Rosetta had kept her head down in feigned obeisance, struggling to keep her features composed and not to tug at her cravat or fidget in her male garb. She’d been terrified he would see that she knew where John was, even as her mind screamed at her heart for betraying her master. But she was trapped now, forbidden to leave the city until the duke allowed petitions once more.
Still, she was almost too late. With the deadly fingers of dawn crawling into the sky, Rosetta found Polidori unconscious in an alley behind one of his favorite gaming establishments. He didn’t stir as she carried him to her lair and she feared blood poisoning from too much drink. He was deathly pale and emaciated, so she bit her finger and gently coaxed a few drops of her blood between his sculpted lips. His color returned and his breathing steadied, but still he did not awaken.
Rosetta lay down and took the sleeping man into her arms to warm him. She had to find a way to stop the Lord of London’s quest to find John. Her thoughts raced as she reviewed and discarded plans.
Before she fell asleep, she kissed his brow and whispered, “I will keep you safe, my love. I promise.”
***
Angelica wished the day would end as soon as she opened her eyes.
“You have three callers!” Margaret announced as the breakfast dishes were cleared from the table.
“Ughhh…” Angelica groaned. Her mother’s strident voice was more piercing than the morning light streaming in the windows. Champagne, apparently, was not so nice after all. How she longed to go back to sleep, but no, her mother just had to drag her out of bed at an uncivilized hour to break into yet another grating lecture about her conduct last night. As if her mother hadn’t blistered her ears enough on the carriage ride home the night before. If I never have to hear about marriage again, this will be worth it. She tried to keep up the litany, but her head ached too much for the thought to be even moderately convincing.
“My goodness, Lord Makepeace, Lord Ponsonby, and Sir Albert Brighton are here to pay calls to you,” Margaret continued, oblivious to her daughter’s agony. “Angelica, attend to your hair at once! This is a better opportunity than I anticipated. We must contrive a way to allow all three to escort you to the park.” In a rare burst of affection, she kissed her daughter’s cheek. “Whatever you did, dear, was an absolute success. If only your sainted grandmother were alive to see this day!”
Angelica managed a wan smile at her mother’s cheer—until the news sank in. Callers. That meant she had failed in her endeavor to render herself unmarriageable. She longed to sink through the floor.
Margaret patted down Angelica’s hair and shoved her into the drawing room. Three bouquets of flowers were thrust in her face as the fops bowed before her. Dear God, they look ready to ask for my hand already! She fought the urge to flee to her room and vomit into her chamber pot. Only one thing settled her rebellious stomach, and she focused on the thought with all her will as clammy lips were pressed to the back of her hand. Today she planned to resubmit her first complete ghost story to The New Monthly Magazine.
While writing the haunting tale of the ghost of a highwayman haranguing travelers as they crossed Hounslow Heath, Angelica had been busy gathering a disguise. She had acquired the costume piece by piece and hid the collection under a board that she’d painstakingly removed from her closet floor.
For she couldn’t submit her story as Angelica Winthrop. To her undying dismay and bitterness, she’d learned that Mary Shelley’s success as a gothic authoress was the exception, rather than the rule, owing much to the fact that she and her family were connected to the publishing business.
When Angelica went to the office of The New Monthly Magazine, the editor had nearly laughed her out of the establishment. She ground her teeth at the injustice. Her merits as a writer should stand on their own, having nothing to do with her sex. On a flight of inspiration, she decided to beat them at their own game. She would see if “Allan Winthrop” had better luck. The tiewig she’d ordered was the final piece to her costume and should be in the shop today. And if her writing gained enormous popularity, she’d whip off her wig and expose herself before Mr. Colburn, the publisher himself, with a triumphant laugh! But first, she had this obligatory nonsense with her suitors to contend with.
The morning jaunt through Hyde Park represented the most unendurable two hours of her life. And Liza’s mildly amused smile didn’t help matters. Every bump the carriage wheels hit jarred her bones and intensified her agony. The gentlemen crowded her, making it hard for her to breathe as they vied for her attention. Her mouth tasted like a sweaty stocking and her head throbbed with the effort of making small talk. She supposed they thought she was behaving with admirable maidenly modesty, when truly her skull ached with every word she spoke. And if the birds didn’t stop chirping, she swore she would take up shooting.