Beneath a Waning Moon
Page 20
“And I forgot one of my reports. Realized I’d left it in Josie’s sitting room last night, so I went looking for it.” He held up an envelope. “What is this?”
“As I’m rather far away at the moment, I cannot tell you.” Josie stepped forward with her hand out. “Give it here, Tom.”
He flipped it away from her fingers.
“Tom!” She heard Anne slip from the room. “What on earth—”
“Who is Joseph Doyle?”
Her mouth dropped open. Her heart sped. “It isn’t… I mean—”
“I can hear your heart racing from here. Tell me.”
Josie frowned. “That’s impossible. There’s no way for you to hear—”
“Who is he, Josephine? Why is someone sending letters to a Joseph Doyle care of you at your father’s house? Who is he? Is that why you’ve been spending your days over there?”
“You’re mad.” She’d raced past embarrassed and straight into furious. “I’m at my father’s house every day because my father is dying and you’re locked in your rooms working all the time! So don’t question my—”
“Who is he?”
“He’s me!” Angry tears pricked her eyes. She didn’t know how to fight with Tom. He’d always been too kind. He was gentle with her, sometimes to frustration. A model of quiet humor and utter patience, even when she was at her most distracted. He’d never once raised his voice.
Glowering had turned to confusion. “What do you mean, he’s you?” He frowned at the letter again. “Did someone mistake your—”
“Joseph Doyle is… a writer of… of Gothic stories and mysteries. He… That is, he writes for several of the more… popular papers in… in London. And he is… me.” Her face was burning. She stared at the red and blue whorls of the rug at her feet. “Joseph Doyle is one of my noms de plume.” She finally tipped her chin up. “I am sorry I concealed this from you, but I am not sorry I write such stories, nor do I have any plans to stop.”
He was frowning at the letter, flipping it over in his hands. He stared at it, then cocked his head. Then looked up, a grin slashed across his scarred face. “Are you saying you write penny dreadfuls?”
She put her hands on her hips. “There are many fine writers in the Gothic genre who write for papers that—”
He cut her off with a clap of his hand on his thigh. “That’s why you write so many letters. They’re not letters; they’re stories.” He stood and started pacing. “Joseph Doyle sounds—” He snapped his fingers. “Did you write the one about the doctor who was murdering the old women?”
Josie stood frozen, blinking her eyes rapidly as Tom walked to her. “Did I write the… The one with the scalpel or the one who used poison?”
“Scalpel.”
“No, I wrote the poisoner. Only it wasn’t the doctor in the end. He was framed. It was—”
“The kitchen maid!”
Josie slapped a hand over her mouth.
Tom burst into laughter. “There’s a lad on the docks who brings them from London every month. You have the most horrid imagination! The way you described those murders had my stomach churning, Josie. The jerking and frothing at the mouth—”
“And you read it?”
He was still laughing. He pulled her hand away from her flushed face and put the letter in it. “One of your noms de plume? Do you have more names I don’t know about?”
“Viviana Dioli,” she murmured. Surely she would wake up any moment to find that Tom disapproved of his wife pursuing such… unladylike hobbies. Not that she would stop, but she’d been braced for disapproval. Had her arguments planned in advance. But he—
“Viviana Dioli?” he asked. “Something tells me she doesn’t write horror stories.”
“Gothic tales of a more romantic nature.”
His grin turned wicked. “I bet those stories have been getting a bit more detailed over the past few months, eh?”
Her face burned. Well, obviously.
“Any others I need to know about, Josie?”
“No, just… Are you telling me you don’t mind that I write scandalous stories for London newspapers?”
He leaned closer. “Is it more fun if I disapprove?” He reached back and pinched the back of her thigh. “I knew that naughty imagination couldn’t be just from reading books.”
“No, it’s been years of wicked mental cultivation.” She batted his hand away. “Are you laughing at me?”
“No.” He smacked a kiss on her lips. “I’m relieved.”
A spark of anger flared to life. “Did you really think I was having some kind of affair?”
“No!” He paused. “Perhaps. There’s no way to answer that question correctly. To be fair, you were hiding things from me.”
“I was hiding my hobby! Not a lover. And are you implying you don’t have any secrets? You?”
He grew instantly silent. “Josie—”
“No.” She turned toward the fire. “I’m still angry. Glad, yes, that you’re not bothered by my writing, but also angry you assumed I’d do something so horrible. I would never be unfaithful to you, Tom.”
She could feel him at her back. He carefully put his arms around her and rested his chin on top of her head.
“As I’m rather far away at the moment, I cannot tell you.” Josie stepped forward with her hand out. “Give it here, Tom.”
He flipped it away from her fingers.
“Tom!” She heard Anne slip from the room. “What on earth—”
“Who is Joseph Doyle?”
Her mouth dropped open. Her heart sped. “It isn’t… I mean—”
“I can hear your heart racing from here. Tell me.”
Josie frowned. “That’s impossible. There’s no way for you to hear—”
“Who is he, Josephine? Why is someone sending letters to a Joseph Doyle care of you at your father’s house? Who is he? Is that why you’ve been spending your days over there?”
“You’re mad.” She’d raced past embarrassed and straight into furious. “I’m at my father’s house every day because my father is dying and you’re locked in your rooms working all the time! So don’t question my—”
“Who is he?”
“He’s me!” Angry tears pricked her eyes. She didn’t know how to fight with Tom. He’d always been too kind. He was gentle with her, sometimes to frustration. A model of quiet humor and utter patience, even when she was at her most distracted. He’d never once raised his voice.
Glowering had turned to confusion. “What do you mean, he’s you?” He frowned at the letter again. “Did someone mistake your—”
“Joseph Doyle is… a writer of… of Gothic stories and mysteries. He… That is, he writes for several of the more… popular papers in… in London. And he is… me.” Her face was burning. She stared at the red and blue whorls of the rug at her feet. “Joseph Doyle is one of my noms de plume.” She finally tipped her chin up. “I am sorry I concealed this from you, but I am not sorry I write such stories, nor do I have any plans to stop.”
He was frowning at the letter, flipping it over in his hands. He stared at it, then cocked his head. Then looked up, a grin slashed across his scarred face. “Are you saying you write penny dreadfuls?”
She put her hands on her hips. “There are many fine writers in the Gothic genre who write for papers that—”
He cut her off with a clap of his hand on his thigh. “That’s why you write so many letters. They’re not letters; they’re stories.” He stood and started pacing. “Joseph Doyle sounds—” He snapped his fingers. “Did you write the one about the doctor who was murdering the old women?”
Josie stood frozen, blinking her eyes rapidly as Tom walked to her. “Did I write the… The one with the scalpel or the one who used poison?”
“Scalpel.”
“No, I wrote the poisoner. Only it wasn’t the doctor in the end. He was framed. It was—”
“The kitchen maid!”
Josie slapped a hand over her mouth.
Tom burst into laughter. “There’s a lad on the docks who brings them from London every month. You have the most horrid imagination! The way you described those murders had my stomach churning, Josie. The jerking and frothing at the mouth—”
“And you read it?”
He was still laughing. He pulled her hand away from her flushed face and put the letter in it. “One of your noms de plume? Do you have more names I don’t know about?”
“Viviana Dioli,” she murmured. Surely she would wake up any moment to find that Tom disapproved of his wife pursuing such… unladylike hobbies. Not that she would stop, but she’d been braced for disapproval. Had her arguments planned in advance. But he—
“Viviana Dioli?” he asked. “Something tells me she doesn’t write horror stories.”
“Gothic tales of a more romantic nature.”
His grin turned wicked. “I bet those stories have been getting a bit more detailed over the past few months, eh?”
Her face burned. Well, obviously.
“Any others I need to know about, Josie?”
“No, just… Are you telling me you don’t mind that I write scandalous stories for London newspapers?”
He leaned closer. “Is it more fun if I disapprove?” He reached back and pinched the back of her thigh. “I knew that naughty imagination couldn’t be just from reading books.”
“No, it’s been years of wicked mental cultivation.” She batted his hand away. “Are you laughing at me?”
“No.” He smacked a kiss on her lips. “I’m relieved.”
A spark of anger flared to life. “Did you really think I was having some kind of affair?”
“No!” He paused. “Perhaps. There’s no way to answer that question correctly. To be fair, you were hiding things from me.”
“I was hiding my hobby! Not a lover. And are you implying you don’t have any secrets? You?”
He grew instantly silent. “Josie—”
“No.” She turned toward the fire. “I’m still angry. Glad, yes, that you’re not bothered by my writing, but also angry you assumed I’d do something so horrible. I would never be unfaithful to you, Tom.”
She could feel him at her back. He carefully put his arms around her and rested his chin on top of her head.
