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convinced himself that Miss Peabody and P. Corpus were the same person.
Through her writings, Miss Peabody’s true character, her considerable intellect and her unexpected maturity were revealed to him. The more he reread the essays, the more connected he felt to her. It was the deucest thing, but he had never before felt so close to a woman, not even to Dorothy. Of course, he wasn’t really
close to Miss Peabody, but the discovery that there existed a person whose thoughts so closely paralleled his own had taken hold of him like tentacles that could not be dislodged.
Whatever he did, wherever he went, he thought about Miss Peabody. For months now he’d been fired by a thirst to meet Mr. Corpus and engage the man in a conversation where two like minds could have free rein. Now that he knew P. Corpus’s identity, Aynsley’s desire to converse with Miss Peabody consumed him even more greedily.
So many social reformers were one-trick ponies. One would criticize slavery, while another objected to the lack of parliamentary representation for the large industrialized cities. Only P. Corpus understood that to achieve a perfect society there must be a successive eradication of each and every social ill.
His country, with its workhouses and factories and bulging prisons, was much like a sofa with torn coverings, sagging cushions and protruding springs. One did not fix the sofa by throwing a length of silk upon it. It could only be repaired by attacking and correcting each underlying problem. Miss Peabody—or P. Corpus—understood that.
The more he thought of her, the more he wanted to speak with her. He found himself wondering what it would be like to have a conversation with a woman possessed of Miss Peabody’s uncommon intelligence.
He needed to talk with Warwick. He wasn’t sure why he sought to speak to Warwick. He certainly had no intention of asking for Miss Peabody’s hand. Even if she was the brilliant, articulate, passionate P. Corpus. While Aynsley did not want her for a wife, he did want her for a friend. That is, if she were the brilliant essayist.
He decided to go to Warwick House early in the day, before Warwick went to Whitehall to perform his important duties. By coming early, he would avoid coming face-to-face with Miss Peabody. Women were sure to be still abed in the morning and certainly not be primped to be presentable. He’d rather not see her just yet, not after he had treated the poor woman so shabbily.
At Warwick House, the butler showed him into the light-flooded, emerald-green morning room, then took himself off to announce the caller to Lord Warwick. As soon as the servant turned to leave the morning room, Aynsley saw her.
She had been sitting at a game table perusing the Morning Chronicle, a mobcap smashed upon her uncombed tresses, her spectacles propped on her perfect nose. At the sound of disturbance, she looked up. And saw him.
Her face transformed. Had a snake charmer summoned a viper into the chamber, her expression could not have held more alarm.
That he evoked such an emotion distressed him profoundly. It was all he could do not to race to her and draw her into his arms and murmur assurances. Instead, he smiled. What could he possibly say to put her at ease? Obviously she was embarrassed in his presence. His glance darted to the newspaper. The liberal Whigs’ vehicle. “I see you’re reading about Manchester’s lack of representation in the House of Commons. A most enlightening article.”
Any embarrassment Miss Peabody may have experienced was completely wiped out by his simple comment. Her eyes rounded, her brows lowered. “You read it?”
Good heavens, did she think him incapable of reading the written word? He nodded. “Just before I came here, actually. It’s a distressing occurrence, to be sure.”
A fiery spark leaped to her dark eyes. “Distressing! It’s an unconscionable injustice.”
I am right about her alter ego. “Our government is vastly different than yours, Miss Peabody.”
“Mine?” Anger scorched her voice. “I will have you know England is now my home, my country. As long as I can draw breath, I shall endeavor to see this country rectify its ills. Of course, I wouldn’t expect an aristocrat such as you could possibly understand that.”
“You do me a great disservice.”
Just then the butler reentered the room. “Lord Warwick wishes to know if your lordship would object to waiting while he finishes dressing.” The butler’s gaze alighted on the lady in the mobcap. “Forgive me, Miss Peabody. I did not know you were here, or I would never have brought Lord Aynsley to this chamber.”
“You have no need to apologize,” she said. “Unlike my lovely sister, I do not care if I’m seen before Pru dresses my hair. And, as you can see, my dress is perfectly respectable.”
“Since I have the lovely Miss Peabody with whom to converse,” Aynsley said, “I shall be delighted to wait for Lord Warwick.”
* * *
The lovely Miss Peabody, indeed! Rebecca knew very well how decidedly dowdy she looked this morning. Maggie would be livid if she knew her sister was greeting an eligible caller dressed in such a fashion. “I daresay, my lord, you must need to borrow my spectacles.”
He gave her a quizzing look. “Pray, why do you say that?”
“You know very well I do not look lovely this morning!”
“I assure you I know no such thing. Just because your hair has not been dressed does not mean you don’t look pretty.”
No man—not even her dear Papa—had ever said she was pretty. Maggie was the beauty of the family. Her face suddenly felt as if she were leaning into an intense fire. She spun around to glance at the window. Was the sunshine uncommonly bright this morning? But, alas, it was actually a dreary, gray day. Why, in heaven’s name, was her face burning? Then it dawned on her. She was blushing! Miss Rebecca Peabody had never blushed in her entire eight and twenty years! “Then, my lord, you’ve been too long away from Society.”
He had the audacity to come and sit beside her. “At the mature age of eight and twenty, you should have learned by now how a lady responds to compliments.”
She started to tell him she had never received compliments on her appearance, but oddly, she preferred that he not know that. Instead, she decided to be gracious. Even though she knew he was lying. “Then I thank you, my lord.”
His glance fell again to the Morning Chronicle. “I’m surprised Lord Warwick reads that newspaper.”
“Oh, he doesn’t. I’m the one who subscribes. It’s how I choose to spend my pin money. That and books.” Oh, dear. Why had she gone babbling about herself?
“Yes, I seem to recall that you were always reading.”
For some unaccountable reason, all she could think of was how matronly she must look in the cap. Why couldn’t she be more like Maggie, who never left her bedchamber without her hair being dressed, without looking perfect?
Her gaze ran over the perfection of his dress, his neatly styled, toasty-colored hair, his fine face with clear green eyes, and she felt utterly inadequate. How could she have been so foolish as to think he would give the slightest consideration to marrying her?
It now seemed to her that a man like him would be able to marry any woman he wished. Attractive women. Women from fine old English families. Women who cared about fashion—and titles—which Rebecca certainly did not.
She could not even think of a single clever thing to say to him. “Are your children in London?”
“No. They’re at Dunton Hall.”
“In Shropshire?”
“Yes.”
The butler reentered the room and spoke to Aynsley. “Lord Warwick will see you now.”
Lord Aynsley stood and peered down at her. “May I say with deep sincerity that seeing you this morning has been a pleasure?”
Her