Forester is a young widow, Poppy,” Gwen reminded her. “It wouldn’t be any fun at all if there wasn’t the occasional dashing gentleman in her way.”
“They’re simply not your experiences,” Effie finished.
“And therein lies the problem.” Sidney sighed and shuffled through the clippings on the table. “Or one of the problems.” In her dismay over the earl’s scathing comments, she had completely ignored the rest of this disaster. “His lordship’s letters are not the worst of it though, are they?”
“They are dreadful letters.” Poppy huffed. “Simply dreadful.
Gwen sniffed. “Very nearly rude, I would say.”
“And yet—” Sidney’s tone hardened “—not the worst of it.” She moved several of the clippings to one side. “These are the letters from the earl.” She waved at the remaining clippings. “While these responses are allegedly from me.”
The ladies wisely said nothing.
“I did not write these.” Sidney narrowed her eyes. “Which begs the question of who did.”
Gwen, Poppy and Effie traded glances. Effie drew a deep breath. “It’s my fault I’m afraid. I started this. When that vile man wrote the first letter I should have ignored it.”
“But it really was rather boorish,” Gwen added.
“And it did seem he was laying down a kind of gauntlet.” Aunt Effie grimaced. “So I picked it up.”
“And wrote him back?” Sidney’s voice rose. “In my name?”
“It seemed appropriate at the time,” Effie said weakly. “But, upon reflection, it might have been a mistake.”
Poppy nodded. “As it did seem to incite him. The man obviously has no sense of moderation. As you can see, the second letter was even worse.”
“He compares my stories to penny dreadfuls.” Sidney drew her brows together. “That’s not at all fair. My stories are adventurous but not nearly as far-fetched and melodramatic.”
“You’re right, he wasn’t the least bit fair.” Gwen nodded. “You can certainly see why we all felt it necessary to respond to that particular letter.”
“We did help Effie write that one. More than help I suppose. You might call it a collaboration.” Poppy winced. “As well as the one after that. We really couldn’t help ourselves. Someone needed to defend you. Why, the man even criticizes your style of writing.”
Effie shook her head. “We could not let that go unchallenged.”
“And you never thought to mention this to me?”
“We wanted to protect you, dear.” Gwen smiled.
“We did think his lordship would give up.” Effie paused. “Eventually.”
“But he hasn’t given up, has he?” Sidney glared at the older ladies. “No, in fact the man has challenged me to travel to Egypt and prove that I know what I’m writing about. If I fail, he intends to petition the Egyptian Antiquities Society to rescind my membership.” Sidney had paid little notice to the praise and attention her stories had received but being granted membership in the Antiquities Society a few months ago was an honor she cherished. Her grandparents were among the founding members of the society and, while she had not yet attended a society event, being a part of that illustrious organization was the very best part of her newfound success.
“Fortunately, we’ve given this a great deal of thought,” Poppy said. “Indeed, we’ve thought of nothing else since the moment we saw the earl’s latest letter this morning.”
“And promptly came here to tell you about—” Gwen gestured at the clippings “—all of it.”
“Not promptly enough, it’s after noon.” Sidney blew a long breath. This might well explain why she’d received a note within the past hour from Mr. Cadwallender requesting she come to the Messenger offices at her earliest possible convenience. “Mr. Cadwallender wishes to see me and I suspect this is what it’s about.” She shook her head. “What a dreadful mess this is. What am I supposed to do?”
“You should definitely pay a call on Mr. Cadwallender,” Poppy said firmly.
Gwen nodded. “At once, I should think.”
“And then?” The most awful helpless note sounded in Sidney’s voice. She did so hate sounding helpless.
“And then.” Aunt Effie rose to her feet. “Then you shall go to Egypt.”
* * *
“I THINK IT’S a brilliant idea.” Mr. James Cadwallender sat behind his desk in his office in the center of what had always struck Sidney as the sheer bedlam of the world that was Cadwallender’s Daily Messenger. The office itself was enclosed with walls of paneled wood beneath glass windows that rose to the ceiling, allowing the publisher to observe his domain while saving him from the endless cacophony of noise that was apparently the natural environment of reporters in search of news.
“Brilliant?” Sidney stared at the man. Didn’t he realize how impossible this was. “It’s not the least bit brilliant. It’s dreadful, that’s what it is. Positively dreadful.”
“Come now, Miss Honeywell.” Mr. Cadwallender chuckled. He really was a fine figure of a man with dark brown hair and eyes that were an interesting shade of amber. Sidney had always found him quite dashing although perhaps not today. “How is sending my very favorite writer off to prove she knows what she writes about anything less than brilliant. By Jove, I wish I’d thought of it myself.”
“Mr. Cadwallender,” Sidney said slowly, “surely you have not forgotten that my work is fiction.”
“Of course I have not forgotten but the public believes it’s all real. They believe Millicent Forester is a thinly veiled version of you or rather of Mrs. Gordon.” He grinned. “And who am I to tell our loyal readership that they’re wrong.”
Aunt Effie nodded in agreement. She had insisted on accompanying Sidney for the sake of propriety although they both knew propriety was the last thing on the older woman’s mind. She simply didn’t want to miss what happened next and no doubt had orders from Poppy and Gwen to report back every detail. “And we would hate to shatter their illusions.”
“Exactly,” Mr. Cadwallender said.
“Their illusions will be more than shattered when the earl is proved right,” Sidney said sharply.
“But he won’t be proved right because you won’t let him.” Mr. Cadwallender leaned forward across his desk and met her gaze directly. “Miss Honeywell, Sidney, you and I both know you have never been to Egypt. We know your stories are loosely based on the life of your grandmother. But all those people out there who read your stories, who clamor for more, who adore every word you write, who’ve taken Millicent Forester to heart, they don’t know you aren’t her and have never stepped foot out of England. To them, you have led the life they have always dreamed of living. They count on you, Sidney, to lift them out of their tired, ordinary, everyday lives and
