Spinsters & Soldiers

By Caylen McQueen

Spinsters & Soldiers is a collection of five Regency romance novels and novellas by author Caylen McQueen

In Spinster and the Beast, a spinster divulges her heartache in an anonymous letter and hides it under a stone. She doesn't expect to get a reply, but she does...

In The Captain's Letters, an aging woman finds comfort in letters from her deceased beau.

In The Spinster's Beau, a sick little girl is determined to find a wife for her brother before she dies.

In The Wanton Widow, brazen Willow Worthington helps a stuttering young man overcome his shyness.

In The Demure Debutante, a painfully shy plain Jane falls for a gentleman who is far above her reach.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Caylen McQueen
• Release date: May 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386100478

Book preview

The Spinster and The Beast

By Caylen McQueen

Chapter One

Her nieces looked like angels, a devastatingly pretty pair. Rebecca wore a gown of periwinkle blue, which perfectly complemented her eyes. Lorna wore a pink frock, with lace trim that swished around her ankles as she moved. As pretty as they were, they would have no trouble turning a few heads. Or, perhaps, the head of every young gentleman in the room.

How do I look? chirped Lorna, the younger sister. She spun in front of the looking glass, checking herself at every angle. Her shiny black ringlets had been piled on top of her head with meticulous care. She puckered her lips, which were a deep rouge. As she stared at herself in the looking glass, she thought she resembled Snow White. Pale. Porcelain. Perfect.

You look beautiful, Lorna, her older sister said. I have no doubt your come out will be a smashing success! Rebecca nudged her sister away from the looking glass so she could have a look at herself. As she studied her reflection, Rebecca was in range of a candle's light, which set her auburn hair ablaze.

Their aunt, Elizabeth Wicklow, sat on a settee at the furthest end of the room, where she watched the young women preen and purse their lips. Lorna smiled coquettishly, and Rebecca batted her eyelashes.

They kept exchanging obnoxious expressions until Elizabeth had to ask, "Girls, what are you doing?"

Nothing, Aunt Liz! Lorna exclaimed, and her older sister gave her a nudge.

"It isn't nothing! Rebecca protested. I am teaching her how to flirt!"

Lorna snapped open a silk fan and started fluttering her face. I don't need you to teach me anything! I am quite capable of learning on my own!

But you want suitors, do you not? I do not mean to brag, but last year I had more suitors than I could count! You could stand to learn something from me, sister. As she spoke, Rebecca twirled a tendril of red hair around her finger.

Her nieces had everything going for them. They were beautiful, good-hearted, young... and had impressive dowries. Whether they practiced flirting or not, they would likely be surrounded by several potential prospects. True, they could be a bit silly at times, but that was an attractive quality to many men.

"Perhaps I could teach you how to flirt, Aunt Liz!" Rebecca declared.

Liz had to chuckle at her niece's proposition, preposterous as it was. I doubt anyone would want me flirting with them. At my age, I would look quite ridiculous!

Nonsense! Rebecca shook her pretty head. "You are not so old."

She appreciated her niece's attempt to make her feel better about her age, but Liz knew better. At six and thirty, she had earned her place on the shelf long ago. At her age, finding a husband would be a difficult feat—if not an impossible one. In fact, the possibility of finding a husband hadn't crossed her mind in over a decade. She was a spinster, and she had accepted it.

At least, that's what everyone thought. She always held her head high, as if spinsterhood was her desired state. However, in the deepest part of her heart, she was consumed by disappointment. She would never have children of her own, she would never have a treasured companion, and she would always be a burden to her brother. She was certain her brother was tired of having her under his roof, even if he would not admit it.

"Aunt Liz... I am sure you could find a husband if you wanted one! Lorna said. You're still quite pretty!"

And I am twice your age, Liz noted. Her head sunk between her shoulders, as she was a bit ashamed to be the topic of conversation. She liked it much better when they were discussing their own romantic endeavors.

Rebecca sat on the settee beside her aunt. "But you are pretty," she echoed her sister's statement.

Hardly! Liz said with a chuckle. She had mousey brown hair, which was a bit straw-like. There were lines around her mouth, and a large mole on her chin. While she wasn't homely, she had never been a beauty. Nevertheless, she appreciated her nieces' attempts to bolster her confidence.

But don't you want a husband? Rebecca cooed.

We could play matchmaker! cheered Lorna.

Yes! We could help you, Aunt Liz! I know some man out there would be happy to have you!

I am your chaperone, nothing more. Please do not entertain any foolish notions about my marital state, for I am quite content. Liz folded her hands on her lap. Even her hands left something to be desired. Her fingers were short and sausage-like. It was no wonder she had never had much success with the pianoforte.

Oh, I can hardly wait! Lorna squealed. My first ball! Why are we waiting around? We must go!

Rebecca answered Lorna's plea with a condescending shake of her head. Sister... you should always strive to be fashionably late. Everyone always pays more attention to the last arrivals. If we wait awhile longer, we are sure to turn more heads.

As precious as you are, Liz spoke up, you are bound to turn heads, regardless of your time of arrival.

"Oh, I do hope you are right! Lorna exclaimed. I want to be admired. I want to be the center of attention!"

Liz marveled at how different she was from her nieces. She was quite the opposite. She was an accomplished wallflower, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

Until he showed up.

* * *

The country fetes were nothing like the balls in London. Nevertheless, Lorna was thrilled to make her debut. As soon as she arrived, she could feel men's eyes drawing to her, like a diamond in a pile of dusty rocks. She snapped open her fan and started fluttering her cheeks. Then she realized she was hiding her face, so she handed the fan to Liz.

Here, she said. Take it. I do not want it.

Liz closed the fan, clenching it in her gloved hand. And why not?

People won't be able to see me if I'm hiding behind a fan, Lorna said. They won't know how pretty I am.

"And you are very pretty, her sister agreed. But not quite as pretty as me... of course."

They fell into a fit of obnoxious giggles, which Liz hoped no one would hear. She had hoped their silliness would be a secret.

Who should I dance with? Lorna asked.

I'm afraid that isn't your choice, Rebecca replied. You have to wait for them to ask you. And remember... you can't decline a dance with one gentleman, only to accept a dance with another. It would be the height of rudeness!

But I don't want to dance with any homely men! Lorna said, pouting. Do I really have to waste my time?

If I see anyone hideous approaching, I will steer us in the opposite direction, said Rebecca. Don't worry, sister. I will save us both!

Liz couldn't believe her ears. The girls' superficiality was surely the result of years of mollycoddling by their parents. Liz's brother had spoiled them quite rotten.

And... Rebecca went on, we cannot speak to any gentleman to whom we have not been properly introduced.

Fortunately, a middle-aged baroness took them under her wing. She escorted them around the room, introducing them to one eligible bachelor after another. In no time at all, Rebecca's and Lorna's dance cards were filling up. Liz followed them around the room, as it was her duty to keep an eye on them. She did not want them making the acquaintance of anyone unsavory. As pretty and silly as they were, they were likely to attract the wrong sort of attention. The last thing her nieces needed was a rake following them around like a lovesick mooncalf.

Her nieces were so thrilled by the prospect of meeting gentlemen and accepting dances that Liz couldn't help but share in their excitement. As boring as her own life was, it gave her satisfaction to live through them.

Then the baroness said something that completely altered her mood.

Are you acquainted with Major Rutledge?

M-major... Rutledge? Liz stuttered. Was it him? The last time they met, he was Captain Rutledge. But it was very possible that he had risen a rank, and Rutledge wasn't exactly a common surname. It had to be him!

Major Arthur Rutledge, the baroness said, confirming Liz's fears. I doubt you've met him, as he's been away from Devon for quite some time. If I'm not mistaken, he's finally decided to take a wife.

Oh, an officer! Lorna exclaimed, throwing back her head in affected excitement. I want to meet an officer!

Rebecca clasped a hand over her heart, mimicking her sister's enthusiasm. "It does sound exciting. Did he fight in the war? If he did, I bet he's very brave!"

When she saw him heading in their direction, Liz's heart skipped a beat. Time hadn't changed him one bit. In fact, the passage of time had only enhanced his good looks. His face was a bit tan, and slightly more weathered, but in a way that was highly appealing. His sandy hair was slightly unkempt, and a little curl rested on his forehead. He was, as he had always been, a painstakingly handsome man.

Though they were the same age, Liz had not aged as gracefully, and she thought it was incredibly unfair. She had lines around her eyes, lines around her mouth, and a wrinkle for every year of her life. Liz was well beyond the first blush of youth, and it was obvious.

Captain—now Major—Rutledge had courted her over a decade ago, and she had not seen him since. In her foolish heart, she even thought to marry him once. When he went away to fight the war, she never saw him again, and he stopped writing back to her letters. After all these years, his face still had an effect on her.

But she had no hope of capturing his eye when she was flanked by youthful beauties. Would he even remember her?

Look at his uniform! Rebecca squeaked.

"Oh... he's very handsome, is he not?"

Liz shook her head, a bit peeved. They were fawning over a man who was much closer to her age, and yet he was a perfectly suitable match for the younger ladies. The inequity of her sex was more apparent than ever.

Major Rutledge! the baroness called to him. Major Rutledge! Over here!

The major approached. As Liz expected, his eyes were locked on her nieces. Specifically, he seemed to have his eye on raven-haired Lorna.

Good evening, Lady Milford, he greeted the baroness. His gaze flickered to Liz, then he turned his attention back to Lorna. Would you care to introduce me to your lovely young charges?

Of course, Major, the lady agreed. To my left is Rebecca Wicklow. To my right, Lorna Wicklow.

Wicklow, the major repeated. Having once courted Liz, he was no stranger to the name. It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Wicklow. When he turned his attention to Lorna, there was a hint of mischief in his eyes, And you too, Miss Wicklow.

"It must be confusing to refer to us both as Miss Wicklow, Lorna said. She might have suggested he call her by her Christian name, but with Lady Milford and her aunt standing by, she could not risk impropriety. Just remember... I'm the only Miss Wicklow worth remembering."

Rebecca answered her sister's claim with a derisive click of the tongue. "Hardly! I'm the only Miss Wicklow you should worry about!"

The way they were acting, Liz was worried about both of them. As prone to silliness as they were, it was highly likely that one of her nieces would make a cake of herself before the end of the night.

At long last, Arthur's gaze settled on Liz, and she bobbed a curtsy. Major Rutledge.

He flashed a tiny smile at Liz, then turned his attention back to Lorna. Liz couldn't help but feel a bit wounded by his blatant disinterest in her. Miss Wicklow.

Yes? Lorna cooed.

May I have the pleasure of a dance?

Lorna checked her dance card, then gave a little nod. Of course! How about the next quadrille?

Perfect.

Rebecca pouted. He preferred the younger sister, and he made no attempt to hide that fact.

Major Rutledge, Liz uttered his name again. Considering the fact that they had a history, she refused to let him brush her aside. Do you remember me?

Certainly. Though he answered her query, he never moved his gaze from Lorna's simpering face. He was transfixed, enchanted, bewitched.

And the girl was half his age!

It has been awhile, has it not? Liz asked, still hoping to capture his interest.

Indeed, it has. The major finally extracted his eyes from Lorna, and they settled on Liz's face. He studied her, scrutinized her, until she had no choice but to look down at her fidgeting hands. I can see that much has changed.

Liz touched her cheek. What did he mean? Was he noticing her wrinkles? The lines around her eyes? He had her feeling self-conscious, even more than usual.

The major leaned toward Liz's ear, which was at least a bit improper, and he whispered, Your nieces are very pretty.

Y-yes, she agreed. Yes they are.

May I have their aunt's permission to court them?

"Them?!" Liz repeated. She was a bit discomfited by his closeness, as well as the topic of conversation, but she tried not to let it show.

Actually, I am most interested in the brunette, he specified.

Several years ago, he had kissed Liz—multiple times. Now he was asking to court her niece? Had he no regard for her feelings? Did he not think she could still hold a candle for him after all these years? The cad!

I-I am certain you do not need my permission, Major Rutledge, she stammered.

You look well, by the way, he whispered. "Not so old."

And with those words, he drove the dagger deeper into her heart.

Chapter Two

The following day, Liz couldn't get their encounter with Major Rutledge out of her mind. Last night she had tossed and turned, unable to rest. The image of his face was seared into her brain, branded on her soul. He was as tall, dark and handsome as she remembered, and that thought was as painful as it was pleasant. She had fallen for him once, and it would be just as easy to fall for him again.

But he didn't want her. He wanted Lorna, her young niece. And silly Lorna was likely to fall for him too.

How could a man, at five and thirty, not feel the least bit sheepish about courting a girl who was scarcely out of the schoolroom? In Liz's eyes, those girls were still children. It hardly seemed appropriate that a man of his age should set his cap on such a young lady. Of course, it happened all the time. All marriage-minded gentlemen wanted young wives—the younger the better.

Liz glanced over at the looking glass and rolled her eyes. Whenever she thought about Arthur Rutledge with Lorna Wicklow, she felt dangerously close to retching. It was impossible to stomach, and too absurd to fathom. What common interests could they possibly share?

Liz, who was sitting at her desk, reached for a quill and parchment. Whenever she was feeling blue-deviled, it always made her feel better to pour out her thoughts on paper. It was a trick her mama taught her a long time ago. Her mother would write about what was troubling her, seal the letter, then the burden would be gone. It was a miracle cure for peace-destroying thoughts.

Liz dipped the quill and wrote:

Dear

But to whom should she address the letter? It wasn't as if anyone would read it; nevertheless, she felt like it needed a proper heading.

Dear Mr. Nobody,

As soon as she wrote it, she wondered if she should have addressed the letter to Miss Nobody. Men, in her experience, were not the most compassionate sorts. But it wasn't as if anyone would actually read her letter, so she supposed it would not matter.

I find myself quite out of sorts. The other day, I met a gentleman. Well, I suppose it is not entirely correct to say I met him. We were acquainted several years ago... and well, I suppose it is not correct to say we were acquainted either.

Liz reread her letter with a sneer, displeased by her lack of eloquence. But it wasn't as if anyone else would have a chance to mull over her poor choice of words, since she was the only one who would ever read it.

We were more than acquaintances, or so I would like to think. His name? For the sake of this letter, we will call him Mr. R. As it happens, he was once my suitor. At the time, I was five and twenty, and my prospects were already few. Had he asked for my hand in marriage, I would have accepted without question. To this day, I can still remember the touch of his hand, the kiss of his lips. (We did not partake in anything too scandalous, I assure you!)

Alas, his obligation to King George was more important than finding a wife. That is to say, he went away to fight the war. He did not care to stay in contact with me, despite the fact that my heart was aching for him every day. But time heals all wounds, and after several years, I had all but forgotten about him.

Until yesterday, when I saw him at Lady M's. At six and thirty, it seems I am still susceptible to a quickening pulse. My heart quaked at the sight of him, and my knees were weakened considerably. Time had been generous to Mr. R, who was more handsome than ever.

But Mr. R paid little attention to me, for he was too busy frothing at the mouth for my niece, Miss W. And I feel it is necessary to point out that Miss W is only eighteen years of age. Does he not feel the least bit sheepish for courting a woman so young? I suppose not, because I see aging bachelors chasing after schoolgirls all the time.

Am I wrong to feel bitter? I am an unlovable old maid, spinster, ape leader. And yet Mr. R, despite being roughly the same age, is considered a prime catch. Am I really not worthy of a second glance? True, I am plain, poor, and drab... but I am still a lady who once lov

Liz raised her quill, and her heart stopped for a moment. LOVED him? Was she really on the verge of writing that? She raked her quill through lov and continued.

... but I am still a lady who once cared about him a great deal, and yet he barely acknowledged my existence. If he decides to court my niece, how am I to endure it? Am I supposed to feign a smile as he sweeps her off her feet? I can scarcely stomach the thought!

I suppose it is time, at my old age, to stop wishing for an impossible fate. I will live my life, lonely and unwanted. And I will die alone.

And that was it. She had said her piece. By the time she finished her letter, she had tears in her eyes.

Sincerely,

What should she call herself? In the unlikely event that her letter should reach a reader, she did not want anyone tracing it back to her. She needed to think of something clever. Something with spark.

Miss Blue-deviled Bluestocking

And with that, she was done. She waved the letter in the air, waiting for it to dry. She even sprinkled a bit of sand on it, helping it along. Then she folded it, sealed it with wax, and stamped it. For a letter addressed to Nobody, she had certainly gone to great lengths to make it look official.

What if someone did read it? The thought was strangely titillating. What if she left the letter in a secret location, hoping someone would stumble upon it? It was quite invigorating to think that someone might get a peek at her innermost thoughts. She slipped the letter into her reticule, then slipped her feet into a pair of walking slippers.

She had a delivery to make!

* * *

Liz made a two mile trek across the countryside. By the time she arrived at her destination, a knotty tree, her fashionable white slippers were covered in mud. She had made the mistake of traipsing around on a rainy day. Her hair was matted to her forehead, pasted there by raindrops and perspiration. If only she had remembered to bring a parasol!

She couldn't drop off her letter too close to home, for fear that one of the Miss Wicklows would happen upon it. Her nieces were as clever as they were silly, and it was quite possible they could figure out her clues. She did not want them to hear about her personal affairs, nor did they need to know her history with Major Rutledge.

Liz leaned against the tree, wondering where she should drop her letter. And then she saw it: a large, brown stone shaped curiously like a mushroom. The ground beneath the stone was dry, which was nothing short of a miracle, as everything else was sopping wet.

Removing her letter from her reticule, Liz took a deep breath. Was she really going to do this? Had she lost her mind?

She dropped the letter on the ground, then covered it with the stone. She would return in a few days' time to see if anyone had found her letter, though it seemed highly unlikely. Why would anyone be peering under random rocks beneath random trees?

As soon as she delivered her letter, a huge raindrop hammered her nose. The rain had started up again. She shoved her gypsy hat on her head and, with a grunt of frustration, she hurried away from her hiding spot. By the time she got home, she knew she would be completely and utterly drenched.

But it wasn't as if anyone would care. She had been gone for almost two hours, but they never noticed she was gone.

Chapter Three

Captain Calloway stared at his reflection in the looking glass, which had become something of a daily torture for him. The mangled flesh of his face was a constant reminder of what he had been through. Tangles of scars consumed one side of his face, all the way from his nose to his ear. Ribbons of raw flesh marred his chin, where veins could be seen, just below the surface. The worst of it was the depression in his jaw, where the bullet had entered him.

How could he live like this? It was bad enough that he was no longer a hero. He belonged on the battlefield, where glory could be found at every turn. He could picture himself leading a battalion up a grassy hill, his saber brandished, his pistol at the ready. He didn't belong in this stuffy old manor, with only his grandmother for a companion. And she would truly be his only companion, for he could never show his face in society, not when he looked like a beast. He had become a hermit at the age of nine and twenty.

Adam! Adam, are you near?

He almost failed to notice his grandmother was calling for him, because he was unaccostomed to hearing his Christian name. Adam. He had been Captain Calloway for so long, he had become unfamiliar with his primary moniker. However, nothing was more foreign to him than his title, Earl of Stokeley. He had only been an earl for a few months, ever since his father's death. His father was only four and fifty when he died, but if Adam lived to be four and fifty, he would have lived too long. Adam wanted to die young, because his miserable life was often too much to endure. If he could have traded places with his father, he would have certainly done so.

Adam! the old lady kept squealing for him. Adam, where are you?

Adam went across the hall, where his grandmother was sitting on a plush settee. Her backbone was so misshapen, she looked a bit like a hunchback. She had tiny spectacles on her nose, but they were hardly worth wearing, as she was nearly blind. She clutched a shawl in her liver-spotted hands, which were wracked with palsy. Her wild white locks had been tucked away in a gaudy turban. When she saw Adam, her thin lips twitched into a smile. As impaired as her vision was, she could really only see an outline of him.

What is it, Nan?

It seems I dropped my knitting needles. She turned her eyes to the floor, but all she could see was a haze. Will you help me find them?

Adam dropped to his knees beside his grandmother and started scouring the ground. You're still knitting, Nan?

Of course! For what reason would I deprive myself of my most pleasurable pastime?

Well... He probed his mind for the most polite words he could muster. Your eyesight is not... well, it... it isn't quite up to snuff.

What you are trying to say is that I am a half-blind slowtop. I am a hazard to everyone... including myself.

N-never, Nan! Adam exclaimed. I would never say such a thing about you!

Of course, his grandmother's poor eyesight was a welcome relief. While she knew about his scars, she would never quite know the severity of his injuries. When she looked at him, the mangled half of his face was concealed by a blur.

Adam peered under the settee, where he thought he saw a glint of metal. Sure enough, his grandmother's knitting needles had fallen under the sofa. He plucked them off the floor and placed them in the palm of her hand.

Thank you, Adam.

My pleasure, Nan. He sat back and smacked the dirt from his breeches. Unfortunately, the sitting room—and every other room in Stokeley Hall—was quite dusty.

When Nan noticed what he was doing, she asked, and when are you going to hire a proper maid?

Never. With his family's fortune, he could have easily employed a handful of servants. A maid, butler and valet would have hardly put a dent in his coffers. However, he did not want anyone gawking at his horrifying visage. No, he was perfectly content with the company of his grandmother. We have no need for a maid, Nan. I can do the dusting.

I believe there were cobwebs in my bedroom, she said, which couldn't have possibly been true, since there was no way she could spot a cobweb.

Really? Then I will be sure to look into it.

"And I do have trouble getting around sometimes, his grandmother said. It would be nice to have an escort from time to time."

This was another lie. His grandmother was eighty, but for all her years, she was remarkably spry. Hunchback or not, she had no trouble getting around. My apologies, Nan. I will help you get around whenever I can.

"Sometimes I think you have cobwebs in your head, boy," Nan said. He was still sitting next to her feet, so she picked up her cane and gave him a gentle rap on the head.

Ouch! Nan! He rubbed his head, feigning pain. Why in the world would you say that?!

Hiding away because of a few scars? Piffle! she chirped. You need to get out there and live your life!

Adam ran a hand down the side of his face, along the twisted, bumpy skin. You know I can't do that.

And why not? You have your health, your youth, your fortune, she said. "A young man like you needs companionship. You need friends. Perhaps even a wife."

No. Never a wife. Captain Calloway sat on the settee beside his grandmother. A slip of light trickled through a window, lighting his face. He hoped the illuminated scars would make her see reason. What woman would have me?

Many, I am sure.

No. I have no need of a wife. Let us retire this topic of conversation before it raises my ire. He snatched a book from an end table and started mindlessly thumbing through the pages. You have no husband, but are you not perfectly happy?

I would be happier if Preston was still alive, she said, referring to her late husband. Adam's grandfather had died nearly twenty years ago, and Nan had been a widow ever since. You know what else would make me happy?

I shudder to think of the answer.

Great grandchildren, she said, predictably. And you are my only hope of having any!

Adam heaved a tremendous sigh, the likes of which seemed to go on forever. If his face wasn't a twisted mass of flesh, he might have considered taking a wife. But not anymore.

Nan moved her shawl to her lap and resumed her knitting. A few seconds later, her hand flew up in the air. Ow!

Are you alright?

Quite alright. It was just a tiny prick. Ignoring the pain, Nan plunged the knitting needles into the fabric yet again. A moment later, her hand flew up, and there was a tiny bead of blood on the tip of her finger. Ow!

Nan! Adam exclaimed. Perhaps you should retire from knitting?

Nonsense! she trilled, and sucked the blood from the tip of her finger, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. I might not be able to see the needles, but I can rely on my instincts.

It seems your instincts have failed you, Adam said. He pointed at her finger, where the blood bead was reforming. Take care not to injure yourself, Nan. I care about you too much to let you make craters in your fingers.

Ohhh... I cannot endure a lecture from my grandson! It isn't natural! she whined. Grandmothers lecture their grandsons, not the other way around.

"And you most certainly do lecture me, Adam agreed. If you don't mind, Nan, I think I'll leave you alone for awhile. I'm going to traipse around the countryside a bit."

Good. A bit of sun would be favorable. You've gotten so pale as of late. She picked up his arm and held it in front of her face, getting a good look at his coloring. You look healthier when you're a bit browner.

Really? Adam observed his arm. He thought he looked the same as ever, so he could only assume she was exaggerating. As usual.

And with any luck, Nan mused, you will happen upon a young lady during your travels.

With any luck, Adam countered, I won't happen upon a single soul.

* * *

To be safe, Captain Calloway donned a mask before leaving Stokeley Hall. In the unlikely event that he did happen upon any young ladies, he did not want to be seen. He knew he would look peculiar in his disguise, like some sort of masked marauder, but anything was preferable to letting anyone get a glimpse of his face.

He grabbed his walking stick on the way out, and his journey began with a trip down a dirt path. He followed the path to a fork; one path led into town, the other to a grassy hillside. As he had no desire to wander into town, he turned right, toward the lush green countryside. The sun was hovering above the horizon, engulfing his surroundings in a sunset. Fiery orange and royal purple streaked the sky. The hour was late, but the air was cool, and the breeze was pleasant. It wasn't such a bad time for a walk.

On top of everything, Captain Calloway had a limp, so his walking stick was not a mere decoration. His Hessians cleaved through the grass as he shuffled forward—toward a knotty tree.

When he approached the tree, Adam decided to stop for a rest. He touched his mask, making sure his face was not exposed, though there was no one around to see him. As he sunk to the ground, he clutched his walking stick. His head came to rest on the tree's trunk, and he closed his eyes. His lungs guzzled the fresh air, his skin absorbed each gentle breeze. He was enjoying an invaluable moment in an otherwise empty life.

He shifted slightly, and when he did, his walking stick rapped a nearby stone. When he looked down, Adam saw a slip of paper under the rock. He moved the rock and lifted the paper, which was closed with a wax seal.

It was a letter.

He wondered if he should return the letter to its hiding place, as it surely wasn't meant for him. But in the end, his curiosity was too much to bear, and the temptation was too much to resist. He cracked open the seal and unfolded the missive.

Dear Mr. Nobody

When he read the heading, he had to smile.

Perhaps the letter had been meant for him after all.

Chapter Four

When Adam returned, his grandmother was still attempting to knit. He half-expected her fingers to be covered in blood; however, it seemed she was having some success, as her shawl was nearing completion. He collapsed on the settee beside her and opened the letter.

He had already read it once, but he wanted to read it again, to absorb every word. The curious letter was quite possibly the most interesting thing he had come across in some time.

Dear Mr. Nobody,

I find myself quite out of sorts.

Before he could read another word, Nan leaned over his shoulder and tried to sneak a peek at the missive. Fortunately, she had the eyesight of a bat, and she couldn't read a word. What do you have there, Adam?

A letter.

I can see that it is a letter, Nan croaked. From whom?

A lady.

Ohhhhh! she cooed. Receiving secret letters might not be the most proper thing in the world, but it is most propitious. Who is the lucky lady?

Adam folded the letter and returned it to the pocket of his greatcoat, as it was apparent he would have no peace while Nan was nagging him. "Nan... how many times do I have to say it? There is no lucky lady. And if there was a lady in my life, she could hardly be considered lucky. Look at me!" He jabbed a finger against his scarred face. If she did not cringe at the sight of it, her eyesight must have been worse than he realized.

Nonsense! Nan made a tutting noise with her tongue. You are handsome as you are.

"That is nonsense."

The left side of your face is quite handsome! She gave her grandson's ear a playful pinch. Besides, a pleasant disposition is much more appealing than a handsome face. And you can be quite pleasant... when you want to be. What more could a lady want?

Nan... he whined. "Please."

You should get out more. The world could benefit from your good heart. Nan wrapped an arm around his shoulders and heaved a sigh. Anyway, I think I am quite done with knitting.

The fact you are still awake surprises me, Nan. He pointed at the bay window, at the pitch black evening sky. It is quite late.

I can see that, you dolt! Nan snatched a candle from an end table, and it wobbled in her hand. Do you think you could help me to my bed?

"I will do more than help you!" Adam declared. And with that, he swept his grandmother from the settee and into his arms.

"Now this is a proper escort! Nan cheered. As young and strong as you are, you should carry me all the time!"

No, not all the time. I couldn't possibly deprive your old bones of the exercise they surely require. We would not want you to become dilapidated, Nan.

She gave him another gentle rap on the head. "With any luck, the next woman you carry will be your bride. Over the threshold."

Now I am tempted to drop you, he teased. And Nan... try to hold your candle steady. We wouldn't want you burning your gown.

Adam nudged open the door to his grandmother's bedchamber and carried her inside. He lowered her to the bed, put her candle by her bedside, and proceeded to tuck her in. Nan was beaming, positively tickled at the way her grandson was taking care of her. She had a hand in raising him, and she had officially raised a good lad.

If only he would realize it.

There was a book on Nan's nightstand, so he picked it up. What is this?

A book. Don't you know what a book is?

He chuckled at her response. "I can see it's a book. What book is it?"

Pride and Prejudice, she said. I had been enjoying it, but reading... it strains my eyes so. Nan peeled off her turban, and her downy white curls sprang free.

Would you like me to read to you?

Her blue eyes lit up, and her pencil-thin white eyebrows leapt to her forehead. Would you? Oh, that would be so wonderful!

There was a leather bookmark sandwiched between the pages, so he assumed it was the last page Nan had read. He opened the book and read aloud.

Elizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister's room, and in the morning had the pleasure of--

Nan closed her eyes as her grandson read. His voice was soft and deep, the personification of velvet. He pronounced the words as carefully as he could, not wanting her to miss out on the story. However, it was well past Nan's usual bedtime, and she could feel herself drifting to sleep.

Before he could finish a single chapter, a snore slipped out of Nan's throat, a telltale sign of her slumber. Adam closed the book and smiled, pleased at himself for his ability to lull her to sleep. He had a very relaxing voice, or so he had been told. His soothing voice hardly befit his face, the face of a monster.

A gruff voice would be more appropriate. Something more menacing, Adam whispered to himself, brooding over his scars.

Adam snuffed out the candle at Nan's bedside before heading off to his own room, eager to return his attention to the mysterious letter. He could hardly resist the temptation to take it out and read it as he traveled down the hallway. It was pitiful, really, how such an insignificant thing could be the climax of his day.

As soon as he was in his room, he dropped the letter on his desk and proceeded to light a candle. Until the candle was lit, he could barely see what he was doing, as it was a moonless night. He sat at his desk and grabbed a quill.

What am I doing... it's madness... he whispered to himself. In his moment of hesitation, he ran the quill along the tip of his nose. Was he really going to reply? He wasn't sure the writer meant for her letter to be read, let alone, to be responded to. He felt like a meddler, snooping into matters that did not concern him.

And yet, he was compelled. As soon as the quill landed on the parchment, the words poured out of him.

Dear Miss BB,

I hope you do not mind that I have shortened your moniker, as it is quite cumbersome to write Miss Blue-deviled Bluestocking. I am sorry to hear you are blue-deviled. I understand, having read about your circumstances, why you might not be having the best of days. However,