The shrill sound of Emma once again rattled the house. Mrs. Holmes walked past with a pile of sheets and rolled her eyes. Amelia gave a shrug. What could they do? Whatever Emma turned her mind to, Emma was convinced she was wonderful at. A few weeks ago it had been juggling. The cook had not been pleased with all the bruised fruit that had entailed. And what was it before that? Painting perhaps. No, it must have been pastry making because Mama had declared it undignified for a lady to be putting her hands in dough.

“Give her time,” Amelia told the housekeeper.

“Time,” Mrs. Holmes snorted as she pushed open the bedroom door with her back. “She’s had plenty of time. You all have. None of you are getting younger, and this racket will not help with the finding of husbands.”

“I am not so sure Emma cares for the finding of husbands. Nor do any of us.”

Mrs. Hughes gave her a knowing look. “You care about the finding of one husband.” She vanished into the bedroom before Amelia could protest.

Amelia huffed and made her way through the long gallery that ran along the side of the house. Luckington was an old Tudor house that even had its own moat. Once upon a time there might have been a drawbridge separating it from the land but now a small brick bridge connected it to their front lawns. The house was rickety, with crooked and creaky floorboards. Some sloped slightly and gave one a sense of dizziness if one was not used to it. The small windows were etched with lead lines, segmenting them into little diamonds while a stained-glass crest adorned the top of each window. It had been possessed by the Chadwick’s for nearly four hundred years in its various incarnations and with any luck would continue to be…if Lavinia had a son.

Amelia paused to stare out over the moat at the oak trees that occupied one side of the land. The day was gray and threatening rain. At least Julia had returned home before the weather had broken, though it would not have been the first time any of her sisters had returned home drenched. None of them were particularly good at paying attention to the weather—they all had too many other things of which to think.

Of course, that meant all their hopes had to rest upon Lavinia for a son to inherit. With all her sisters preoccupied with many unladylike things, they had no hope of marrying the rest of them off. But as she had said to Mrs. Holmes, none of them particularly cared for the idea of marriage. By some twist of fate, all the Chadwick girls had been bestowed the gift of indolence and strong minds. Though sometimes Amelia considered it a curse. Even Lavinia had such gifts but she was somehow able to craft herself into someone more acceptable.

She caught sight of her miserable reflection and stuck her tongue out at it. What a miserable beast she was. She had to stop moping and thinking of marriage and worrying for her sisters. Amelia especially had to stop thinking of marriage. After all, she was over him, was she not? She had not seen Nicholas in six months and she was thoroughly over him.

So what if she still penned letters and wrote about the couple who had been conjured up in her mind after all her heartache? It didn’t mean anything.

Pushing open her bedroom door, she set down the letter from the publisher. It seemed as though there was more need for Anna and Nathaniel. Everyone wanted a happy ever after for them. She sighed. Did she even have it in her? Writing had once brought her such pleasure but she was not so sure now. Perhaps she should turn her attentions back to the silly scandals she wrote about which had started her career…and brought too much attention her way. As soon as she had realized the power of her writing and how it could tarnish them all, she opted for a pen name. Her first short story in a newspaper had been the talk of their small village for months on end, never mind London.

She pulled out the chair and froze to peer at her desk. It was never exactly organized but something was not quite right. Several moments of staring at it and a sudden pang struck her.

The letters.

“Oh no.”

She pushed aside the various notes and pieces of paper on the desk. She picked up a book, then another. The letters she had written to Nicholas, where were they?

Flinging more paper aside, she grew frantic. It was all very well that they were eventually going to be published but they weren’t ready. They still had Nicholas’ name on. She pushed her journal aside and it landed on the floor with a thump. Her door swung open mere moments later and Catherine poked her head in.

“Don’t tell me, you have decided to take up country dancing in your bedroom.”

“No!” Amelia snapped, ignoring her sister in pursuit of finding the missing letters. “They have to be here somewhere.”

“What do?”

She paused. “My letters.”

“You write lots of letters, Amelia.”

“Letters,” Amelia said tightly, “that were for my next book. Letters bearing a certain man’s name.”

“Ohhhh.” Catherine glanced around Amelia’s disorganized room. “Well, as you say they must be here somewhere.” She picked up a cushion and dumped it back on the chair. “You really would benefit from being more organized.”

“Help me look.” Amelia motioned about the room. “I must find them.”

“There’s no need to panic.” Catherine propped her hands on her hips. “It’s just letters.”

“But it’s not just…” Amelia shook her head. She could never explain it to her sisters. “Never mind.”

Catherine began searching the room, flinging things here and there. She kicked aside an old easel and it fell to the floor. They both jumped at the thud.

“Careful!” Amelia scolded.

“You need to have a clear out. Your bedroom is worse than Emma’s.”

Amelia fixed her sister with a look. “Yours is not much better.”

“What’s going on?” Julia popped her head in through the doorway. “Goodness, Amelia, your room is a mess.”

“Yes, so I’ve been told, thank you.” She picked up a stack of old papers and began leafing through them.

“We’re looking for Amelia’s letters,” Catherine declared.

“Ooh I’ll help. I’m great at finding things.” Julia stepped into the room and paused. “What sort of letters?”

“Letters about you know who,” Catherine whispered.

“Why are you whispering?” Emma demanded, coming to stand in the doorway. “I heard a thud. Is someone hurt?”

“I’m surprised you heard anything over your singing,” Catherine muttered.

Amelia shot her youngest sister a look before turning her attention to Emma. “No one is hurt. I’m just looking for something.”

“Yes, letters,” Julia said.

“About Nicholas,” Catherine murmured.

“I’ll help look.” Emma eased in through the doorway.

Amelia shook her head. With the four of them in the room, there was hardly enough room to breathe let alone search. But she had to find those letters. What if they had fallen into the hands of a servant or something? Only her sisters, their mother and Mrs. Holmes knew of her writing. That was already too many people as far as she was concerned but she had needed her mother’s help with handling her earnings and her sisters were too nosey and knew her too well for her to be able to keep secrets from them. As for Mrs. Holmes, well, she had known her since she was a baby and had practically raised her.

“I’ll search the bookcase.” Emma strode over and began pulling books off the shelves and shaking them.

Catherine planted hands to hips and scowled. “They’re hardly going to be in there. Amelia would remember if she had put them in a book, would you not, Amelia?”

“I’m sure I would.”

Emma ignored Catherine and continued plucking the books off one by one and piling them on the floor. “You never know. She might not have been thinking. Too busy dreaming of Nicholas.”

“I was not dreaming of Nicholas.” Amelia could feel the heat scalding her cheeks. As much as she loved her sisters, they really could be too much sometimes.

Julia kicked aside the rug and kneeled to peel it back. “Could they have slipped through the floorboards?”

“No, they were in a bundle.” Amelia paused and looked around her messy room. It looks as though a strong wind had blown through. Catherine pulled back the bedsheets then began gleefully tearing away the under sheet.

“Enough.” Amelia threw up her hands. “They’re not here and they’re certainly not under my sheets.”

Catherine pouted. “I thought you might have kept them under your pillow. To be close to them…”

With a huff, Amelia began hustling her sisters out of the room. “I’ll look myself. You lot are making things worse.”

“We’re only trying to help,” Julia objected. “You know if they were bundled up then they might have been…”

Amelia gave her sister a push on the back and all three of them spilled out into the gallery.

“They might have been picked up by one of the servants,” Julia suggested as the three of them straightened themselves out.

“No, surely…” Amelia paused. Her heart sank into her stomach. “Mrs. H. would know not to but…”

Catherine propped her chin on Julia’s shoulder. “We have a new laundry maid. She’s very eager to please. Maybe she picked them up.”

“Oh no.” Amelia put a palm to her face.

“Does it really matter?” Julia asked. “Just ask for them back. She’s so sweet there’s no way she would have read them. She likely picked them up and realized they weren’t really for sending and has not had the chance to put them back yet.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Amelia released a long breath. “I’d addressed them to Nicholas.”

Emma pushed past Julia much to their sister’s annoyance. “But why would you do such a thing?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It just felt right. I wanted to make it as real as possible. To trick myself into believing that I was really going to write to him and tell him all my feelings.” Her sisters shared a look. “My old feelings of course. I am thoroughly over him.”

“Well, Flora”—She swung a look at her sisters—”It was Flora, was it not?—will probably still have them.”

“And if she does not…” Amelia pinched the bridge of her nose. “Nicholas will know everything.”

“Everything?” they all asked.

“I wrote them under my pen name.”

“Well, there we go. You’re saved.” Catherine grinned. “He will simply wonder why this stranger is sending him love notes and forget about it.”

Amelia shook her head. As much as she hoped that was true, she could not risk it. If Nicholas had been sent those letters there was a chance he could realize it was Amelia and connect her to her pen name. Then there would be more scandal than ever. Her sisters would be well and truly ruined. It was all very well marrying a bluestocking but marrying a bluestocking whose sister writes tales to make the ton look awful would be a stretch. If any of them were ever to have a chance on the marriage mart, she had to ensure Nicholas never looked at those letters.

“I need to speak to Flora. And if she has sent them, I need to get them back.“ Amelia eased past her sisters. She had to find that new maid.

“He might be flattered,” suggested Emma.

“He loves Lavinia. That will not change.”