by Liz Tyner
‘Their daughter is getting married. They’re reunited. Their lives are changing. Don’t think about it because it’ll only worry you.’ Edge took her arm and moved her along.
She didn’t speak, but walked in the direction Edgeworth guided. Her parents had never locked themselves in a room together. One had always stormed out, usually her father because of the objects being hurled at him.
They stepped outside, the scent of honeysuckles touching the air and giving the world a false sense of sweetness. Lily realised she’d just agreed to marry. And live next to her mother. The two things she had vowed never, ever to do.
‘Lily Hightower. Your future husband is standing beside you. Act impressed, or at least aware,’ Edge said.
The sound of breaking glass—a window—reached Lily’s ears.
‘No thud,’ Edgeworth said. ‘A good sign.’
‘She’s never broken a window before.’
He gave a one-sided shrug and touched a finger to her arm, stilling her.
‘Edge—’
‘I tried to control my father. I did a fair job of it at the end.’ He shook his head, words moving out on a breath. ‘It’s not worth it.’
‘But you see what she’s doing right now... And your mother—the Duchess—lives within hearing distance. And everyone around us—everyone has lived in these houses much longer than my father has and they are all like—’ She stopped, lowering her own voice. ‘Like you.’
‘Like me?’
‘They’ve been born into this world. They didn’t buy their way into it.’
He tilted his head to hers. ‘Lily. Do you realise how much it costs to buy into this world?’
She didn’t budge. ‘It’s not the same as arriving by birth.’
‘I agree. A few people in the area might even wish that they had the funds to purchase a place here instead of arriving by birth.’
A screech blasted in the air.
‘I cannot bear this,’ Lily said, flexing her fingers.
He leaned close. ‘But you didn’t hear a word I said which means we’re as good as married already.’
‘I cannot bear it, Edge. I am serious.’
‘Perhaps you shouldn’t be.’
He held out his arm for her to clasp and she did. They stood on the front steps of the mansion.
Another screech shot through the air.
They heard the back door slam, shouts to the coachman and in moments the carriage rumbled by with her mother in it.
‘At least Father let her leave when she wanted.’
‘Perhaps he was locking us out.’ He opened the gate for her. ‘And you should let them level it out amongst themselves.’
‘She’ll be back,’ Lily said, walking with him to the front of his house. ‘They just can’t seem to let each other go. It’s unfathomable. But if Abigail and I both speak to our father, perhaps he will reconsider.’
‘Don’t alter the course of your parents’ lives.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s my life I’m concerned with.’
She wasn’t sure she even liked her mother most of the time. And to see her next door, daily, and to know that she could become like her, concerned Lily.
‘Perhaps if they were your children you could decide to let them live their own lives. Think of it like that.’ He’d spoken quietly, but she felt the judgement.
‘It is for their own good.’
‘I thought the same thing and now I’m not so sure. When the story was published about my father’s actions, I took complete control of my father’s life. He couldn’t disinherit me so his hands were tied in that direction. He never expected me to go against his wishes so he didn’t expect the actions I took. He could only shoot me in the back and he had no weapon.’
She turned her head, not wanting to hear.
‘I planned it more methodically than any chess game,’ Edgeworth said, taking her arm and walking with her to his house. ‘I refused to lose or give in. Our family would remain intact. I leveraged everything I had against the man who raised me to take control of his heritage—only he’d never imagined me doing so while he still lived.’
‘You did what you felt right, and who is to say it wasn’t? No one can blame you for trying to hold your family together.’
Inside the entrance to Edge’s house, the butler vanished from sight as soon as he realised he wasn’t needed for anything.
‘I understand that if the story didn’t appear, things would likely have moved along with my father supporting the other woman and his child. I would have found out when he died and kept it from my mother. I would never have let those words be printed if I had known of them. But once my mother knew and it wasn’t a whisper any more, I acted. That’s what I was trained to do—take control of the family and work to make things better. But I should have left my parents’ marriage to them.’
‘You did it for your mother.’
‘I could have spent more time trying to bolster her up, instead of taking lives and moulding them to my wishes.’
He touched the ring finger of her left hand, resting the tip of his finger on the empty spot. ‘I’ll be there for you. I’ll help you with your mother, but not as an audience, and you must keep yourself from being one as well. Few actors perform when the spectators have left.’
‘What if she breaks out a window in your house—with your mother in the room?’
‘I will have her escorted out and have the window fixed. My mother can withstand a lot. She had no choice the last years of my father’s life. He didn’t blame me for the loss of his mistress at first—he blamed his marriage and my mother.’
Her throat hurt. She shut her eyes. If she could go back and change one day, one moment of her past, she knew exactly which one it was. The one when she spoke with the newspaper man. She’d hurt the Duchess so much and Edgeworth. She’d brought the same grief into their lives that she hated for herself.
He squeezed her hand.
* * *
Edge looked at the jewellery box on the table. He’d soon be putting the ring on Lily’s finger. Supposedly the tradition started because of a connection to the heart, but he didn’t care how it began, as long as Lily wore his ring. They’d set a date.
He heard clattering and knew, without a doubt, the footsteps belonged to his cousin Foxworthy.
Fox burst into Edge’s sitting room, his laughing call to Edge preceding him. He held a newspaper in his hand.
Edge frowned. He really didn’t care what intrigues his cousin was involved in.
‘Look.’ Fox held out the paper, grinning. ‘I did it. Twentieth time I’ve been mentioned...’ he held his head to the side ‘...and I’m not counting when I was given credit for that little inaccuracy about being challenged to a duel.’
‘I couldn’t care less,’ Edge said, lifting the box to his hand.
‘Twenty times. Andrew said I couldn’t do it.’
Edgeworth frowned. Andrew should be throttled for challenging their cousin in such a way. ‘You realise Andrew won whatever the outcome.’
Fox’s hands stopped, but then he continued opening the paper, folding it to the page he wanted. ‘See,’ he said to Edge. ‘Name spelled right. All events true.’ He examined it. ‘They do need to get a better engraver though. I look like a wolf. And the ladies all look like plump chickens, but...’ He waggled his head. ‘Twenty times. I did it.’
Edge glanced over the hideous drawing and pushed the paper back to Fox.
Fox read. ‘Yes. Sophia’s in this edition, too. It’s hard to get noticed more than a courtesan. Blast it.’
He tossed the paper to the spot where the box had rested. ‘Well...’ He straightened his jacket, nodding. ‘I accomplished my goal. But I plan to be written about another five times before the end of the year.’
Fox picked up the paper he’d just relinquished. ‘I like being written about. The ladies all ask me if the events are true and I tell them I admit to nothing. And then I usually admit to everything.’ He glanced at the print and recreated the grin from the drawing. ‘It really doesn’t look a thing like me.
‘Oh, and it says Mrs Hightower is in London again,’ Fox said, reading.
Edge tossed the box to the table and seized the paper.
Fox shrugged. ‘Nothing of particular note. My story was better.’ He waved to Edge. ‘You can keep that one. I have extras.’ He left, his feet thudding down the stairs as he left.
Edge read, suppressing the urge to charge to the publisher’s immediately.
Mrs Hightower had returned to London in fine style, according to the words. She’d apparently spent a considerable amount of money on her shopping trip and captured a lot of notice with parcels loaded over the top of her husband’s carriage, if the tale were true.
And then, just a reference to ‘indiscretions in her past’ and another suggestion that she’d been quite good friends with Sophia Swift, although the only current actions written about were overabundant shopping.
News indeed.
His jaw and hands clenched, but nothing else moved except for the vibration of the paper he held.
He would personally throttle the publisher of the paper. No, he would have the man investigated because surely someone so spurious in writing about others could not have lived an exemplary life. Edge could open a competing publishing house and give the news away for a pittance.
When the words had been about his father, his mother had begged him not to make matters worse. To let the news fade away.
The paper in his hands ripped, surprising him. He’d not known he held it so tightly.
This refuse would be addressed and he would use every ounce of his authority to stop this damage.
Lily’s whole existence had been affected by this type of scandalmongering. He couldn’t let it continue.
As he left his house, his footsteps made no noise. If the publisher wanted to play a game of chess, Edge would engage. He thought of the favours he could ask returned and the financial motives he could give for people to see things his way.
They would treat his wife and her family with respect, and if that wasn’t possible Edge would make them suffer. Dearly.
* * *
Edge rode to the publisher’s office. He’d passed the butchers and the nearness to rotting entrails suited the location well. A dank little building, better for holding corpses than anything else.
Edge walked inside. Ink and paper scented the air as if he’d stuck his head deep inside a book. A rhythmic clanking noise from another room and a desk—possibly a desk—sat near one corner, fronted by stacks of newspaper and more to each side. An ink-splotched man stepped from the back room, but the clanking continued. Edge recognised the man from the theatre and he looked more like a caricature than a person, yet he’d dared to lash out at Edge’s father and hurt Edge’s mother.
Edge kicked the stack of newspapers, scattering them about. They fluttered off the walls. ‘I will not tolerate my family being written of again.’
The man looked at the jumbled papers and then at Edge, studying his features. Then he looked to the doorway. The ducal seal was on the side of the carriage parked just beyond the window. Recognition flashed on the man’s face. ‘You’ll be getting a bill for that, Your Grace.’
Edge leaned forward. ‘I might be getting several. One for whatever is in the back of your shop as well. But don’t expect the funds to arrive promptly.’
‘Why in Hades do you care one half-damn about what that rake Foxworthy does?’
‘You attack families.’
‘Ah, yes. The old Duke.’ He snorted. ‘Don’t think you’re the first peer that ever walked in here with a threat on his lips. Doubt you’ll be the last.’
He picked up a knife and used the blade to clean the ink from under his fingernails.
‘Your Grace, I put ink on paper.’ He scowled. ‘Good ink. Good paper. Good stories. Bad people. And sometimes good, when a person dares enough to show it. I print what is already there. News.’
‘News? News?’ Edge raised his hand. ‘You disgrace everyone. You’re a vulture picking at the bones of others even before they’re dead. You pushed my father to his grave.’
The man gave a dry chuckle. ‘Oh, yes. It’s all coming back to me now. I’d forgotten about seeing you at the theatre with a lovely young woman. Practically an announcement of a betrothal to come. But I didn’t print it. I’m rather impressed with Lily Hightower’s tenacity. And she is more respectful than you are.’ He moved his head to one side. ‘I admire her. She looked me straight in the eye. Not many can do that.’
The publisher pulled a rag from his waistband and wiped at the smears on his hands, and scowled at Edgeworth. ‘Every single time you read a report of someone saying they have been defamed by the press, every time you read a report of someone saying lies were printed about them—their rebuttal could have been ignored. Their side is being told—in black and white. They’re getting their say. A print run is being given to them to tell how print runs defame them. Not many businesses would do that.’
‘They shouldn’t have to say it in the first place. Don’t try to make yourself a paragon. Because you are not.’
The publisher snorted, stopping the scrape of the knife against his fingernails, and his face angled so that only one eye looked at Edge. ‘If you think I’m bad, think how it would be if I wasn’t here. Without this—’ he pointed the knife tip to the jumble ‘—only those in power would have a voice and they wouldn’t even need a voice because they could conduct business with the signature of a pen. The people with the biggest houses could stuff their pillow coverings with pound notes and prey on the weaknesses of the people who near-worship them.’
He turned, picking up a paper, never taking his eyes off Edge. ‘People disgrace themselves. People. Disgrace. Themselves. I write it. I write the truth. All of it. In fact, I mentioned Lord Andrew’s wife for the next edition.’
He opened the paper, smearing ink, and folded it open to a page. He stuffed it towards Edgeworth. Edgeworth let his breath ease out so he could force his hand forward to take the rag. He studied the ink, controlling his thoughts so the words made sense.
Beatrice was quoted. Something about her having an art showing with all the sales to benefit families losing their income because of the loom factories.
‘So it is one instance of good you mentioned. It doesn’t take away from all the bad.’ He thrust the rot at the man, but the publisher stepped back, refusing to accept it.
Edge slammed it into the air at his right. The publisher’s eyes narrowed.
‘You look at the paper,’ the publisher said. ‘My paper. It isn’t one instance of virtue or one story of vice. It is one instance of this town. I have many stories of people doing good, as it happens. I print stories. Whatever they are. And people, being so sickeningly perfect, search for the bad ones and remember them far longer than any mention of art. It will not be my fault when someone doesn’t read the story of Beatrice, but hunts for a report of your cousin Foxworthy proposing yet again in public to a married woman.’ He choked. ‘I get so tired of his antics. I only print them on the slowest days now.’ He held up the knife, casually bobbing it. ‘The man should be nipped.’
‘You know he only does it for the scandal. The notoriety.’
‘Yes.’ He pointed his weak chin in Edge’s direction. One fist could have killed the man. ‘And I print Fox’s escapades for the nonsense it is. I do not print the stories of the maids who prepare countless meals or empty countless chamber pots. It is not news. It is boring.’ He tossed his knife to the disarray on the desk. ‘And s
ometimes those people who scrape up the refuse left by the wealthy—someone reads my words about the foibles of their superiors to them and they feel a little better about themselves.’
The publisher rapped his knuckles against the desk. ‘Your Grace. Lord Edgeworth. I know your name and so do most of the people in this town. Not just the ones on St James’s Street, but the ones on Cheapside as well.’
‘You also wrote of my father’s mistress.’
The man unrolled his half-white, half-inked sleeves. His eyes blackened, but his lips smiled. He moved to his chair, sat, leaned back and put interlaced fingers behind his head. ‘I did. Didn’t I?’
Edge took a step forward. They would not hang him but once.
The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘You have no idea what I did not tell.’
The words slashed into Edge’s brain. Every bit of blood inside Edge’s body stilled, until he took in a breath, allowing himself to continue living.
The man raised his brows and his voice hardly rose above the clanking. ‘So you stand there, basking in your fury. Your self-righteousness.’ He shrugged. ‘Be thankful I have a good heart.’
‘Liar.’
The man’s posture changed. He sat straight, picking up a pen, waving it in rhythm with the shaking sideways toss of his head. ‘No.’ The pen paused. ‘I rarely print an error and when I am told of it and it’s shown to me, I correct it with the same emphasis, if not more, than I wrote the mistake.’ He stood. ‘I right my wrongs, Lord Edgeworth.’ He crossed his arms. ‘I do not pay them to go to the Americas.’
Edge stared ahead, hiding the inward flinch. He’d been so careful when handling the transaction.
‘And just this morning, I had another decision to make. Another one. And...’ he stared into Edge’s eyes ‘...you are making it so much harder. So much harder to keep quiet...’ His voice faded and he examined the pen.
‘If you print one more word about my family, I will kill you.’
‘Well—’ he shrugged ‘—I suppose I should write fast then, as she is not currently your family.’
Edge stepped closer, his hand in a fist.