Lucy did not reply, and as Daisy waited for her sister to say something, she became more and more certain that a lecture on the uncertain nature of writing as a profession was forthcoming, along with several unappealing suggestions for other, more suitable, occupations.
But Lucy surprised her. “It’s a good thing, I suppose,” she said with a sigh, “that we don’t need your income to survive.”
Daisy blinked. “You don’t intend to tell me to stop dreaming about being a writer and find a reliable post?”
“No.”
“You don’t intend to point out how much more sensible it is to be a typist? Or remind me how low our savings are?”
“No. The agency is doing well enough to support us long enough to see if you are serious about this and if you can make a go of it. I cannot pretend I don’t have doubts about this venture, but I’m running out of posts for you to try.”
With a shout of exultation, Daisy jumped to her feet and moved to come around the table and hug her sister, but Lucy’s next words made her pause.
“On the other hand,” her sister added with a sternness that impelled Daisy to sink back into her chair, “you may soon have greater responsibilities than you realize. It’s all very well to attend one play and write a review. But if Lord Marlowe agrees to publish your novel, he’ll surely want another, and then another. You’ll have to meet deadlines, fulfill contracts.”
“Of course I shall live up to any commitments I might make to Lord Marlowe.”
Her sister did not seem very reassured. “Marlowe is a friend of our family,” she reminded. “Don’t disappoint him.” With that, she stood up. “Now, I must be off for the agency. If you are to be a writer, Daisy,” she added as she started for the door, “I should advise you to deliver your best novel to Lord Marlowe as soon as possible. Let us hope it impresses him favorably, for he is no doubt having apoplexy about your review.”
Daisy frowned, puzzled. “Why should he be?”
Halfway out of the dining room, Lucy stopped and looked at her over one shoulder. “Sebastian Grant’s novels are printed by Marlowe Publishing. He is their most successful author.”
“And I said he was a second-rate Oscar Wilde whose best writing was behind him!” Daisy gave a groan of dismay. “How do I always manage to put myself in hot water like this?”
“It’s your special gift, dearest,” Lucy said with a rueful smile and vanished out the door.
“Did you really call him a second-rate Oscar Wilde?” Miranda asked.
“I did,” she admitted with another groan. “I didn’t even think about the fact that Lord Marlowe publishes his novels. Oh, what must the viscount think of me?”
“Surely, he won’t be angry,” Eloisa said in an attempt to console her as she handed the paper across the table to Miranda. “He is a very nice gentleman. Besides, he wouldn’t want you to lie, would he, and say you liked the play if you didn’t?”
“Perhaps not,” Mrs. Morris interjected, “but Lord Avermore might not be so appreciative of our Daisy’s candidness. As I said before, gentlemen are very sensitive. Even the slightest criticism can quite upset them.”
Daisy stared at her landlady in surprise. “You think my review might have hurt Sebastian Grant’s feelings?”
“I think it’s possible, my dear. Don’t you?”
Daisy couldn’t credit it. “But he’s a titled gentleman, an earl, far more significant in the world than any literary critic. And given the notorious reputation he developed in Italy, it’s difficult to imagine he cares what people say about him. And besides, he’s written some truly breathtaking books. He’s famous,” she added with a laugh. “The most famous English literary figure since Sir Walter Scott! A review by a little nobody like me couldn’t possibly have any effect on him.”
It was wrong to contemplate murder, Sebastian supposed. Even if the intended victim was a critic.
On the other hand, he was a writer, he reflected, as he leaned back against the seat of his carriage and closed his eyes. He made his living with his imagination, so plotting ways George Lindsay might meet an unfortunate end could not really be wrong, could it?
These somewhat hostile thoughts dominated Sebastian’s mind as his landau made the long, slow journey from Mayfair into the City. Rolled in his fist was a copy of that morning’s Social Gazette, but there was no need to refer to the theater page to recall the words printed there. They were burned upon his brain.
Implausible…trite…as amusing as a visit to the dentist…
There was a pistol in his desk, he remembered. A .22-caliber affair with a pearl handle. It might even be loaded.
The carriage stopped, and Sebastian forced aside the pleasurable notion of shooting critics. He opened his eyes, but one glance around told him he had not yet arrived at Marlowe Publishing. His driver was waiting for a break in the traffic that clogged Trafalgar before turning onto the Strand, and Sebastian closed his eyes again.
…his most brilliant work is nearly a decade behind him…
Fear rose up within Sebastian—dark, smothering fear. A surprising thing that those words should evoke such emotion, for he’d accepted that truth quite some time ago. What was there to be afraid of now?
He moved restlessly in his seat. Perhaps he should leave London, go away again. He’d only just arrived home, but it wasn’t as if he had to remain. He’d attended the opening of his new play. There was nothing, really, holding him here.
Africa, he considered, and felt a slight stirring of interest. He’d already been to Morocco and Tunis. But he could venture farther south…He began to imagine a trek through Kenya on safari, roaming the bush amid lions and elephants, inhaling the scent of danger; surely, that sort of experience would spark some sort of creative impulse, wouldn’t it? Of course, how he would pay for a journey to Africa was questionable. He was stone-broke, and, thanks to Mr. Lindsay’s review, he was likely to remain so for the foreseeable future.
A second-rate Oscar Wilde…second-rate…best writing nearly a decade behind him…
Damn all critics to hell. Parasites, they were; unable to write anything themselves, they fed off of the people who had the talent, did the work, took the risks, and paid the price.
The carriage stopped, jolting Sebastian once again out of his resentful contemplation of critics, and this time when he opened his eyes, he found himself at his destination. He didn’t wait for Saunders to open the door for him. He did it himself, jumping down from the carriage as he issued a command to his driver. “Call for me in an hour, Merriman.”
“Very good, sir.” The driver clicked the reins, Saunders jumped back on the dummy board at the boot, and the landau rumbled down the street in search of a mews as Sebastian entered the offices of Marlowe Publishing.
He didn’t bother with the lift. Instead, he took the stairs to the fourth floor, and with each step closer to Marlowe’s office, his frustration rose another notch. Girl with a Red Handbag might not be the best thing he’d ever written, but did his own publisher’s newspaper have to be the means of pointing that out to all of London? It was one thing for him to disparage his own work—he always did, for his writing never lived up to his own expectations and he was never satisfied. But it was quite another matter to be ripped apart by a newspaper of his own publisher, to watch the scribbling of an insignificant little nobody ruin his chance to wipe out his debts and derive a bit of income.
As he entered Marlowe’s office suite, the viscount’s secretary stood up with an inquiring look, but when Sebastian introduced himself, the secretary’s polite curiosity changed to an expression of dismay. “L—Lord Avermore, we…umm…we were not expecting you.” He reached for a leather-bound appointment book. “Did you have an appointment with Lord Marlowe?”
“No.” Sebastian stepped around the secretary’s desk, making for the closed door into Marlowe’s private office. “Is he in?”
“Yes, my lord, but—”
“Excellent,” Sebastian cut him off and opened the do
or.
As he shoved the door wide and entered the room, he spied Marlowe at once. His publisher was standing on the other side of his big mahogany desk, a twine-tied manuscript in his hand. “Sebastian?” he said in astonishment and set aside the bundle of papers. “Sebastian Grant, upon my soul, you’re home from abroad at last.”
From the doorway, the secretary spoke. “I’m sorry, sir. Lord Avermore insisted upon seeing you.”
Marlowe waved the other man out of the room. “It’s all right, Quinn. You may go.” He returned his attention to Sebastian. “God, man, how long has it been? Eight years?”
At the moment, Sebastian wasn’t interested in catching up on old times. He tossed his crumpled copy of the Social Gazette onto his publisher’s desk. “What happened to Basil Stephens, Harry? Did you sack him when you bought the Gazette?”
Much to his chagrin, his publisher began to smile. “Mr. Stephens had a cold. I found someone else to review your play.”
“And where did you find this cretin? Your favorite pub?”
“Cretin?” Harry laughed. “If you ever met George Lindsay, I doubt you would describe him so.”
“No doubt a moment’s conversation with him would enable me to add the words ‘idiotic’ and ‘inarticulate’ to my description.”
“How cross you are! And I can’t agree with your assessment. I thought George Lindsay displayed remarkable eloquence in his thrashing of your play.”
“Thank you, Harry. Your concern for my feelings warms my heart. Since Mr. Stephens has a cold, I take it Mr. Lindsay’s career as a dramatic critic is only temporary?”
“I wouldn’t say that. I might have him write more reviews in future.” His publisher ignored his snort of disgust and gestured to the manuscript he’d just placed on his desk. “I’ve agreed to read his novel as well.”
“My condolences.”
“If it’s good, I’ll publish it, of course.”
“Good?” Sebastian couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “How could it possibly be any good? No writer worth his salt ever becomes a critic.”
“You’re only saying that because you’re in a snit over the review he gave you.”
“That’s absurd,” Sebastian snapped. “One undiscerning opinion has no effect on me.”
“Glad to know you’re not upset.”
He ignored that breezy reply. “But it will have an effect on other people. Everyone reads the reviews in the Social Gazette. Everyone is influenced by them. This review could hurt the play.” He leaned forward, resting his fists on the desk. “I want a retraction.”
Harry also leaned forward, mirroring his aggressive stance. “No.”
“An alternate opinion, then.”
“No.”
Sebastian let out his breath in an exasperated sigh and straightened away from the desk. “Ticket sales have dropped by thirty percent since yesterday.”
Harry shrugged. “What do I care? I only publish your novels. I have no stake in your plays.”
“I need the money, damn you!”
Harry met Sebastian’s aggravated gaze with a hard one of his own. “If you had written the novel you were due to give me three years ago, you wouldn’t be short of funds, would you?”
Sebastian glared back at his publisher, and it occurred to him that perhaps his contemplations of murder this morning had been centered on the wrong victim.
Something of what he felt must have shown in his face, for Marlowe shook his head, looking at him in mock sadness. “You’re so disagreeable. Living in Switzerland doesn’t seem to have suited you. What, was the climate there too cold after living in Italy for so many years?”
“It’s clear I’ve been away from England too long,” Sebastian shot back. “In my absence, you’ve transformed the Social Gazette from the definitive arbiter of London theater to a comedic paper worthy to rival Punch! That review was laughable.”
“Pity the same couldn’t be said of your play,” muttered a vexed feminine voice behind him before Harry could reply.
Sebastian frowned in puzzlement, for that impertinent remark had definitely not been uttered by Harry’s secretary. He turned toward the open doorway, but he saw no one standing there, a fact which only deepened his puzzlement. But then the door moved, swinging shut to reveal a feminine figure which had until this moment been concealed behind it. Her position beside the coat tree, a dark green cloak in her hand, made it clear his abrupt entrance to the room had trapped her behind the door and prevented her departure.
His brows rose as he glanced over the unexpected eavesdropper. She made quite an incongruous picture standing in his publisher’s office. She wore a straw boater hat, a starched white shirtwaist buttoned up to her chin, a serviceable navy blue skirt, and knitted white gloves. It was the uniform of both schoolgirls and spinsters, but in his first cursory glance, Sebastian, usually adept at assessments of the fair sex, could not quite decide which category she belonged in.
She had the slim, coltish figure, rose pink lips, and luminous skin of a girl, but when he took a step toward her for a closer inspection, he saw the faint, unmistakable lines across her forehead that made it clear she had put aside French lessons and sewing samplers at least a decade earlier. Not a schoolgirl, no, but a fully mature woman, and yet, there was something about her that spoke of youth, something in the dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks and in the heart shape of her face, something artless and open that would enable anyone with an ounce of discernment to read her like a book.
He noted the slight crinkle of a frown between her brows, and he lowered his gaze a notch to look into her eyes. When he did, he caught his breath, for their color was remarkable—a deep, vivid blue-green that his writer’s mind struggled at once to describe. Like a teal’s wing or a eucalyptus forest or the light-tricked waters of Monet’s pond at Giverny. Surrounded by a heavy fringe of auburn lashes, they were gorgeous.
Tendrils of her bright red hair peeked from beneath her boater hat, and despite the hellish morning he’d had, the sight of them almost made him smile. She probably hated the color of her hair—most people did who possessed that fiery shade—but an image flashed through his mind of how that hair would look if it were undone and falling down around her bare, white shoulders. It was a very fetching picture.
His gaze slid downward. She was tall for a woman, only a few inches beneath his own height, and very slender, but he could see that there were distinct curves beneath those dreadful clothes.
He turned toward Marlowe, lifting an eyebrow. What was this vibrant, pretty creature doing behind closed doors in his publisher’s office? A vague memory passed through his mind about the viscount having married a few years back. If this was Harry’s wife, all well and good. If not…naughty, naughty Harry.
“Your play was meant to be a comedy, wasn’t it?” she asked, interrupting his speculations and returning his attention to her. “If you ever write another,” she added with a sniff, “I should advise you to make people actually laugh.”
With that remark, her flaming hair and gorgeous eyes began to lose their charm for him. She had to be a spinster, he concluded, for no man would marry a woman with such a vinegary tongue. “Who the devil are you?”
Harry’s laughter interrupted any answer she might have made. He came around from behind his desk to stand beside Sebastian. “Permit me to introduce you,” he said and gestured to the woman with a flourish. “Sebastian, meet George Lindsay.”
Chapter 3
Writing is like prostitution.
First you do it for love,
and then for a few close friends,
and then for money.
Moliere
Daisy supposed most people would find Sebastian Grant a bit intimidating. There weren’t many things that intimidated her, but in her first glimpse of the famous writer, even she had to admit he was rather a daunting figure.
He was a big man, for one thing, taller than most men—with exceptionally wide shoulders, a broad chest, and powerf
ul arms. His physique did not seem at all in keeping with what she would have imagined. Britain’s most successful author ought to be a slender, bookish sort of fellow, with spectacles, perhaps, and an intellectual brow. This man, big and virile and irascible, seemed larger than life. With his unruly black hair and his eyes the color of gunmetal, she could well believe he had earned his wild reputation. He ought to be navigating rivers in the Argentine, she thought, or brawling in a Bangkok tavern, for the idea of him seated at a desk with quill and ink, or pecking away at a typewriting machine, seemed ludicrous in the extreme.
With Lord Marlowe’s blithe introduction still hanging in the air, she watched the famous author’s black brows draw together in a frown. His eyes narrowed on her with riveting intensity, and a muscle worked at the corner of his strong, square jaw. All in all, he gave the impression of a recalcitrant bull. If his splendid, straight, Roman nose had begun flaring at the nostrils, she wouldn’t have been surprised.
“You are George Lindsay?” he asked and cast another peremptory glance up and down her person. “You?”
It was a disconcerting thing for a critic to meet the displeased author she had just panned, but he’d already gotten a bit of his own back with his disparaging conclusions about her. Daisy met his smoldering gaze with a defiant one of her own. “George Lindsay is my pen name, yes,” she answered. “And by all the bellicose ranting you’ve been doing since you so rudely walked in, I take it you are Sebastian Grant.”
A laugh from Lord Marlowe interrupted any reply the author might have made. “You presume rightly,” the viscount told her, gesturing to the man beside him. “Allow me to present Sebastian Grant, Earl of Avermore. Sebastian, Miss Daisy Merrick.”
She could tell Avermore was fighting to regain a semblance of civility. He bowed to her and when he straightened, the frown was gone from his face, though she suspected it had not vanished without effort. “How do you do?”
She dipped a perfunctory curtsy in response. “Lord Avermore.”
He turned a bit to address the man beside him, but he kept his gaze on her face. “This is quite a surprise, Marlowe. You should have given me a bit of warning when I walked in.”
With Seduction in Mind Page 3