Read Chapter 7: A Letter Intercepted

The morning light crept through the heavy damask curtains of Eleanor’s bedchamber like an unwelcome intruder. She had slept poorly—the image of Ashworth’s knowing eyes at the archery contest had pursued her into her dreams, and she had woken twice with the conviction that someone had called her name in the dark. *Mr. Ellery*, the voice had murmured. *I know who you are.*

But the true blow came with the second post.

The letter bore no crest, no seal—only the distinctive copperplate of her publisher’s clerk. She broke the wax with trembling fingers and read the contents twice before the words took shape.

*Miss Wentworth—*

*Your submission has not arrived. This is the second occurrence in as many weeks, and the printers grow restless. If the column for the twenty-seventh is not in my hands by Thursday next, I shall have no choice but to terminate our arrangement. Mr. Ellery’s reputation is built upon reliability, and I cannot present excuses to my subscribers.*

*Yours in haste,* *T. Morrison*

Eleanor’s blood turned to ice. She had posted the column herself, three days ago, from the coaching inn on Mount Street—a route she had used with perfect success since January. The letter had been sealed, addressed, and entrusted to none other than Jarvis, her aunt’s butler, whom she had paid handsomely for his discretion and who had never once failed her.

Until now.

She folded the publisher’s letter into a tight square and pressed it between her palms. Thursday. That left her precisely five days to produce a second column, smuggle it past her aunt’s surveillance, and pray that the first had merely been delayed. But even as she calculated the logistics, a colder thought settled in her stomach like a stone.

*What if it was not delayed?*

She rang for her maid, dressed in a plain walking gown, and descended to the servants’ quarters—a breach of etiquette that would have scandalized her aunt had she been caught. Jarvis was in the butler’s pantry, polishing silver with the unhurried dignity of a man who had served three generations of English gentry.

“Jarvis.” She closed the door behind her. “The letter I gave you on Tuesday. Did you post it?”

He did not look up from his work. “I did, miss.”

“To the offices of Morrison and Hale on Cheapside?”

“To the address you provided, miss.” He set down the silver fork and finally met her eyes. There was something in his gaze that had not been there before—a flicker of calculation, like a card player who has just realised he holds the winning hand. “Though I must confess, miss, the postmaster did raise an eyebrow at the direction.”

Eleanor kept her voice level. “The postmaster raises an eyebrow at everything. It is his constitution.”

“Perhaps.” Jarvis picked up another fork. “But it was not the postmaster who came to me the following morning. It was a gentleman. Well-dressed. Said he represented a financial interest that had been most… curious about the correspondence originating from this household.”

The floor seemed to tilt beneath Eleanor’s feet. She gripped the edge of the sideboard. “What gentleman? What interest?”

“He did not give his name, miss. But he offered a sum I could not easily refuse for a simple look at the letter’s contents before it entered the post.” Jarvis’s tone was maddeningly even. “I told him I would consider it. He said he would return this afternoon for my answer.”

Eleanor’s mind raced. The rival columnist—Ashworth’s investigators—Lord Wexham’s creditors—any number of men could be paying for information about the anonymous letter-writer who had been predicting doom in the railway markets. And Jarvis, the one servant she had trusted, had been courted by them.

“You did not give him the letter,” she said. It came out as a question.

Jarvis set down the fork and folded his hands before him. “No, miss. I did not.” A pause. “But I did read it.”

The air left Eleanor’s lungs. She stared at him, at his placid, unreadable face, and understood in a single sickening wash the full extent of her exposure. He had read the column. He had read the financial predictions, the acerbic prose, the confident declarations that could only belong to—

“You know,” she whispered.

“I have served in this household for nineteen years, miss. I have seen young ladies do many things to secure their futures. But I have never seen one write a man’s name at the bottom of a page and send it out into the City.” He met her gaze, and for a moment she glimpsed something almost like sympathy beneath the professional mask. “Your secret is safe with me, miss. But it cannot be safe for free.”

The words hung between them like a blade suspended in the air.

Eleanor thought of her father’s letter, still unopened in her valise. She thought of the thousand pounds Lord Wexham had promised to forgive. She thought of Ashworth’s voice at the archery range, warm and intent, saying *I intend to find her*—and how that pursuit would feel if it led to her doorstep.

“How much?” she heard herself ask.

Jarvis named a sum. It was not outrageous by London standards—a young lady’s pin money for a season—but to Eleanor, whose inheritance had been liquidated to less than a hundred pounds, it might as well have been the national debt.

“I cannot pay that.”

“Then I must consider the gentleman’s offer when he returns this afternoon.” Jarvis picked up his cloth again. “I am sorry, miss. Truly.”

Eleanor stood in the narrow pantry, surrounded by the smell of beeswax and silver polish, and felt the walls closing in. She had no money. She had no patron. She had only her wits and her pen and a secret that could destroy her utterly.

And she had five days to save it.

She raised her chin. She would not let him see her break.

“You will tell the gentleman you have reconsidered,” she said slowly, the lie taking shape even as it passed her lips. “You will tell him the correspondence in question was a private matter and has already been settled. And then you will wait for me here at noon tomorrow, because I am going to find the money—somehow—and when I do, we will discuss the terms of your silence.”

Jarvis studied her for a long moment. Then he gave a single, slow nod.

“Very good, miss. I will await your instruction.”

Eleanor turned and fled the pantry, her heart pounding against her ribs. She had bought herself a day—perhaps less. And in that day, she would have to find a way to pay a butler’s blackmail, deliver a column to her furious publisher, and pray that the gentleman who had come asking questions did not return with answers of his own.

She reached her bedchamber, closed the door, and slid down against it until she sat on the floor, staring at the ceiling.

Tomorrow. She had until tomorrow.