by Maya Rodale
What the devil had happened to him?
Knightly took a long swallow on the brandy and concentrated deeply on the burn. First, on his tongue. Then the back of his throat. Down, down, down to his gut.
When a man thought about some fleeting kiss with a woman the way he had just caught himself doing, it meant that . . . Well, besotted was the word that came to mind. Or worse—beholden. And it wasn’t a fleeting kiss. It was one of those all-consuming, axis-altering kisses.
Besotted indeed. Bloody hell.
His mother appeared in the doorway just then, strolling in like some fiery-haired demon fairy. If he ever wondered what Julianna would be like in thirty years, he now knew.
Bloody hellfire and damnation. Mehitable, a man of gargantuan proportions who had been hired for the sole purpose of preventing such unscheduled appearances by irate readers, must have been drunk on the job. Or this was mutiny.
“What is the meaning of this?” she inquired, shaking a copy of The London Times at him.
Knightly downed the rest of his drink and returned to his desk.
“Mother, I have already had this conversation with Lady Roxbury. It might be a better use of your time to go speak with her, as I can tell you both are far more interested in discussing this than I am. I might also add that I am appalled to discover how many Weekly women have exposed themselves as readers of The London Times.”
His mother sat in the chair before his desk.
“Utterly appalled,” he repeated, and then returned to his work. Or tried to. He looked at the page but didn’t manage to read a single word, try as he might.
“You do realize that Dear Annabelle is beloved by all of London,” his mother said. “If it turns out that you were the man she was after . . .” Knightly stiffened, held his breath. Why did that thought paralyze him every time? His mother appeared not to notice and carried on.
“ . . . Well, I daresay you’ll have a mob of angry Londoners at your door.” Was it wrong that he thought that spoke well of Annabelle’s column and what a great story it would make?
“Mehitable will handle any angry mobs,” he replied. After a stern talking-to about the admittance of angry females.
“For all you know, Mehitable may lead the mob,” she challenged.
“No he won’t. I pay his wages.” Knightly stated this as simple fact. He just needed to remind Mehitable of that.
“Nevertheless,” his mother persisted, “what are your intentions? Because if you throw over Dear Annabelle, with whom you obviously are infatuated—”
“Obviously?”
“I’m sorry. Are you in the habit of moonlit interludes with desirable young women and then kissing them—but not liking them? Especially when it seems you have an understanding regarding marriage with another woman. Have you inherited my talent for acting, after all?”
“Is this really any of your business?” he asked, growing angry now.
“What does that have to do with anything?” his mother asked, so genuinely perplexed by the concept of “minding one’s own business” that he was struck speechless. She carried on in his silence: “At any rate, this story reminded me that I need to tell you something about your father. Before you make a mistake.”
That got his attention. He set his papers aside.
“Your father loved us,” she said plainly.
“I know that—” he began, but she waved him off.
“No, listen to me. He loved us. And he didn’t love them, and they knew it. How do you think that boy felt growing up, always second in his father’s attentions? Can you imagine it, Derek?”
He never had. Not once.
The heir, taking second place to his father’s bastard child. He imagined the New Earl wanting to review his lessons, or asking after his father, who was never home. It began to dawn on Knightly what wretchedness the New Earl must have suffered, to be ignored, overlooked, second best. Knightly had always known he was loved.
“And Lady Harrowby was married but never had a husband, not really. But she chose that because your father told her about us before they were wed.”
“Why did he marry her, anyway?” Knightly asked. If they were in love . . . why did they not make it official? So what if his mother was an actress? Wasn’t half the fun of a title doing whatever you damn well pleased?
“Duty. Debts. Lack of courage at the crucial moment,” she said, turning to look out the windows overlooking bustling Fleet Street. Did he detect tears? Did he detect more to the story—that her mother had asked his father not to marry someone else. Had she asked him to forget about duty and respectability and implored him to choose love instead?
His mother, now composed, turned back to face him. “They live in a world, Derek, where love doesn’t matter.”
He thought of Lady Lydia’s plaintive question: What if I wish for a love match? He didn’t have an answer for her, but he possessed a deeper understanding of the question now.
“I suppose it goes without saying that I wish you to have love,” his mother carried on. “And if you still insist on some marriage for status and wealth, don’t do it out of some notion to be like your father. It would be a dishonor to us both.”
Chapter 33
A Misunderstanding with the Marquis
DOMESTIC INTELLIGENCE
The total number of newspaper reporters arrested: 38
The total number of newspapers that have been shuttered: 4
Only The London Weekly seems immune. For now.
The London Times
White’s Gentlemen’s Club
St. James’s Street
THERE was no point in refusing Marsden’s request to join him for a drink at White’s. They had business to discuss and it could happen here or there, sooner or later. That Marsden should wish to meet in a place that would display his rank and power was not lost upon Knightly. Clever, too, for White’s would remind him of what he stood to gain—or lose.
I ought to belong here, Knightly thought as he strolled up the four short steps to the entrance to this exclusive haven.
The first thing he saw was the New Earl, seated with a few gentlemen, card game in progress. The look in his eyes conveyed those taunting, menacing words: Throw the bastard out. He doesn’t belong here.
Only now, Knightly saw beyond the obvious hatred in his glare to see hurt and confusion. When the New Earl leaned to whisper something scathing to his companion—all the while shooting daggers with his eyes—Knightly wondered what his relationship had been like with their father. Did they have the same long conversations? Did they share the same dry sense of humor? Did they go to the theatre together?
His mother had mentioned debts as a factor for the marriage. Had the countess’s dowry paid for his own gentlemen’s education? Had it provided the inheritance with which he purchased The London Weekly?
They were questions he’d never known to even ask. His mother had stormed in and delivered all this devastating information and then made an elegantly cutting exit, as befit one of London’s best actresses.
The marquis had claimed a table in a dark corner of the club. He sat there, steely-eyed and seething. If he was supposed to be intimidated, Knightly thought, then the marquis ought to try harder. Or just not bother.
“I thought we had an understanding,” Marsden began, without offering a drink. It was to be one of those conversations. “I thought I had been abundantly clear that I would steer the parliamentary Inquiry away from the notoriously unsavory reporting methods at your newspaper if you would marry my sister.”
Knowing what he knew now—namely, the reasons Lady Lydia remained impossibly unwed—Knightly knew what a bad bargain it was. Not because she wasn’t some pure ideal, but because her heart was otherwise engaged, and that would make for a cold marriage indeed. Certainly it wasn’t good enough to violate truth number three: Be beholden to no on
e.
But that was information he had no intention of revealing. Yet.
“No date had been set,” Knightly pointed out.
“Which is exactly why I am here,” Marsden said. At least he was the sort of man who got quiet when enraged. None of that undignified blustering sported by lesser—though more amusing—men. “No wedding date has been set. Not even a proposal. And I hear that you enjoyed a significant, extended, private interlude with Miss Swift.”
“You must be referring to the item that appeared in The London Times this morning. Surprising what information such a second-rate paper manages to uncover, isn’t it?”
The mark hit home. Marsden visibly reddened. They now both knew that Knightly had learned he’d nearly bankrupted himself paying suppression fees to The Times and launched this Inquiry when his funds began to run out.
“I saw you. With Annabelle,” Marsden said through gritted teeth.
Ah, now that was interesting. Not that they were spotted, for neither had made any effort at discretion—and why did they need to? Neither were haute ton, with reputations to maintain—but that Marsden gave a damn.
“I believe you are referring to Miss Swift,” Knightly corrected.
“Devil take it, Knightly, we had an understanding,” Marsden growled.
Knightly only shrugged, and said, “We did not agree upon a date by which I would propose. We did not agree upon a love match or some pretense of romance. We may have had an understanding, but there was no discussion of the terms.”
“I assumed your word was that of a gentleman,” Marsden said tightly.
“That was your first mistake, Marsden,” Knightly said with a laugh—and a glance across the room at the New Earl. “We all know I’m no gentleman.”
Marsden went silent. Was Marsden shocked that he had so directly referred to his bastardry when it was something he ought to be ashamed of?
In that silence, Knightly realized, deeply, that he was not a gentleman. He did not belong here, in White’s. He missed Galloway’s and its raucous company, the rustling sound of newspapers, and the scent of coffee and cigar smoke. He liked the ease one felt there. And the lack of angry glares launched in his direction.
“Pity, that,” Marsden said thoughtfully, “because we gentlemen protect our own. And we actively suppress those who are . . . not.”
The emphasis he placed on that little word, not, was remarkable. Not suddenly had the connection of rats, dung heaps, mud larks, and rotting corpses.
When Knightly replied, his voice was the drawl of a bored man. Between the glares from the New Earl (which were now, at this point, making it difficult to maintain a shred of that newly discovered empathy) and Marsden’s overbearing manner and the restrained silence of this club, Knightly felt his chest tighten, as if a thousand-ton anvil pressed upon his chest, making breathing impossible.
He needed to walk and to get lost in the busy, meandering streets of London until night and silence descended upon the city. He needed the slap of cool air on his face. He needed to think about Lydia and Annabelle and The London Weekly and the family he’d never had. And to think about love.
He had no more time or patience for Lord Marsden and his bad bargains.
“Marsden, if you have something to tell me that I don’t already know, I’d like to hear it. But the pretentious, heavy hand of the upper orders is not news. If it’s not news, then I’m not interested.”
“Oh, I have news for you, Knightly,” Marsden said with a nefarious grin. “But I think I’ll let you read it in the papers tomorrow. The London Times, in fact.”
Chapter 34
Lovesick Female Driven to Desperate Measures
DRAFT:
Dear Annabelle
What is the proper way to conduct oneself after being discovered in a compromising position?
Composed by Miss Annabelle Swift, unsolicited, on behalf of Mr. Derek Knightly.
Offices of The London Weekly
KNIGHTLY must know that he was the Nodcock. No man as successful as he could be so obtuse. Annabelle allowed that all her sighs and blushes and stammers over the years were very missable. But they had kissed, Knightly and she. Twice.
Furthermore, the gossip columns had reported on it, thus mercifully offering concrete proof that such an exquisite event had actually happened and was not some wicked tease from her imagination.
And yet Knightly strolled into the weekly meeting with the same grin and drawling “ladies first” as he had for every other meeting since the dawn of time. He didn’t act differently. He didn’t give any indication that Something Momentous had occurred.
Annabelle scowled. Why was it all so hard, every step of the way?
A wink would have done wonders. A lift of one brow would have been a simple, unremarkable thing that spoke volumes to her. A knowing smile, perhaps? And really, what was the point of discretion now when The London Times printed up the details for all to see? Almost anybody in London now knew that:
1. At the charity ball benefiting the Society of Unfortunate Women, she and Knightly had enjoyed an extended, moonlit interlude, complete with a passionate kiss. Every Londoner was surely imagining the most wanton behavior on both their parts.
2. Knightly was one wicked lothario, dallying with an unmarriageable chit (Annabelle) while his very marriageable intended (Lady Marsden) languished in the ballroom.
Upon seeing her today, Owens had placed his hand on the small of her back and leaned in close to inquire about her extended moonlit interlude. Her response was a breathless “Nice” because she had been too flustered over his affection and concern. She gazed up to his warm brown eyes, searching for a reason why he would be so involved in the trials and tribulations of her little love life.
How to make heads or tales of any of it? A glimmer of anything remotely resembling acknowledgment might have gone a long way. Had Knightly nothing to say to her after that gossip rag? It was ungentlemanly to ignore it. Unsporting not to say something. Unless his silence was the answer she sought.
Sophie was chattering about weddings and the latest fashions; Eliza continued her reporting on the adventures of the Tattooed Duke, the previously unsuspecting subject of her writing, and now her husband.
Knightly warily turned his attentions to Julianna.
“Julianna, what salacious gossip might we find in your column this week?”
“I thought I might comment upon the Man About Town’s recent column. Set the record straight, perhaps?” She asked this with a challenging lift of her brow.
“I don’t know that there is much more to be said,” Knightly replied, leaning against a table. Annabelle wanted to disagree strongly. There was plenty to be said—to her. Knightly added: “I’m certain any member of the aristocracy is engaged in much more scandalous activities that will be of significantly more interest to our readers.”
In other words: don’t talk about it. In other words: there was nothing to say. In other words: if we ignore it perhaps it will go away.
Julianna scowled. Annabelle did, too, for that matter. And then Knightly fixed his attentions upon her.
“Annabelle, what schemes do you have for us this week?”
It was on the tip of her tongue to say she would offer advice on how gentlemen ought to conduct themselves after passionately kissing women during moonlit interludes at a ball. Alas, Bold Annabelle had not progressed so far as to airing her personal business in public. Though she now entertained wicked and sassy retorts, she was not yet able to voice them.
Instead, she said, “I think it might be time for desperate measures.”
“Are your efforts thus far unsuccessful?” Knightly asked with a lift of his brow. Was that a reference to their conversation or just a thing to do? And why did he have to be so impossibly handsome when he leaned?
“Oh, there have been some small successes,” she re
plied, making every effort to sound haughty and dismissive. “ Nothing grand enough to be satisfying.”
Beside her, Julianna stifled a chortle, and Annabelle caught Owens’s mouth hanging slack-jawed. These things made her rather proud of herself.
“What do you have in mind, Dear Annabelle?” Knightly was grinning, ever so slightly. She saw it in the upward tilt of the corner of his mouth, but mostly she saw it in his eyes.
“You’ll see when you read my column,” she said, with a little bit of sass, which was all bluster because she had no idea what desperate measures she would try.
“Not sooner?” Knightly asked casually. Oh, he had to know. He must! But she needed more certainty than a lift of his brow or an easily asked question in front of a room full of people.
Annabelle lifted her head higher and replied, “Quite a few of my readers have encouraged me to maintain an aura of mystery. And some even say that if the Nodcock cannot figure it out for himself, he doesn’t deserve to know.”
AFTER the meeting, the Writing Girls proceeded immediately to Gunther’s for some ices. They parked Sophie’s open-aired carriage in the shade of a tree, and with raspberry ices in hand proceeded with the important conversation.
“What desperate measures do you have in mind?” Sophie asked.
“Well, there are quite a few options,” Annabelle said as she rummaged through her reticule and pulled out a packet of letters. “I have received dozens, but these are some of the more outrageous suggestions. This one says I ought to just print the truth in my column.”
“Direct. But not exactly thrilling,” Julianna replied.
“Unless you can be there when he reads it,” Sophie said. “How fascinating it would be to watch his reaction! I wonder if he knows and would just coolly lift one brow and—”
“Correct a comma and carry on,” Julianna added with a smirk.