Free Almost a Gentleman by Pam Rosenthal Page B

closed it.
    The message, constructed of letters cut out from the newspapers and glued to a piece of flimsy paper, was simplicity itself. YOU ARE BEING WATCHED.
    Unpleasant, that one.
    She allowed herself a shudder, but didn't succumb to her initial temptation to toss the nasty thing into the fire.
    Instead she marked it with the date, folded it, and put it into a gracefully carved box with the two dozen or so of its fellows that Marston had received over the years.
    The box was of sandalwood—too fragrant, really, for the stinking missives it held; most of them reeked with hatred and cowardliness. Not a one of their authors had ever confronted Marston directly. Which was partly why she saved their letters—to remind herself how stupid and innocuous Marston's enemies really were.
    Of course, most of the messages were longer and less coherent than the one she'd just opened. Scrawled and blotted, they accused Marston of a wide variety of treacheries: she'd been especially diverted by the one charging her with spying for the American Republic; she'd also enjoyed the one that had insisted she was of Negro parentage. Sexual insults abounded. It was interesting to learn the words evidently used to describe a gentleman who took other men to bed with him—from the homey
Nancy
or
Molly-boy
, to the classical
catamite
or
Ganymede
, to the puzzling
morphodite
. Marston's enemies must especially enjoy using this specialized vocabulary, she thought. Language was power, especially for those too timid to do more than fantasize about action. There were also a few gruesome specimens that threatened to "geld" or "unman" her—which would be quite an impressive feat, she thought.
    Most of the letters, even if threatening, had clearly been written with the sole aim of aggrandizing their authors' self-regard or helping them recover from some passing fit of pique. Whatever Marston's enemies imagined doing to him was usually satisfied by writing it down on paper and posting it to him. Which was probably, she thought, why this last letter had given her a bit of a start. For it seemed less an end in itself than a promise of something more to come.
    Still, there was certainly no cause for alarm. Nor any reason to be intimidated.
    She tucked the box into its cubbyhole in her mahogany secretary and turned back to the tedious business of declining a fortnight's worth of invitations. She'd have to hurry, too, for she hadn't yet chosen everything she wanted Mr. Simms to pack for tomorrow's journey. And later this afternoon Mr. Andrewes would be arriving with a new jacket and pair of trousers. She'd wear them to Almack's tonight if the fit was good enough. If the fit was as smooth and perfect as the fine silk gowns she'd never wear again.
     
    "No, Wolfe, no dancing or young ladies tonight. I want to be fresh for my journey back home tomorrow."
    "But look here, Linseley, I thought you postponed that journey an extra day just to give yourself one more crack at the marriage mart. Isn't that what you said?"
    "Hmmm, did I say that?"
    I might have said that
, David thought ruefully.
Who knows
? For he often made a muddle when not strictly telling the truth.
    He'd sent a note to his steward telling him that he'd be back a bit later than he'd originally thought. Legal matters, he'd written. And in fact he had been terribly busy, buying up all the common lands that had suddenly gone up for auction in Lincolnshire. He'd even got a few tracts that Crashaw had had his eye on. And as soon as he'd taken full ownership, he'd proclaim to the neighborhood people that the lands were once again available for their crops and herds. He just hoped that they wouldn't lose too much work between now and then. The farming calendar wasn't a forgiving one—not that an absentee lord would know that.
    He did need to get home, though; he had work of his own to do. Still, another day or two out of the way wouldn't matter. For he couldn't go home quite yet. Not when there was urgent