by Maya Rodale
Nevertheless, he continued to stroll from the drawing room across the marble floor of the foyer, into the dining room with its mahogany dining table polished to a high shine. He stared at his brooding reflection in the extremely well-polished silver tureen. An oil painting over the mantel depicted a nude woman at her bath; he thought of Annabelle.
Usually, he felt pride in his home. It was the physical manifestation of his success—and of his bachelorhood. No womanly touches like a half-finished embroidery or fragile little knickknacks made the place seem welcoming.
The house felt downright cold. Yes, it was a rainy night. But fires were blazing in every fireplace in every room. The building seemed cold and empty because Annabelle wasn’t here to fill it up with her sighs and laughter and kisses and death-defying escapades and just . . . her.
Annabelle, he wanted Annabelle. Needed her. Craved her.
He understood now why she had to say no to his lust-driven proposal that she move into this museum of a house and become his mistress at his convenience. He had asked her only to share his bed and be around for his comfort. She deserved so much more. She knew that, and he was glad of that.
He knew that now. He needed so much more of her now.
Loss will do that to a man; it’ll make him realize what he’s missing in a really damned painful way. Since he did not lose, he had embarked on that courtship to win her back.
But hell, it was slow going. He wondered how she had endured for all those years and months and weeks and days. He’d only been at this game of seduction and loving trickery for a fortnight and already his nerves were frayed, his desire overwhelming, his patience worn to a delicate thread. Yet she had steadfastly loved him and patiently waited for years.
What a nodcock he’d been. Perhaps he could even forgive her for that unfortunate name. Surely, he deserved worse, and he cursed himself. He definitely deserved this torture of wanting and waiting. Even worse, he knew exactly what he was missing. Intimately.
Knightly pressed his forehead against the cool glass windowpane of his second-story drawing room, overlooking the garden and the tree Annabelle had recklessly climbed.
A pounding at the front door echoed ominously through the house. He idly wondered who bothered to go out on such a god-forsaken night as this. Wilson, the butler, would see to it.
Annabelle? His heartbeat quickened.
No, those were not Annabelle’s footsteps he heard thudding in the marble-floored hall and pounding up the stairs. No, that was the sound of an army; of heavy boots; of men on a mission.
The door burst open, splintering the wood and slamming into the plaster wall. Knightly turned slowly to face the intruders. As if he had all the time in the world. As if he couldn’t be bothered to hurry.
“You might have just tried the doorknob. Or knocked,” he remarked dryly.
“That doesn’t make quite the same impression, now does it?” Lord Marsden drawled. He stood in the doorway, legs apart and arms folded over his chest.
“I’m not intimidated, if that’s the effect you sought,” Knightly said. He took a small sip of brandy, savoring what would surely be his last taste of the stuff for some time.
“I’m only just beginning,” Marsden remarked. And then without even looking, he barked out an order to the officers standing in formation behind him: “Arrest him.”
“On what grounds?” Knightly inquired as his hands were shackled with cold metal cuffs behind his back. The glass of brandy had tumbled to the floor, staining the Aubusson carpet.
“Good old libel,” Marsden said. “We’re taking you to Newgate.”
“Splendid. I’ve heard such great things,” Knightly remarked.
“Now you can confirm the rumors,” Marsden said, and he sounded happy, too damned happy, to have captured Knightly on such unimaginative charges and to have him carted off to Newgate like some common criminal. Knightly would take the arrest and the imprisonment, but he wouldn’t let Marsden get the last word or fully enjoy the moment.
“Wilson,” he called to his butler as they led him away, “see to the door and the carpet. Make sure that the invoice for repairs is sent to Lord Marsden, although I’m not sure that he can afford it.”
Chapter 47
An Exclusive Report from the Confines of Newgate
LONDON WEEKLY OWNER ARRESTED!
Headline of The London Weekly, The London Times, The Morning Post, and twelve other newspapers
Newgate
THE prison was as dank and disgusting as the stories led one to believe, including those The London Weekly had published. Eliza once spent two days in its confines, only to dramatically reenact Mad Jack’s outrageous escape. The thought did cross Knightly’s mind—he had plenty of time for thoughts to cross his mind—but while it would lead to an improvement in his lodgings, it would only delay the inevitable. Plus, given the schemes he had enacted, he might as well plan to stay awhile.
“You have to keep the paper going,” he told Owens, who had come to visit as soon as word of the arrest and imprisonment reached him.
“I don’t suppose we humbly offer apologies, etcetera, etcetera?” Owens dared to ask in a tone belying that he knew better.
“Have you suffered a head injury?” Knightly retorted.
“I’m just testing your sense of humor,” Owens replied. “What’s the story here? What’s the angle?”
“I’m already in prison. I am already facing trial. We might as well go for broke,” Knightly said frankly. “I need to see Lady Marsden. And then I’ll need to see Lady Roxbury. We have some scandalous secrets to expose.”
“As we at The Weekly are wont to do,” Owens said cheerfully. “Scandal equals sales.”
“And then you’ll have to bring me writing things, or I will have to dictate to you. There will be a letter from me, from prison. Won’t that be something? And then I’m going to take over Dear Annabelle.”
“What?” Owens jerked his head up in shock.
“Is she still writing that rubbish about table manners and whatnot?” Knightly asked. After her absolutely inspired campaign to win his attentions, she was now writing about the proper way to grasp a teapot while pouring a cup of a tea, and a thorough examination of the merits of adding sugar versus milk in one’s tea.
“The Nodcock story seems to have met an unfortunate end, and now we’re stuck with boring articles on tea parties,” Owens said, with one hell of a fiery and bloodthirsty glare aimed at Knightly.
Knightly had no choice but to face the facts: (1) everyone had known of Annabelle’s love for him, (2) Annabelle had many champions, (3) he was indeed a nodcock, and (4) those champions were sure as hell going to make sure he remembered that, which would be fine because (5) he was going to win her, and love her.
“To the contrary, Owens. The Nodcock story is about to get interesting,” Knightly said with a grin.
Chapter 48
The Newspaper Must Go On
ACCIDENTS & OFFENSES
A rock was thrown through the drawing room window of Lord Marsden’s Berkeley Square residence. A note was attached that read, “Free Knightly.”
The London Weekly
Offices of The London Weekly
THE writers of The London Weekly were called to order. From Grenville to the penny-a-liners, they all crowded into the meeting room to hear what Owens had to say.
“Knightly has been arrested on charges of libel. He’s in Newgate,” he told the group. There were audible gasps and murmured questions and a stunning array of expletives. Annabelle’s heart stopped, which made breathing or thinking or moving or feeling impossible. Knightly. Arrested.
“Newgate!” Julianna exclaimed above all in obvious shock. Newgate was a horrible, filthy place, and Annabelle’s beloved Knightly was there, locked up like a common criminal when he was anything but.
“What did you ex
pect, that they’d take ’em to Buckingham Palace?” Grenville retorted. Julianna silenced him with a withering look.
“What are we going to do?” she demanded. “Obviously we must do something.”
“I can help him escape,” Eliza offered. “I did a series of articles on how to get out of Newgate. Which couldn’t happen fast enough. The place is just awful.”
“We’re definitely going to reprint those stories,” Owens said with a grin. “And we’re definitely going to keep the paper going. As Knightly said, he’s already in prison. We might as well go for broke.”
“You saw him?” Annabelle asked. The words were out of her mouth before she thought to censor them for the moment and inquire discreetly later. Everyone quieted and turned to look at her. Everyone knew that her concern went far deeper than anyone else’s.
“Aye,” Owens said in a low voice.
“How is he?” she asked softly. There was no need to raise her voice, for the room had remained silent. Everyone already knew she loved him. Even Knightly knew it now.
“He’s spoiling for a fight,” Owens answered, which was to say that Knightly was fine and in good spirits. “Penny-a-liners, you know the drill. Find as much dirt on Marsden as you can, get details from the prison. Lady Roxbury, Knightly asked to see you.”
“Me?” Julianna gasped.
“Yes, something about Lady Lydia,” Owens said briskly. And then he winced when he realized what he’d said and who had heard it. Annabelle was the recipient of more than a few worried glances.
“What about Lady Lydia?” Annabelle asked, because she was free to ask these things now. But she voiced the question in a small, hollow voice. When she had meant that Knightly ought to marry Lady Lydia it was some vague idea. Some noble sacrifice to save the paper. But now the hour was upon them in which Knightly faced prison or marriage to a highborn woman.
She was going to lose. She had already lost him.
“He asked to see her,” Owens said, looking very pained to deliver such news, and she was sorry to have put him in such a position. She wanted to reassure him, Oh, it’s all right. My heart is already broken.
Instead she said, “Did he ask to see . . . anyone else?” Her desperation to know if he cared for her at all overrode her fear of speaking before a group.
Owens shook his head no. He looked sorry, and she felt ashamed for making him feel that way. But she’d had to know that when Knightly was in jail, he did not ask for her. If there were any questions lingering about how he felt about her, she now had her answer.
She was right to refuse him. This was proof, but she was not consoled in the slightest.
“What does one wear when paying a call to Newgate?” Julianna asked, changing the subject. It wasn’t the best most tactful question, Annabelle thought, given the fact that Knightly had not asked for her. But it was the least of her troubles.
“Definitely your worst dress,” Sophie answered.
Annabelle’s imagination starting spinning awful stories of Knightly’s imprisonment. She envisioned rats and mice scurrying about, nibbling on toes of dead prisoners. She imagined the wretched specimens of humanity moaning and groaning (she didn’t know why, it just seemed like the thing). All of this, of course, occurring in a relentless darkness, broken only by shafts of gray light from narrow slits placed high in stone walls that were moist from the dampness.
This vivid vision made her shudder with revulsion.
Poor Knightly! Her heart ached for what torments he must have to endure as a Newgate prisoner, keeping company with thieves and murderers.
Poor Knightly indeed, she grumbled silently, asking for Lady Lydia to visit him and not requesting the same of her. Obviously he was going to propose to Lady Lydia. Marsden couldn’t very well lock up the betrothed of his dearest sister. Some things were just not done.
Clever, she gave him that, even as her heart positively throbbed in agony.
She had done the right thing, Annabelle reminded herself for the thousandth time. If he was going to marry a woman just to get out of prison, then he was not a man capable of love. And she wanted love, all-consuming, outrageously passionate, fiery, and not-even-death-do-us-part love.
If she wanted anything less, she would have married Mr. Nathan Smythe from the bakery up the road. Though it looked like she might after all.
THE Writing Girls gathered at Sophie’s house at the conclusion of the meeting to wait whilst Julianna immediately went to visit Knightly at Newgate.
“Annabelle, are you all right?” Eliza asked. Worry was etched in her features. She reached out to clasp her hand.
No, Annabelle thought. No, I’m not all right and I’ll never be again because I have lost the love of my life. I had a chance and I threw it away and now I must live with this regret until my dying day . . . But she bit back those overdramatic sentiments and said, instead: “I was when I first heard the news. But since he requested Lady Lydia . . . it is clear where his attentions are fixed.”
“I wonder what that is about,” Sophie said. “It seems strange that he would call for her. Unless it is to plead his case with her brother.”
“He must be planning to propose to her, of course,” Annabelle said matter-of-factly. She wondered if he had a ring. Or if would be on bended knee when he asked. Probably not in Newgate.
“What an awful proposal. I would refuse,” Sophie said with a shudder.
“What if Brandon proposed to you in a prison?” Annabelle asked, rephrasing the question to include her beloved husband.
“Brandon would never find himself in prison. Unless it was to rescue someone,” Sophie replied.
“Well Knightly was bound to be arrested,” Eliza said frankly, and to murmurs of agreement. “I’m only surprised it has not happened sooner.”
Annabelle frowned, annoyed, because she found there was something wild and exciting about a man who might be imprisoned. It meant he was bold, daring, adventurous, as if he could be a hero or a villain in equal measure.
Do not feel affection for him, she commanded herself. He is probably proposing to another woman this very minute.
But then she thought of how it must feel to be locked up and away. He would feel so frustrated with the lack of liberty, and that must drive him mad. Would he go mad?
No, because he would escape first. He would find a way out. Knightly always found a way to get just what he wanted.
If only he wanted her . . .
No, she was done with that line of thinking—done! Now she was going mad herself, oh blast.
He was going to marry Lady Lydia. It was the sensible thing to do. Would she be invited to the wedding? Would she have to smile while he recited vows to love and cherish another woman?
“Annabelle, are you all right? You look close to tears,” Sophie said, peering closely at her.
Her eyes did feel the hot sting of tears starting, but she would not let them fall.
“Or like you’re about to cast up your accounts,” Eliza added with a cringing expression. Indeed, her stomach was in knots.
“What if he does marry Lady Lydia? What do I do?” Annabelle asked, and she did not even try to disguise the anguish in her voice.
She had spent her whole life waiting for a Grand, True Love. And since she met Knightly three years, eight months, one week, and three days ago, she had been waiting for that Grand True Love to blossom between them.
She could never love another, she was sure of it.
She had always just assumed that he would marry her and love her . . . eventually. For the first time, Annabelle honestly confronted the prospect of a lifetime—a bloody lifetime, for she was only six and twenty—without love, without Knightly. The prospect was bleak indeed.
A lifetime of Blanche’s barbs and orders and snide remarks. Forever living in a household where she was merely tolerated because she served so selflessly.
A lifetime in which her brother—her own flesh and blood—ignored her and buried his face in The London Times—of all the newspapers in London, for Lord’s sake.
A memory of one glorious night in which almost all of her secret wishes and dreams had come true . . . One night in which she was not only wanted, but loved . . .
After which followed a lifetime of remorse.
“You will be fine, Annabelle. You will be loved,” Eliza said in a fierce whisper with an affectionate squeeze of her hand.
Annabelle didn’t let go, even as Sophie and Eliza chattered on and she made an effort to follow their conversation about dresses and scandals and books they had read and Eliza’s upcoming plans to travel to Timbuktu with her adventurous husband.
But Annabelle also watched the clock, awaiting Julianna’s return. Watched it so intently that it seemed time would stop if she looked away. Finally, two hours, forty-nine minutes, and twenty-six seconds later, Julianna burst through the doors.
“You would not believe what I am now privy to,” she exclaimed breathlessly. “Oh my Lord. Be still my throbbing heart. Fetch the smelling salts. Do you remember when I found Drawling Rawlings in that unfathomably scandalous barnyard position with the most unlikely of characters?”
Sophie, her face an expression of awe, replied: “The scene you described as, and I quote, ‘The single most scandalous compromising position of your career, second to Roxbury’s.’ That one?”
“This is better,” Julianna said with a broad grin. “Better even than unmasking the Man About Town. This is the biggest story of my career.”
Annabelle supposed Knightly’s Newgate proposal to Lady Lydia might be classified as that interesting.
“I know what happened during Lady Lydia’s missing season! She related it to me directly. And Knightly has given me orders to print every last salacious detail!”