His lips tugged upward. “Then your memory is poor indeed.”
“I would never have come here . . . should never have come here. We are all in a viper’s pit, and I shall go mad if forced to stay confined within these walls much longer.”
“A bit dramatic, but your point is well made. Do you wish for some fresh air?”
She nodded, hope brightening her expression.
“I am to take Georgie to the British Museum this week. Would you like to accompany us?”
She clasped his sleeve. “Oh yes!”
“Will you admit running off to London was not only foolish, but dangerous?”
“Indeed, exceedingly so. I promise I shall listen from now on. I would much rather live under your rules than Grandmother’s, dearest brother.”
“No need to lay it on so thick. I’ve already made the offer. I won’t withdraw it.”
Her fingers curled about his hand. A tight grasp. “James, I mean it. You have been both brother and father. And I should have thanked you, but it took living these past few days with Grandmother for me to appreciate your benevolence and love.”
James studied his sister’s brown eyes and earnest expression. “I’m not perfect, Nina, but I do love you and want what’s best for you.”
“I know. Thank you.” On her tiptoes, she pressed a kiss to his cheek.
“Nina, you will be on your best behavior? No running off?”
“I promise.”
“Very well.”
His sister, practically skipping, moved down the corridor to disappear around a corner.
Eager to get this summons over with, James proceeded to Grandmother’s door and gave it a firm, impatient knock. He didn’t wish to spend another day combating the woman. Dr. Trimble’s examination of her revealed she seemed in fine health for a woman of advanced years, but the doctor also stated that at the dowager’s age one never knows. If the physician hadn’t added the latter comment, James would have gathered his siblings and decamped.
A petite, round-faced maid, who wore a white mobcap and starched pinafore over a navy dress, opened the door. The girl’s beleaguered countenance forewarned of his grandmother’s cantankerous mood. The servant bobbed a deep curtsey. “M’lord.”
“Leave us, Grace,” the dowager ordered from where she sat imperiously on a gold brocade chair near the window. Ironically, the morning light streaming through the glass pane behind Grandmother caused her gray hair to look like a soft halo. The little maid scurried from the room, a relieved expression etched on her face as though pardoned from the gallows.
James would make sure the servant was adequately paid. If she dealt with his grandmother on a daily basis, she deserved an increase in wages, if not sainthood.
He bent and gave the old woman’s papery cheek a kiss. “Good morning, Grandmother.”
“You shall not think so after we converse!”
He didn’t doubt that. “What now? Has Georgie spilt milk on the morning room carpet or not used the proper spoon again?”
“I only wish.” She picked up a newspaper from the adjacent marquetry tea table and handed it to him.
He glanced at the illustrated advertisement of a shapely woman wearing a corset and a broad smile. Dr. Bibble’s corsets, wider hipped for improved comfort and health. Interesting but not quite the earth-shattering news James expected. “Are you in need of one of these?”
“In need of what?” she snapped.
“The new and improved Dr. Bibble’s health corset. Says here, it’s guaranteed to put a smile on your face. Do you think there’s a chance it might work? If so, I shall go purchase it for you myself.”
“Give me that!” She seized the paper from his hands, turned it over, and jabbed her crooked finger at the top article. “You think yourself a wit, but when you read this you won’t be laughing. Have you read any of C. M. Smith’s articles?”
“The chap who writes about women’s rights? Of course. I thought you’d be cheering him on. You’ve always believed women the true force behind their husbands.”
“Don’t be flippant, Huntington. Today’s article was on the physical abuse some husbands inflict on their wives, including death.”
A trail of ice shot through his veins, turning his limbs cold.
Grandmother thrust the paper back at him. “Ah, I see I have your attention now. Your name is not mentioned, but it’s implied.”
James read the article. House of Lords. Nobility. Free to walk the streets. Anger tightened his chest. Close to slander, but Smith had not once used James’s name. The cunning bastard.
“I’ve already sent out invitations for a small dinner party,” Grandmother said. “You must woo London’s most influential gentlemen, and be seen in their company, if we are to stem a more damaging tidal wave of gossip.”
Blast! He hated the idea of courting these men who’d once sought his favor. But, for the sake of his siblings, he knew this needed to be done. C. M. Smith picked at an old wound that easily bled.
His grandmother shook her small fisted hand in the air. “I hope you also intend to do something about this matter.”
Yes. He was going to find C. M. Smith and take pleasure in ruining the man.
* * *
During breakfast, Caroline sat at the round table next to Charles, whose nose was buried within the pages of the City Globe. She controlled the urge to rip the newspaper from his hands and stomp on it. She would never forgive the publication’s editor for his article defaming suffragists.
“That paper is full of rubbish, Charles. You would do better reading a book of fiction.”
Charles briefly lowered the newspaper and peered at her. “No, Caroline. Today there is a remarkable article on men’s trousers. It seems herringbone is soon to be unfashionable and small stripes all the rage.”
“Oh, my!” Anne exclaimed, almost bouncing in her chair. “Charles, you must visit your London tailor in due haste. You shall set the fashion when we return to Cornwall.”
“Do you ever read the London Reformer?” Caroline’s fingers practically itched to get her hands on a copy.
Anne blinked. “Never. There’s not even a society page with witty on-dits.” Anne set her teacup down with a click and leaned close. “I know members of your father’s staff read it. When I asked my lady’s maid what tidbits she gathered from the servants during breakfast, she said they talked about a newspaper which reported on a labor movement. I’m sure it was that radical paper they conversed about.”
Excitement raced through Caroline.
“Papers like that,” Anne continued, “incite anarchy in the lower classes.”
Caroline bit the inside of her cheek, forcing herself not to say anything. Arguing with Anne wouldn’t change her cousin’s opinion, only make her suspicious.
“I’m sure your father wouldn’t approve of such reading material in his house.”
True, and he’d approve less of his daughter writing for the publication.
Anne smeared a dollop of orange marmalade on a slice of toast. “Please make sure the housekeeper is aware on Saturday we will dine early. Remember we have Lord and Lady Burrow’s ball that evening.”
How could she forget? Lady Burrow and Lady Randall were close friends, which increased the possibility Lord Huntington might attend with the latter woman. She didn’t care. Really she didn’t. Though she’d dreamed of him again. Of his mouth on hers. His hands skimming up her naked skin. And of the way he looked at her when she spoke, as if he truly listened to what she said.
Percy stepped into the room. “A hand-delivered invitation, miss.”
Anne squealed and clapped her hands together like an excited child. “I pray it’s a dinner party, Caro. I’m anxious for something more intimate than a ball.”
Caroline knew why. The best gossip could be gained at such events when the women returned to the drawing room to trade secrets and tales, while the men talked politics and partook of port. She’d rather stay and hear the gentlemen converse about politi
cs than listen to prattle.
Noting the fine velum, her stomach churned. “If this invitation is from Lord Hamby, I shall not attend. I don’t give a fig about etiquette. The man is horrid.”
“What excuse could you use?”
“I will send a message stating I am at death’s door.”
Her cousin gaped. “You wouldn’t, would you?”
She feared if she didn’t, the next time Lord Hamby brushed his arm against her breasts, then feigned an apology, she might slap him soundly across his florid face. Caroline broke the wax seal and blinked. Her heartbeat quickened. She rubbed at her eyes, but the name remained constant.
“Who’s it from, Caro?” Anne asked.
“The Dowager Marchioness of Huntington has invited us to a dinner party.”
“Really?” Anne sprang from her seat and snatched the note from Caroline’s hand. “How wonderful. At Huntington House on Park Lane. Do you think her grandson will attend? The residence is really his, but he and his wife didn’t reside there. No, they lived in Belgravia. Some say he moved to get away from the dowager, who is reported to be a dragon, while others say he moved to carry out his nefarious plan against his wife.”
“Must we discuss this again?” Caroline asked.
Anne patted Caroline’s hand. “Yes, I know it is all rather gruesome for morning conversation. Yet, no matter his dark past, I do hope he is in attendance. There is something intriguing about a dangerous man. And though I have remained silent, I think the gentleman winked at me at Lady Randall’s ball.” Anne’s cheeks reddened, and she fanned her face with her hand.
From where Caroline sat, she viewed Charles rolling his eyes heavenward. He lowered the newspaper. “Really, dear?”
Anne nodded. “He did. I’m sure of it.”
Would Huntington attend? Had he had a hand in the invitation being extended? She thought of him and Lady Randall. “I think we should decline.”
“What? It is a coup!” Anne exclaimed.
“But we don’t even know the dowager. Don’t you find the invitation odd?”
“True, but that’s what makes it even more enthralling. Goodness, the dinner is to be in five days. To be held before the Burrows’ ball. I’ve never heard of sending an invitation on such short notice. It isn’t done.”
Caroline took a deep breath, trying to slow her racing heart. Apparently, it was, if one was the Dowager Marchioness of Huntington. “I’d really rather not go.”
“We must attend,” Anne replied, sounding as if she might weep if Caroline said no.
Charles, as if used to his wife’s petulant tone, remained hidden behind his newspaper.
“I never have any fun.” Anne stomped her foot. “Charles, will you talk some sense into Caroline?”
Looking like he hoped the floor would swallow him up, Charles lowered his newspaper again.
“We will attend,” Caroline said, fearing poor Charles would never hear the end of it if they didn’t go.
Anne clapped her hands excitedly.
“If you’ll excuse me, I must confirm Mrs. Roth has the menus for this week.” With an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of her belly, Caroline stood.
Her cousin hugged her. “You shall see, we will have the best time.”
She doubted that. Caroline descended the narrow stairs to the kitchen. If she could find a copy of the London Reformer, hopefully reading the newspaper would elevate her mood or at least distract her from the impending gathering. She stepped into the empty servants’ hall. A long, scarred wooden table surrounded by chairs dominated the space.
Where was the newspaper? She peeked under the table and scanned the seats of the chairs.
Pish, not here! As she turned to leave, she spied a large crock on the sideboard with a newspaper sticking out. She snatched it up, and her eyes homed in on the page the paper was folded to.
Her heart skipped a beat. Her article! The one denouncing wife beaters. The one she’d asked Mr. Hinklesmith not to publish. She slumped against the wall. What lunacy had prompted her to write this? Lord Huntington would be livid. Perhaps out for blood.
Her blood.
Chapter Fifteen
The carriage swayed as it turned a corner. James peered out the window. The noises of the early morning traffic filled the streets of Bishopsgate. He returned his gaze to the newspaper clutched in his hand. Over the past five days, C. M. Smith’s article “Sins upon Women” had fueled his anger. Now, he felt close to retribution.
His coach pulled up before the old brick building that housed the London Reformer. He tossed the paper onto the seat and exited the equipage.
Upon entering the building, the acrid smell of ink mingling with the musty odor of the entry hall flooded his nostrils. James strode into a brightly lit office with two windows that overlooked the busy street.
A young, lanky man with ginger hair sat at a desk reading large sheets of printed material, a magnifying glass grasped in his long, ink-stained fingers.
“What can I do for you?” the man inquired without looking up.
“Are you the editor?”
The fellow picked up a pencil and scratched something illegible on the paper. “No, that would be Mr. Hinklesmith.” He jerked his head toward another office, separated by mullioned windows and a closed door, where a thin, bespectacled man sat at a desk.
“I wish to speak with him.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but I intend to meet with him just the same.”
At that pronouncement, the clerk finally glanced up, revealing a large ink smudge across the bridge of his nose. “I wouldn’t advise that. Mornings are a bit harried around here, and Mr. Hinklesmith tends to be short on patience.”
He arched a brow. “Do you intend to stop me from entering the office?”
The clerk’s gaze traveled up James’s length. “Me? No, sir.”
“Wise choice.” James stalked to the door and flung it open.
The editor, with his side hairs combed over his bald pate, shot up from his worn wooden chair. “What’s the meaning of this?”
James strode toward the desk.
The editor’s wire-framed glasses magnified the elderly man’s brown eyes. They grew rounder as obvious recognition seeped into Hinklesmith’s brain. The London press had done enough sketches of James after Henrietta’s death that most newspapermen knew what he looked like.
“You know who I am?”
“Yes, my lord.” The editor’s gaze veered to the door as if he contemplated dashing toward it.
James reached into the inside breast pocket of his coat.
Uttering a sharp gasp, the editor raised his hands, palms out.
Bloody fool! Did the editor think he intended to shoot him? A tempting thought, indeed. He withdrew a folded document and tossed the parchment across the cluttered desk.
Hinklesmith’s breath eased out between his pale lips. The editor stared at the paper, tentatively picked it up, and unfolded it. He nudged his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and brought the legal document closer to his face.
The man’s hands trembled, and he lifted his owl-like eyes to James’s. “You . . . you . . .” Hinklesmith not only resembled a long-eared owl, he sounded like one.
James braced his palms on the desk and leaned close. “Yes, I’ve bought the newspaper. Lock, stock, and barrel. You now work for me, and your continued employment is precarious at best. So I suggest you listen carefully and answer my next few questions without hesitation. Am I clear on this point?”
The editor’s overly large Adam’s apple bobbed. “Very, my lord.”
“Who is C. M. Smith? And where can I find him?”
“I don’t know.” The man’s voice quivered.
“Wrong answer. Try again.”
A fine sheen of perspiration covered the editor’s forehead, and the man mopped his sleeve over his moist brow. “Honestly, I’ve never met the journalist. The articles arrive by post.”
“How do you pay him?
”
“C. M. Smith has never requested payment.”
Anger coursed through James. The journalist appeared to be nothing more than a phantom—a shadow that one couldn’t grasp. He’d not gone to all this trouble to walk away empty-handed. There must be something. He gritted his teeth and leaned closer to the editor.
“I swear, my lord. ’Tis the truth!” Hinklesmith wrenched open a side drawer of his desk and extracted a stack of letters. “Here. Look. These are the articles. You shall see they have all arrived through the post.”
James took the correspondence from the man’s unsteady hand. He stared at the elegant handwriting. Too curved. Too smooth.
Damnation. He scowled at the editor. “C. M. Smith is a woman?”
The man gave a nervous nod. “Yes, my lord, I believe so.”
* * *
That evening, James listened to Lord Alstead prattle on about his hounds and grouse hunting, while the man’s wife looked at James as if she feared madness might overtake him and he’d do her in. Obviously, she’d read that bloody article.
James smiled at the woman. “Lady Alstead, will you favor me with a waltz later at the Burrows’ ball?”
The woman paled as if he’d asked her to strip down to her unmentionables in front of everyone in the room. “I . . . O-oh, why yes, my lord.”
He nodded, knowing she wanted nothing more than to flee the house. Doubtful she’d now attend the Burrows’ gathering. Good, he didn’t wish to have the old bat stare at him all evening.
James glanced about. He’d give Grandmother her due. The woman was nothing if not shrewd. She’d invited three of the oldest and most respected lords to this dinner party. Alstead, Hanover, and Pendleton. Men who at one time all but begged him for his counsel. Now he needed their support, and their attendance tonight clearly stated they would offer it.
More helpful was the fact that Lady Pendleton, a notorious gossip, would tell everyone they had dined with him. It would signal his acceptance. James was at a point in his life where he didn’t care, but for his siblings’ sake, he must applaud Grandmother’s cunning, especially since Nina might make her bow next year.
Never Kiss a Notorious Marquess Page 12
