted her ear. Tabitha was indeed napping.

Amelia took a breath and returned to the study, placing a hand on the door handle. She checked the hall for servants, but there were none to be seen, their morning chores being finished hours ago. She turned the knob and pushed open the door, ducking inside the room.

Despite being in her own house, Amelia felt her chest began to heave.

She felt like a sinner in church, trespassing on hallowed ground.

The mahogany desk was as stunning as she remembered, and she felt a pang of jealousy bolt through her chest. Whereas some women loved beautiful gowns, shoes, and jewels, Amelia loved large desks, broad pen strokes, and lined linen paper.

She laid a hand on the wood grain. Gorgeous.

Determined not to dally, Amelia opened the lid.

Six dovetail drawers were shut neatly, unlike her own desk drawers, which were half open with to-do lists, reminders, and penny postage stamps, not to mention the occasional ribbon from Winifred’s hair or a chocolate wrapper from her favorite bonbon.

Amelia opened the first and second drawers, finding staff allowances and Christmas gift ideas.

Gracious! It’s only Summer. The third contained menus.

The fourth and fifth drawers held household expenses, indoor and outdoor respectively.

Running a home was work, and Amelia respected the time and effort Tabitha gave to the family.

She quickly opened the last drawer and, finding nothing of interest, turned to the large panel beneath the writing area.

Ivory paper and the sweet smell of roses greeted her.

She inhaled deeply. Nothing to smell here but flowers and paper and …

was that a calling card? Amelia shuffled the paper to one side for a better look.

Her hand started to sweat the moment she touched the card.

Thomas Huxbey, Superintendent of Scotland Yard.

What was Tabitha doing with the calling card of a superintendent?

Anxiously, Amelia glanced about the room, looking for copies of penny papers, convinced she would find them stuffed into a corner.

What greeted her was a towering Ming vase, a chair and reading lamp, and a small table with a portrait of Tabitha’s dear brothers.

Amelia shook her head. Her imagin-ation was running amuck, and she tried to rein it in.

The only time she’d seen a penny paper in the house was when Winifred’s friend Bee lifted it from the servants in her house.

Although … Amelia tapped her chin. Tabitha did seem to know the goings-on in the column.

She’d mentioned the trouble between Lady Agony and a few male readers not that long ago.

Was it possible that she was A Concerned Citizen?

Movement from the adjoining bedroom prevented further consideration.

Amelia quickly shut the desk and ducked out of the room, continuing to her own bedroom on the same floor.

She needed space—and time—to think this through.

When the door was shut, she proceeded to the bed and sat down, perplexed.

She stared at the birds etched in the canopy bedstead.

Sing to me the answers if you please. Silence assured her they were not real, no matter the lengths the artist went to make them appear lifelike.

She would have to find answers all on her own.

She pondered the likelihood of Tabitha knowing her secret pseudonym.

Letters came and went from the house all day every day.

She met with the editor of a popular penny paper, Grady Armstrong, quite frequently, sometimes in her house, but most times in the nearby park.

And despite being a countess, Amelia was no lady, not in the aristocratic sense.

Tabitha had tutored and mentored and lectured, but try as she might, Amelia still didn’t fit in.

Eccentric advice such as that in the column was not only possible but probable from a woman like Amelia.

Amelia put her hands over her face. The evidence was more damning than she ever considered.

The question was no longer if Tabitha knew she was Lady Agony but if the entire household knew.

She should have been more careful. She should have been more discreet.

She shouldn’t have begun writing in the first place.

No.

She stood.

Writing was her passion. Readers were her people.

She did good work, and she would continue even if her name was given to one and all.

The vehemence with which she believed this shocked her, and her chest filled with air and something else.

The work had come to matter that much, so much that it couldn’t be separated from who she was—who she’d always wanted to be.

She was just a girl from Somerset, a rural community with rural ideas, and writing freed her from them.

On the page, she could be anyone. An aunt, a wife, a mother.

The person you would turn to in a calamity if that person existed in your life.

She wanted to continue to be that person, and come hell or high water—or Aunt Tabitha—she would not give up.