She would go to Montford House, Allie decided, right after the London Lookout printed a retraction.
*
They did not set out from the club until after two the next afternoon. Harriet woke up near eight, fully recovered and hungry, but after a coddled egg and some toast went back to a restful sleep. So did Allie. Used to making do with little rest, Jack spent the time marshaling forces to protect his property and his people. In a way he was glad, because now he could employ more veterans from his old army unit both as guards and carpenters to repair the damage from the fire and the firemen’s axes. They were happy for the work, despite the pittance he could pay, and they were good, loyal men. The club was sadly back in the debit column, but the cost was worth it.
The small party stopped first at Mr. Burquist’s office, where he had long, legal-sounding documents ready for them in response to Jack’s earlier message. The writs threatened the scandal sheet’s publishers, printers, editors and reporters with dire consequences. The solicitor also provided copies of Harriet’s birth records, Hildebrand’s so-called will, and Mrs. Crandall to act as Allie’s companion in the coach.
Jack rode alongside, in case anyone was watching—or in case Harriet became sick again from the motion of the carriage.
James Coachman knew the way. He ought to, having driven Cap’n Jack to Rochelle Poitier’s rooms on enough occasions. Allie tried not to think about that. Or the kiss. Or how handsome Jack looked mounted on a horse, sitting as effortlessly as a god, if pagan gods rode horses. She would have to look that up…when she was not thinking about her grandfather, the newspaper, or the man who had kissed her.
Neither she nor Jack had mentioned anything about last night this morning. They had spoken of the fire, of course, and the extra guards, the inconclusive report from Mr. Rourke at Bow Street, and Mr. Burquist’s efficiency. They had not spoken of personal matters, thank goodness. Allie thought she might have expired from embarrassment if he’d apologized, or died of shock if he’d proposed. This way she was merely mortified. Alive, but mortified. Harriet seemed to have forgotten the intimacy, if she’d even noticed it, and the captain was so used to casual affairs that he could ignore it. Allie decided to leave the entire episode in the far reaches of her mind.
Unfortunately, she left his clothes there, too, leaving the image of him half-dressed all too near.
“Are you all right, dearie?” Mrs. Crandall asked when Allie started fanning herself with her bonnet. “You are not coming down with something, are you?”
“Nothing, thank you.” Just a touch of moon sickness, from which she would recover as quickly as Harriet had from her bout of indigestion. Allie firmly set her hat back upon her tightly gathered hair, made sure Harriet’s ribbons were neatly tied, and stepped out of the carriage without taking the captain’s hand when they arrived at the newspaper office.
Two people were visible in the small, cluttered office, a youth in a leather apron with ink-stained fingers, and an older, thinner man with tobacco-stained teeth. Jack approached the older man, a Henry Hapworth, at his desk. Only one chair faced the editor, so they all stood.
“We are here about an article that appeared in your…journal yesterday.” Jack caught himself before he labeled The Lookout a scandal sheet. That was what it was, of course, barely mentioning any news that was not salacious or startling. The truth was as foreign to the paper’s pages as Hindustani would have been.
Jack placed his calling card on the man’s desk.
Hapworth read it, then looked toward Allie, Harriet and Mrs. Crandall, who were crowded into the small area between rolls of newsprint and machinery. “Ah, that article. Very popular, it was. We had to print more copies. And it made us a nice bit of the ready, it did, giving the other rags a shot at the story while it was still fresh.”
Jack had wondered how the other gossip columns had the tale at the same time. “You sold the information to other reporters?”
“Gentlemen’s arrangement, don’t you know.”
“Gentlemen do not deal in slander,” Jack said.
Allie stepped closer, before Jack and the newspaper man could start trading insults. “The story was not true, sir, and we are here to request a retraction.”
The editor shuffled papers until he found yesterday’s issue. “And you wouldn’t happen to be Miss Allison Silver, the Marquess of Montford’s unacknowledged granddaughter, would you?”
Allie gave the shallowest of curtsies. “I have not had the pleasure of meeting my grandfather, no, but I am indeed the daughter of his only daughter. I am, or was, also an instructor at Mrs. Semple’s School for Girls, where Miss Harriet Hildebrand was late a pupil.” She pulled Harriet forward and prodded her into a curtsy too. “I am now acting as the child’s governess until other arrangements can be made.”
Jack placed Harriet’s baptismal records on the man’s desk. Allie put her references from Mrs. Semple beside them.
The editor, who was also the publisher, reporter, and street-corner hawker of the finished paper, looked at the documents, then at Jack. “You can’t believe everything you read.”
Jack snorted. “Especially in your newspapers. But you can see for yourself that Miss Silver is no lightskirt. Your story has defamed her reputation, and mine, of course, with your allegations of wrongdoing, to say nothing of casting doubt on the legality of a poor innocent orphan’s birth.”
The poor innocent orphan was disarranging an entire tray of type that was set for the next day’s issue.
“Looks can be deceiving, too,” the man insisted. “Shakespeare only used male actors, you know. That didn’t make his Juliet a real lady.”
Jack held the rest of Burquist’s papers under the man’s thin nose. “These say you must print a retraction or face legal consequences. Miss Harriet Hildebrand’s father died in battle. I am her guardian. Miss Silver is her governess. That is as simple as ABC. Writing a paragraph for tomorrow’s paper stating those facts should not be too hard for a clever man like yourself to compose.”
“I don’t know.” Hapworth pretended to think, meanwhile rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. “The next issue is all set. It costs money to make changes.”
Allie did not think it wise to mention that changes had already been made. The London Lookout’s next issue was looking like a higgledy-piggledy pile on the floor.
Jack, however, asked, “How much will it take to insert the new paragraph?”
“You are not going to pay him to recant his mistruths, are you?” Allie was aghast at the idea. That was paying a perjurer for committing a crime. Next Jack would be offering a reward to the man who started the fire, for not burning the house down.
Jack told her, “It is faster than waiting for the courts to force him. And less expensive. Burquist does not work for free, either, you know.” He emptied his thin purse. “Ten shillings is all I have. You’ll have to take it or leave it, and wait for the magistrate to come shut down your paper.”
“What, stifle free speech and the right of the press? The government wouldn’t dare, not after seeing what the Frenchies did.” The shillings disappeared.
“Indecent, that’s what it is,” Allie said, fuming.
“I agree,” Hapworth told her with a grin, showing more of his discolored teeth than she wanted to see. “T’other swell paid me twenty.”
“Someone else paid you to print a correction?”
“That’s right. His nibs’s secretary, anyway.”
Allie added a precious shilling from her own pocket. “Who?”
“Why, the Marquess of Montford, of course, your granddad.”
Allie smiled, a tightness in her chest easing. Blood was thicker than water, or newsprint ink, after all. She did have family, and she was right to throw herself on their mercy, and his lordship’s hospitality. She smiled proudly at Jack. “Lord Montford does care about me.”
“Aye,” Hapworth said. “He cares enough that he paid me to say his granddaughter was dead.”
Chapter S
ixteen
“How dare he!”
“What, did you expect the owner of a scandal sheet to be an honorable man? Or to make himself look foolish for free? He is in the business of making money, not giving it away.” Jack took Allie’s arm and led her back toward the carriage before she could stick her tongue out at Mr. Hapworth, the way Harriet was doing. Curtains were already twitching aside in the neighboring houses. Heaven knew what the onlookers would make of a furious, frumpy female making a scene on the street.
“No, not him. Him, the Marquess of Montford. How could my own grandfather pay someone to say I was dead?”
Jack held the carriage door, hoping she would get in before Rochelle spotted them from her window above the printer. He did not need another angry woman on his hands. “To him, you are.”
Allie did not get into the coach. “I am not dead!”
“Of course you are not.” Although soon more than one gentleman might wish… “You are very much alive, and so Hapworth will have to report.”
Mrs. Crandall was already seated in the carriage. Harriet was—“Deuce take it, brat, get away from my horse before you get stepped on! He is not used to children.”
“Can I ride him?”
“Of course not!”
“I think you should reconsider, Captain,” Allie said. “In fact, I think that would be a very good idea. You should take Harriet up in front of you and go to the park. Show how proud you are to have her as your ward. Introduce her to your acquaintances as your fallen friend’s daughter. Show the world that there is nothing to be ashamed of in her birth or in your guardianship.”
The last time he’d been near to Harriet he’d needed a bath. “Fine, we can all go, in the carriage.”
“No, I have other errands,” Allie said, walking toward the corner. “If you wish to take the coach, I can find a hackney driver.”
“Dash it, you cannot be thinking of going on more job interviews, can you? Wait for the retraction, at least. You will stand a better chance.” A pygmy head-hunter stood a better chance of getting a governess position than Miss Silver. “In a few days I should hear from my brother. He or his wife might know of a teaching post for you.”
“My errand is not about seeking employment. It is a matter of life and death. Mine. Or Montford’s.”
Jack mistrusted that murderous look in Miss Silver’s eyes. Lord, if she attacked Montford, they would never be free of the scandal, no matter how much money he spent. To his regret, however, the prim and preachy female had turned into a virago right in front of his eyes—and the eyes of anyone watching. “Why do we not get into the coach and discuss this?”
Allie signified her agreement with a jerk of her head, but she went toward the driver’s position instead. “James, do you know the location of Montford House?”
“A’course, miss. Everyone does. Right on Grosvenor Square it is.”
“Fine, then take me there. Captain, you can follow with your horse or you can ride inside, but I am going to visit my grandfather.”
How had he lost control of the situation, to say nothing of his own carriage and driver? Jack was glad to see that Allie had spirit, that the slur from her relations had not left her despondent, but he was sorry to see she was a peagoose. What did she hope to accomplish by confronting Montford except more humiliation, if the man did not physically toss her out? Which of course meant that Jack had to go along to protect her. He followed her into the coach, after tying his horse behind.
“Have you ever seen the man?” he asked Allie.
“No. Why? Does he have two heads?”
“Do you know anything about him?”
“Other than that he is rich, and that his son cannot bear to live with him? No, for my father would not speak ill of the man. But are you trying to frighten me? It will not work. I am going.”
Jack did not know Montford except by sight and reputation, but what he knew was not encouraging. With nearly seventy years in his dish, the power of the Crown behind him, and a vast fortune at his fingertips, Montford made his own rules. “The marquess is known to be a…formidable presence. It is obvious your grandfather is not a warm, friendly man. So why would you want to meet him? I fear you are wasting your time if you hope he’ll welcome you with open arms.”
“I am not that big a fool. He never forgave my mother in all these years, so why should he forgive me for living? But he does not have the right to deny my existence. I know I cannot move a boulder. But I can carve my name in it.”
“With a knife?” Harriet sat forward, eager to know more. “Are you going to stab him? I have my slingshot. Papa Jack must have a sword, even if he traded his pistols. We could go home and get it and—”
“No!” they both shouted at once.
Mrs. Crandall was cringing against the leather cushions. She had made it through the wars alive; she did not want to hang for attacking a nobleman now that her future was looking so rosy. “I’ll be getting out on the next corner, then.”
Allie and Jack both said no again. “I need you with me for propriety’s sake,” Allie told the older woman. “And you, Captain, will keep an eye on Harriet.”
He’d rather face the lion in his den. “I will come with you.”
“No, I have to do this myself.”
The carriage was slowing. Mrs. Crandall was still protesting, more loudly when she saw the edifice in front of them. “Miss, I don’t belong in no marquess’s mansion. You’d do better with Cap’n Jack at your back. He was born to this folderol. And he’s been in the thick of battle, too.”
“You belong wherever you wish to go, Mary. You are brave and loyal, and your husband died so that rich aristocrats like this one can enjoy their advantages over the rest of us. Besides, would you rather take Harriet and her slingshot to the park?”
Mrs. Crandall was at her side in a flash. Jack was holding Harriet’s hand, feeling forlorn. He ought to be leading the charge, not babysitting. He was the knight errant and Allie was the damsel in distress, damn her. Jack Endicott had never let another man fight his battles though, not since his big brother defended him against bullies at school. He could understand that Allie needed to kill her own dragons. He could even admire her for having more bottom than half the raw recruits he’d trained. He only hoped she did not get too badly singed in the confrontation.
“We shall be right across the street if you need reinforcements,” he said. “But the coach will stay in front of Montford House in case you need to make a quick retreat.”
She gave him a quick smile, only slightly tremulous, and said, “And do not feed the animals.”
“We are not going to the zoo—Oh, Harriet. Right.”
*
The butler at Montford House was so stiff he could have been an old-fashioned wig-stand, complete with white powdered sausage curls. He stared over Allie’s shoulder and announced that his lordship was not at home.
“Fine, then I shall await his return.”
“I regret that his lordship shall not be at home later, either, miss.”
Allie wondered if the marquess would ever be at home to a young woman without an appointment, especially an unwanted scrap of the family’s dirty linen. “I shall take my chances and wait anyway.”
“I regret that will be impossible. We cannot entertain company in his lordship’s absence.”
“I am not asking you to play charades or sing an aria. Now I can wait in one of the many receiving rooms this house must possess, or I can wait in the street, introducing myself to all and sundry who pass by. I did mention that I was Lord Montford’s granddaughter, did I not?”
“This way, miss.”
In short order, Allie found herself in a magnificent room filled with priceless works of art, relieved that Harriet was not with her. Mrs. Crandall gladly followed the butler to the servants’ hall for refreshments, where she would be more comfortable. With the door left ajar, Allie thought she heard furtive footsteps as the household tried to catch a glimpse of the family’s Fallen Woman. She
did not care. Let them look, for she herself could happily spend the rest of the day here, studying the canvases and sculptures in their niches, the jade figurines in the glass cases.
True to his contrary nature, Montford sent for her before she could admire even one wall of treasures. He’d been home all along, of course.
This time Allie followed the poker-backed butler deeper into the house to a smaller room, a library lined with bookcases. She could have spent days here too, just looking at the titles on the leather-bound volumes. Lord Montford seemed willing to permit her five minutes. Without rising from behind his vast desk, the marquess tossed her a leather purse of coins.
“Here. Take this and get out of London. You are not wanted. Your presence is an offense to us.”
Allie caught the heavy pouch in her sore hands, rather than let it hit her. Then she took three steps closer to the desk and made a deep, courtly curtsy. When she rose, she set the pouch on the highly polished cherry wood. “Grandfather” was all she said.
The old man turned purple. The color did not complement his steel-gray hair or the liver spots on his cheeks. He was a large man, she noted, without an ounce of fat. His hand shook slightly, but he sat erect, staring at Allie as if she were last week’s leftover fish course. “I. Am not. Your. Grandfather.”
Allie remained standing beside the leather armchair he did not invite her to take. She kept her own spine as straight as a broomstick. “Yes, sir, you are. And I am no more happy about that fact than you.”
“How dare you come to my house, you insolent wench.”
Allie crossed her arms over her chest. She would not let this aged autocrat intimidate her. He might have been a cabinet minister and was obviously an eminent art collector, but he was nothing more than a mean, nasty old man. She might be afraid of London and being alone, but she would not fear a mere misanthrope. “How dare I? How dare you try to declare me dead? I am very much alive, and in London whether you like it or not.”
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