by Olivia Drake
“Nonsense. We’re only going to call on your stepmother. She isn’t expecting us just yet.”
The allure of visiting the newspaper that had published her essays proved impossible to resist. Rory wanted a glimpse of the offices, a peek at the printing presses, perhaps even an introduction to the staff members, so that she could have a fond memory to take back to Norfolk. For this opportunity to appear from out of nowhere was truly a gift of fate.
“Well, then. Perhaps I’ll just see if the latest issue is available.” Rory hopped out onto the street, then turned to realize that Lucas was about to follow. She held up her hand to forestall him. “Do wait here, please! You needn’t bother coming with me. I shan’t be long.”
Turning her back on him, she darted a path through the throng of pedestrians and headed toward the printing office. A dilapidated sign hung over the doorway, the peeling letters painted in gold against a dark red backdrop. THE WEEKLY VERDICT. The sight sent a happy shiver dancing down her spine.
How many times had she yearned to travel to London to meet with her publisher? The expense to Aunt Bernice had always stopped Rory. She had been paid only a pittance for her first few essays, but had high hopes of earning more once she established a name for herself. That was why she must make the best possible impression today …
As she reached for the tarnished brass knob of the door, Lucas materialized at her side. Rory froze, glaring at him. “I told you I’d only be gone a minute. Why are you here?”
“In case there are any rats to chase away.”
His smile ironic, he opened the door and motioned for her to precede him. She fumed inwardly at his high-handed manner. Rats, indeed! She should never have told him about her aversion to rodents. It provided him with a handy excuse to interfere.
She would have to be exceedingly careful not to give away her nom de plume. Lucas already scorned her modern opinions. She could only imagine his repugnance if he found out her secret identity as Miss Cellany.
A little bell over the door tinkled to announce their arrival. She stepped into a long, narrow room lit by a few scattered lamps. The rich scents of ink and paper perfumed the air. She had expected to see a bustling staff, all of them busy at the myriad tasks of producing a weekly newspaper. But no one occupied the single cluttered desk situated at the front of the office.
Midway down the hall, a gangly young fellow leaned over a large tray on a table, plucking out letters and putting them into another box in alphabetical order. He turned around and spied them, then came ambling forward with a loose-limbed gait, his face freckled beneath a thatch of untidy red hair.
A puzzled look in his brown eyes, he glanced at their fine clothing. “Can I help you folks?”
“I saw your sign as we were passing,” Rory said. “I’m an avid reader of your journal. I was hoping to express my praise to the editor.”
“I’m the editor. Jeremiah Chandler, at your service.”
Rory’s heart hammered. Chandler was the man who’d purchased her essays. But she had pictured someone older, more distinguished, an academic type with gold-rimmed spectacles and gray hair. Or alternatively, a wild-eyed anarchist with a revolutionary cockade pinned to his coat.
Not a freckled-faced youth who looked younger than she was.
Lucas held out his hand. “Dashell here. And this is—”
“Jewel,” Rory said swiftly. “Miss Jewel.”
The game would be up if Lucas uttered her real name. She had submitted her articles as Miss Aurora Paxton, requesting to be published under a pseudonym. The last thing she needed was for the editor to connect her to Miss Cellany in front of Lucas.
Chandler wiped his inky fingers on the apron tied around his waist before shaking hands with Lucas. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. And Miss Jewel.”
“Likewise,” Lucas said, his keen gaze on Rory.
He was far too astute not to sense something was up, so she quickly babbled, “I expected there to be more employees here. Has everyone gone home for the day?”
Chandler’s face wore a wry smile. “Actually, in addition to being the editor, I’m also the publisher, the typesetter, even the reporter. There’s just myself and a few lads I hire to deliver the paper to the newsstands.”
He glanced back at the worktable as if anxious to return to his duties.
“Might I purchase a copy of your latest issue?” Rory said.
“You’re in luck. I just finished printing this week’s edition.” He reached to a stack of papers piled on the desk and plucked one off the top. “Here it is, hot off the press.”
As she took the folded sheet, Lucas said, “Make that two copies.”
“That isn’t necessary,” she protested. “You may borrow mine later.”
“Nonsense. I like to keep up with the latest radical notions.” Lucas tossed Chandler a coin which the editor caught with deft, ink-stained fingers. “Keep the change.”
“Much obliged,” Chandler said, pocketing the coin with a grin. “I’m operating on a shoestring and every bit counts.”
Rory could think of no other reason to dally. She would have liked to have shooed Lucas out and remained to talk business with Chandler. Perhaps she could return before she was obliged to leave London.
Thrilled nonetheless, she clutched the news sheet like a talisman as they returned to the carriage. A few days ago, she had dashed off another editorial and mailed it to the newspaper. But she’d been hesitant to divulge her London address, so any response from Chandler would have been delivered to her aunt’s cottage in Norfolk.
Had he received it in time to include it in this week’s edition?
She hoped not. The subject matter was bound to catch Lucas’s attention. It might even tip him off to her as the author. She tried to remember the precise wording of the piece. Had she given herself away?
As the brougham set off again, the horses clip-clopping, Rory knew she ought to rein in her curiosity until she was alone. But she couldn’t help herself. She stole a glance downward to scan the headlines in her lap: “Angry Citizens Protest Outside Parliament.” “Chimney Sweeps Deserve Higher Pay.” “A Housemaid’s Tale of Horror.”
Then Rory spotted the essay featured in a special box in the center of the paper: “Bartered Brides: An Exposé of Aristocratic Marriages by Miss Cellany.”
Elation skittered over her skin and swelled in her bosom. It was all she could do not to burst out with prideful bragging. No matter what the consequences, she felt ecstatic to see her words in print.
Seeing Lucas’s gaze on her, she hid her delight by lifting the news sheet to her nose. “Mm. I do love the smell of fresh ink, don’t you?”
“Why did you give Chandler a false name?” he asked.
She affected a guileless look. “You did, too. After all, you didn’t tell him you were the Marquess of Dashell.”
“But you interrupted as I was about to introduce you as Miss Paxton.”
“Of course. Chandler is a newsman and, heaven knows, he might take it into his mind to print in the next issue that I’d visited his office. That I would frequent such a place could be embarrassing when my sister is about to marry the Duke of Whittingham.”
Lucas raised a quizzical eyebrow. It was clear he still found something peculiar in her explanation, though he couldn’t put his finger on why. Rory felt overly warm under that scrutiny and hoped she wouldn’t give herself away by blushing.
He studied her another moment and then glanced down at his copy of The Weekly Verdict. As he tilted it to the sunlight from the carriage window, his mouth quirked up at one corner. “Ah, here’s a new one by your favorite author, Miss Fortune. It appears she’s gunning for the aristocracy again.”
“That’s Miss Cellany.” His automatic scorn for her work incensed Rory. Why, he hadn’t even read the essay! She shifted uneasily on the plush velvet seat. What would he think when he did?
“Miss Begotten might suit her better,” Lucas said. “Let’s see what rubbish she has to say this
time.”
The hint of drollness in his tone only served to increase her ire. “If you intend to mock it sight unseen, then you oughtn’t have purchased a copy.”
She tried to snatch the paper from him. He deftly yanked it out of her reach and safeguarded it on the other side of him. In order to seize it, she would have to lean over him, pressing herself to his strong body and engaging in a wrestling match in full view of any passersby who looked in the carriage window.
Besides, it occurred to her that objecting too strenuously would only serve to increase his suspicions. Better to feign indifference.
Tilting her nose in the air, she said, “Think what you will, then. It matters naught to me.”
He rattled the paper and cleared his throat, then began reading aloud, “‘In the highest echelons of society, gentlemen choose their brides in much the same manner as they purchase fillies at a Tattersall’s auction.’” He glanced over at her. “Fancy that. I have not been tempted in the least to part Miss Kipling’s lips and inspect her teeth. Nor to lift her skirts and check the soundness of her hocks—or rather, her knees.”
Rory stiffened. “The comparison is not meant to be taken literally. And you must admit the author makes a sound point. Ladies are treated as objects to be acquired by the highest bidder.”
He cocked an eyebrow, then glanced down at the newspaper again. “‘Ladies are treated as objects to be acquired by the highest bidder.’ Why, that is the very next sentence. You are quite attuned to Miss Cellany’s thoughts, if I may say so.”
She blanched, struggling to hide her dismay. “I happened to notice that sentence a moment ago. But I’m not interested in dissecting the essay with you, sentence by sentence. I prefer to read it myself later when there is no one around to irritate me.”
He chuckled, a low sound that emanated from deep in his chest. It stimulated a fevered reaction in the pit of her stomach, and she was irked with her own body for its betrayal. If she was attuned to anything, it was him—much to her ill luck. She adored his scent, a mixture of pine and leather. Her pulse surged at the mere brush of his arm against hers. And like it or not, she cared about his opinion of her. When Lucas said nothing more, she turned her head stiffly to stare out the window on her side of the brougham.
She was only marginally aware of the neighborhood growing posher as the carriage neared Mayfair. With every jot of her being, she focused on the faint rattle of the paper as he turned the page. He was reading the rest of the editorial; she knew that without looking. It was agonizing to imagine him perusing words that she herself had penned.
She tightly clutched her own copy of The Weekly Verdict in her gloved fingers. Tension vibrated in her muscles. What else had she written? The memory was something of a blur. It had been very late on the night that Lucas had discovered her searching his bedchamber. Afterward, unable to sleep, she had sat at the dainty desk while Lady Dashell lay snoring in the canopied bed and had scribbled off her thoughts in a rush. She had been worried about her sister and thinking also about Miss Kipling after the girl’s disastrous interview with the marchioness …
“What the devil—” Lucas muttered under his breath.
Rory swiveled toward him. “What is it?”
“Listen to this. ‘Miss C.P. is a prime example, an innocent beauty just out of the schoolroom, sold to the Duke of W., a man old enough to be her father.’”
She struggled to appear surprised. “Why, that’s Celeste! Imagine that. Though I suppose her betrothal is common knowledge. And it is one of the grandest matches of the season.”
“That isn’t the worst of it. ‘Likewise, rumors abound that Lord D. will use his title to entice Miss A.K., the richest filly on the marriage mart, even though his intended fiancée is fourteen years his junior. When buying a bride, love matters naught to heartless noblemen.’” He threw aside the newspaper. His jaw was taut, his lips thinned, his expression thunderous. “Blast the woman! I’d like to know who the devil she is, hiding behind a pen name. I’ve a good mind to bring the law down on her for libel!”
Rory swallowed. The snippet did sound a bit over the top. “Surely it isn’t libel if it’s true, is it?” she asked cautiously.
“How would she know whether it’s true or not? My feelings for Alice can only be pure speculation for this writer!”
“I don’t think what she said is really all that damaging.”
“Oh? My private life will be bandied all over London. Everyone will be gossiping about my intentions before I’ve even had the chance to make my offer to Alice. And my rivals will be trying to convince her that I’m heartless.”
Rory wanted to slide down on the cushion and hide her face. At the time she’d dashed off that essay, she had believed him to be a cold, callous man devoid of human emotions. She had not realized that Lucas played his cards close to the chest for a reason. His reticence arose from a fierce desire for privacy to counteract his father’s boisterous reputation. Unlike the gregarious crowd at Newcombe’s party, Lucas was not one to expose his feelings and desires to the world at large. He was a man of deep emotions and impeccable honor, yet he reserved the sharing of his thoughts to a select few.
Including her, Rory realized with a tremor. To her he had confided his guilt over his mother’s injuries, his father’s attempt to corrupt him, his worry over his brother. And she had repaid him with betrayal.
“Miss Cellany must be a member of society,” Lucas said, drumming his fingers on the newspaper in his lap. “Whittingham’s betrothal may be common knowledge, but my intentions are not. I’ve danced with Alice at every ball, but so have many other gentlemen. Only someone very observant would realize that I’m on the verge of making her an offer. Or someone who knows me well.”
Remorse threatened to choke Rory. A cowardly impulse told her to keep silent. He might never look at her the same way if he learned her nom de plume. Yet if she respected him, then she owed him the truth.
Reaching out, she placed her hand on his arm, drawing strength from the tautness of his muscles. “Lucas, I—I must tell you something…”
Her voice faltered as his gaze narrowed on her. Those steel-gray eyes seemed to bore into her very soul. He cocked his head in a calculating stare. “It’s you,” he said in a gravelly tone. “You are Miss Cellany.”
His accusatory tone struck at her heart. She drew back her hand and curled her fingers into a fist at her bosom. It was difficult for her to meet his eyes. She drew a deep breath, but it did little to ease the ball of misery in her chest. “If you must know, yes. I am. I wrote that essay. But I did so before I knew you very well. And I vow, I never meant any harm by it.”
Silence stretched between them. The rattle of the carriage wheels and the clopping of horse hooves competed with the drumming of her heartbeat. Lucas stared at her as if she’d sprouted horns. His eyes were steel mirrors that prevented her from reading his thoughts. He had never appeared sterner, not even on the day when she had faced him in his study to beg him for a job.
She clenched her teeth to keep her chin from quivering. Tears burned her eyes, but she blinked them away. She was proud of her work. It was just that she couldn’t bear to think of him despising her. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble for you, Lucas, truly I didn’t. And yet … the essay does express my beliefs. Although I’m sorry that I involved you, I won’t apologize for my views on aristocratic marriages. Too many of them are loveless, unhappy alliances.”
“It’s naïve to think that love is all that is necessary in a marriage,” he said testily. “There are other important considerations, as well. Especially to a man with my responsibilities.”
“Perhaps. But without love, how can one ever know true happiness?”
“What is mistaken for love is often mere lust. It burns out quickly.”
“No! You mustn’t be so cynical. Only look at Aunt Bernice. She left society to marry the man she loved, traveled all over the world on his merchant ship, and she was as happy as a clam!”
“Are c
lams happy? Perhaps you ought to address that issue in your next editorial. You may feel free to spout your opinions. I doubt that any clams will threaten you with a libel suit.”
Rory watched him cautiously. Perhaps his mockery was a good sign that he didn’t hate her. “You aren’t really going to sue me, are you? I haven’t any money to pay a settlement.”
“Nor do I wish my private life waved like a flag in public any more than you’ve already done. So there is your answer.”
Relief eddied through her. Not because she’d truly feared Lucas taking her to court, but because he seemed somewhat less angry now. His eyes had relaxed slightly, although his expression remained cool.
What she wouldn’t give for one of his rare smiles right now!
The brougham slowed to a halt and she looked out in surprise to see that they’d arrived at her stepmother’s house. She was reluctant to go inside just yet. She desperately wanted to patch things up with Lucas.
How foolish of her. She had driven a wedge between them, ruined their budding friendship. Once this mystery was solved, he would never willingly associate with a woman who penned inflammatory opinions that struck out at the very sort of marriage he had chosen for himself. Especially if he was planning a life in politics, as Lady Milford had suggested. He would wish to avoid all controversy for the sake of his career.
Rory drew a shaky breath. But at least her secret was out now. And it might be for the best, for it would serve to keep him from ever kissing her again.
Chapter 20
When courting a lady, a gentleman should heed his heart, not his bankbook.
—MISS CELLANY
Lucas disliked Grimshaw on sight. Not because of his snooty expression or the vain way in which the butler combed his brown hair over his bald spot, but because of his condescending manner toward Rory. The man had looked down his long nose at her the instant they’d stepped into the foyer and he had gleefully informed them that Kitty Paxton was not at home.
“But I sent a message that I would call this afternoon after three,” Rory said, untying her bonnet strings. “Did she not receive my note?”