To Write a Wrong

by Jen Turano

  “No, but nice try.”

  “That’s too bad.” She readjusted her spectacles. “I suppose it does make sense to include all of you from this point forward. With that said, though, I’m not certain I’ll need any legal advice because, again, I’m definitely in danger of parting ways with my publishing house.”

  “Do you have any books still under contract with them?” Jack asked.

  “Just one. They’ve already paid me an advance for that book. I’ve been wondering if they’ll ask for that money back because I breached the contract.”

  Jack exchanged a glance with Burton before he settled back against the seat. “Excellent.”

  “How can you call that excellent? I just said they may want their advance money back from me.”

  “It’s excellent because if they’re foolish enough to part ways with you, it’ll allow me to negotiate a new and, need I add, more lucrative contract for you with a different publishing house.”

  “I earn a more than respectable income from my books.”

  “But if you’d had me in charge of your contracts from the start, you’d be making even more money.” Jack smiled. “I’m very good at what I do, dear sister.”

  “Which is why,” Burton chimed in, “at the very least, you should let Jack accompany you into the meeting.” He gave Daphne’s hand a pat as the carriage began to slow down, then pulled to a stop in front of Hammerstone, Lander & Company.

  Herman wasn’t exactly surprised when Daphne shook her head.

  “Why not?” Burton asked.

  “Because women will never be taken seriously or allowed to write mysteries under their real names if we constantly tow our fathers, brothers, or husbands into meetings with us and allow them to handle everything, as if we women are incapable of understanding business. Yes, your help with my contracts might have secured me better royalty rates, but I’m the one who figured out how to sell my books to a publisher, and I’m the one who writes those books in the first place. I have to be allowed to see if I can rectify my mistake of disclosing my identity on my own.” She smiled. “But if I run into any difficulty with that, I’ll send Herman to fetch you.”

  “But we wouldn’t be accompanying you into the meeting as your relatives,” Jack argued. “We’d be there as your attorneys.”

  Daphne punched him in the arm. “No, you wouldn’t be. You’ll always be my brother first, Jack. If any member of the publishing board says something you take issue with, I fear the brotherly side of you will overtake the attorney side. No one except Herman, as well as Eunice because I believe her somewhat spooky appearance might come in handy, is coming with me. End of story.”

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-Two

  Herman wasn’t surprised in the least when, ten minutes later, he, Daphne, and Eunice were sitting in a conference room at one of the largest round tables he’d ever seen, without the company of Daphne’s family. Daphne’s father and brothers were waiting behind in the lobby, along with Cooper, and all were less than happy with that arrangement, although their rather vocal arguments about the matter hadn’t swayed Daphne’s decision to leave them behind.

  “The members of this publishing house certainly wanted to make an intimidating statement,” Eunice whispered to him, leaning closer as she nodded to the thirty men sitting around the enormous table, all of whom were staring at Daphne with frowns on their faces.

  Daphne was oblivious to the frowns because she was currently rummaging through the limitless confines of her bag, pulling out her trusty notepad and a pencil, which she placed on the table before she lifted her head and nodded to Mr. Harrison Wiggler, a senior acquisitions editor, who immediately rose to his feet and sent Daphne a bob of his head.

  “Miss Beekman,” he began, “we’re so pleased you were able to travel to Boston to speak with us.”

  “You say that as if I had a choice in the matter, Mr. Wiggler. I was delivered a summons, which I am now answering.”

  Mr. Wiggler’s eyes widened behind the lenses of his spectacles. “Ah, well, yes, I suppose it was a summons, but we thank you for delivering yourself in person.” He cleared his throat. “Do you understand why you’re here, or would you like me to take a few moments to explain the particulars to you? Unless, of course”—he nodded to Herman—“your attorney has already explained the basics.”

  Daphne wrinkled her nose. “I’m here because I’m in breach of my contract, Mr. Wiggler. I assure you, there’s no need for you to explain that to me, or, heaven forbid, assume I don’t understand what the word breach means. I am a wordsmith, after all. I understand the definitions of words such as breach, contract, and particulars, if you were under the impression that went over my head.” She turned and sent a lovely smile to Herman. “And this isn’t my attorney. He’s Mr. Herman Henderson, a contemporary of mine, and an author I’m sure all of you are familiar with.”

  The table at large sent nods Herman’s way before Mr. Wiggler directed his attention to Eunice. “And the lady in black?”

  Eunice sat forward. “I’m Mrs. Eunice Holbrooke, one of the partners in the Bleecker Street Inquiry Agency.” She set her large reticule on the table, opened it up, and began pulling items out at random, one of those items being a dangerous-looking pistol that she immediately placed in front of her. “Ah, here they are,” she exclaimed, pulling out her calling card holder.

  She plucked out a card, rose to her feet, then strolled ever so slowly around the table, the train of her black gown rustling with every stride. She handed Mr. Wiggler the card. “This is for you in case anyone at your publishing house ever needs the services of an inquiry agency. We handle all manner of cases, from theft, to character investigations, and even attempted murders.” She turned and strolled back to her seat, inclining her head to Herman as he helped her resume her seat before he retook his own.

  Mr. Wiggler looked over the card. “I’ll certainly keep your agency in mind, Mrs. Holbrooke, if any of us here ever has need of it, but I’m a little confused about why you’re here. And for heaven’s sake, please put that pistol away. I hardly believe there’s any need for it to remain out and so . . . conspicuous.”

  Eunice didn’t so much as touch her pistol. “I’m here, Mr. Wiggler, because Daphne is my fellow partner at the agency, and I thought she might have need of my support. Besides that, Mr. Henderson has hired our agency to keep him alive. We take that responsibility very seriously and are not relaxing our guard as pertains to Mr. Henderson’s safety, which is also why I’m here. That is also why I need to keep my pistol readily available in case an unexpected threat presents itself.”

  “It appears as if Eunice has taken issue with the way my meeting is being handled,” Daphne whispered, leaning closer to him before she sent him a wink and then returned her attention to Mr. Wiggler, who now had sweat beading his forehead.

  Swallowing a laugh, Herman couldn’t help feeling that, once again, he’d landed smack-dab into the midst of a very unusual situation, one that was turning more amusing by the moment.

  “I’m sure there will be no, er, threats here today,” Mr. Wiggler finally said before he set aside Eunice’s card and turned to Daphne. “And now, back to the business at hand, although . . . I seem to have forgotten what I was saying.”

  “That’s perfectly understandable,” Daphne returned. “I believe I last told you that Mr. Henderson is not my attorney. Nevertheless, in the spirit of full disclosure, my attorneys are waiting in the lobby for me to summon them if I feel their expertise is needed.”

  “Did you say attorneys, as in more than one?” asked a man by the name of Mr. George Harris, who was head of marketing, sitting forward.

  “I’ve brought three attorneys and a judge.”

  “Why would you bring a judge with you?” Mr. Harris pressed.

  “He’s my father, the Honorable Burton Beekman. The three attorneys are my brothers, Mr. Jack Beekman, Mr. Arthur Beekman, and Mr. Frank Beekman.”

  “You’re a member of that Beekman family?” Mr
. Wiggler asked, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and giving his forehead a dab.

  “Indeed, but my family has nothing to do with why I’m here, which, again, is because I’m in breach of my contract, having disclosed I’m the author behind the Montague Moreland books.”

  “In Miss Beekman’s defense,” Herman said, sitting forward, “she was provoked into disclosing her identity after Mr. Charles Bonner attempted to suggest Montague Moreland was behind the attempts on my life.”

  Mr. Harris turned a pleasant smile on Herman. “Allow me to speak for all of us here at Hammerstone, Lander & Company, Mr. Henderson, and say we’re very thankful to find you still alive and well. And if you’re ever wanting to switch publishing houses, we would be honored to publish your extraordinary novels.”

  Daphne waved that aside. “Really, Mr. Harris, this is hardly the moment to try and steal Herman from his publishing house. So, returning to the matter at hand, which is me, if all of you have forgotten, what say we get to the meat of the matter? I’ve breached my contract, and . . . ?”

  Given the way the clock ticked away as Mr. Wiggler merely stared at Daphne, it was becoming clear the gentleman had not been expecting Daphne to approach her situation with such a no-nonsense air.

  He finally glanced around the room, nodded to a man who was nodding encouragingly back at him, then returned his attention to Daphne. “We have a few options, Miss Beekman. We had you sign that nondisclosure because we feared readers would not buy your books if they knew they were written by a woman. Publishing is, first and foremost, a business, and if we don’t make money on our books, we don’t stay in business.”

  “Which means you’d like to terminate my contract?” Daphne asked.

  “Since you’re in breach of it, your contract is no longer valid.”

  Daphne scribbled something down in her notepad. “True, and I do understand that it was null and void the moment I disclosed who I am, if you were under the mistaken belief I didn’t know that. I also understand that publishing houses like to make matters official. I’m guessing there must be some paperwork you’d like me to sign before I part ways with you.”

  Mr. Wiggler took another swipe at his forehead. “You still owe us a book.”

  “Indeed I do, unless I return your advance money, which I’m perfectly happy to do. That will allow me to do whatever I please with my next book because there’s nowhere in my old contract that says I can’t sell it to another publishing house if I’m not under contract here.”

  Murmurs met Daphne’s response, murmurs that had her sending Herman another discreet wink.

  He settled back in the chair, hard-pressed not to laugh again because clearly Daphne was capable of holding her own, even in a room filled with businessmen who’d certainly underestimated her.

  “We were thinking more along the lines of giving you a new contract with different terms for that book you owe us,” Mr. Wiggler said.

  Daphne’s eyes narrowed. “What type of terms?”

  Another mop of his forehead was Mr. Wiggler’s first response to that. “A slight decrease in royalties and an agreement that you can’t publish any mysteries with any other publishing house within the next five years if you were to decide to leave this house.”

  As Daphne returned to her notes without saying a single word, Herman looked around the room, noticing the anxiety that was lingering in more than one man’s eyes.

  Understanding struck in a split second.

  He leaned closer to Daphne to whisper what he’d just realized in her ear, but before he could get a single word out, she lifted her head.

  “How are my sales this week?”

  “Excellent question, Daphne,” Eunice muttered under her breath as all the men began to exchange incredibly telling glances.

  Obviously, Daphne’s sales had been stellar, something she had figured out on her own, proving once again that, behind her occasionally distracted air and propensity to suffer sudden swoons, lay a woman of extreme intelligence.

  “They were . . . up,” said Mr. Stanley Matisse, who was director of sales, or so claimed the plaque sitting in front of him.

  “How up?” Daphne shot back.

  “Ah, well, substantially.”

  A smile of clear delight lit up Daphne’s face. “How extraordinary. But tell me this, Mr. Matisse, who is buying my books this week?”

  Mr. Matisse consulted his notes, although Herman was sure he already knew the answer to that. “Erm . . . from what the booksellers are telling us, women seem to be purchasing the majority of your books this week.”

  “Excellent, and that’s with my being consistently told that no one would purchase a mystery if they knew it was written by a woman, not even fellow women.”

  “We might have been wrong about that,” Mr. Wiggler said, shuffling his notes around on the table before he sat down and slumped in his chair.

  Daphne rose to her feet. “Allow me to see if I’m understanding this correctly. You don’t want to discontinue working with me, but you do want to pay me less money, even though my books are apparently selling better than ever. Do I have the gist of that right so far?”

  “I don’t know if I’d put it quite that way,” Mr. Wiggler said.

  “Then what way would you put it, sir?”

  When Mr. Wiggler didn’t respond, Daphne placed her hands on the table and leaned forward. “It seems we’re facing a dilemma, gentlemen. According to my brother, Mr. Jack Beekman, who, if you don’t know, is a contract attorney, I can return my advance, part ways with you, and not be obligated to give you that book I’m working on.”

  “How is that book coming along?” Mr. James Durnham, Daphne’s editor, asked, smiling at Daphne.

  “I’ve run into a slight snag with the story line, but I’ve figured out the problem, and I’m sure a solution is soon to follow, Mr. Durnham.”

  “You always run into a snag, claim it’s going to be the death of you, then deliver a story that neither I, nor your readers, can put down,” Mr. Durnham said. “I have faith this latest work will turn out fine and arrive on time, if you decide to continue on with us. Speaking for myself, I’ve found you a joy to work with. I appreciate your dedication to your craft and also your wonderful work ethic.”

  “Hear, hear,” Mr. Wiggler said as the rest of the gentlemen began nodding and murmuring their agreement to that.

  “Thank you, Mr. Durnham,” Daphne said. “I’ve appreciated working with you, as well. I value your suggestions after you edit my work and would truly miss you if I leave.”

  “Are you going to leave?” Mr. Wiggler asked.

  “It depends on whether or not you agree to my conditions.”

  “You have conditions?”

  “I do.”

  “And?” Mr. Wiggler pressed when Daphne returned to her notes, flipped through a few pages, then lifted her head.

  “I’ll want an increase in my royalty rate, as well as my advance rate, and I would suggest those increases be substantial because you’ll be working with my brother on the contract. He’s very protective of me and will want to make sure I get the best possible deal. He’ll also reach out to other publishing houses to see what they might offer. Given my increase in sales, I’m sure all of you realize that other publishing houses would love to acquire my next book, as well as future books.”

  Glancing around the room again, Herman almost found himself feeling sorry for the gentlemen who’d surely underestimated Daphne and her ability to stand up for herself—almost felt sorry for them, but not quite, given that they’d just been trying to take advantage of her.

  “Anything else?” Mr. Wiggler asked weakly.

  “I want to write under my name, although I’ll keep the Montague Moreland name. I was thinking something along the lines of ‘Montague Moreland Mysteries,’ and then have Daphne Beekman right underneath that on the cover.”

  “I don’t believe that would be too much of an issue.”

  “I also want to do a few book signings becau
se I’d like to know how that feels, although I don’t want to be scheduled for any author speeches because that would make me queasy.” She smiled. “I don’t enjoy speaking in front of people.”

  “You seem to be enjoying yourself right now,” Mr. Wiggler muttered.

  “I do, don’t I?”

  “Most assuredly. Are there any other conditions?”

  “I’m sure there are, but I’ll leave it up to my brothers, except . . .” She pulled her large bag from the floor, dropped it on the table, pulled out a spare notepad, two handkerchiefs, and a change purse before extracting the manuscript Sheldon had given her.

  She held it up and smiled at Mr. James Durnham. “I’d like you to read this. It was written by a brilliant new writer, Mr. Sheldon Clarendon. I read his book in its entirety in one sitting, and I’d like your thoughts about it.” She walked over to Mr. Durnham and handed him the manuscript. “You’ll want to acquire this, but I should warn you that Sheldon will probably be represented by my brothers as well, so do make sure to give him a good offer.”

  Daphne returned to her chair, stuffed everything back into her bag, then nodded. “I believe that’s all, gentlemen. Shall I send my father and brothers in now? I’m sure they have matters they want to discuss with you.”

  “Right now?” Mr. Wiggler asked.

  “They are here, after all.”

  “We might as well get this over with,” Mr. Harris muttered.

  “That’s the spirit, gentlemen. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to. I’m sure I’ll be in touch. And Mr. Durnham?” She smiled at her editor. “I’ll have that new book turned in on time, no need to fret . . . that is, if I am amenable to the terms of a new contract.”

  With that, she slipped the strap of her bag over her shoulder, took the arm Herman immediately held out to her, waited until Eunice returned her pistol to her reticule, and then walked out of the conference room with her head held high.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-Three

  “I don’t believe I’ve thanked you yet for delaying your trip back to New York in order to attend the Devonshire Ball with the family,” Clara said, taking hold of Daphne’s gloved hand and giving it a good squeeze.