Free Letters to a Lady by Joan Smith

kitchen window you broke, I think. You go in first and give me a hand.”
    “Can you staunch this wound first?” he asked ironically, when another drop of blood oozed from his finger.
    “I can’t even find it.”
    Ronald returned to the barrel, where he leisurely pulled shards of glass from the frame to permit himself to enter unscathed. Diana waited below, fuming impotently. At last the entry was deemed safe, and Ronald crawled in headfirst, his legs sticking out the window and wiggling till finally they disappeared and his head popped out.
    “It’s the pantry,” he whispered.
    Diana was already balanced on the barrel. Ronald’s help proved so bothersome that she finally told him to stand back while she hoisted herself up to the window ledge and squirmed her way in. Soon they stood together in a small pantry, listening to make sure they were alone. When all remained quiet beyond, they ventured forth into the dining room and on to the saloon.
    “There must be a study,” Diana said, looking around in the shadowed room.
    “What we need is a light,” Ronald decided, and began knocking over tables and chairs till he found a flint box. After much fumbling, the lamp was lit. Diana cautioned him to dim the flame by holding a paper in front of it, and they went forward looking for Markwell’s office.
    “Here it is,” Ronald said, and darted in, straight to the bookshelves. “What a paltry collection,” he scoffed. “No Virgil, no Cicero, not even Homer. I could forgive the rest, for Homer is all a man truly needs. Imagine an illiterate like that being a member of Parliament! All his books are in English.”
    Diana decided the bookshelf was as good a place as any to keep Ronald out of mischief. She closed the door, took the lamp, and headed straight to the desk. The top drawer was locked, the others unlocked. She quickly rifled the open ones, knowing in her heart that if the letters were there, they would be under lock and key. “We’ve got to break into this drawer,” she told her brother.
    Over his shoulder Ronald said, “Yes, go ahead, Di. I’m just looking at this copy of Waverley . I haven’t read Scott, but the chaps say he’s very good. I wonder if Markwell would mind if I borrowed it.”
    With a resigned shake of her head, Diana reached for a brass letter opener and pried the lock till she had broken it. The drawer slid open, and at the back she spotted a corner of pink satin ribbon. She reached in and pulled out the familiar billets-doux.
    “I found them!” she exclaimed triumphantly, and stuffed them into her reticule. “Let’s go before someone comes.”
    “Listen to this, Di,” Ronald said, smiling. “‘A sneaking piece of imbecility’ Scott calls Edward Waverley. This does sound good.”
    “Put the book back and let us go,” she said.
    “I only meant to borrow it.”
    A sound of movement behind the closed door was heard at the same instant by them both. They exchanged frightened, wide-eyed stares and looked to the door. The handle turned slowly. Diana had awful visions of Lord Markwell, pistol in hand. Her mind went perfectly blank, but just before the door opened, she recovered sufficiently at least to blow out the lamp and plunge them into darkness. Instinct led her to crouch behind the desk for concealment.
    When the door opened silently, the first thing she saw around the desk’s corner was another lit lamp. Hovering above it was a man’s ugly, common face. Only a servant, she thought with some relief. The man spotted Ronald near the door in an instant. He raised his lamp and gave a gloating smile.
    “Caught you snaffling the goods, eh, mate? A rum gent like you, all done up in style. What would you be doing a thing like that for?”
    “I was only borrowing it!” Ronald said, offense in every line of his slender body.
    “Sure you was, and didn’t plan to help yourself to his lordship’s jewels and silver, either. Oh, no, not a fine dandy like you. You can tell it to the