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 leave her, 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 writing desk, 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 to check once more, 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 agitatedly motions, writing and waiting, then writing and waiting some more.

Only if it is you who is subservient to me, but I was under the impression this correspondence served the purpose of a confession- of which none are yet forthcoming.

She returned the note to the grandfather clock and made sure she waited a full hour this time before checking again. There was a folded paper there and briefly checking its contents she instantly recognised his tidy, concise writing that confirmed his new response.

Back in her room again, she read it.

Please don't take as long to respond this time. I checked for your note several times in the span of one hour. A footman thought I had lost my mind when I pretended to clean the grandfather clock as he passed. Nicola giggled at that. What a demanding hen you are. Very well, here it is. Today while you were racing, I beheld your stockinged calves. Needless to say, I am somewhat scandalised.

To which she replied:

Apologies for the delay, I wasn't aware that a busy clock-cleaning man such as yourself had so much time to spare to swop notes with a boring girl. Your confession serves more as an assumption, however. What would you like me to respond to that?

Jason's reply:

You are anything but boring. You can assume I'd want to be scandalised again.

Nicola:

Ass.

Jason:

Such vulgar language from a pretty mouth. You've derailed me with your lewdness and womanly charms. Honest to God, I do have a real confession to make, and I would like to request your assistance, as a friend and confidante, of course.

Nicola:

You've derailed yourself, don't bother trying to shame me. Out with it, then. I'm running out of patience.

Jason:

Who, I wonder, is of superior title and lineage between us, yet holds more authority? Evidently not I. Here it is, your majesty, your long sought-after confession. I have in my possession a box filled with the most wonderfully lyrical love letters- all addressed to me, but signed with no name. How I came across this box is of no import, however I believe it was left for me to indeed find and figure out the puzzle. Which seems to be the difficult part- I do not know where to begin, though from her letters, I feel as if I should aspire to make her acquaintance, for she certainly has made mine.

Nicola's fist clamped so tightly she ruined the parchment he had written on, and she was forced to procure a fresh one, her heart an erratic, wild beast thrashing in a cage within her chest. She felt wretched at the words, utterly forlorn, but at least she knew that her identity remained a myth.

And you expect me to help you how, exactly? Was her clipped response, and her legs were wooden as she returned to the clock and placed the paper inside. She did not check again for some time while she adjusted to this new veer in conversation, making sense of her thoughts and emotions. While it was good that he did not suspect her to have written those letters, she couldn't quite figure out how she felt about the fact that he wanted to meet the author... who he assumed was not her.

Some time passed before she collected his reply and brought herself to read it.

As the popular debutante you are, I suspect you know almost every lady that attends these things, every lady that knows me and would perhaps contrive these notions and put them down in words. We could sleuth together to work it out, you and I. What do you say?

What does she say to that? She could deny him and leave him to his own devices. Sooner or later, he would piece together some more damning clues in the content of those letters and figure it out for himself, and clearly he couldn't begin to conceive to assign her as the owner of the box by expressing his titillation at meeting another, more desirable lady. Well, he hadn't said that, she supposed, but it was implied! Was it? Nicola made a disparaging sound of frustration and rubbed her cheeks, glaring at the note and willing it to catch alight. At least, she reasoned, if she agreed to help him, she could contrive to lead him astray and not assign suspicion to her, which is what she wanted. Always, that is what she wanted.

I am not popular by any means, she began with polite aloofness, but I will see what I can do to help you. How would you suggest we start? Then she returned the letter to the clock and sulked for two hours.

When she finally brought herself out of her sulk, she checked the clock once more. There was not one, but four folded parchments within and she opened them all, frowning as she attempted to decipher their order.

You are lovely and friendly with more than you should be. I have a plan, you see. I will divulge you of all the details tomorrow, at my mother's picnic, meanwhile you should devise a list of all the ladies you can think of who are remarkably beautiful. Or ones who would dare to scandalise me by showing their stocking calves occasionally... that would be nice.

The next one read:

I thought we had discussed the promptness of your replies.

Then the next:

Your tardiness is most unprofessional and un-sleuth-like. Was it the stockinged calves remark? If it was, you needn't worry. As it stands the only legs I wish to be scandalised by are yours.

Finally:

You've cut me deep. I shan't recover from this slight. Oh, alright, I will, but only if you slip one of those stockings in with the next letter, whenever you deign to reply.

Nicola wrote:

Surely whoever wrote you love-letters is deluded and half-insane.

She didn't check again until after the Blackwood household had retired to their private rooms after dinner, and his response had been: She would have to be. And Nicola didn't know what to respond to that, so she didn't.