Post Obsessions

The letter came, not by the post, but by paid delivery. Urchin delivery, if his man was to be believed, and why should he not be? There were finger imprints upon the vellum, distinct, grubby marks, utterly out of place upon the fine fabric, folded tightly and sealed with a single, unstamped round of wax.

It was addressed, in a neat hand, yet the writing was strong and sprawling enough to indicate a male sender. The only words the address contained were Viscount Farringdon. No use of his familiar name, no street direction. A stranger then, and yet one who knew his whereabouts well enough that he had no need to write them out.

Markus took his time in deciding to open the missive. Odd letters simply did not find their way into his home. If they did, they were invariably reports of dire events. Still, he could not simply stare at it and hope it would disappear. Nor could her turn it over and over in his hands and hope that it would burst into flame, or something equally dramatic.

So, with that lack of options being presented to him, Markus opened it. The penmanship was the same, somewhat less neat, looser, more relaxed. The words, however, were anything but relaxing.

My dear Lord Farringdon, it began.

By the time you have finished with this missive, you will no doubt think me quite mad. Nevertheless, writing to you was a necessary thing, no more to be denied than the rain outside my window.

I have seen you, you see. Not at your soirees or during your gallops in the park. I have seen you in your less than discreet moment, my Lord, with your young man, at the hell where you obviously feel safe from any eyes that might know you. I have seen the way you touch him. I have seen the lewd acts you perform with him before you take a room upstairs and have your way for the night.

What has this to do with me? Do you fear me now, my Lord? Perhaps you should. Not because I wish to harm you. This is no base plea for gold to keep my mouth closed. I have no intention of telling your secrets. That is between you and your priest. I want something far different. You see, I wish to be the one with you. Not merely the one who sees you. Sadly, I am too far up the ladder to put myself up for rent, and most likely too old to appeal to your... tastes. Yet I am not far enough into your sphere to meet you socially. It would seem that I must admire you from afar. Perhaps it will be enough to know that now, whenever you are out, you shall be looking for me.

Yours very truly

E

Markus stared at the letter, dizzy and sick. He was so careful. So precise in his care in choosing partners and locales. It would seem he was not careful enough. Now what was he to do?

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