Seducing Mr. Knightly

by Maya Rodale

  Chapter 49

  A Most Scandalous Edition of The London Weekly

  LETTER FROM THE (IMPRISONED) EDITOR

  London, prepare to be scandalized.

  The London Weekly

  The Swift Residence

  THIS particular issue of The London Weekly became the most widely read and discussed issue of a newspaper in years. Many would mention it in the same breath as Thomas Paine’s Rights of Man or the Declaration of Independence from the Colonies.

  A typical issue of the paper might sell twelve thousand copies, with each one read by a few, then read aloud to many more. The issues in which Eliza revealed the exotic secrets of the man known as the Tattooed Duke in a column set sales records, as did Julianna’s very public battle of words and wits with the rival gossip columnist, the Man About Town and her now-husband Lord Roxbury. But neither of those topped this one.

  From prison, Knightly authorized the purchase of a new printing press to keep up with the demand.

  Even from behind bars, The London Weekly plainly belonged to him. His touch, his vision, and his love was apparent in every line of type on this, the most scandalous issue of a newspaper ever printed.

  How scandalous was it?

  Even the Swift household possessed a copy. It was the second one ever to cross the threshold. (The first was the issue featuring Annabelle’s debut column. Only that page remained carefully folded and tucked into a copy of a Jane Austen novel.)

  Annabelle wasn’t even the one to buy this particular issue. Thomas, a lifelong loyal reader of The London Times, brought it home the previous evening, muttering something about everyone at his cloth company offices reading it. It was not until breakfast that Annabelle was able to read it privately, after finding it discarded in the bin.

  On the front page was a defiant letter from the editor displaying Knightly’s razor sharp wit, slicing and shaping the facts to tell the story he wanted. She could hear it—his voice, strong and commanding and so self-assured—as if he stood behind her and read the words aloud.

  She loved him, of course, and admired him because when the world turned against him, he stood proud. Even from the dankest of prisons he possessed wit, intelligence, defiance, and grace. It made her love him all the more.

  Annabelle poured a cup of tea and sat at the breakfast table, alone, and began to read The Weekly.

  LETTER FROM THE (IMPRISONED) EDITOR

  I write this from Newgate, where I am imprisoned on charges of libel. When has it become a crime to print the truth?

  Taxes keep the prices of newspapers high, in a deliberate attempt to keep information out of the hands of the common man and woman. Yet the coffeehouse culture flourishes, and newspapers are shared, thus ensuring the printed word will be read and discussed.

  It is foolish to try to put a stop to this. But fools will persist in their madness, will they not?

  It is a well-known but oft unspoken fact that the government pays newspapers for favorable reports and portrayals. The London Weekly never took a farthing. This publication is beholden to no one but the reading public.

  The London Weekly has long brought you “accounts of gallantry, pleasure, and entertainment.” It has also brought a level of equality and truth to the press. which has resulted in great success—and my imprisonment. I stand by every word in this paper, especially in this particular edition. London, prepare to be scandalized.

  Annabelle caught herself with a wicked, delighted grin. Her heart was racing. Who knew so much adventure and anticipation could be contained in a newspaper? Knightly did. Like thousands of others all over London at that very moment, she turned the page, eager to delve into more.

  But unlike the rest of London, Annabelle felt a glow of pride that she belonged to this paper and was a part of something so daring and great. She, little old Annabelle Swift, was a beloved member of an exclusive club: the writers of The London Weekly. If nothing else . . . she had this triumph in her life.

  If nothing else, Knightly was and would always be the man who gave her a rare chance to be more than a Spinster Auntie from Bloomsbury. For that alone, she thanked him and loved him and granted him her undying devotion.

  On the second page, she found Julianna’s masterpiece. Even though Julianna had breathlessly confessed every last detail, Annabelle still read the printed version. She knew that Owens and Knightly had gone through it to ruthlessly remove anything that would not be supported by fact. The story, so detailed and salacious, occupied the entire second page.

  FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE BY A LADY OF DISTINCTION

  The mystery of Lady Lydia Marsden’s missing season has been solved, and was related to this author by the lady herself. It involves a lover, of course, as all great gossip does. Like the fairy tales, there are unfathomably cruel relatives; lovers, separated; innocence lost. But will there be a happy ending?

  Lady Lydia took a lover, a man hired to teach her the fine art of dancing. It has often been noted that she moved across ballrooms with an unparalleled grace; that she could waltz better than any debutante, that she possessed such a poised and regal bearing and knew by heart the steps to every dance, even the most obscure country reels. We now know why. Hours spent in practice, in the arms of a man she had come to love.

  For years their love was expressed only in the hearted gaze of illicit lovers, or hours spent in each other’s arms as they danced across the ballroom of Marsden house. In time, that was not enough . . .

  Rumors soon surfaced of Lady Lydia’s condition after a particular incident in which she was discovered casting up her accounts in a potted fern during a breakfast party.

  A remarkably intrepid reporter from The London Times sought confirmation of the lady’s condition by impersonating a physician (he now languishes in Newgate, awaiting trial). The lady in question was discovered to have been in a delicate condition. Her lengthy stint in the country—the infamous missing second season—did nothing to stifle rumors to that effect.

  As one would imagine, the lady’s brother was livid to discover that his sister was not only with child, but that the father was a lowborn dance instructor. Even more vexing, these lovers imagined a happy life together with their child. This was not to be, alas. She found herself locked in the tower of the country house; her lover was banished and threatened with deportation to Australia should he dare to see his beloved.

  And what of the child? A boy was born and smuggled to its father. They live in squalor. ’Tis not merely a tale of a young woman’s missing season, but of love thwarted. The lesson to be gleaned from this? Love knows no rules or class or boundaries. And, we hope, that only fools stand in the path of true love.

  To hear the story related by a breathless Julianna was one thing; it was quite another to read it in black and white. It quite explained Lady Lydia’s letter to Dear Annabelle, and she breathed a sigh of relief at the personal note she had included in her previous column. She had encouraged Scandalously in Love, otherwise known as Lady Lydia, to await true love. It had been the right thing to do.

  But what could Knightly be about, printing this? Marsden was livid already. What purpose could this serve other than to provoke the man further? Did Knightly want to spend the rest of his days in Newgate?

  The line of questioning was disturbed when something else caught her eye . . .

  On the rightmost column of the page . . .

  The headline DEAR ANNABELLE . . .

  Usually her column appeared on page sixteen or seventeen, tucked behind all the serious and important news, but today it was prominently featured on page three. This was odd, as she hadn’t turned in a particularly interesting article. She had answered Mrs. Crowley from Margate’s question about the proper way to hold a teapot, she advised Mr. Chapeau from Blackfriars on which feather to decorate his hat, and settled a dispute between neighbors on who ought to sweep the sidewalk. In other words, it might
have been one of her dullest columns to date.

  Certainly nothing worthy of page three. Certainly nothing worthy of her portrait. What was her portrait doing in the paper? Owens must have put that in . . .

  Intrigued, Annabelle began to read.

  DEAR ANNABELLE: A DECLARATION OF LOVE FROM THE NODCOCK

  Dear Annabelle,

  You have succeeded in winning my attention. I can think of nothing but you, day or night—and not because there is little else to do in prison, and not merely because of your low-cut bodices or other tricks to catch my eye. You are beautiful, Annabelle, inside and out. You intrigue me, Annabelle. I crave you, Annabelle. You have succeeded in winning my affections. Annabelle, I am in love with you.

  Readers have marveled at the dim-witted and obtuse idiot you adored. I am a fool to have missed you for so long, and an even bigger one to have lost you once I found you. Dear Annabelle, please advise how I might win your favor, your affections, and your promise of a lifetime together.

  Yours always,

  D. Knightly, the Nodcock

  She couldn’t quite believe the marvelous words just there, in black and white, making her heart beat hard and her breath catch in her throat. Hot, happy tears stung her eyes because once upon a time, on one otherwise unremarkable Saturday morning, her dearest wish came true.

  He loved her.

  Mr. Derek Knightly, man of her dreams, loved her.

  Annabelle knew a Grand Declaration of True Love when it was printed in black and white. Her heart continued to pound hard and her breath hitched in her throat. Knightly loved her! And all of London knew it!

  She had to go to him. Had to find him even if it meant storming into Newgate. She had to tell him YES.

  Chapter 50

  Newspaper Tycoon on Trial

  TOWN TALK

  The trial of newspaper tycoon Derek Knightly is such a crush, rivaling balls thrown at the palace. Everyone is eager to attend the most sensational trial of 1825. Especially as fears are high that one may not be able to read about it in the newspapers.

  The Morning Post

  The Trial

  KNIGHTLY sat on a hard wooden chair before a plain wood table awaiting the start of his trial. All around him, people filed into the courtroom finding seats and carrying on tense, hushed conversations. He scanned the courtroom, searching for a lovely woman with milky skin, eyes blue like the sky, golden curls, and a mouth made for sin yet smiled so sweetly.

  Increasingly his glances grew frantic—though he disguised the growing fear gnawing at him. Annabelle was not here.

  Depending upon the outcome of this trial, he might be locked away for years. His fortune might suffer. The ton could have no use for him now. So much hinged on the outcome of this farce, in which he would defend himself. Everything depended upon his absolute focus, sharp wit, and keen observation.

  Yet he thought only of Annabelle. Where was she?

  Had she seen The London Weekly? She must have. Owens assured him that every last person in London had read it, or had it read to them, or discussed it at great length. No one was oblivious to its contents.

  Had she seen his version of Dear Annabelle? Was there anything more anguish-inducing than a public confession of love with naught but silence in response? He would testify under oath that it was more punishing than Newgate.

  Again Knightly deeply, painfully, empathized with what Annabelle must have endured all those years . . . waiting patiently. Always wondering. What she must have endured, each week as she published her exploits and her daring attempts to snare his attentions, when he had been as obtuse as ever. It was, in his mind, the very definition of bravery. To push oneself to great heights, risking such a great fall, with all of London watching.

  “Order in the court!” the judge called out. His gray powdered wig shook with the force of his declaration. The gavel knocked hard on the wooden desk and echoed around the room.

  Knightly would defend himself. He would do so with the premise that it could not be libel if it was, in fact, the truth. With Owens’s help he’d lined up witnesses, including the Lady Lydia Marsden, who might be called to testify against her own brother.

  Did he buy her testimony? Perhaps. He preferred to thinking of it as investing in her freedom. In exchange for her story, Knightly settled a small fortune upon her, allowing her to marry and set up a dignified household with her lover and son, despite the wishes of her brother. They thought they might take an extended visit to Italy. They could go first class with the settlement he was providing. He thought it worth every penny, because he knew about love now.

  On the other hand, Marsden was going to have a very bad day.

  He saw the other Weekly writers file into the courtroom and take seats in the gallery. His mother joined them, and she beamed proudly at him from her seat in the gallery. Knightly watched the lot of them obviously peer around the courtroom, murmuring the same question. Where is Annabelle?

  “We are here for the trial of Mr. Derek Knightly, editor and owner of The London Weekly on the charges of libel,” the judge intoned. His voice carried across the crowded room and all conversations ceased.

  Marsden sat on the opposite side of the courtroom with a smug smirk on his face. Obviously he did not know that his sister—his own flesh and blood—planned to provide the testimony that would devastate his case.

  The premise was simple: it was said that The London Weekly regularly published false, inflammatory, and libelous statements. Knightly would offer proof of every statement in every issue of the newspaper.

  The judge said that would not be necessary.

  Marsden’s solicitor pointed out that the recent issue provided the most relevant and libelous and false statements.

  Knightly said he was glad they brought that up, at which point Lady Lydia Marsden took the stand at his invitation. The courtroom erupted in audible gasps followed by a general uproar.

  “Order in this court!” the judge hollered. He pounded the gavel again. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

  Lady Lydia looked to Knightly with trepidation in her eyes. She had already stood up for him, so the damage to her reputation was done. But he lifted his brow, asking the question: Did she wish to go?

  Lydia nodded her head. Somewhere, in the midst of their arranged courtship, they had developed a truce, which had led to something like friendship. He had earned her favor when he inquired about her wishes—it was an unfortunate fact of her life that he was only the second man to have ever done so (second to her beloved). When she shared her wish for a love match, he didn’t laugh or dismiss her. The question haunted him—until he fell in love himself. And then he knew that nothing was more important than being with the one you loved.

  Through her story, Lydia provided him the means to defend his livelihood, and through his fortune she would have the means to live with her soon-to-be husband.

  Thus, Lady Lydia took the stand, facing quite a few people who had whispered vicious rumors and snubbed her at every opportunity, so that she might take control of her own story and write the happy ending she so desired.

  Knightly stood to address the room.

  Where is Annabelle?

  “Lady Marsden, it is said that The London Weekly takes liberties with its facts. Can you confirm that your story, as it appears in this last issue of The London Weekly, is the absolute truth?”

  “It is the truth as I told it,” she said.

  The reaction of the courtroom was explosive. Marsden paled. Other men shouted, more than one woman shrieked. The gasps stole around the room like a strong wind.

  The judge’s face reddened as he called louder and louder for order once, twice, thrice.

  “How can it be libel if it is the truth?” Knightly asked the courtroom, which had fallen silent when he began to speak. “By definition, it cannot be. If Lady Lydia’s story, which happens to be one
of the most scandalous collections of words printed by The Weekly, is the truth, what does that say for the rest of the newspaper? We can examine every line. Or we can conclude that occasionally it is not the portrayal that is unflattering, but the actions themselves.”

  The trial carried on for the rest of the day, reaching ever more sensational heights, in which Marsden alternated between glowering and gloating. Knightly fought the urge to pace, to drink. He scanned the crowds, ever looking for Annabelle. Where was she? Worry set in—not for his fate, but for her. In the end the jury deliberated and the judge pronounced Knightly’s fate. Not guilty.

  The judge pounded his gavel to restore order before his concluding remarks:

  “Good day, Mr. Knightly. You don’t belong here.”

  Chapter 51

  Dear Annabelle’s True Identity Discovered

  DEAR ANNABELLE

  This author discourages standing in the path of true love.

  The London Weekly

  Earlier . . .

  ANNABELLE had grabbed her shawl and was reaching for her bonnet for her journey to Newgate, where she was going to tell Knightly YES. It didn’t matter that it was Newgate, the least romantic location in Europe, possibly even the entire Northern Hemisphere.

  He loved her. She loved him.

  Nothing could stop them now.

  An obstacle immediately presented itself: Blanche and her friend Mrs. Underwood, the witch. They entered through the front door, effectively blocking Annabelle’s path.

  “What horrible disaster is in the news that has you weeping, a fire in an orphanage?” Blanche asked as she absorbed the tears on Annabelle’s face and the newspaper she clutched in her hands. Mrs. Underwood hovered just behind Blanche’s shoulder with an evil gleam in her eye.

  “Nothing,” Annabelle said stupidly. Then she cringed. It was tantamount to shouting I’m not guilty! or Look at this! or Question me further!

  “Nothing? Nothing has you weeping like a schoolgirl at a rubbish novel? Let me see that!” Blanche said, snatching the newspaper from Annabelle’s hands and quickly scanning the lines.