She lowered her head and brought a handkerchief to her eyes while emitting a low whimper.
“Amelia, your eyes are as dry as a desert. Stop playacting. Remember I know all your tricks.”
Her head snapped up and she glowered at him. “And what exactly is so important that you must go to London this weekend?”
“I have not had the opportunity to tell you but Cecil is to publish my novel once I have made certain arrangements.”
She felt another blow. “What are you talking about? That piece of balderdash you have been working on is to be published? That is ridiculous. You know you cannot possibly publish such a piece of trash as the Earl of Donnelly. You would be laughed out of all proper society.”
“And that is exactly what the arrangements are for. I am to publish under another name. And Sir Cecil assures me the book will be a huge success. I am going down to London to meet with possible surrogate authors and hopefully find an eager and willing participant to stand as my front.”
“I swear you will hound me into an early grave,” Amelia wailed.
“I doubt that. You are as strong as a horse and as stubborn as a mule. I am quite certain you will be just fine. And by the way, I see I must remind you, once again, that I am now the head of this house and these estates. And I am more than entirely capable of finding a satisfactory wife by myself.”
Dexter Cabot lived in a three-story house that had been tastefully converted into single floor flats in the fashionable Bayswater section of London. The building, although with only three flats, maintained a concierge to welcome and screen guests and accept deliveries.
“May I help you sir?” the welcoming gentleman enquired.
“Earl of Donnelly to see Dexter Cabot.”
The concierge bowed and extended his hand toward the lift. “Yes, Milord, Mr. Cabot is expecting you. Top floor.”
He scurried over to the lift doors and invited Robert inside.
“Splendid morning, is it not, Milord?”
“Exceptional,” Robert muttered, anxious to get out of the slow moving box. He was not accustomed to using such a dubious contraption.
Finally, he was deposited on the top floor and rang the doorbell.
The door was flung open with a great deal of force and a red-faced, portly man greeted him.
“My lord. Welcome. What a great, but unexpected, pleasure to meet you,” he said, ushering Robert inside his pleasant flat.
“This way. My office where I write is such a terrible mess. Please, let us visit in the sitting-room if you please.”
Robert followed Dexter into a large room with tall windows overlooking the street that had a small strip of grass and trees running down the middle.
“Sherry? Whiskey? Or I can have the Misses put together a pot of tea. What’s your pleasure?” Dexter asked.
“Nothing for me. I am soon to have luncheon with Sir Cecil at his club. Want to keep a clear head for the business at hand.”
“As you like.”
He indicated an overstuffed chair for Robert to sit and he took a similar chair opposite.
“Now then,” Dexter began, “I was surprised but also intrigued by your letter. You say you are looking to publish, but cannot under your own name?”
“That is correct,” Robert answered, and proceeded to explain the situation to his fellow author.
When Robert had finished, Dexter rubbed his chin several times with his plump hand.
“Most interesting situation. However, I am not quite certain what you wish of me. How could I be of assistance?”
“I am looking for a surrogate whose name I can publish under. I am willing to offer a substantial portion of the royalties from the book, which Sir Cecil assures me will sell quite well.”
“But what about my writing? How could I continue if you are publishing under my name?”
“Cecil believes he can make other arrangements.”
“But my readers? I have a substantial group of loyal followers who would immediately identify a book written by another author as not being mine—it would not be what they expect from me.”
“I was thinking there might be a preface in the book explaining that you are going in a new direction with your writing.”
Dexter stood up and went over to a bookshelf. “You see these—the nine books that I have written? Each one a great labor of love. Each one a success, and I could show you the many admiring letters I get from my readers expressing the great pleasure and satisfaction they get from reading my humble offerings.”
“And that is why I am asking you to consider my offer—so that I might tap into that enthusiastic readership. And I will certainly make it worth your while financially. And you can still keep writing and publishing—only under another name.”
“But how will my readers find me?”
“I believe Sir Cecil can help with that.”
Dexter came back to his chair and sat, but didn’t say anything. However, he was clearly mulling the offer over in his mind.
Finally, he said, “I am sorry My Lord. I just do not think that is a proposition that will work for me. I must honestly say I am a trifle set in my ways at my age and do not feel that I want to basically start over again building a new readership. I am afraid I must decline your most interesting and generous offer.”
Robert stood. “Then I thank you for your time, Mr. Cabot. And I wish you all the very best with your new book.”
Sir Cecil was waiting at his table in the large open dining room of his club, the Athenaeum, as Robert approached him—a few minutes late.
“Scotch?” Cecil asked as Robert sat.
Robert nodded and Cecil held up two fingers to the waiter who knew what he wanted.
“How did it go with Cabot?”
“Disappointing, I am sad to say.”
“Ah… I thought as much. One of my least promising prospects for you.”
“Then why didn’t you say? Waste of a whole morning,” Robert said a bit testily.
“Because he has one of the largest readerships, and I thought if he went along, it would be a good base for you.”
The waiter brought the drinks.
“The Dover sole is especially good here today. Very fresh Stevens assures me,” Cecil suggested.
“With buttered potatoes and peas, if you please,” Robert instructed the waiter.
“I’ve sent your manuscript to the editors. Should have it back in a month or so. Hopefully, I can have galley proofs for you in another two or three.”
“Beastly slow process, is it not?” Robert complained.
Cecil wagged his head. “It is, but there is no rush. You do not have your surrogate author yet either. It will take some time to set up that whole process once you find the suitable candidate.”
Robert sighed, and took another swig of Scotch.”
“Who are you interviewing this afternoon?” Cecil asked.
“The second of the three names you gave me—Sir Reginald Burbidge.”
“Ah…” Sir Cecil said with a certain air of mystery.
“What does that Ah mean?”
Sir Cecil smiled. “He is a bit of a character, but a cracking good author, and a good prospect. He might be just what you are looking for.”
Robert’s afternoon appointment was with the author of the moderately successful Thornton Abbey by Sir Reginald Burbidge—a tale of ghosts, mystery, and intrigue.
Sir Reginald lived in a splendid crescent house in Mayfair. Robert was greeted at the door by a butler and shown into a comfortable parlor with a warming fire.
“Sir Reginald will be with you shortly, Milord.”
“Thank you.”
The room was stately but somewhat lacking feminine charm. There were many shelves of books and a suit of armour and crossed pikes behind a shield above the fireplace. Robert speculated that Sir Reginald was most likely a bachelor.
“Welcome,” a voice rang out and Robert turned from studying the weapons to see Sir Reginald coming toward him.
>
They shook hands and Sir Reginald offered Robert a chair by the fire where there was a table set with tea service.
Robert never remembered meeting a man so tall and thin. He had his thin wispy, mouse-colored hair parted in the middle, and his gaunt face was sporting more of a beak than a nose. It was large but not wide, with a hook and a slight twist as though it might have been broken at some time in the past. However, Sir Reginald had an intelligent and piercing gaze and Robert knew he was dealing with a man to be reckoned with.
“Are you ex-military?” Robert asked with a nod toward the weapons?
Sir Reginald laughed. “Oh, my good man, not at all. All of this rubbish is my father’s old swag. Fancied himself a medievalist. Collected all this rot to impress the ladies, don’t you know.”
“And what does your wife think about all of this? Certainly, she must wish for a softer touch to the décor.”
Sir Reginald gave a huffed laugh that was more like a bark and inclined his head to the side. “No wife. Not my cup of tea. My tastes run otherwise.”
“Oh…”
“Now then, about your letter,” Sir Reginald continued, “Most intriguing proposition. Are you serious about such an offer?” Sir Reginald asked as he poured two cups of tea. “Milk? Sugar? Lemon?”
“Milk, no sugar.”
“As I like it too.”
“I most certainly am serious. I am not in a position where I can have my name attached to a publishing project of fiction and Sir Cecil suggested that you might be amenable to a project such as I outlined in my letter.”
“It certainly is worth a consideration.”
“Then you would be open to my proposal?”
“And what are you offering in exchange.”
“Fifty percent of the royalties. And Sir Cecil says he can continue to publish your work under another name—details to be worked out between the two of you.”
“Hmm,” Sir Reginald crooned as he cast his eyes toward the ceiling to contemplate the arrangement.
He took another sip of tea, then put the cup down and folded his hands in his lap. “Yes, I believe we might come to an arrangement.”
“Excellent,” Robert said smiling and leaning forward in his chair.
“Except I want five thousand pounds up front and a seventy-five percent cut of the royalties.”
Robert collapsed back into the chair, stunned.
“I am afraid that is out of the question,” he responded. “I might consider your request for seventy-five percent, but five thousand pounds is an outrageous request.”
Sir Reginald held his gaze and tilted his head to the side. “However, that is my request. And the only deal I will allow.”
Robert was speechless. Certainly, it was an offer he could afford, but not one he could accept. “Don’t you think that is rather excessive for not providing anything but your name?”
“Ah, but my name, my reputation, and my readers are all I have to offer—and they are exactly what you need.”
“Then I am afraid that I must decline,” Robert said, rising abruptly.
“As you wish,” Sir Reginald said, leaning back in his chair and picking up his cup to take another sip of tea.
Chapter 4
Father, I have slipped a few ginger biscuits into my apron pocket. Might I tempt you?” Diana asked as she came into her father’s study where he was sitting alone after supper.
“I hope you did not tell your mother.”
“Sh-h-h… our secret,” she said as she handed the biscuits to her father and sat opposite him at his fire where he was puffing on his pipe and occasionally tapping it against the hearth grate.
Diana sat back in the chair and enjoyed the comfort of the fire as she smoothed out the apron on her lap.
“Father, I would very much like to know what has been troubling you financially. It is not as though I am an infant with an innocent outlook on life. I would like to see if there might be some way I could help out.”
Father contented himself with his pipe for a moment or two then said, “I expect you know what a leasehold is, am I correct in thinking?”
“You are. A freeholder owns the land and a leaseholder may own the property on the land but not the land. Yes?”
“And as you probably know we have this cottage as a leasehold.”
“I thought as much, but was not certain,” Diana replied.
“And our problem is that the term of our leasehold is about to expire. We have just three months before we need to renew the leasehold. And our freeholder wants at least a fifty-year renewed lease at twenty-five hundred pounds.”
“Oh, Father…”
“And that is what the bank loan was for—to renew the leasehold. And, as you know, a university fellow makes a modest salary at best. Your mother’s paintings bring in perhaps another couple of hundred a year, but I have no idea what your royalties might bring you?”
“Five hundred a year at the very best,” Diana answered despondently.
“Exactly. It is not a sum we can pull together easily without a loan or a windfall that I do not foresee.”
“What happens if we cannot make the payment?” she asked.
“We must leave.”
“But the house is ours. We paid for that,” she insisted, upset by what appeared to be the unfairness of the situation.
Father nodded in acknowledgement, “But it is a quirk of our system that allows one person to own the land and another to own the property on it. I suppose we could move the house, but how practical is that? And besides we would still need to find land to put the house on and that would cost us perhaps even more.”
“Oh, Father…” Diana was heartbroken and tried desperately to think of a possible solution. “And you have nothing set aside? No insurance policies that could be redeemed or assets that could be liquidated?”
“I am afraid not, child.”
They both sat staring into the fire looking for inspiration.
“I do have one thought,” he finally offered. “But I really hate to ask this.”
“Oh, please tell me.”
“Your beau, Adam… I know his father is quite wealthy. Might it be possible to ask Adam if he could broker a loan from his father for us?
“Oh, Father… I do not know… Adam is a good friend but nothing more at this point. That seems to be a terrible imposition to ask of a friend.”
“He is nothing more? I thought there was an imminent engagement in the works.”
“Alas, I know he would like that to be so, but I just cannot bring myself to enter into such an arrangement.”
“I thought you two were sweethearts,” he said somewhat surprised.
“I like Adam very much. He is a good friend and a loyal companion. We enjoy taking walks and chatting and discussing important issues. But to be honest, I do not feel any abiding passion for him.”
Father leaned his head against the back of the chair. “Ah yes, passion. Certainly, a concept most treasured by you young people today. But I can assure you, passion is not everything in a marriage. Why it was not that long ago that all marriages were arranged—and I can assure you, most were entered into with very little passion involved.”
“But that is not as true today,” Diana responded.
Her father nodded, then leaned in and said, “My dear child, let me assure you that I know of what I speak.”
“You and mother?”
“She may never have told you, but we were not what you call in love when we married. Our families, while not actually arranging the marriage, applied a great deal of pressure for us to become engaged. And to which we finally agreed.”
“I did not know.”
“And when you think about it, your situation is not all that dissimilar from ours. I was a promising scholar like your Adam, and Ann was an artist with a modest talent. Neither family had a great deal of wealth, but I was offered a fellowship at the university, and your mother was able to bring in an income from her paintings. And as neither o
f us had any other romantic prospects we decided to marry. More from a business standpoint and to please our parents than from any great passion. But I would also remind you that we did grow to love each other—very much.”
“I had no idea,” Diana said softly. “Let me think about all of this. I certainly want to help the family if I can. And if that means accepting a proposal from Adam in order to help then, I will certainly consider that.”
Diana was exhausted. She had tossed sleeplessly all night. Her mind had been consumed with thoughts about her family and Adam, and what she might be able to do to help solve her family’s urgent problem.
She sat on the edge of her bed after a sleepy breakfast and decided there was no way she would be able to attend to her writing this morning. Her head felt like raw wool that had not been carded—a tangled mess.
There was only one thing she could think to do, and that was to go visit her best friends, the twins, Miriam and Geoffrey Sinclair, who lived at the end of the cross street that ran along the side of the Browning’s house.
The Sinclair front door flung open. “Oh… it is you!” Geoffrey exclaimed and then turned and shouted into the house, “Our Di just appeared.”
There was a squeal from deep inside, and then the sound of running feet. Miriam appeared over Geoffrey’s shoulder.
“Look at you. Have you been run over by a cart?”
“Rescue, rescue,” Geoffrey shouted as he pulled Diana inside and grabbed her by one arm.
“Oh, my gosh, she needs a transfusion at the very least,” Miriam said grabbing her by the other arm.
Diana was then marched into the morning parlor and forced to sit between them on the sofa.
There was no question these two were twins. Both had curly blond hair—which they wore identically in a floppy, casual way. They had slightly round faces with blue eyes and blushing cheeks. And they flailed their hands and arms around with the same wild exaggeration.
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