by Lisa Kleypas
Fretwell’s smile contained a hint of teasing. “Surely you have no objections to making a profit, Miss Briars.”
“Only when art is sacrificed for the sake of commerce, Mr. Fretwell.”
“Oh, I think you will find that Mr. Devlin has the greatest respect for liberty of expression,” he said hastily.
They proceeded to the back of the building and ascended a set of stairs illuminated by a succession of skylights. The interior of Devlin’s seemed to resemble the exterior in that it was serviceable but attractive, with good-quality fittings. The various rooms they passed were heated with either fireplaces or flues, the chimneypieces all made from veined marble, the floors covered with thick carpets. Being sensitive to atmosphere, Amanda noticed that there was a general air of cheerful industry among the employees in the bindery and printing room.
Fretwell paused before a particularly fine paneled door and arched his brows inquiringly. “Miss Briars, would you like to view our rare-book collection?”
Amanda nodded and accompanied him inside. The door opened to reveal a room with walls consisting mostly of inset mahogany bookcases covered by leaded glass doors. Intricate plasterwork adorned the ceiling in a flowered medallion style that matched the thick Aubusson carpet on the floor.
“Are all of these books for sale?” Amanda asked in a hushed voice, feeling as if she had entered a king’s treasure room.
Fretwell nodded. “You’ll find everything from antiques to zoology. We have a wide selection of antique maps and celestial charts, original folios and manuscripts…” He gestured around them, as if the extensive rows of books were self-explanatory.
“I would love to lock myself in here for a week,” she said impulsively.
Fretwell laughed and guided her from the room. They ascended one more floor to reach a suite of office rooms. Before Amanda had the opportunity to dwell on the sudden flurry of her nerves, Fretwell opened a mahogany door and gently urged her past the threshold. Impressions rushed at her…the massive desk, the large marble fireplace and leather chairs beside it, the elegant masculine ambiance and rich brown-striped paper on the walls. Sunlight streamed through a row of narrow, tall windows. It smelled like leather and vellum in this room, tinged with the faint earthy perfume of tobacco.
“At last,” came a familiar deep voice, subtly shaded with laughter, and Amanda realized that Devlin was amused by the fact that she had come to see him after all. But she’d had no choice, had she?
Devlin bowed with a mocking, ceremonial flourish, and he flashed a grin as his blue gaze raked over her. “My dear Miss Briars,” he said in a way that somehow robbed his words of all sincerity, “never have I passed such a long morning, anticipating your arrival. I could barely restrain myself from waiting out on the street for you.”
She scowled at him. “I wish to conduct our business with all possible haste so that I may be on my way.”
Devlin grinned as if she had said something clever rather than cutting. “Come sit near the fire,” he coaxed.
The generous blaze behind the gilded iron screen did look inviting. After removing her hat and cloak and placing them in Oscar Fretwell’s waiting arms, Amanda seated herself in a leather chair.
“Would you take some refreshments with me?” Devlin asked, all solicitous charm. “I usually have coffee at this hour.”
“I prefer tea,” she said shortly.
Devlin glanced at Fretwell with dancing blue eyes. “Tea and a plate of sugar-biscuits,” he informed the manager, who promptly disappeared and left them alone.
Amanda glanced discreetly at her companion, and felt her palms grow damp inside her leather gloves. It was indecent for a man to be so strikingly handsome, his blue eyes even more exotic than she had remembered, his black hair cut so that only a hint of a wave showed in the thick locks. It seemed odd that such a large, obviously robust man should be so fond of books. He did not look like the scholarly kind, nor did he seem to belong in the confines of an office room, even one as large as this.
“You have an impressive establishment, Mr. Devlin,” she said. “No doubt everyone tells you so.”
“Thank you. But the place is nothing close to what it is going to be. I’ve only just begun.” Devlin sat beside her and stretched his long legs before him, studying the tips of his polished black shoes. He was as well tailored as on the previous evening, wearing a simple but fashionable coat with straight-cut front edges, and trousers in matching gray wool.
“And where will all of this lead?” she asked, wondering what more he could want.
“This year I’m going to open a half-dozen stores across the country. In two years I’ll triple that number. I’m going to acquire every newspaper worth owning, and several more magazines while I’m at it.”
It was hardly lost on Amanda that such a position would be accompanied by considerable social and political power. She stared at the hard-faced young man before her with a touch of wonder. “You are quite ambitious,” she commented.
He smiled slightly. “Aren’t you?”
“No, not at all.” She paused to consider the issue carefully. “I have no aspirations for great wealth or influence. I wish merely to be secure and comfortable, and perhaps someday to achieve a certain level of proficiency in my work.”
His black brows rose a fraction. “You don’t believe that you’re proficient now?”
“Not yet. I find many faults in my own work.”
“I find none,” he said softly.
Amanda couldn’t prevent the wash of color that spread upward from her throat as she was captured by his steady regard. Taking a deep breath, she struggled to keep her wits from dissolving. “Flatter me all you like, Mr. Devlin,” she said. “It will not soften me in the least. I have but one purpose for visiting you today—and that is to inform you that I will never accede to your plan of publishing An Unfinished Lady.”
“Before you refuse me absolutely,” he suggested gently, “why don’t you hear me out? I have an offer that you might find interesting.”
“Very well.”
“I want to publish An Unfinished Lady first as a serial novel.”
“A serial novel,” Amanda repeated in disbelief. She felt insulted by the idea, as serial novels were universally considered of far less quality and importance than the standard three-volume novel. “You can’t possibly mean to bring it out in paper-jacket monthly installments like one of your magazines!”
“And then after the last installment has been published,” Devlin continued evenly, “I’ll bring it out again, this time as a three-decker, with cloth binding, full-page illustrations, woodcuts, and gilt edging.”
“Why not simply publish it that way in the beginning? I am not a serial-novel writer, Mr. Devlin, nor have I ever aspired to be.”
“Yes, I know.” Although Devlin appeared relaxed, he leaned forward in his chair and stared at her with blue eyes that gleamed with heat and energy. “One can hardly fault you for that attitude. Very few of the serial novels I’ve ever read have been of high enough quality to capture the public’s interest. And there’s a particular style that’s required…each installment has to be self-contained, with a suspenseful conclusion that makes the readers look forward to the next month’s issue. Not an easy task for a writer.”
“I cannot see that An Unfinished Lady fits that description in any way,” Amanda said, frowning.
“But it does. It could easily be divided into thirty-page installments, with sufficient dramatic high points to make each issue entertaining. With relatively little work, you and I could tailor it to suit the structure of a serial novel.”
“Mr. Devlin,” Amanda said briskly, “in addition to my complete lack of interest in being known as the author of a serial book, I am hardly enthralled by the prospect of taking you on as my editor. I am also unwilling to waste my time revising a novel for which I have been paid a paltry ten pounds.”
“Of course.” Before Devlin could continue, Mr. Fretwell entered the room bearing a si
lver tea tray.
After setting the tray on a small table beside Amanda’s chair, Fretwell poured tea in a Sevres china cup, and indicated a plate laden with six perfect little biscuits. Flakes of crushed sugar glittered invitingly on the surface of each biscuit. “Do try one, Miss Briars,” he urged.
“Thank you, but no,” Amanda said regretfully, smiling after him as he bowed and left the room once more. She removed her gloves deftly and set them on the edge of her chair. She stirred milk and sugar into her tea and sipped it carefully. The tea was a smooth, rich blend, and she thought of how nicely a biscuit would accompany it. However, with a sluggish constitution like hers, one extra bonbon or tart seemed to make all her clothes fit more tightly the next day. The only way to keep her waist relatively trim was to avoid sweets and take frequent brisk walks.
Maddeningly, the man beside her seemed to read her thoughts. “Have a biscuit,” he said lazily. “If you’re worried about your figure, let me assure you it is splendid in every regard. I, of all people, should know.”
Amanda was flooded with embarrassment and annoyance. “I wondered how long it would be before you introduced the distasteful subject of that night!” Reaching for a biscuit, she crunched into the sweet confection and glared at him.
Devlin grinned and braced his elbows on his knees, staring at her intently. “Surely not distasteful.”
She chewed the biscuit vigorously and nearly choked on a swallow of hot tea. “Yes, it was! I was deceived and molested, and I would love nothing better than to forget the whole thing.”
“Oh, I won’t let you forget it,” he assured her. “But as to your being molested…it’s not as if I jumped at you from the shadows. You encouraged me nearly every step of the way.”
“You were not the man I thought you were! And I intend to find out exactly why that scheming Mrs. Bradshaw sent you instead of the man she should have sent. Right after I leave this establishment, I am going straight to Mrs. Bradshaw to demand an explanation.”
“Let me do it.” Although his tone was casual, it was clear that he was leaving no room for debate. “I’ve planned to visit her today as well. There’s no reason for you to risk your reputation by being seen at her establishment. In any event, she’ll explain more to me than she ever would to you.”
“I already know what she will say.” Amanda kept her fingers wrapped around the hot china bowl of the teacup. “Mrs. Bradshaw was clearly amusing herself at our expense.”
“We’ll see.” Devlin stood and tended the fire, moving the gilded screen back in order to rearrange the logs with a few industrious jabs of an iron poker. The fire reawakened to new life, sending a pleasant infusion of heat into the air.
Amanda was mesmerized by the sight of him. It seemed, in the intense glow of firelight, that his easy confidence was balanced by something she had not seen in him before, a tenacity that knew no limits. She realized he was the kind of man who would woo, cajole, argue, perhaps bully and threaten anyone who got in the way of what he wanted. Half Irish, not wellborn despite his looks and bearing…it had to have been a hard-won victory for him to have climbed to this level of success. Devlin must have worked and sacrificed a great deal. If only he weren’t such a cocky, infuriating rogue, she would have found much in him to admire.
“A paltry ten pounds,” he said, recalling her to their earlier discussion about her pay for the unpublished novel. “And a royalty agreement if the book was ever published?”
Amanda smiled wryly and shrugged. “Well, I knew there was little chance of receiving anything. Authors have no way of making a publisher accountable for his expenses. I fully expected Mr. Steadman to claim there were no profits, no matter what the sales might have been.”
Devlin’s face was suddenly expressionless. “Ten pounds wasn’t a bad sum for a first novel. However, your work is worth much more than that now. Obviously I can’t expect your cooperation unless I offer you suitable payment for Unfinished Lady.”
Amanda poured fresh tea into her cup, doing her best to appear supremely uninterested in the conversation. “What sum would you consider ‘suitable,’ I wonder?”
“In the interest of fairness and an amiable working relationship, I’m prepared to pay you five thousand pounds for the rights to publish An Unfinished Lady as I described, first as a serial novel and then in a three-volume edition. I’ll also pay you the entire sum in advance, rather than divide it into monthly publication payments.” He arched one dark brow questioningly. “What do you think of that?”
Amanda nearly dropped her spoon. She fumbled to stir a little more sugar into her tea with a few unsteady swirls while her brain buzzed. Five thousand…it was nearly twice what she had been paid for her last novel. And this was for work that was already mostly done.
She felt her heart thump against the cage of her ribs in impatient blows. The offer seemed too good to be true…except that she might lose a great deal of prestige if the novel were brought out as a serial. “I suppose your offer is worth consideration,” she said carefully, “although I don’t care for the idea of being known as a magazine novelist.”
“Then allow me to give you some numbers to mull over, Miss Briars. I would estimate that you’ve sold three thousand copies of your last novel—”
“Thirty-five hundred,” Amanda said a touch defensively.
Devlin nodded, a smile catching at the corners of his mouth. “Impressive numbers for a three-decker. However, if you allow me to publish you in a shilling serial edition, we’ll start the printing at ten thousand, and I fully expect it to double the following month. By the last installment, I’ll be printing about sixty thousand copies. No, Miss Briars, I’m not joking—I’m always sober when I discuss business. Surely you’ve heard of young Dickens, the reporter from the Evening Chronicle? He and his publisher, Bentley, are selling at least a hundred thousand each month of The Pickwick Papers.”
“A hundred thousand,” Amanda repeated, not bothering to hide her astonishment. Of course, she and every literate person in London had become familiar with Mr. Charles Dickens, as his serial novel Pickwick had charmed the public with its liveliness and humor. Each installment was frantically sought by booksellers’ representatives on Magazine Day, while quips and phrases from each edition were exchanged in taverns and coffeehouses. Shopkeepers kept copies of Pickwick behind the counters to read between customers. Schoolboys tucked editions between the pages of their grammar books, despite the severe knuckle-rappings they would earn should their transgression be discovered. Despite the public excitement over Pickwick, however, Amanda had not expected Dickens’s sales to be quite so high.
“Mr. Devlin,” she said thoughtfully, “I am never accused of modesty, false or otherwise. I know that as a novelist, I possess a certain ability. But my work is not comparable to that of Mr. Dickens. My writing is not humorous, nor am I capable of imitating him—”
“I don’t want you to imitate anyone. I want to publish a serial novel written in your style, Miss Briars…something resonant and romantic. I promise you, the public will follow An Unfinished Lady every bit as faithfully as they read the more humorous serials.”
“You can’t guarantee such a thing,” Amanda said.
Devlin’s white teeth flashed in a sudden grin. “No. But I’m willing to take the risk if you are. Whether or not the thing succeeds, Miss Briars, you’ll have the money in your pocket…and you’ll be free to spend the rest of your life writing three-volume novels, if that is your desire.”
He startled Amanda by leaning over her chair, bracing his hands on the mahogany arms. She could not rise, had she wished to, without bringing her body directly against his. She felt his legs brush against the front of her skirts. “Say yes, Amanda,” he coaxed. “You’ll never regret it.”
Amanda leaned hard against the back of her chair. Devlin’s disarming blue eyes were set in a face of such perfect masculine beauty that it should have come from a painting or a sculpture. Yet there was nothing aristocratic about his looks. He possessed
an earthiness, a sensuality, that was impossible to ignore. If he resembled an angel, it was a fallen one.
Her entire body seemed to pulse in response to him. She caught the intoxicating scent of his skin, the male spice that would forever saturate her memory. He made it difficult for her to think clearly, when all she wanted was to push herself up at him and slide her hands beneath his clothes. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized with ironic despair that her encounter with him had done absolutely nothing to silence her own unwanted physical urges.
If she accepted his offer, she would have to see him, talk to him, and somehow conceal her own treacherous response to him. Nothing was more pitiable, more laughable, than a sexually frustrated spinster pursuing a handsome man—the archetype was a standard one in comedic plays and books. She must not place herself in such a position.
“I’m afraid I cannot,” Amanda said, intending to use a firm tone of dismissal. Instead, her voice was infuriatingly breathless. She tried to look away from him, but standing over her as he was, his face and body seemed to fill her vision. “I…I feel a certain loyalty for my current publisher, Mr. Sheffield.”
His soft laugh was not at all complimentary. “Believe me,” he scoffed, “Sheffield knows better than to rely on an author’s loyalty. He won’t be surprised by your defection.”
Amanda scowled at him. “Are you suggesting that I can be bought, Mr. Devlin?”
“Why, yes, Miss Briars, I believe I am.”
She would have loved to show him that he was wrong. But the thought of five thousand pounds was too tantalizing to resist. A frown tugged at the inner corners of her eyebrows. “What will you do if I turn down your offer?” she asked.
“I’ll publish your book anyway, and honor the original royalty agreement you had with Steadman. You’ll still make money, peaches. But not nearly as much.”
“What about your threat of telling everyone about that night we…” The words tangled and gathered into a choking knot in Amanda’s throat. She swallowed hard and continued. “Do you still intend to blackmail me with the fact that you and I—”