by Maya Rodale
Knightly offered a prayer of thanks to Grenville for ending the conversation about Annabelle’s . . . charms. And for sitting on the far side of the room so that he could focus on Grenville and turn his back to her . . . charms.
“Will that parliamentary inquiry be focused on The London Times, specifically, or other publications, generally?” Owens asked. “Rumors are flying. I heard every periodical will have to submit to a government review before publication. A footman was fired from Lord Milford’s employ after it was suspected he sold secrets to the press.”
“Oh, it’s worse than that,” Julianna added gravely. “I heard Lord Milford gave the poor footman quite a thrashing before turning him out on the streets. To quote Lord Marsden, ‘One is appalled at the peddling of aristocratic secrets for the profit and amusement of the lower classes.’ Many are in agreement with him.”
The room fell silent. The faces of his writers peered at him expectantly. Of course they would assume he would have a strategy or a scheme to exploit public opinion to their advantage or to otherwise ensure that The London Weekly was triumphant—and that their livelihoods and reputations were secure.
This thing with The London Times might be another newspaper’s problem, or it could explode into an industrywide scandal and investigation. It looked like Marsden had a taste for blood, and intended more than the ruination of one reporter, or one newspaper.
The question was, how would The London Weekly fare in the midst of this crusade?
His writers routinely risked everything and anything for stories that had made The London Weekly great. Eliza had done numerous dangerous undercover stints, including disguising herself as a maid in a duke’s household—the very exploits that had the ton riled up and calling for blood. Julianna routinely put her reputation on the line by exposing the scandals and foibles of her peers. Owens never met an assignment he didn’t risk a stint in prison for, and no person or thing was too sacred for his ruthless investigating. What would become of Alistair or Grenville if they didn’t have an outlet for their wit and discerning writing?
Knightly knew that he might own the newspaper, but it would be worthless without them. He couldn’t let this scandal blow out of control, and definitely couldn’t let his faithful and talented writers be sent to Newgate for their work, which served a city, both informing and entertaining the population.
He hadn’t given much thought to Marsden’s offer until this moment when it seemed he was the only thing standing between safety and disaster for the people he owed everything to.
Though the marquis dangled something he wanted very badly—entrée into high society with a strategic marriage—it conflicted with truth number three: Be beholden to no one.
But if it would protect his newspaper and his writers—while assuring his prominence in London society—hell, it was an offer worth entertaining. The New Earl would never be able to snub the man so connected to such a prominent marquis. This inquiry would turn a blind eye to his scandalous newspaper and the exploits of its writers.
It was an offer worth taking. Knightly made decisions quickly, and then abided by them. On the spot, he made up his mind to court Lady Lydia and probably marry her. He would take Marsden up on his offer to protect his paper and his writers.
“Rest assured, I’m doing everything in my power to ensure the authorities don’t turn their attentions to The Weekly,” Knightly said confidently. He could see them all visibly relax at the pronouncement, and he knew he’d made the right choice.
But speaking of turning one’s attentions . . .
Knightly’s eyes reluctantly flicked back to Annabelle. She did that strange thing with her very blue eyes again. Her lips were pursed into a pout that verged precariously on the side of ridiculous, and yet was strangely tempting all the same.
Grenville mercifully carried on about other, duller matters of government, and Damien Owens regaled everyone with that week’s news of robberies, fires, murders, ridiculous wagers, and notable court cases. Knightly rushed everyone through, eager to conclude the meeting so that he might further investigate the burgeoning scandal with The London Times. And, frankly, so he could escape the distraction that Annabelle had suddenly, inexplicably, become.
He could kill Gage for suggesting the lowered bodice. But he suspected that damned actor wasn’t the only one to send in that advice, and for good reason: it worked. Yea gods, it worked. Knightly couldn’t stop looking—Annabelle and her décolletage was a sight to behold. That he’d forbidden himself made it all the more alluring.
She caught his eye again, and shyly looked down at her lap. He watched her lips murmur something incomprehensible, and then she glanced back at him. Eyelashes batting at a rapid pace. Lips pushed out. What the devil was she doing?
“Miss Swift, is there something in your eye?” he asked when he could restrain his curiosity no more.
“I am perfectly fine,” she replied as a flush crept into her cheeks.
“Ah, it seemed you had something in your eye,” he remarked, quizzically.
“No, nothing. I’m fine. Just fine.” There was a hollow note in her voice. But he couldn’t puzzle over that. Not when his empire was possibly under attack and it was up to him to protect it.
Chapter 8
A Writing Girl, Writing
DEAR ANNABELLE
In reply to Embarrassed in East End, I suggest fleeing to America, praying fervently for the floorboards to open up and swallow you whole, or do your best to pretend the mortifying incident never occurred.
—Annabelle, who has herself addressed many prayers to the floorboards and even investigated the price of a one-way ticket to America
The London Weekly
Annabelle’s attic bedroom
ANNABELLE sat frozen at her writing desk, still paralyzed with mortification hours after the Awful Incident. Never in her entire life had she been more embarrassed, including the occasion in her twelfth year when she had unwittingly tucked her petticoats and skirts into her unmentionables and proceeded to church. Thomas had paid attention to her then, and laughed heartily despite the chastising of their parents.
The Awful Incident was even more horrifying than the time she accidentally sat on a freshly painted brown park bench whilst daydreaming . . . and en route to a weekly writers meeting. It was the only time she’d ever been thankful for her grayish dresses, though the paint was still visible. In attempting to keep her backside from view of anyone, particularly Knightly, she tripped over a chair and fell sprawled to the floor.
Annabelle groaned and replayed the worst of the Awful Incident again in her mind. The thrill of Knightly fixing his attentions upon her. The devastating realization of why. Miss Swift, is there something in your eye?
Her attempts to appear seductive were an unmitigated failure. If she couldn’t even look at the man seductively, how was she to make him love her? After the success of the lowered bodice, she thought a sultry gaze would spark his interest, and perhaps he would start to fall in love with the mysterious Writing Girl in his midst. Intrigued, he would begin to seduce her and she would prettily resist his advances for the appropriate amount of time, at which point . . .
She sighed as the truth sunk in: it seemed she would have to seduce Mr. Knightly and that it would require a few more tricks from her readers.
Annabelle crossed the room to the mirror and tried her sultry gaze once more. Lowered eyelashes. Pouting lips. Smoldering thoughts. Oh very well, she did look ridiculous! In a fit of despair and humiliation, she flung herself on her bed.
She had gotten his attention, at least. But for looking like a fool of the first water! In her head she heard his voice echoing over and over, asking that wretched question: Miss Swift, is there something in your eye? Miss Swift, is there something in your eye? Miss Swift, is there something in your eye?
She groaned and flung an arm over her eyes.
Not
even the pink roses from Lord Marsden could console her. Very well, they did, slightly. Annabelle lifted her arm and looked at the gorgeous, fragrant bouquet sitting proudly and so pinkly on her writing desk, reminding her that a gentleman, a marquis, paid attention to her and read her column and shared private jokes with her.
Not all hope was lost, sultry gazes notwithstanding.
No man had ever sent her flowers before. She bolted upright, needing advice. Was she to write a thank-you note? If so, what did one say? She was an advice columnist and thus she ought to know these things.
Oh, but what a problem to have! Annabelle smiled proudly and, Lord help her, a giggle escaped her lips. She was not so disconsolate that she couldn’t appreciate such a lovely problem: whether or not to pen a thank-you note for an exquisite bouquet of hothouse flowers from an eligible gentleman.
Not like, say, the man of your dreams asking if you have something in your eye when you are attempting to throw sultry glances his way.
Best not try sultry glances on Lord Marsden. Or anyone she might ever wish to pursue.
It was now her noble duty to alert the female population of London not to heed the well-intentioned advice of a “Courtesan from Mayfair.” Annabelle returned to her writing desk, this time with more focus. After another heavenly inhalation of the roses, she began to write her next column.
Ladies of London, beware! A Courtesan from Mayfair suggested that this author delivery sultry glances to the object of her affection. My attempts resulted in utter mortification! He—henceforth known as the Nodcock—merely inquired if I had something in my eye.
Here Annabelle paused, and tapped the quill against her cheek as she thought about Knightly reading these very words. In an instant he would know that she had concocted a massive scheme involving the ten thousand regular readers of The London Weekly in a desperate attempt to gain his attention.
And that she called him a nodcock.
That was not acceptable. True, but unpublishable.
Her quill was poised above nodcock, ready to strike it out, when she meanly thought that Knightly wouldn’t even read the column at all! The Nodcock.
However, it would do to make it just a touch more vague, because if she were to examine the contents of her heart and soul—as she was doing, in an effort to procrastinate, as one is wont to do—she would see that she wasn’t ready to give up the jig just yet. In spite of the Awful Incident, she had made progress.
Her wardrobe had improved, and with it her confidence. A man had sent her flowers. She had managed a conversation with Knightly. Readers were responding with great favor to her column and to her quest. A New Annabelle was emerging; one who had adventures and flirtations to go along with Awful Incidences.
New Annabelle had much more fun than Old Annabelle, and being in possession of a great imagination and curiosity, she wondered where it would all lead. She wanted to know. She could know, so long as she did not allow one little Awful Incident to set her back. And as long as she composed her column to be vague enough so that Knightly might not put two and two together straight away.
Annabelle wanted his heart and she wanted his attention. But not from some slip of the pen. She wanted him to be drawn to her, interested in her, desperately in love with her. If she had to become a better version of herself, so be it. Frankly, it was much more exciting.
And so she rewrote the column to be a touch more vague, just in case Knightly did read it, and had a mind to place himself in it.
Then she rummaged through her assortment of reader letters for questions to answer, advice to dole out, and tricks to try to gain Knightly’s attention.
“Ah, this one is perfect,” she murmured. “Excellent idea, Sneaky From Southwark.”
Chapter 9
Newspaper Proprietor Seeks Aristocratic Bride
DEAR ANNABELLE
I was eager to attempt to “seduce a man with naught but the smoldering intensity of my love, revealed wordlessly in a sultry gaze,” as per the advice of a Courtesan in Mayfair. Alas, dear readers, this led to a mortifying disaster! Rather than succumb to the fervor in my gaze, more than one person inquired if I had something stuck in my eye.
The London Weekly
Home of Mrs. Delilah Knightly, Russell Square
“WELL if it isn’t my favorite son,” Delilah Knightly remarked with a laugh as Derek Knightly strolled into the breakfast room unannounced. He was in the habit of calling on his mother every Saturday morning, like the good progeny that he was. Also, her cook made the best breakfast biscuits and refused to share the recipe with his cook. Never mind that he paid for them both.
“I’m your only son.” This correction came with a slight grin.
“That’s what I said. You’re so literal, Derek. How did that happen?” she asked. Her voice was loud—all the better to carry to the back of the theater—and there was always a note of mirth in her tone, whether she was scolding her young child or requesting more tea from a servant. No matter what, life was terribly amusing to Delilah Knightly.
“I believe you possess all the acting ability and inclination to fantasy in this family,” he said. She was a renowned stage actress, and one of his guiding principles was to avoid drama, unless it was on the stage or the printed page. ”I’m as straightforward as they come.”
“I know, I’m you’re mother,” she said with a broad smile, pushing a basket of freshly baked biscuits in his direction. “How are you, my dear?”
“Business is good.” He took a seat and poured himself a cup of steaming hot coffee.
“Which means that everything is good. Such devotion to your work!” She paused, smiled wickedly, and said: “I wish you’d employ some of that infamous work ethic of yours on providing me with grandbabies.”
“Mother.” The word was a statement, a protest, and an answer. She loved to vex him with the topic and he refused to react. He didn’t see why she bothered bringing it up.
“Oh for Lord’s sake, Derek, I can’t help my natural inclinations. Tell me, how is Annabelle faring?”
“Annabelle?” This caught him off guard. So much so that it took a moment before he realized whom she was referring to. Dear Annabelle of the lowered bodices and sultry gazes who was on a quest to win the heart of some nodcock.
That his mother was mentioning this topic did not bode well.
Why the devil would his mother give a whit about one of his Writing Girls? Granted, she was tremendously proud of those girls and was known to say that hiring them was the best damn thing he’d ever done. Made your mum, proud, she’d say.
Which isn’t why he did it. The chits were good for business.
And how had Annabelle—a chit he never gave much of a passing thought to—suddenly intruded upon his every thought and conversation? He brooded over this, sipping his coffee, as his mother explained.
“ ‘Dear Annabelle.’ The gal with the advice column. The one who is soliciting tips from readers on how to attract a man. You’re really onto something with that one. I hadn’t laughed so hard in an age.” She chuckled again just thinking about it.
“Actually, I’m sure you have,” he replied patiently. “You find humor in everything.”
“It’s an important life skill. But regardless, that girl is a doll. What is she really like?” His mum sipped her tea and then fixed her full attention upon him. The hair on the back of his neck stuck up in warning. When his mother took an interest in something . . . Things Happened.
“Annabelle?” He repeated her name in an effort to stall. And why was everyone asking him what Annabelle was like? He made a note to himself to read her columns more closely in the future.
His mother gave him a look that distinctly communicated you dolt.
“She’s young. Pretty. Nice.” The answer was deliberately evasive. The same answer he’d given to Drummond and Gage, and for the same reason. If Annabelle and t
his column didn’t come across as too interesting, his mother might lose interest. Like playing dead to avoid a dog attack.
She yawned. Dramatically.
“You should include a picture with her column. One of those illustrations.” Knightly thought about what the blokes in the coffeehouse had talked about. Was she pretty? Were they advising a grandma to show more cleavage? Some protective instinct flared; he did not want those louts looking upon Annabelle’s beauty. In some way, she belonged to him, in that he had hired her and given her this platform to enact her romantic schemes.
But a portrait of her would be damn good for business. Pretty girls sold so well.
“That’s a fine idea. Randolph can have it done in an afternoon,” he answered, and made a mental note to make the request when he returned to the office later.
“What did you think of her column? Wasn’t it hysterical?” his mother asked. “Is she unwell? What a nodcock! Ha!”
It was not hysterical. He felt like an ass. She wrote of her failed attempts to employ a sultry gaze and that numerous people inquired if she had something in her eye. He took consolation in the fact that he was not the only one to ask. But still—he felt like an ass.
She must have been idly practicing in the meeting, or the man she was after was on staff. Definitely not Grenville. She was set up for heartache if it were Alistair. It had to be Owens. It mattered not to him.
But really, Owens? The man was young and talented but hotheaded, and with a habit of frequenting gaming hells and embarking on the most dangerous schemes to get stories. He spent most of his hours chasing down murders, investigating fires, and impersonating footmen and officers. When would he have time to court Annabelle? Or perhaps that was the point of her escapades.
“It was amusing,” Knightly answered carefully. His mother’s eyes narrowed. Bloody hell. She suspected something.
“You were one of the men to ask if she was unwell, were you not?” she asked, her eyes narrowing further. Damned intuition of mothers. Why they were not employed by the Bow Street Runners was a mystery to him.