“‘Do not be fooled,’” Lionel interrupted. “‘Such a speech as this is not intended for the honorable purpose of ending what can only be regarded as an unsavory connection. Quite the opposite. Every word he speaks shall be designed to work on you, my dear, to play on your affections and bind you to him even more tightly than before. Following this attempt to break things off, I have no doubt that he will plead with you to continue as you are a bit longer. He might even throw himself on your mercy, expressing his willingness to settle for the merest crumbs of your affection—’”
“What the hell?” Rex snatched the newspaper cutting from his friend’s fingertips and scanned the entire column from top to bottom, and as he read the words of his own speech, a picture formed in his mind’s eye—a picture of that little tea shop in Holborn, a spray of palm fronds, and a pair of dark brown eyes looking at him with disapproval, and he suddenly knew just why Clara Deverill seemed so familiar.
“Because of this column, Dina has broken with me completely,” Lionel said, his voice rising. “She’s told me to leave her alone and never contact her again. This is all your fault.”
Despite his friend’s raised voice, Rex paid little heed, for in his mind, his aunt Petunia’s information was echoing far more loudly than Lionel’s angry words.
Her father’s family is in trade—newspapers, I believe.
His gaze moved to the masthead at the top of the sheet in his hand.
The Weekly Gazette.
“What cheek,” he cried, his temper rising as he realized what must have occurred. “What damnable cheek.”
“God, Rex, I thought you were a discreet chap, I really did. I thought I could trust you to keep my confidence.”
The implications of that caught his attention, and he looked up. “What? Lionel, surely you don’t think—”
“But seeing you dancing with the Deverill girl,” Lionel cut in furiously, “made me realize that my trust has been misplaced.”
Rex could not reply, for anger was rising within him. That minx, he thought, his hand tightening around the sheet of newsprint, crumpling Lady Truelove’s column in his fist. That clever, eavesdropping, opportunistic little minx.
Taking a deep breath, he tried to explain what must have happened. “Lionel, I didn’t tell this girl anything. It’s clear that she—”
“Don’t,” his friend snapped, cutting off explanations. “Don’t even try to justify yourself.” He jabbed at the paper balled in Rex’s fist. “Her father is the publisher, you realize that?”
Rex set his jaw, beginning to share his friend’s grim mood. “I have appreciated that point, yes.”
“I’ve always thought you knew so much about women.” Lionel gave another laugh. “But this one’s made quite a fool of you, hasn’t she? How long has she been pumping you for information on her columnist’s behalf? How many of our other friends have seen their private affairs used as newspaper fodder, I wonder?”
“For God’s sake, I just met the girl less than an hour ago, and besides, I would never—”
“And when next week’s column features another supposedly fictitious offering that depicts the exact situation of another of our friends, that will be coincidence, too?” He shook his head and laughed again. “I’d never have thought you could lose your head over any girl, but I’ve been proved wrong now, it seems.”
“I have never lost my head over a girl in my life,” Rex assured him. “And your fear for our friends is misplaced. I intend to see to it that this is the only time such a thing will happen—”
“It’s a bit late for that now, don’t you think? Because of you and your lack of discretion,” he added, his voice rising to a shout, “I’ve lost Dina for good!”
A movement past his friend’s shoulder caught Rex’s attention, and he spied Lord and Lady Flinders strolling out onto the terrace. “If discretion is what you’re after, old boy,” he murmured, “I suggest you keep your voice down. We’re no longer alone out here.”
Lionel cast an impatient glance over his shoulder, then looked at Rex again. “Damn it, man,” he said, making no effort to follow Rex’s advice or keep his temper in check, “is that all you can say after what you’ve done? After you’ve betrayed my confidence this way?”
“Lionel, listen to me,” he said quietly, trying to employ reason in the face of his friend’s anger and inebriation. “As I told you, I just met the Deverill girl this evening. And I would never tell anyone—”
“You lying bastard.”
Quick as lightning, Lionel’s fist came up, slamming into the side of his face before he had the chance to duck. Pain shimmered through the entire left side of his face and knocked him back a step, but when he saw Lionel’s other fist coming for an uppercut to his jaw, he blocked the move, knocking the other man’s arm sideways. He didn’t want to fight, especially not at Auntie’s ball, but it wasn’t as if he had a choice.
He hit back hard, landing two quick blows before his friend could strike again. And since he had no desire to be attacked a second time, he pressed his advantage, tackling Lionel and sending both of them stumbling across the terrace, a move that sent Lord and Lady Flinders scrambling to stay out of the fray, along with several other guests who’d come out to see what the commotion was about. Among those guests, unfortunately, was Auntie Pet, who stopped just outside the doorway to the ballroom, looking so aghast and appalled that the sight of her face stopped him in his tracks.
The blow came out of nowhere, striking with such force that stars shot across his vision like flashing sparks. He felt himself falling backward, pain exploded inside his skull, and his only thought before everything went dark was that he really needed to stop giving people advice.
The black eye wasn’t so bad—a barely noticeable blotch, his valet assured him. The concussion, however, was another matter. The morning after the ball, Rex discovered that the world had the inclination to spin violently every time he sat up, and his body had developed a most inconvenient tendency to heave the contents of his stomach.
It took another forty-eight hours before he was on his feet again, and by that time, the barely noticeable blotch beneath his eye had quadrupled in size and turned a lurid shade of purple.
“God, Cartwright,” he muttered to his valet as he stared into the mirror. “I look like an apache. Any woman sees me coming, she’ll clutch her handbag and cross the street.”
“I think you exaggerate, sir.” The valet set aside the razor and reached for a towel. “Mrs. Snell has prepared breakfast, if you’re feeling up to it?”
He was famished, he realized in some surprise, but before he could offer his valet an affirmative reply to the question of breakfast, there was a tap on the door, and his butler, Whistler, entered the bedroom.
“Begging your pardon, my lord, but Lady Petunia is downstairs.”
“Again?” Rex lowered the mirror in his hand. “That’s three times since the ball.”
“Four, my lord. She seems quite anxious to speak with you.”
“Dear Auntie Pet,” he murmured, smiling. “She’s obviously concerned about me.”
The butler gave a discreet cough. “I wouldn’t quite say that, my lord.”
Rex stiffened. His memories of the other night were still a bit vague, but one image was suddenly clear as glass in his mind: Auntie Pet, standing by the doorway to the ballroom, staring at him in horror. Any inclination to smile vanished at once, and he turned in his chair, facing Whistler directly. “What did she say? Tell me her exact words.”
“When I explained that you were still in no condition to receive callers due to your injuries, she said . . .” Whistler paused, giving Rex a pained, apologetic look. “She said that in her opinion, any injuries you sustained were no more than you deserved. Given that you had taken to offending young ladies on the dance floor and—”
“The girl dashed off,” Rex interjected, stung. “Then she vanished into thin air. What was I supposed to do? Hunt her down all about the house?”
&n
bsp; “She also mentioned something about neglecting your duties as host.”
“Well, I was knocked unconscious,” he pointed out, even though it was hardly necessary to defend himself to his own butler.
“Yes, she mentioned that as well, my lord.”
“Oh, did she?”
“Her description, I believe, was that you had taken to brawling at her balls like a Limehouse longshoreman.”
Rex grimaced, his foggy memories of the other night becoming clearer with every word his butler spoke.
“She has expressed the wish to discuss with you the matter of your recent conduct.” Whistler’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Do you wish to receive her?”
He ought to, he supposed. Let her call him on the carpet and have it over. After all, the fight was probably his worst offense, and it wasn’t as if that had been his fault. Lionel had struck first, and Auntie would surely agree that any chap had the right to defend himself. Once he explained—
He broke off that train of thought to reconsider. On the other hand, it wasn’t as if he really could explain, for he couldn’t betray Lionel’s confidences. As for the grievance Auntie had against him regarding Miss Deverill, he certainly couldn’t tell Petunia it was his naughty suggestion about kissing the girl that had spurred her to depart the dance floor. And, he thought, lifting the mirror in his hand for another look, his battered face would hardly help him to regain his aunt’s goodwill.
He handed the mirror to Cartwright and returned his attention to his butler. “You did explain to Lady Petunia just how serious my injuries are?”
“I said you had concussion, my lord, and would probably be unwell for several more days.”
With that, Rex decided the best thing to do was to let things lie and allow Auntie’s temper to cool. In the meantime, he could perhaps fashion a palatable way to explain the fight without having to reveal anything about Lionel’s secret affair with Lady Geraldine Throckmorton. As for the rest . . .
His gaze moved to the crumpled sheet of newsprint on his dressing table as more memories of the other night came back to him. “Tell my aunt that my head injury—my massive head injury—still prevents me from receiving visitors,” he said, turning to the butler. “I will call on her when I’m fighting fit. When I’m feeling better,” he amended as Whistler raised an eyebrow.
“Very good, sir.”
The butler departed, and Rex reached for the wadded-up newspaper cutting He’d pay Auntie a visit in a day or two and find a way to make amends, and in the meantime, he’d see Lionel, try to patch things up there. As for Miss Clara Deverill . . .
Rex set his jaw grimly as he smoothed out the scrap of paper in his fingers. Where she was concerned, he had no intention of making amends or patching things up. Quite the contrary. When it came to her, he was itching for a fight.
Chapter 6
Newspapers had been the mainstay of the Deverill family for many years, encompassing a vast journalistic empire that in its heyday had included seventeen newspapers and twelve magazines. Clara’s father, however, had never been much of a businessman, and under his tutelage, the business built by the two previous generations had rapidly deteriorated, dwindling at last to only one paper, the Weekly Gazette, with its offices in what had once been the family’s own library.
It was Irene who had salvaged this last vestige of the Deverill newspaper chain, a fact which had often led Clara to laughingly accuse her sister of having ink, rather than blood, running through her veins. For her own part, though Clara enjoyed reading the papers, she’d never really shared Irene’s passion for the business of running one.
Clara’s primary ambition in life had always been a simple one: to marry and have children, but hampered by her acute shyness, she’d found this goal an elusive one to achieve. Making matters worse, her father’s estrangement from her mother’s family had left her few opportunities to move in society and meet young men. She did have one marriage proposal to her credit, but the unappealing circumstances under which it had been offered had impelled her to refuse it, and since then, no other chances for matrimony had presented themselves.
Clara knew that if she was ever to achieve her most cherished dream, she had to find a way to overcome her reticence with strangers and take an active rather than passive role in her future, so when Irene married Torquil, Clara had accepted the invitation of the duke’s family to stay with them for the coming season, and despite the extension of Irene’s trip and Jonathan’s now-permanent defection, Clara had no intention of abandoning her own plans.
She soon discovered, however, that Fate was not going to make this easy. For one thing, Mr. Beale was becoming more truculent with each day her brother did not appear. She knew she ought to tell him the truth, that Jonathan wasn’t coming after all, but afraid he’d quit, she kept putting it off. She tried her best to ignore his sour demeanor and work with him as amicably as possible, for at present, she had a much more serious problem than one cranky editor.
Clara stared down at the two letters in front of her, the same two letters to Lady Truelove that she’d been perusing in the tea shop the other day. Many more letters had come for the columnist since then, of course, but these two had engendered within her a powerful sense of empathy. She badly wanted to find solutions for them, perhaps because she knew that in doing so, she might also find a solution for herself.
But as she sat at her desk studying their letters, she was forced to acknowledge that no advice for either of these correspondents had magically invaded her brain since that afternoon at Mrs. Mott’s. And Lord Galbraith was not located within earshot to provide her with any inspiration.
In a way, that was rather a pity. For though the man’s advice to his friend had been morally appalling, it had been based on a solid, if cynical, awareness of human nature. He’d make, she realized in chagrin, a better advice columnist than she was proving to be. He knew a lot about people, particularly women. And he certainly knew how to charm them. Hell, she knew him for a rake, she didn’t like him a jot, and hadn’t a shred of respect for him, and yet, as a woman, she’d felt his pull like the force of a magnet.
Ravish you would be a sight more likely.
Remembering those words, Clara felt rather aggrieved. The only time in her life a man had ever expressed the desire to ravish her, and it had to be a man she had no use for. Just her luck.
A kiss during a dance would break quite a few rules, wouldn’t it?
“Enough rules to ruin a girl’s reputation,” she muttered, and with that, she reminded herself that she had work to do and returned her attention to the task at hand.
After several moments of consideration, she decided to focus her efforts on The Devastated Debutante. After all, the girl was someone with whom she had so much in common. If she could determine how to advise her, maybe she could apply that same advice to herself.
A knock on the door interrupted her contemplations, and Clara hastily pulled a handful of other correspondence over the letters she was studying. “Come in,” she called, and when the door swung wide, Evie came through the doorway.
“The evening papers, Miss Deverill,” the secretary said, bringing them to Clara’s desk.
“Are our competitors penning anything of interest?” she asked, even as she appreciated that she could not allow herself to be distracted by any of the competition’s juicy tidbits.
“Nothing much.” The secretary set the stack on one corner of Clara’s desk. “The London Inquirer has an advice column now. They are calling it ‘Mrs. Lonely Hearts.’”
Clara gave a snort of derision. “Mrs. Lonely Hearts? Mrs. Copycat is more like it.”
Evie laughed. “I put that paper on top, in case you wanted to have a look at it.”
Clara wasn’t sure she did. If their fiercest rival was trying to steal the Gazette’s readers with their own version of Lady Truelove, that made it even more crucial for Clara to do her job well. “Thank you, Evie. You may go.”
The secretary departed with a
nod, closing the door behind her, and Clara opened the Inquirer to take a peek at the latest threat to Lady Truelove’s reign as queen of the advice columns, but after turning only a few pages, she stopped, her attention caught by a particular headline.
“Oh, dear,” she murmured, a little smile curving her lips.
It wasn’t right, she supposed, to take a measure of delight in someone else’s difficulties, even if that someone was Lord Galbraith. On the other hand, the man’s notorious reputation had been well-earned and something he seemed proud of.
I enjoy life, Miss Deverill, and I fail to see why I should be condemned for it.
Clara glanced at the headline again, and her smile widened. The viscount, it seemed, was about to pay a price for all his enjoyment of life.
Feeling a rather wicked sense of anticipation, Clara decided she could spare five minutes from her task to find out just how he’d blotted his copybook, and she settled back in her chair to read the article she’d stumbled upon. She’d barely finished the first paragraph, however, before her attention was again diverted by a tap on her door.
She straightened at once, wiping any trace of a smile off her face as she folded the paper and placed it back on the stack Evie had brought her. “Come in,” she called, reaching for her pen, striving to appear hard at work as the secretary once again appeared in the doorway.
“There’s a gentleman here to see you, Miss Deverill,” she said as she approached Clara’s desk, a certain amount of awe in her voice and a card in her hand. “Viscount Galbraith.”
“What?” That the subject of her reading material and the primary object of her thoughts today was right outside her door brought Clara to her feet. Dismayed, she snatched the card from the other woman’s outstretched hand. “What on earth does he want?”
Even as she asked the question, she began to fear she already knew, and a knot of apprehension formed in her stomach.
“Does it matter?” Evie countered, grinning as Clara looked up. “He’s such a treat to look at, who cares what he came for?”
The Trouble with True Love (Dear Lady Truelove #2) Page 7
