Hornsby’s fists clenched and a flicker of rage crossed his haughty and elongated features. “I think you’re lying to me, Mr. G—Delgado. Surely you don’t publish the work of complete strangers.”
Except, of course, he did. In fact, with the exception of his own articles and the few items submitted by writers whose articles weren’t controversial enough that they felt the need for pseudonyms, almost everything he published was the work of complete strangers whose identities were unknown to him. And up until a few weeks ago, Polly Dicax had been one of those anonymous strangers. Hornsby had some peculiar ideas about the ins and outs of publishing an illegal newspaper if he thought writers and publishers routinely shared personal information. “I assure you, Lord Hornsby,” he said, “that I am as ignorant of the identity of most of the writers I publish as they are of mine. In fact, I imagine very few authors would be willing to submit their work to me if I demanded their true names and addresses, for precisely this reason.”
The magistrate took several steps into the small, musty room and bent his face close to Lucas’s, a sneer curling his thin lips. “I don’t believe you, Mr. Delgado. And if you don’t tell me what you know about this enemy of the crown so I can put a stop to his impious, rabble-rousing rants, not only will you be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law, but when it is over, whether you are convicted or acquitted, you will be deported to the United States of Mexico.”
Lucas had to fight to keep his mouth from betraying his emotions, because the corners wanted to break into a grin. Whatever the outcome of his arrest, Hornsby wasn’t even close to penetrating Honora’s incognita; the fact that he’d referred to Polly Dicax using the masculine pronoun clearly indicated the man was merely taking shots in the dark, hoping to bully someone into outing the author’s identity. Nor did the magistrate have any more reason to suspect Lucas was aware of that identity than any other publisher.
She would be safe. All he had to do was hold his tongue. And accept deportation, a threat Lucas had no doubt the magistrate could and would follow through on.
But would being sent back to Mexico really be such a terrible thing? He ached, sometimes, with memories of his birthplace: of hot sunshine and warm rains, of spicy habanero and sweet sapote, of staring up into starry night skies unobscured by fog and coal dust, and of swinging to sleep in a hammock. He had often contemplated returning, especially after Vicente Guerrero’s election to the presidency in 1828. A true hero of the revolution who’d also possessed native ancestry, Guerrero—no relation, as far as Lucas knew, to his mother—had been a kindred spirit, committed to ending anti-indigenous prejudice and economic injustice in the fledgling Mexican republic.
Alas, it had been too good to last. The corrupt, conservative power structure that remained from the colonial period could not stand for such reforms, and Guerrero had been deposed, captured, and executed just a few months earlier. The engineer of the coup, Anastasio Bustamante, now held the presidency, and conditions were even worse under his rule for the press than they currently were in England. A man of Lucas’s talents would have a difficult time earning a living in present-day Mexico without risking not just arrest but execution. Still, he could find a way to survive, especially since he still had family who lived in Merida and its outlying villages.
And if he returned to Mexico, he would never see Honora again. Never kiss her. Never hold her. But he had been resigned to that fate already, hadn’t he? Except that, at least while they were living in the same country, they could communicate with one another, albeit furtively and indirectly. If he were in Mexico, though? Everything would be different.
Because while he was in England, there was hope, wasn’t there? He had never articulated that hope to himself, but now that he was forced to face the prospect of losing it, he had to admit it was there. The hope that the stamp tax might be reduced or abolished, allowing him to publish legally. The hope that he could one day find another way to fight cruelty and oppression without hiding behind the shield of anonymity. And most of all, the hope that when that time came, Honora would be willing to share her life with him, if not as his wife in the eyes of the law, then as his partner in all other ways.
None of those things was ever going to happen now, though. Neither of his choices would lead to the rosy future of his dreams. Betray her and lose her forever. Protect her and lose her forever.
Lucas looked up at the looming magistrate and shook his head. “I cannot help you, my lord.”
“It’s maddening, Ormondy. I would swear to you that the man knows Dicax’s true identity, but he continues to claim otherwise, even when faced with imprisonment and deportation.”
Honora froze mid-step, several feet short of the entrance to the front parlor. She’d been on her way from her room on the third floor to the dining room for tea when the querulous—though slightly muffled—voice had assailed her ears. A voice she felt certain she had heard before, and under similar circumstances, for a closed door had separated her from the speaker then as well. Her heart twisted with sudden, genuine dread, not just because she knew the identity of the man cloistered with her father, but because of what he had just said. Imprisonment. Deportation. And worst of all, her secret pseudonym.
There was only one explanation for what she had just overheard. The magistrate had arrested Lucas and was pressuring him to divulge her identity. And Lucas was refusing to do so. Protecting her at the expense of his own liberty and his future ability to call England home.
“I sympathize with your frustration,” her father replied, his tone soothing, “but from your previous efforts to unmask Dicax, it seems likely this man genuinely does not know the author’s identity. How many of these publishers have you arrested so far to the same results?”
“Five.” The magistrate fairly spat the word. “But the tenor of Delgado’s denials strikes me as different from the others. He knows more than he is telling. I’m certain of it. Not to mention that he’s a foreigner; he has no right to enjoy the fruits of our land while evading taxes and publicly defaming the crown. I should deport him even if he does eventually reveal Dicax to me.”
The twist and roll of Honora’s stomach was so violent that her appetite fled, replaced with a nauseating guilt. She knew exactly which five publishers Hornsby meant. Only one had been able to return to business after paying the steep fines imposed upon them, and to do so, Mr. Pargeter had been forced to replace his radical, reformist material with content that was more favorable to the government, meaning he no longer printed Polly Dicax’s articles.
What she hadn’t known—or even considered as a possibility—was that those publishers had all been arrested not simply because they’d printed articles critical of the government or because they’d failed to pay stamp duty, but because the government specifically wanted to stop her. Perhaps she ought to have guessed. Her father had mentioned on more than one occasion that a number of Polly Dicax’s articles had caused great consternation in the halls of Parliament, especially those that defended vigilante actions like the Swing Riots. It was not much of a leap, he had said, from the justification of vandalism and violence to the incitement of such behavior. And if her father, who was amongst the most open-minded and forward-thinking of his colleagues in the House of Lords, felt that way, Honora ought to have realized she was courting charges of seditious libel. The only reason she had been able to ignore the possibility was that no one knew—until Lucas, at any rate—who Polly Dicax was or where to find her. As a result, her publishers had taken the risks for her, with grave consequences.
How utterly selfish and self-absorbed she had been to imagine that what she had to say was so vital and unique, it was worth other people’s lives and livelihoods! Yes, Polly Dicax was popular and sold papers, but that didn’t make her carelessness or ignorance any more acceptable.
“That decision is up to you, of course,” her father said, “but I do think you ought to keep your promises, lest future witnesses learn you can’t be trusted and decide not to cooperat
e with you.”
The magistrate grunted in acquiescence. “I do have one more means of applying pressure to Mr. Delgado, but I felt I needed to consult you before I attempted it. There might be…repercussions that could affect members of your family.”
Honora’s head became light, and for the first time in her life, she thought she might actually faint. What did Lord Hornsby know—or think he knew—that could possibly affect the Pearces, since he obviously did not even suspect she was Polly Dicax?
Placing a hand on the nearest wall to steady herself, she forced herself to breathe evenly and quietly and listened.
“In what way?” Her father clearly had no better idea than she what the magistrate was talking about.
“Delgado’s father works in the Foreign Office as a translator. From what I have heard, the senior Señor Delgado works closely with your brother and his skills are considered highly valuable, since he is fluent not only in English, Spanish, Portuguese, and French but also several of the native tongues of Mexico.”
Oh. Oh, no. Honora could predict where this was going.
Her father did, too. “You mean to threaten to deport Mr. Delgado’s father as well as himself?” he guessed.
“Along with his mother. I understand she is a native, although she also claims descent from Gonzalo Guerrero, a Spaniard who fought against Cortes and is quite a folk hero amongst the lower and indigenous classes. Having just deposed and executed another Guerrero who was popular with the natives, I doubt Bustamante would be kindly disposed to any of the Delgados were they to return.”
Honora pressed her hand to a stomach. This was even worse than she had imagined. Lord Hornsby was all but declaring he would see to it not only that Lucas and his family were returned to Mexico against their will, but he would make sure the current president would be informed of their backgrounds and sympathies. She knew very little about the political situation in Mexico; it had never occurred to her to pay particular attention to events in a place that was a continent away and formerly under Spanish rather than British rule, but she could deduce that conditions at present would be unwelcoming, if not life-threatening, to those with reformist views.
Surely Lucas must know that any penalty she, the daughter of an earl who wielded a tremendous amount of power in Parliament, might face for her crimes would be as nothing compared to what could happen to him and his parents if they were deported. In fact, she felt a rising fury in her breast that he had protected her even this far. Having her identity exposed would be inconvenient and unpleasant, but she was unlikely to suffer serious repercussions.
At the same time, she was profoundly moved by his willingness to make such a sacrifice. Her previous publishers could not have revealed her to Hornsby; none of them had ever had any idea who Polly Dicax was. Lucas did, yet he chose to pretend he did not, because her safety meant more to him than his own. Because he loved her.
As she loved him.
The time to stop cowering in the shadows had arrived. And now that it had, Honora could not for the life of her imagine why she had been hiding at all. She was not ashamed of anything she had written. Every word she penned sprang from her belief in the rights of all human beings—of every sex, every class, every color, and every national origin—to freedom, fair treatment, a decent livelihood, and equal justice. Moreover, these were ideals she had learned at her father’s knee; perhaps she had expanded upon what he had taught and modeled, but deep down, she could not believe he truly disagreed with her opinions or would punish her for expressing them, even if he didn’t approve.
Straightening her shoulders, she strode forward and opened the door to the parlor. “If you are looking for Polly Dicax,” she said as she advanced into the room, “look no further, my Lord Hornsby. For here I am.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Of all the tangled webs we weave, those we create through deceiving ourselves are the most intricate and difficult to unwind.” – Polly Dicax
“We are—we were—lovers.”
This was the most challenging of all the admissions Honora had made to her parents since Lord Hornsby’s angry departure—without his quarry in custody—a half hour earlier. Her face heated with embarrassment, not because she regretted anything that had passed between her and Lucas in those blissful hours, but because she felt very certain her parents would be shocked and horrified by such behavior outside the bonds of marriage.
But to her astonishment, her father and mother exchanged what could only be described as a “knowing look,” and suddenly, her embarrassment was less about her own actions and more about the uncomfortable revelation that her parents probably hadn’t been any more circumspect before they’d married than she had. She could imagine it of her mother, who had never cared a fig for notions of propriety, but her father was such a paragon of gentlemanly virtue and restraint that Honora found herself shaken by the revelation that he likely hadn’t waited to exchange vows before taking her mother to his bed. And yet…the heat that flashed in his eyes when he looked at her mother had always been a wild and unruly thing. Honora had just never truly understood it until she’d experienced that feeling for herself.
“I see,” the Earl of Ormondy said, his voice as calm as if she had just informed him she preferred her tea with one sugar rather than two. “And I take it from this that you care for Mr. Delgado?”
Honora poured steel into her spine and met her father’s eyes without flinching. “I love him. We only agreed not to see one another because he knew he was in danger of being arrested and he did not wish me to suffer any repercussions of his actions.”
“He clearly returns your feelings.” Her mother’s brisk observation was tinged with satisfaction. “The solution seems obvious, does it not, my dears?”
Her jaw slackening, Honora glanced from her father to her mother in incredulity. “You cannot mean you think I should marry him.”
The countess frowned in the way that had always made all her children squirm, because it conveyed her deep disappointment in whatever it was they had just said or done. Disappointing Winifred Langston was a thousand times more distressing than making her angry. Her anger was a flash, like a firework, and the smoke dissipated quickly. Her disappointment was a cloud that could settle over the household for weeks. The expression still worked on Honora, and she had to exert an effort of will to keep from wriggling in her chair.
“Whyever not?” her mother asked. “You love him, and he loves you. What possible reason could we have to object to your happiness?”
Honora opened her mouth to list all the reasons her parents ought to have to oppose her marrying Lucas Delgado—his class, his lack of wealth, his foreign birth, his native Mexican heritage—and then closed it again. Every one of them was founded in the very prejudice and condescension that allowed the aristocracy to disdain the commoner, the rich to denigrate the poor, and the pale-skinned natives of this tiny island to believe themselves naturally superior to the darker-skinned inhabitants of the places they had colonized. Did she honestly believe her parents were so narrow-minded and arrogant as that? She had not, after all, arrived at her principles regarding the equality of all human beings by mere accident. No, her ideals were part and parcel of her upbringing, of her mother’s merry example of flouting conventions and her father’s reluctantly amused pleasure in them, and of her extended family’s constant efforts to combat injustice and make the world a better place.
“Well,” she said after several long seconds of imitating a fish, “he has broken the law regarding the payment of stamp duty.”
“The current duty is akin to highway robbery,” her father declared with some relish. “Among the many things Lord Grey wishes to change once the Reform Act has passed and we have a more favorable Parliament. But in the meanwhile, one can hardly blame a man for refusing to allow the government to pick his pockets.”
“But I—I—” Honora stammered, her mind racing too fast for her to put her jumbled thoughts into words. She loved Lucas, but that didn’
t change the fact that as a married woman, she would cease to be her own person in the eyes of the law. Yes, she had thought that Lucas would make some woman a good husband. She had even flirted with the thought that this woman could be her, if she wanted.
But marriage under current English law remained anathema to her. How could she rail against wedlock as an institution while voluntarily entering into it? The fact that Lucas was a good man, that he loved her, that he would never use or abuse her as the law allowed did not change anything. The law was still wrong.
“You never meant to marry,” the countess observed without reproach. “Because it is another form of highway robbery that ought to be abolished.”
Honora stared at her mother, dumbfounded. “How—how did you know?”
“Well,” she said with a tinkling laugh, “I have read my share of Polly Dicax’s articles on the subject. Moreover, I quite agree with them.”
“But you would encourage me to marry, anyway.”
Her mother shrugged. “You have noticed, have you not, that I married?”
“Well, yes, but—”
But her parents’ marriage was different. Her mother was the daughter of a viscount, her father the son of an earl. Moreover, the countess had never made her own living or faced the possibility of being bankrupted by a spendthrift husband; the earl was to profligacy as clear skies were to rain. There was little inherent danger in a such a union. Her parents were well-matched, evenly yoked.
And her stomach churned at the realization that she was committing every sin of prejudice and condescension she railed against. By God, she was as infected with the disease as any of her fellow countrymen; she’d only fooled herself that she knew better.
She loved Lucas because she knew, instinctively and deeply, that she could trust him with her safety, with her ambitions, and with her heart. He would never crush her spirit, never envy her successes, never put her in harm’s way. And he had more than proved that last, hadn’t he? If she could not rely on Lucas, there was no one on earth in whom she could have any confidence at all, not even her own family.
A Bit of Rough Page 13
