Irene shrugged, hoping to downplay the matter. “He came the day before yesterday, around teatime.”
“The Duke of Torquil coming to see the editor of this very newspaper,” Josie said, her voice holding an undercurrent of excitement that Irene perceived at once.
“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head. “The Duke coming here is not going in your column.”
“Look at it this way. He’s more exciting than Lady Godfrey’s dead parakeet.”
“Not one word, Josie. Not one.”
The journalist sighed. “Oh, very well, but why the secrecy?” She paused, glancing over her shoulder to the open doorway behind Clara, then back at Irene, her gaze turning speculative. “It’s about his mother, isn’t it? It must be. What else could he want?”
“My head,” she answered at once. “On a plate.” Before the other woman could ask any more questions, she stood up, holding out the sheets of paper. “We’re fortunate you have two days until press time. Give me something worth talking about, Josie.”
“Yes, Miss Deverill.”
The journalist departed, moving past Clara and out of the office, and Irene turned to her sister. “I suppose I have to see him,” she said without enthusiasm. “Though I can’t imagine why he’s back again. Send him in, but for heaven’s sake, leave the door open this time.”
That last bit of instruction was wholly wasted, for though Clara complied, the duke countermanded the action by shutting the door again after he had entered the room and Clara had departed.
Irene opened her mouth to demand he open it, but then he started toward her, and any thoughts about the door vanished as she remembered Clara’s remark from two days ago.
Handsome as sin.
With those words running through her head, Irene couldn’t help but notice the athletic grace with which he moved, the perfect way his elegant clothes fit his long legs, lean hips, and the wide shoulders Clara had so admired. As he halted before her desk, she noticed the pale, clear gray of his eyes and the black lashes that surrounded them, lashes far more opulent than any man ought to have. He might very well be, she realized in dismay, the handsomest man she’d ever encountered. How could she not have noticed that fact the day before yesterday? Maybe she’d been working too hard.
He gave a slight cough, reminding Irene that she was staring. Not that all her scrutiny had done her much good, for as he lifted a slim portfolio of black leather and placed it on her desk, she realized she hadn’t even noticed until that moment he’d been carrying such an item.
Irene gave herself a little mental shake to bring herself out of this sudden and most aggravating appreciation of the duke’s masculine assets. “I prefer the door of my office to remain open.”
“And I prefer it closed.”
With that, any momentary appreciation of his good looks vanished, and she was reminded that although he might very well be the handsomest man of her acquaintance, that fact hardly mattered, since his good looks took a distant second place to his arrogance.
“I am an unmarried woman,” she pointed out. “Isn’t a closed door rather improper?”
“Indeed, but since you made it clear in our previous conversation that what other people think is of no consequence to you, why should that matter? And,” he added before she could reply, “in addition to your sister, there are presently three other young women seated on the other side of this door, women I have no doubt are gossip columnists.”
“Journalists.”
He shrugged as if that were a meaningless distinction. “I would prefer not to have them listening in.”
“I see. So eavesdropping on other people’s conversations is acceptable only when you do it?”
“Rank,” he said, smiling a little, “does have its privileges.”
“If it’s gossip you’re worried about, I can assure you that I have no intention of providing the readers of my paper with the knowledge that you came to see me, much less the details of our conversation.”
“Just the same, I would prefer not to risk it.”
Irene heaved a sigh and gave up. “Just why have you come to see me?”
“I have a business matter I should like to discuss with you.” He gestured to the chair beside him with the other. “Shall we sit down?”
She wanted to refuse, but she couldn’t help being a bit curious. “I’d say no,” she said as she resumed her seat, “but I doubt it would matter.”
“You are beginning to develop an understanding of dukes, Miss Deverill.” He pulled out the chair across from her and sat down, then pulled the portfolio from her desk and placed it on the floor beside him.
“Whatever the reason you’re here,” she said, glancing at the clock on the wall, “it had best not take long, for I have a luncheon appointment at two o’clock. You have twenty-five minutes to come to the point.”
“That amount of time will be ample, but first, I wanted to tell you that since my visit to you two days ago, I have had news of my mother, and I thought perhaps you might wish to hear it.” He paused, one dark brow lifting in that haughty way of his. “Or perhaps,” he said after a moment, “your interest in those who write to you comes to an end once their stories are published?”
“Of course not!” Irene could feel her face and her temper heating up, and she wondered in exasperation how this man was able to flick her on the raw so easily. Whatever the reason, she would prefer not to let him see that he had any effect on her, and Irene strove for equanimity. “You mistake disinterest for knowledge. I own a newspaper, so I probably already know any news you may wish to tell me.”
“And yet you could not convey what you knew to me two days ago?” He did not wait for a reply, but went on, “Either way, you must then already be aware that she has not yet taken your advice and married Foscarelli.”
“I am, though I confess, I’m a bit surprised. Usually when one elopes, the marriage follows immediately. Is the delay due to your efforts?”
“I’m afraid I can take no credit. Until the day before yesterday, Mr. Foscarelli had been a man without a residence. Now that he has obtained a flat in town, he must wait fifteen days to secure the license.”
“I see. Either way, I cannot see that you came here for the purpose of keeping me informed as to your mother’s marriage state. Perhaps you could come to the point of your visit?”
“I am happy to do so, but first, I should like to ask you a question, one to which I would appreciate an unequivocal answer.”
Irene took a moment to brace herself before she replied. “What do you want to know?”
He reached into the portfolio beside him and pulled out a copy of Society Snippets. “I see that in your reply to my mother, you advised her to follow her heart and her passion and not allow superficialities such as position and class to bar the path to true love and happiness.”
She grimaced at his dry tone, for he made the words of her column sound like a penny dreadful. “Don’t you believe love is important to marriage?”
He didn’t reply at once, and the fact that her question seemed difficult to him when the answer was so obvious to her made Irene almost want to laugh.
“Perhaps it is,” he conceded at last. “But there are other things I believe matter more, if one’s marriage is to be happy. Things such as compatibility, like minds, similar station—the very things you would no doubt deem the ‘superficialities.’”
“You said you had a question to ask me,” she reminded. “That did not sound like a question.”
He tossed the newspaper onto her desk. “In all this so-called advice you offered my mother, couldn’t you have at least suggested she tie up her money?”
Irene stared at him in astonishment. “But I did. I advised her to have her solicitors draw up a marriage settlement.”
“That part of your advice did not figure in your column.”
“No, because prenuptial agreements are not very romantic, and readers want romance. They want to be swept away by a fantasy. In addition, we have
limitations of space. A certain amount of the advice I dispense must invariably be edited out. But in our private correspondence, I was very clear.”
“And what of all those who read your column and see a similarity to their own life? What if they act upon what they’ve read without having had the benefit of a personal correspondence with you?”
“I cannot be held liable for what decisions mature adults make in their private lives as a result of what they read in my newspaper. As for the rest,” she went on before he could debate that point, “I advised your mother to give Foscarelli a token sum as a dowry, put him on a quarterly allowance, and keep full control of all her assets in her own hands. I worded my advice in the strongest possible terms.”
“And yet, those terms were not strong enough, Miss Deverill, for she has decided to have no marriage settlement at all and to hand over to Foscarelli half her personal capital.”
Irene was dismayed, for that was a very unwise proceeding in the circumstances. “Oh, I am sorry to hear it, for tying up the money was one of the points I stressed most strongly in my correspondence with her.” She paused, struck by a sudden thought. “But I can’t think why you volunteer this information to me, given my occupation. Aren’t you afraid it will appear in the pages of my paper?”
He smiled a little, a smile that only increased her uneasiness. “No.”
He did not expand on that point, and Irene swallowed, shoving down her apprehensions. “Your mother has the right to make her own decision whom to marry and how much of her own money to bestow upon him.”
“No, she does not, not entirely. She is the Duchess of Torquil, and her right to do as she pleases ends when it impinges upon her duty to her family, her good name, and her position. Because of you, she has chosen to cast aside those obligations.”
“I fail to see how following her heart prevents her from fulfilling familial obligations.”
“Then please allow me to enlighten you,” he said smoothly. “As you must already be aware, given your profession, Foscarelli is a lothario who has engaged in countless romantic liaisons, particularly with women of the upper classes. My mother is not his only conquest. He is also seventeen years her junior. He is not, by either birth or deed, a gentleman, and he has no means of his own.”
“And yet, your mother is fully aware of all these facts and loves him anyway. In addition, she assured me that there was a great deal more good in his character than anyone knew.”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure he’s just tortured and misunderstood.”
Irene decided to ignore the scathing sarcasm. “Nonetheless, we are not discussing some green girl with no knowledge of the world. Your mother is a mature woman, perfectly capable of deciding Foscarelli’s character for herself. He may very well be a rake, but she has every right to wed a rake if she wants to do so.”
“You realize that by marrying him, she will be shunned by most of her acquaintances and friends.”
“I do. More importantly, so does she, but she seems to feel as I do, that losing such shallow friends as these is no great loss.”
“Her daughters, whose entire future rests upon making a good marriage, will share her disgrace by association, and will find their choice of desirable marriage partners much diminished. Their prospects were difficult enough before, given all the American heiresses invading our shores, waving obscene dowries in the faces of the eligible men of our acquaintance—”
“Hardly a testament to the character of those young men, that they would allow themselves to be bought with such ease. But I do see your point. It’s not the fact that Foscarelli is a fortune hunter that bothers you. It’s the fact that he’s a fortune hunter without a title.”
Those gray eyes Clara had deemed so beautiful narrowed a fraction. “Do not deliberately misunderstand the cause of my anger, Miss Deverill,” he said, his voice low and hard. “Whatever his station, he has chosen not to conduct his courtship in open and honorable fashion. Instead, he has employed concealment and subterfuge, because he knows his intentions are unsavory and the union unsuitable. For that alone, he ought to be tied behind a horse and dragged on his belly to John O’Groats and back.”
“A harsh punishment.”
“Yes. And one that any man, peer or no, would deserve in such circumstances. God knows, I—”
He broke off, and an expression crossed his hard, handsome countenance, something so stark and bleak that Irene stared in astonishment. This man seemed the last man on earth capable of naked emotion.
It was gone in an instant, however, and Irene could only conclude that what she’d seen was regret and self-recrimination for having not already administered the described punishment to the poor Italian.
“Suffice it to say,” he went on, “if Foscarelli were a peer, some restraints of good breeding would be expected of him, one of which would be to cast his eyes upon a woman of an age closer to his own.”
“Oh, yes, because peers always do that. The Earl of Plenderith, for example. He is fifty-four, if I recall correctly, and he just married his seventeen-year old ward. He’s followed your society’s rule splendidly, hasn’t he?”
“That is a different situation entirely.”
“Why? Because it’s the man who is older and not the woman?”
“Yes, as unfair as that might seem. Plenderith is a widower with no heir, and he wouldn’t be likely to gain that heir by marrying a woman of his own age. But I suspect you already understand his reasons,” he added dryly, “and you are being deliberately disingenuous, though whether it is to tout women’s rights, or to justify Foscarelli, or merely to try and prove me wrong, I cannot be sure.”
“All three, perhaps? Though I confess, the latter is the most gratifying prospect.”
His lips actually twitched at that, but when he spoke, his voice possessed its usual coolness. “Regardless, we have wandered from the point, which is that my mother is about to marry a man with whom she has nothing in common to sustain a happy marriage.”
“She has love, a deep and passionate love, it seems.”
“Quite,” he said, a clipped, polite reply that showed how insignificant he deemed that consideration. “The result of that love shall be a life of disgrace, and—quite likely—romantic disillusionment. My sisters may now never marry at all, for regardless of whatever dowry I might provide, no peer shall want to claim Foscarelli as his stepfather-in-law with so many other eligible young ladies available to wed.”
“There are paths in life that a woman might choose that do not involve marriage.”
“Not for a peer’s daughter. Her destiny is determined by her success in matrimony.”
“A point which hardly recommends the institution. Forgive me, but if Foscarelli is so unsuited for your mother, if you are so convinced that their marriage would bring her nothing but disaster, why do you not simply buy the man off? If he’s as bad a lot as you believe him to be, that should be an easy thing to do.”
His expression became even more bleak, if that was possible. “Give me a little credit, Miss Deverill. I tried that tactic two days ago. My solicitors tell me he has refused the money.”
“Good for him.”
“You think his refusal admirable?” Torquil gave a humorless laugh. “It isn’t, believe me.”
Irene knew any discussion of Foscarelli’s character was pointless, for it was clear Torquil was determined to think ill of him. “Either way, at this point, the matter has little to do with me.”
“No? Your interference shall have been the catalyst, if not the cause, of my family’s disgrace. I am here because before that happens, I expect you to rectify the situation.”
“Do you, indeed?”
“I do.” He reached again into the portfolio beside him, and from its interior, he withdrew a sheaf of papers. “When you sow the wind, Miss Deverill, you should always be prepared to reap the whirlwind.”
Irene’s amusement faded at once, his ominous words causing a prickle of alarm to dance along her spine. “What . . .”
She paused, her voice failing. She swallowed hard, shifting her gaze to the papers in his grasp. “What do you mean?”
He leaned forward and placed the documents on her desk. “That,” he said before she could ask, “is a purchase agreement signed by myself and your father.”
Her apprehension deepened into dread. “A purchase agreement for what?” she asked, but even as she posed the question, she began to fear she already knew the answer.
“Society Snippets.”
If she weren’t already sitting down, her knees might have given way. “You are offering to buy my family’s newspaper?”
“The offer has already been made, the terms accepted. Once my bank tenders the money, the deed is done.”
Irene tried to force down panic and think, but her head was reeling. “I don’t believe you,” she whispered. “It’s not possible.”
“It was not only possible, Miss Deverill, it was easy.”
“You bastard,” she breathed, glaring at him. “Out of a desire for revenge for this perceived slight upon your family, you would take away my family’s only source of income?”
“Not at all.” He pushed the papers closer to her and leaned back in his chair, looking infuriatingly at ease, while she was sick to her stomach and angry as hell. “The purchase amount is generous, enough to provide a substantial marriage portion for you and for your sister and enable your father to pay off the mortgage held on these premises. In addition, there will still be plenty left to provide him with a respectable income for the remainder of his life.”
“So because you are a wealthy duke, you think you can buy whatever you want?”
“Unfortunately, life is never that simple, even for those of us fortunate enough to have wealth. I can’t buy my family’s reputation back if it is sullied. I can’t pay people not to snicker at my mother and call her ridiculous. My money can’t spare my sisters the embarrassment and pain they shall suffer as a result of my mother’s social downfall. But with my money, I can, if I choose, prevent this newspaper from ruining anyone else’s life through its gossip, innuendo, and ill-conceived advice.”
The Truth About Love and Dukes Page 7