With Love (Blackwood & Friends #1)

Chapter 10: Covert Operations

Chapter 10: Covert Operations

She almost ran to her room.

Once inside, she slammed the door shut behind her and pressed her shoulders back against the cool wood. Nicola stared at the piece of paper in her trembling hand. Perhaps this was how she was meant to be ended- in a quivering puddle of nerves.

Her fingers shaking, she pried the letter open and scanned the contents quickly. "Ass," she hissed aloud, the tension leaving her body with a rush of air.

I have more confessions. Perhaps you'd like to hear them?

What sort of correspondence was that? Underwhelmed, Nicola felt the excitement evaporate, leaving only the trepidation in its wake. Oh, he really was a terrible man. Was it entirely his fault though, for how could he know that such a thing as a mere note from him would almost render her senseless?

And now she was supposed to write a response. That would certainly be suspect, as if he were to recognise her handwriting and match it to her letters- she shook her head before an idea popped into it.

Nicola had always favoured writing with her right hand, but she could form words and letters with equal dexterity using her left, as well. Though not as comfortable, it was manageable, and her left-handed scrawl was unrefined and less neat than that of her other hand's. If inspected closely, there would be vague similarities, but she somehow doubted Jason Blackwood was an expert at deciphering handwriting, sure that if she were to favour her left hand that the notes would not match up with the style of the letters he had in his possession. The only consideration she would have to make was how to form the transactions carefully and arduously, and not allow the ink to smear across the page as she wrote. It would be a process of writing, and waiting, and writing again, but one that could be done so long as she were patient enough to allow the ink to dry on the page first before finishing the next few words.

Excitement bubbled up at the prospect of corresponding with him on the sly and being able to. She shouldn't, she really knew she shouldn't, but there was something urgent and potent pushing her forward and guiding her hand. Over at the escritoire, she dipped the pen into the ink pot and wrote the following sentence:

However could I deny your confessions, Lord Blackwood?

She knew that addressing him as such would irk him and smiled at that. Then she returned the pen, folded the note, and crept silently back down to the entrance hallway. She was careful to make sure it was empty before she deposited the note in the exact place he had ordered- inside the grandfather clock, beneath the pendulums- and then she hurried back to her room.

And waited.

Now the problem became her patience. Nicola held out as long as she could – ten minutes- before stepping out again and checking inside the grandfather clock only to find the inner chamber empty. A pang of ridiculous disappointment welled up within her but she ignored it and returned to her room, forcing herself to wait a full hour before checking again.

This time, when she returned, there was a note awaiting her.

It was extraordinary how silly and exuberant she felt by the interchange, but she was scarcely inside her room when she opened the missive and began to read.

I find myself vexed on several accounts by your insistence at formality, but kindly desist using any given name in this form of correspondence, my dear, should anyone intercept our letters and assume the worst.

That being said, I am innately pleased by your subservience to me. Is that one of the many perks of being your close friend?

That was it. No confession forthcoming. Oh, he was deliberately provoking her- surely he was, and Nicola stabbed out her next reply to him with agitated motions, writing and waiting, then writing and waiting some more.