Bodice Ripper

The game had been rigged against him from the beginning. He had known that. He took a deep breath and let it out unsteadily. His eyes stung and for a moment he was worried that he would lose his composure.

He knew, of course, where his problems lie. He'd gotten close enough to taste success, and he knew where the impasse lied, but his effort, however frustrating, to solve the problem had only made things worse.

Mary Geis was an incredible woman, it seemed. A woman of supernatural beauty; when he'd seen her the first time, she had reminded him more of a Greek goddess than an Irish baron's daughter, and that hadn't changed. What had changed was the temper—a temper that brought her ancestry sharply into focus for him.

Certainly, he had been a bit brusque. That was unquestionable. But at least he had made the effort, in the end, to bridge whatever rift had opened up between them. That was more than he could say for her. What's more, he had tried to help her.

James picked his bags up from the bed and set them down on the floor. Then he laid down, still in his clothes, and tried to shut his eyes. As long as he could forget about things for a while, he could pick up the pieces of his life.

His situation was not too dire, he reasoned. Someone would surely hire him, even without the recommendation of his previous employer. After all, he had only been here a week, and then he had worked for no one in particular. He didn't even need to add it to his Curriculum Vitae.

There wouldn't be anyone hiring, at least not in an open way. There were other ways into positions, though. He knew people from his days in University, and a few army friends had gotten out since he had left. They might be willing to stick their necks out for an old friend. It wasn't completely impossible, or even exceptionally unlikely, but as he tried to convince himself, it all rang hollow.

This had been his long-shot gamble, his big chance to turn things around for himself. It was over, now, and in the morning he would be going back to his apartment empty-handed and broken-spirited.

A knock came at the door. It was soft, and for a moment he wasn't sure he'd heard it. He knew who it was, who it had to be. That made him want to answer it even less. He pretended that he hadn't heard it after all and rolled onto his side.

The knock came a second time, and Mary Geis's wonderfully melodic voice carried through the door into the room. It was strange how intoxicating everything about her was, even when she was being difficult. When she cooperated, he thought, it must be so much more.

"Mr. Poole? Are you in there?"

He thought about not answering for a moment, as if to spite her for that afternoon. Turnabout was certainly fair play, he thought, but it seemed a bit unfair of him. After all, he had positively hated it when she had done it to him, what sort of man would he be for doing the same to her?

He sat up and rubbed his tired eyes.

"What is it, Miss Geis? I'll be gone in the morning, and I'm sure that Davis can still be reached in town. In fact, I'll try to turn up his address if you'd like, and I'll call on him and have him come back tomorrow afternoon before I catch the train."

He found, surprised, that he meant it. He was too tired to fight with her; he simply wanted to be left alone in his grief for the night, before he had to go back out and face the world. If the promise of running an errand in the morning would keep her from coming to berate him further, then he would give her the promise gladly.

"Will you please open the door, sir?"

He rolled his legs off the bed and pressed himself upright. The door came open easily. Mary Geis looked like the most beautiful mess he had ever seen. Her hair was in disarray, and her cheeks were flushed. He wondered if she hadn't been crying, but he thought it better not to ask.

"What is it that you needed, Miss?"

"I found something of yours, Mr. Poole, and I thought you should have it."

"What on earth could you have of mine, Ma'am?"

She looked up, hurt by his tone, and he immediately regretted it.

"My father sent you a letter, before…" She trailed off and drew a shaky breath. He didn't ask her to clarify.

"I received no such letter."

"No, the postman failed to deliver it, so it was returned, a few days before his death."

"I see," he said, thinking. What on earth could any of this mean?

She held out an envelope; he could see that it had been sealed, and that the seal had been popped open.

"Did you do this?"

She nodded silently. Her eyes, he saw, were the most beautiful shade of green that he had ever seen. He found himself distracted by them, entranced. It was only with great difficulty that he managed to pull his gaze away from her and back to the letter in his hand.

He pulled it out and scanned it over. The top was certainly addressed to a Mr. James Poole, Esq. The bottom was signed Thomas Lord Geis.

Then, confused, he walked back to the bed and sat down to read it more closely.