He scoffed. “I would never tell a writer of fiction what he should or shouldn’t write.”
“Come now, you and I both know that’s not true.” She paused. “Mr. Cadwallender, perhaps I am not being clear.” She forced a cool smile. “You see, the biggest difference between the heroine of your stories and myself is that I already have my inheritance.” She lowered her voice in a confidential manner. “And it’s most impressive. Why, I could buy this building out from underneath you. Or purchase a competing newspaper and drive you out of business. It’s my understanding that the current climate for newspapers like the Messenger is quite competitive and rather, oh, cutthroat. Is it not?”
His eyes narrowed and he nodded.
“I however have no desire to do that. At the moment. But should my name ever be connected with these stories, at the very least, I shall bring all the power and the wrath of the most unpleasant solicitors in both America and England down upon your head.” Good Lord, she sounded like her mother. She shook her head in a mournful manner. “I will be dreadfully sorry, of course, but this is that important to me.”
“I wouldn’t think something like this would concern you at all,” Mr. Cadwallender said slowly.
“One wouldn’t think, but it has been pointed out to me that this is a potentially scandalous situation.” She wasn’t sure why this was so important to her. She did think she had left any concern about propriety behind her when she’d decided to stay in England. Apparently, she was wrong. The entire idea of being the heroine in a story of her own misadventures there for all the world to see turned her stomach. “And I would prefer to avoid that.”
“I see.” He studied her calmly. “As far as I am concerned there is no connection between the characters in Exploits and any living person. But I will speak to Mr. Aldrich.”
“That will do nicely.” She drew a deep breath. “I will be eternally grateful.”
“You know, I might have done exactly the same thing had you simply asked for my assistance,” he said with an offhand shrug.
She considered him for a moment, then grinned. “You would not.”
The publisher chuckled. “Probably not.”
She rose to her feet and extended her hand. “Good day then, Mr. Cadwallender.”
He stood and took her hand. “Coincidence or not, Miss Merryweather, you strike me as having all the makings of a fictional heroine.”
“Why, Mr. Cadwallender, what an utterly charming thing to say.” She favored him with her brightest smile. “I shall make you a bargain. Should I ever decide to have daring exploits worthy of print, I will give your newspaper exclusive rights to my very real story.”
“Then I can only hope you do indeed have daring exploits.” Mr. Cadwallender’s eyes sparkled with amusement.
They exchanged a few more pleasantries, then Lucy led the others back through the maze of desks and workers toward the entry.
“Do you really have the money to do that?” Clara asked in a low voice beside her. “Buy the building or another newspaper?”
“I have no idea as I don’t know what a building or a newspaper would cost.” Lucy shrugged. “It’s possible, I suppose, but I doubt it.”
“Don’t you think Cadwallender will realize that?”
“No doubt.” Lucy nodded. “But he’ll also realize that I probably do have the funds necessary to make his life a legal hell.”
Clara stared in amazement. “And you seem so pleasant.”
“Oh, I am.” Lucy cast her a smug smile. “It’s what makes me dangerous.”
Clara grinned.
“Excuse me, ladies,” Cameron said behind them, and they turned. “I seem to have left my gloves in Mr. Cadwallender’s office,” he said smoothly. “In fact I have an errand to run, so you needn’t wait for me. I’ll join you at Channing House to escort you to the train.”
“That’s not necessary,” Lucy said in a clipped tone.
“Yes, it is.” He smiled, turned, and headed back to Mr. Cadwallender’s office.
Lucy watched him for a moment and her heart twisted. As much as she wanted to believe in him, to trust him, it was becoming harder and harder. She turned and started for the door. “One does wonder what he’s up to.”
“What do you mean?” Clara asked.
Lucy narrowed her eyes. “Mr. Fairchild was not wearing gloves.”
“Do you care to explain any of that?” Cadwallender leaned back in his chair.
“I’d prefer not to.” Cam shifted uneasily in his chair.
“That’s what I thought.” Cadwallender considered Cam thoughtfully. “She doesn’t know you’re I. F. Aldrich, does she?”
“No.”
“I gathered as much from the way she introduced you as Mr. Fairchild.” He paused. “Is she actually engaged in daring exploits?”
“No, not at all.” It wasn’t a complete lie. Lucy’s adventures weren’t nearly as daring as his fictional heiress’s exploits.
“As she seems to think your stories are about her, I’m not sure I believe you. But I’d rather take you at your word than risk her displeasure. Still, if her real activities are better than the ones you’re writing, it might be well worth it.” He thought for a moment. “Just how close are your stories to her life?”
Cam blew a long breath. “She’s inspiration as it were. I based the character on Miss Merryweather. Nothing more than that, really. Aside from the fact that she is in London without her family, although she has certainly not run away and she is accompanied by a companion—”
“The lovely Miss West,” Cadwallender murmured. “I suspect there’s an interesting story that could be inspired by her as well.”
“One about an annoying, suspicious termagant, perhaps.”
Cadwallender chuckled.
“As I was saying, beyond a few details here and there, the stories are entirely fictional.”
“She seems to think differently.”
“She is mistaken,” Cam said firmly.
“I see. So tell me this.” He straightened and leaned over his desk. “Who does she think you are?”
Cam grimaced. “She thinks I am a private investigator hired to keep an eye on her while she’s here.”
Cadwallender stared. “That’s brilliant. More of my reporters should use that.”
“I’m afraid it wasn’t deliberate. It was an assumption on her part that I chose not to correct.”
“Well, that’s neither here nor there at this point, I suppose. I assume you can do as she asked and make Daring Exploits more adventurous and bold.”
“Of course I can but—”
“In truth, that will probably make it even more popular,” the publisher said thoughtfully. “I hadn’t anticipated that. Not that it isn’t well written, but one can never predict the appetite of the public. To be perfectly honest, I was originally thinking Daring Exploits would be more of a filler than anything that would catch on. For that you have my apology.”
“Thank you but—”
“Of course we’ve been bringing them out entirely too quickly. That was a mistake.”
“Mr. Cadwallender.”
“There should be no more than one a week, even one a month,” Cadwallender continued without pause.
“I want to end this,” Cam blurted. “The Daring Exploits, that is.”
“Are you mad?” Cadwallender stared in disbelief. “This is just beginning to build up steam. Why, it could run for a year or more.”
“No,” Cam said firmly. “The story was never intended to run forever. The heroine has a finite number of objects she has to acquire and once she does, the story is at an end.”
“Nonsense. Throw more obstacles in her path.”
“No, the story has run its course. I have three more installments nearly finished and I’ve already started on the ending.”
“You realize you’re throwing away a promising start to what might be a very notable career. You’re good, Fairchild. I’m afraid I underestimated your talent.”
> “Thank you, but I have no intention of throwing away anything.” Cam drew a deep breath. “I have an idea that I think you’ll like.”
Cadwallender’s eyes narrowed. “Oh?”
“I propose to introduce a new character in the last installment, a brilliant private investigator with a beautiful and equally brilliant assistant. And then continue the stories with the new characters.”
“Go on.”
“Together they get into all kinds of difficulties and solve any number of cases, mysterious or dangerous or amusing. The possibilities are endless. In addition, there’s an element of romance between the investigator and his assistant.”
“That never quite comes to fruition,” the publisher murmured.
“If it proves popular, and since it’s really an extension of Daring Exploits, I suspect it could indeed go on for months.”
“Even a year or more.”
“And we could call it”—Cam paused—“The Perilous Adventures of a Private Investigator.”
Cadwallender’s brow furrowed in thought. The man was intrigued by the idea—Cam could see it in his eyes. And why not? It was a brilliant idea.
“I like it,” Cadwallender said at last. “If I can’t have a runaway heiress, a brilliant private investigator and a beautiful assistant might be the next best thing.”
“Excellent.” Cam breathed a sigh of relief. Now that this was settled, he did indeed have an errand to run, which with luck and fortuitous timing, would get Miss West out of the way. Then Cam would follow Lucy to Millworth Manor. What better place than the country to confess all and beg forgiveness?
“I am curious about the ending.”
“I’ll wrap up the loose ends, award the heroine her inheritance, and introduce the characters for Perilous Adventures. It’s very nearly written already.”
“That’s not what I’m wondering about. I’ll wait to read that when you turn it in. I have no doubt it will work out well. But tell me, Fairchild, which story ends best?” Cadwallender considered Cam curiously. “The one with the fictional heiress you’ve been writing or the one with the very real Miss Merryweather you have apparently been living?”
“Quite honestly”—Cam blew a long breath—“I have no idea.”
Chapter Fifteen
“I understand Father isn’t in.” Cam dropped the brown leather portfolio onto his father’s desk in the Effington House library. “I’m on my way to catch a train to the country and I want to leave this for him.”
“He’s expected back any minute.” Spencer straightened in his chair behind the desk and set down his pen. While he had his own residence, he spent a great deal of time here engaged in family concerns at the desk that had been exactly where it was now for generations. The desk that would one day be his together with all the responsibilities that went along with it.
As always, Cam noted a pang of gratitude that he was not the firstborn son. Aside from management of the Effington estates and oversight of family business investments, Spencer had any number of private interests as well.
Spencer’s gaze flicked from his brother’s to the folder and back. “What is it?”
“That, my dear older brother”—Cam plopped down in the chair in front of the desk and grinned—“is my book.”
Spencer’s expression brightened. “I knew you could do it. Congratulations, Cam. I never doubted you.”
“That’s one of us.” Cam chuckled.
“Come now, you had the confidence of everyone in the family.”
“Except Father.”
“Nonetheless, you’ve accomplished what you set out to do and far earlier than the deadline Father set.”
“Once I had inspiration”—he shrugged in an offhand manner—“it moved surprisingly quickly.”
“Excellent.” Spencer beamed with pride. “Now what?”
“Now I am going to the country for a few days to confess all to Lucy.”
“You haven’t done that yet?” Spencer said slowly.
“I haven’t had the chance.” Cam tried and failed to hide the defensive note in his voice. But saying he hadn’t had the opportunity—which wasn’t entirely inaccurate—sounded much better than admitting his courage was lacking as well. “She left three days ago to accompany Lady Dunwell to Millworth Manor. I needed to finish this and make a few arrangements before I could follow her.”
“What kind of arrangements?”
“Nothing of significance, just a few matters to take care of.” The most critical was convincing Phineas to send a telegram to Miss West requesting her to return to London on some pretext or other. “And deciding exactly what I want to say.”
“Have you?”
“Not quite yet.” Cam shook his head. “But I’m confident the words will come when the time is right.”
Spencer stared as if his brother had completely taken leave of his senses. “That sounds like a plan. Not a particularly good one, but I suppose you’ll make do.” Spencer cast him a pitying look, then turned his attention to the portfolio. He flipped it open, withdrew the manuscript, then hesitated. “May I read it?”
“Yes, of course.” Cam shrugged as if he didn’t care one way or the other and wasn’t in truth pleased that his oldest brother wanted to read his work. “Although, for the most part it’s very much what ran in the Messenger. I had to make a few changes, adjustments as it were, to make it cohesive and complete, but I’m pleased with it all in all.”
Spencer picked up the first page. “I gather it’s ready for publication.”
“I hadn’t really thought about publication.”
“Well, you have had other things on your mind. Multiple identities do tend to keep one busy.” Spencer replaced the page and flipped through the manuscript. “Why don’t you leave this in my hands?”
“I was going to have you give it to Father,” Cam said slowly.
“Absolutely not.” Spencer scoffed. “You should be the one to give it to him. However, I have an idea on the best way to do just that.”
“Oh?”
“Wouldn’t it be much more, oh, I don’t know, impressive to hand Father a bound book rather than a stack of pages?”
“Impressive?”
“All right then . . .” Spencer chuckled. “Pointed. Triumphant. Victorious.” There was little the duke’s children liked better than to prove their father wrong, unless of course it was winning a wager with him. Neither happened often.
Cam shook his head. “I don’t have time to look for a publisher.”
“Fortunately for you, you don’t need to.” Spencer settled back in his chair. “Do you remember a few years ago when two of the Cadwallender brothers decided they would much rather publish books than periodicals?”
Cam nodded. “Vaguely.”
“They needed an influx of funding and I wanted an investment that was, oh, more speculative than usual. So I became a very silent partner in Cadwallender Brothers Publishing.” He met his brother’s gaze firmly. “They are always looking for good books.”
“That’s a very generous offer.” Cam chose his words carefully. “But I would prefer to have this published on its own merits rather than because my brother owns part of a publishing firm.”
Spencer’s brow rose. “I’m surprised you’re not jumping at the idea.”
“Apparently I have some moral standards I was not aware of,” Cam said wryly.
“You misunderstand me, Cam. I’m not talking about one brother doing a favor for another. I’m talking about a potentially profitable business endeavor.” Spencer’s tone hardened. “When I said I am a silent partner, I meant it. I have no say in what the brothers choose to publish. The literary world is not where my expertise lies. However, this”—he patted the manuscript—“this is certain to be successful. The story has already proven to be popular. The book should be as well. Strictly as a business venture, I want Cadwallender Brothers to have the first chance at this book.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Leave this to me. Allow me to give it to Benjamin
Cadwallender. I would double the wager I made with Father that he’ll jump at the chance to publish this. And I’d wager as well, he’ll do it quickly. Why, I would imagine he’d have it available for sale as soon as the last installment runs in the Messenger. Strike while the iron is hot, and all that.”
Cam stared at his brother. This was what he had wanted after all. Still, he hadn’t imagined it actually happening.
“You could have this book in hand and available for sale before the deadline Father set for you,” Spencer said in a tempting manner. “And wouldn’t it be so much more gratifying to present him with an actual book rather than a stack of papers?”
Cam chuckled. “It would indeed.”
“Then . . .”
“Then . . . I leave this in your capable hands.” Cam rose to his feet. “And I need to be on my way if I am to catch the next train to the country.”
Spencer nodded and stood. “To claim the heart of the fair Miss Merryweather?”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way.” But wasn’t that exactly what he intended to do? “Yes, I suppose I am.” He stared at his brother. “Blast it all, what am I doing?”
“I would have thought you might have determined that by now.” Spencer studied him curiously. “Or realized it. Have you?”
“I . . .” He blew a long breath. “Bloody hell, I’m in love with her.”
Spencer laughed. “You needn’t sound so shocked by it.”
“I am shocked. I didn’t think . . . I never imagined . . .” He paused to pull his thoughts together. “I have always thought that I would know the right woman for me the very moment I saw her.”
“And did you?”
“I didn’t realize it at the time.” Cam thought back to his first meeting with Lucy. She had been so very indignant and determined and wrong and completely and utterly endearing. And then she had kissed him. And he realized now what he hadn’t then, that nothing would ever be the same again. “But perhaps I did.”
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