Free The Shamrock & the Rose by Regan Walker Page B

come a threefold increase in mail.
Humph! All those letters to ‘Miss Underwood’ my footman retrieves
from the theatre. And then the calling cards for Miss Collingwood
piled so high they are falling off the salver. Why, it’s positively
astounding the hearts you’ve won—both as yourself and in the guise
of another!”
    “Don’t forget the flowers,” Rose said,
feeling her mouth twitch up on one side.
    The countess’s gaze flitted about the room
to the vases holding the bouquets of roses, and she, too, appeared
to be fighting a grin. “The gentlemen who sent them surely spent a
lot of coin. The scent of these hothouse flowers fairly makes one
swoon. You would think someone died.”
    “It is rather overpowering,” Rose
agreed with a smile.
    “Each time there is a delivery, I hear poor
Cruthers sigh.”
    So many flowers! No longer able to restrain
their laughter, both Rose and the countess gave in to a hearty and
somewhat undignified guffaw. Even better, Rose enjoyed seeing the
decorous older woman allow herself a moment of levity.
    * * *
    Morgan stepped out of Fribourg &
Treyer’s tobacco shop and tucked the small package into his pocket,
hoping he’d found the perfect snuffbox for Uncle Maurice’s
birthday. A sharp wind stirred the dust of the street, and he
pulled his greatcoat tighter about him and set his mind to meeting
Roger for a light repast.
    Taking another step, he heard a muffled
crackle sound from below his boot on the pavement. Looking down he
saw an envelope. Curious, he picked it up, brushed off the dust and
smoothed the paper. Inscribed in two lines was the intended
recipient’s name and address:
    Miss Lily Underwood
Theatre-Royal Haymarket
    Into his mind came the picture of a woman in
a sixteenth-century gown moving gracefully across a stage. The
actress from The Merchant of Venice. The woman who was now
never far from his thoughts.
    Discovering the note unsealed, Morgan paused
for a moment and then opened the missive, thinking to learn if the
matter was one that required posthaste resolution. He had not
planned a trip to Haymarket anytime soon, let alone to deliver an
actress’s misplaced mail.
    He had only to read a few lines to realize
the contents were of no great import. It was one of those love
notes Roger had reminded him were becoming all the fashion in
London: a valentine. He had paid the custom little attention.
    My dear Miss Underwood,
fairest rose,
I’ve watched you at each performance.
You are more beautiful than any other,
with skin that glows like a pearl,
and a smile that brings to mind a distant memory.
I want to gaze upon your face forever.
And I shall…
for soon you will be mine!
    Ah, he reminded himself, tomorrow was St.
Valentine’s Day. Perhaps some lovesick fool set forth these flowery
words hoping to win the actress’s favor. Though, as Morgan read the
note a second time, it seemed to him the author’s words were a bit
possessive. In the final line, “will” was underscored five times.
Perhaps Miss Underwood was the type of lover to inspire such
ferocity, if indeed the pair was already acquainted.
    Morgan considered what to do with the note.
Unsigned, he could hardly return it to its author. He might deliver
it, though, and meet this paragon of beauty. Given the words the
man had written, Morgan was more curious than ever to see the fair
Lily Underwood in person. He might even seduce the comely actress
if she was not already spoken for. Perhaps because of her
performance, he had last night declined the charms of Sophie.
    Slipping the note into his pocket, he
smiled. That was just what he would do.
    * * *
    The next morning Morgan took his uncle’s
coach to the theatre. His timing was superb. After asking the
driver to wait, he approached the entrance just as a liveried
servant stepped from an elegant carriage and entered the theatre.
To an attendant the servant said, “I’m here for Miss Underwood’s
mail.”
    Morgan was taken aback. At first he thought
to