Forever Yours Series Bundle (Book 4-6) (Forever Yours Boxset 2)

by Stacy Reid

  Pippa flushed. “He regrets that he cannot help.”

  Her mother flinched before bravely lifting her chin. “I will find a solution—”

  “No mamma! I will find a way for us. Please let me share the burden. Will you attend Viscountess Shaw’s ball tonight?” she asked hoping to divert her mother away from today's woes. Though Pippa feared they would be the woes of tomorrow and years to come.

  Her father did not share their burden and completely absolved himself of all responsibilities toward his wife and daughter in England. He only cared about his dearest Anna and their children, and it had never been more evident. She'd written a heartfelt plea, outlining their dire circumstance without whitewashing anything, and he'd still refused. Her heart ached with a fierceness that almost made her cry.

  Are we so insignificant to you, papa?

  Pippa wondered if in America, where he lived, his children were branded as bastards, or did he pretend to be married to his Anna? How did he live with himself? And how she resented that she still cared for him and hoped his family was not ostracized.

  “You are still a coward, Papa,” she whispered, hating the tears that smarted behind her lids.

  This burden to provide for their future now rested on her shoulders. Her mamma needed her to be strong, and inventive. They could not rely on the goodwill of the countess forever, and they would have to return to Crandleforth soon. They’d already retrenched, and a few servants had been let go to everyone’s distress. The thirty-room manor with its extensive ground was taken care of by a very loyal skeleton staff. With their coffers running on empty, and tenants unable to pay an increase on rent, Pippa needed a wealthy husband who would not mind she came without a dowry and a past scandal, or she could seek employment.

  It spoke volumes that employment was more appealing to Pippa. The notion would horrify her mother’s sensibilities, but she could potentially earn enough money to ensure they were fed and clothed. Two gentlemen, and she used the honorific loosely, whom she had relied on had so easily betrayed the trust she'd given them. It was time to forge a path using her wits and intelligence.

  She closed her eyes, hating the desperate fear worming through her heart.

  The countess entered the sitting room, her cheerful manners preceding her like sunshine.

  “Lavinia dear, how morose you appear this morning! Come we cannot have that. Shall we take tea together?”

  Her mother brightened, and Pippa's heart eased to see it. She greeted the countess, and conversation on the latest gossip in the ton ensued. Pippa excused herself and hurried up the winding stairs and went to her chamber. Once there, she knelt and drew a small trunk from beneath her bed. She opened it and removed several bound books. Pushing to her feet, she opened the first book which had been smartly written by her.

  Misadventures in Crandleforth.

  A piquant story of a girl of eighteen falling in love with a young naval captain. The young girl had dressed as a boy to join him on his adventures, with much hilarity and adventures ensuing, with the promise of love between the pages.

  With a sigh, she plucked at the list of noteworthy publishers she’d made a list of. “Courage,” she whispered to herself. “All it takes is courage.”

  Jane Austen had published several works, and the world had seemed pleased when the author had revealed herself to be a woman. Pippa gently ran her finger across the name she had scrawled under the title.

  Written by Phillip Cradmore.

  Perhaps she could have it replaced by Pippa Cavanaugh. With a light laugh at her fancy, she closed the book, forming a plan in her heart. She would approach every publisher on her list until she found a place for her stories.

  She recalled an advert she had seen from a popular printing press seeking writers. They would receive a visit as well. And if they were not interested, she would extend her search even further. It was time for her to take on the burdens of taking care of her future.

  I’ll not fail you, mamma. I vow it.

  A few days later, Pippa had almost given up hope. Several publishers had been reluctant even to accept her manuscript and give it a read because she was a woman. Their attitude had frustrated her, and even a few had asked her to reveal the identity behind the dark hat and veil she wore to each meeting. Of course, she had refused and had informed them only the written promise of a contract could motivate her toward that endeavor. Instead, she'd introduced herself as Miss Beaver, for having quite admired that animal for some time now.

  But now, the press which had advertised seeking writers seemed quite interested, and she was dizzy with excitement and trying her best not to raise her hopes for them to be deflated. A portly man sat before her, a large oak desk separating them as he thumbed through her work. At times he paused, seemingly holding his breath, other times he laughed out loud, uncaring the author was before him, watching his every reaction with keen anticipation, and half dread and half thrill bursting in her heart.

  He’d been reading for more than an hour, and she’d only interjected once to inform Mr. Bell that she drew inspiration from Shakespeare and Jane Austen, and that her blend of romance, adventure, and intrigue would appeal to the public given this year’s bestselling books. Then, Pippa had contentedly sat on the edge of the well-padded chair, assessing every nuance of Mr. Bell’s expression, at times shifting in her seat to peer at the section which caused him to chuckle so.

  Finally, he set down the manuscript, and settled back in his chair, crossing his hands in a clasp around his rotund belly. There was a smile around his lips, and his amiable face did seem flushed with excitement.

  "By jove, you have a talent, Miss Beaver. A wonderful, wonderful talent.”

  She barely prevented herself from bouncing on the chair. “Oh thank you, Mr. Bell, I promise—”

  He held up his hand, and she faltered.

  “I can see that you are familiar with the workings of upper society. Your rich description of the ball young Hetty attended in disguise was simply superb. The manners and etiquette conveyed in the viscountess’s speech and actions are excellent. I simply cannot credit that to anyone’s imagination. You, my dear, are a gentlewoman.”

  Pippa blinked. “Errr…. I have been privileged to be invited into certain circles before,” she edged cautiously. “But I am not of the ton.”

  Mr. Bell considered with a good deal of skepticism before saying, “That will do if that is all you’ll allow!”

  Confusion bubbled inside her. “Mr. Bell, would you like to publish my story?”

  He considered her for another second, then said, “No.”

  Her heart sank like a stone to the bottom of the ocean.

  “But I would like to hire you,” he said with a small, expectant smile.

  Pippa stared at him all astonished. “Hire me?”

  “Yes.” The man nodded eagerly, a glint appearing in his hazel eyes. “I am not currently seeking books and will not be for some time. But I am aiming to take the tattle section of my company to the next level. The public is eager, quite keen to read about happenings of the upper echelons. Gossip is what they care about! Not books. They hunger for stories such as the Worsley scandal and Sir Richards's afflictions. The public wants to read about their betters, about how flawed they are just like us regular folks. We want to know who is granting favors to rakes, who is running away to Gretna Green, who is marrying the footman and having an affair with the butler! The public wants the glitter—the parties, the shenanigans at masquerade balls, the fashion stars, and faux pas—and we also want the dirt. You are in a prime position to be the authoress of this tattling, Miss Beaver, and I will pay you handsomely for each story.”

  Pippa stared at the man, beyond intrigued, the promise of handsome pay an allure. And to be the author of society’s scandal. The shame of it all! And also, the excitement she reluctantly conceded.

  “How handsomely, Mr. Bell?” she asked for she could not forget how dire their finances were, and how melancholy her mother had been. For al
l intents and purposes, she'd already lost her father and might never see him again. Pippa could not afford to lose her mother too.

  “I will pay you a pound and five shilling for every story.”

  She drew herself up in the chair, lifting her chin. “You insult me, sir, with such a paltry offer.”

  His owlish eyes blinked. “Two pounds.”

  She sniffed disdainfully. “No less than ten pounds for each article I write.”

  Mr. Bell spluttered. “Absolutely not,” he barked, assessing her with shrewd eyes. “Five pounds and not a penny more.”

  Her heart was trembling with tentative hope, she held out her gloved hands. "Agreed. I want our agreement in writing, and I will only take bank notes, not a deposit. And with popularity, I shall expect a notable increase in pay.”

  “Agreed, Miss Beaver," he said skeptically as if he suspected that was not her real identity. "I will, of course, teach you about journalistic integrity and all the tricks of the trade to protect your sources and reputation.”

  He waited, drumming his fingers atop his desk.

  “What tricks of the trade?”

  This was a signal to bound from behind his desk, open the door and holler for a Miss Tilby. A few moments later, a woman of indeterminable years entered the office. She was dressed in a dark blue serviceable gown with a stiff collar. Her hair was pinned in a severe chignon, but it did not diminish the prettiness of her features. Instead, it highlighted her beauty. It was a pity her lips were so flat and unsmiling, and her brilliant green eyes so carefully guarded.

  “Miss Tilby, please inform Miss Beaver who will be writing for us as…”

  They both stared at her. She’d only thought of the one alias, but now she needed a moniker for the assumed name, well…ah!

  “Lady W,” Pippa politely murmured. It was simple and mysterious, and it would indeed pique her interest to read an article signed with such a name. “I will pen my tattles as Lady W, and you may refer to me as such going forward.”

  Miss Tilby’s eyes widened. “A genuine lady?” she asked, a bit skeptically.

  Mr. Bell nodded happily. “Please inform Lady W of the necessary tricks of the trade. It will take gumption to learn them.”

  Miss Tilby folded her arms beneath generous bosoms. “You’ll learn to dress like a lad and blend in with the crowd.”

  Pippa gasped, an odd sort of excitement traveling through her. "Dress in trousers?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Bell with a smug smile. “It is easier to pass unnoticed as a boy when following someone for a story. Did you read of the affair Earl Dunham had with the governess while his wife was in confinement? It was Miss Tilby here who got that story and broke it, and she did it dressed as a lad.”

  Pippa stared at her with newfound respect. “But you are a lady.”

  Finally, Miss Tilby smiled. “That I am. I am also a darn good reporter. But it is hard for me to get the latest ondits as seeing I am not invited to certain places.”

  Pippa stood clasping her hands before her. “What else will you teach me?”

  Miss Tilby canted her head and assessed Pippa. “You’ll be taught how to pick a lock. Loose-lipped servants will become your best sources, and with a few coins here and there, they will happily tell you their masters’ and mistresses’ business.”

  A startled laugh escaped Pippa. Surely, they jested. But she could see from the expressions they were entirely serious. "And this falls in the realm of journalistic integrity?”

  “Yes,” they said in unison.

  Pippa was astonished, impressed, and excited. “How often would a story be required?”

  “At least once a week,” Mr. Bell said.

  “There may not be a scandal every week,” she murmured thoughtfully.

  “But there can be a story,” Miss Tilby replied. “The latest fashion and hairstyles. We could hint of engagements and speculate on attachments before such news are even broken to the Times, The Morning Post, and the Gazette.”

  “Exactly,” Mr. Bell beamed. “People will gobble up the variety and be on tenterhooks for the next scandal.”

  Mr. Bell was ambitious in his comparisons.

  Twenty pounds a month would go a long way in providing for herself and mamma. Even if it would not allow them to live in the style and comfort befitting a baroness and her daughter. But it was a start, and one Pippa would take. She knew of society’s insatiable desire for scandal. She devoured the weekly penny sheets that told of all and sundry. And now she would be more than a purveyor, but an authoress. Trepidation and anticipation blossomed through Pippa, but she had to temper it with good sense. “I’ll not pander to ruining anyone, Mr. Bell.”

  He and Miss Tilby shared a glance.

  “My personal humiliation has been aired in scandal sheets across the capital before.”

  A shocked silence descended.

  "My life…my mother's life became fodder for gossip and speculation, and for weeks we were dissected without remorse.” She cleared her throat. “I would not be able to do that to another person.”

  Miss Tilby stepped forward. “Not every gossip is a scandal or a pathway for entertainment. We will respect your boundaries.”

  She assessed the pair. No nerve or uncertainty stirred within her belly. They seemed sincere, and both exuded integrity and pride in their work. This would be her first place of employment, and she was, in a sense, in dire need of it. But it was vital for her to feel at ease within the environment she would work. Holding out her hand to Miss Tilby for an unorthodox handshake, she said, “Teach me everything.”

  Chapter 4

  Three months later…

  “I declare I would give all my hat money to know the identity of Lady W,” Miss Henrietta Rawlings said in admiring tones. “I daresay she must be someone of influence to know so much! Why, she’d declared puce feathered hats would become the rage, and it has!”

  "I say she is a nosey body which should not at all be admired," countered Lady Amelia with a prim sniff. “And she must be one of us to know all she does, and why, that is insupportable.”

  Pippa sipped her glass of punch, hiding a secret smile. The very people who still treated her with veiled disdain had no notion she was the noted gossip columnist who was praised for her sarcastic wit, the quality of her stories, and frequently, satire mentioning some social injustice. At times, Pippa thought it all so absurd, but Mr. Bell had been true to his word. With each story written and delivered, she’d gotten a note of five pounds. In a couple of months, she’ll have saved one hundred pounds, a small fortune in its own right. She could only anticipate what another year or two of savings could accomplish for her family.

  Of course, not all her stories bordered on salacious. In addition to reporting on the elopements and the lovers seen scurrying off in dark corners, she also speculated on high profile marriages of members within the ton. A few weeks ago, she played a guessing game with the Marchioness of Brampton’s son. To the delight of the purveyors of her scandal sheet, Pippa had declared the marchioness’s son’s name would be George, Elliot, or William. How surprised she’d been that bets had started at White’s, and when the marchioness named her son George. The public adored Lady W even if she was unconventional in her scandalous tales. Such as, when she’d heard a countess scathingly remark that the orphans who accosted her carriages when about town should be flogged. Pippa had done a piece highlighting their desperate plight and asking for compassion instead of disdain. Mr. Bell had been surprised, but he’d allowed the article to be published. She'd done a follow-up, seeking donations for several charities and the response from the public had been incredible. Still, she was careful in also sating their insatiable appetite for tittle-tattle.

  Her friendship with Miranda and the generosity of their hostess Lady Leighton had seen Pippa attending many balls and routs. Though she found it uncomfortable integrating with a set who did not seem inclined to forget the terrible scandal or to be welcoming to her. It suited her purpose not to be popular
or well sought after. That way, she was invisible to society, and surely no one would ever imagine her to be the notorious columnist.

  "Oh, I do wish we were at Lady Burrell’s weekend garden party instead. I heard that the Duke of Carlyle will be in attendance,” Miss Rawlings continued.

  Pippa gasped silently. Though none of the ladies would notice her behind the column which she stood. The Duke of Carlyle was loved by the public, so any story about him enticed the people. And with him being the catch of this season, she could only imagine the many scandalous situations that would occur or could give rise to speculations at the weekend-long event. Miranda and her mother had gone to that impromptu weekend garden party hosted by Countess Burrell. Pippa had thought it would be a dreadful bore to be holed up inside for a few days, mingling with people she could barely tolerate, merely because they resented her presence. But the duke’s attendance would have made it worthwhile if only she had known.

  “It’s a wonder the duke would attend,” Lady Amelia said with great disapproval. “Everyone knows a house party is designed for scandalous trysts! He is so very proper, and wonderful even if he can be quite terse at times. Why, I heard he made Miss Charmaine Gentles flee in tears a few weeks ago?”

  “Do tell,” another voice twittered.

  There was a shuffle as if they huddle closer together.

  “No one knows what happened, but she has declared her intention to avoid Carlyle at all cost.”

  “Nothing could induce me to avoid him! He is the most eligible catch for the last two seasons, and every mater would simply adore having a man of such wealth and consequences to be their son-in-law.”

  Several longing sighs sounded.

  Pippa peeked around the column at that declaration and spied Miss Lucinda Brockman sighing over the duke. Pippa considered if there was anything newsworthy in their idle chatter to publish, or if she could inform mamma, she was ready to depart. Perhaps one story for the month about that particular duke was more than enough. She’d already mentioned a tidbit she’d heard a few weeks ago about the duke being affianced to a Russian heiress with more than one hundred thousand pounds a year.