Follow My Lead by Kate Noble

proof!” Miss Crane cried and then, looking at the long neglected wet paper in her had, whispered, “Or I did.”
    “What is that?” Lord Forrester finally asked. “May I see?”
    She laid the page in front of him, its dampness weighing down the edges so it lay flat and lifeless. “It was a letter from my father. He wrote it when he realized he couldn’t come to London and introduce me as C. W. Marks himself.”
    “That’s highly convenient,” George sneered. A remark that had everyone, even Lord Forrester, looking at him coldly.
    “What happened to the letter?” Lord Forrester continued, lifting the edge of the completely illegible paper with the odd end of a quill, and pulling out his spectacles for a closer inspection.
    “It blew into the fountain in the plaza outside,” Miss Crane barely more than whispered.
    “I can corroborate that, at least,” Jason piped up. “I fished it out myself.”
    “And caused it to be knocked in, in the first place,” Miss Crane said under her breath.
    Jason could not help but be startled. “I beg your pardon, but I’m on your side,” he whispered back to her. Miss Crane had the grace to blush and look away.
    “I’m sorry, my dear.” Lord Forrester sighed, looking up from the page. “But the paper is entirely illegible.”
    If George Bambridge had not heaved such an audible sigh of relief, Jason was certain he would have been able to hear Miss Winnifred Crane’s heart break. She was so utterly stoic, he thought, taking in her countenance. Looking straight ahead at Lord Forrester, her gaze never wavering but her face becoming increasingly pale with every tick of the clock. As if she had suddenly come to understand that her dreams would never be realized.
    As if she had just learned she was stuck where she was, and there was no escape. Just the inevitable.
    Jason knew that feeling all too well.
    They stood there for some moments, the room shattering down about her ears, and yet, still, Miss Crane did not move. Jason began to become concerned—had she fainted . . . standing up?—until he realized she was no longer looking at Lord Forrester. She was looking at the wall behind him.
    Like most of the walls in the Historical Society’s rooms, the space behind Lord Forrester was crammed with a multitude of paintings, from every conceivable era of history. Jason tried to make out which one she had focused on so intently, but couldn’t decipher her gaze. The Poole? The Dürer? The Rembrandt sketches?
    “I’m so sorry to have disturbed your afternoon, my lord,” George Bambridge said, putting a controlling hand on his cousin’s arm. “This is a complicated business. We will endeavor not to disturb you further.” He tugged Miss Crane kindly but firmly toward the door, which he opened—and nearly caused the Earl of Salisbury to stumble into the room. To no one’s surprise, the audience they had left behind in the great rooms had gathered by Lord Forrester’s doors, all hoping to overhear an ounce of the interior conversation.
    Say what one will about British stoicism, Jason thought wryly, but he didn’t know a single Brit hesitant about eavesdropping. And now that they had a view of the scene, their gazes did not waver.
    All the while, Winnifred Crane’s eyes remained fixed on the wall behind Lord Forrester’s massive desk. Unable to leave well enough alone, George looked to Jason as he tugged. “I know you have some influence over these things, Your Grace, and I do hope this confusion will not affect your decision regarding my application for membership,” he said beseechingly.
    “Lord Forrester!” Miss Crane spoke up, resisting her cousin’s tugging and standing her ground. “I . . . I would make you a proposition.”
    “Winnifred, please,” George whined, “we must be going.”
    “If I cannot prove to you that I am C. W. Marks,” she continued, heedless of George, “can I at least attempt to prove that I have the education, the talent, the creativity