Of course, her confidence was yielding other benefits as well. The diary she had pried out of Mr. Brewster’s hands held a trove of information. That morning they’d sent a letter to Benedict, urging him to come to town as soon as he could—and to bring his solicitors. Jamie had realized at once that they should attack Clary on two simultaneous fronts: legally and socially. The diary meant they had a real weapon legally, and Benedict, the Earl of Stratford, was better poised to lead that fight. Jamie had no doubt that his brother-in-law would be in Grosvenor Square by the next morning.
However, he was less certain of Daniel’s reaction. Thus far he had written thirty-eight issues, which gave him only twelve more. Jamie himself had been the one to insist on a limit of fifty; he hadn’t thought it would last that long, but as the joke became a prosperous venture, he realized it could go on forever. Before conceiving the plan to ruin Clary he’d been more than a little tired of it, and reiterated his desire to stop soon.
But now . . . What if it took more to turn society against Clary? He was already breaking his vow to stop writing immediately if anyone learned the truth. Daniel would be amenable to more issues, Jamie knew. He’d already begun hinting that he saw no need to stop at fifty; That was only a title, he’d said in casual conversation before Jamie left London. If people enjoy it, why should we deny them? The only question was whether Daniel would approve of what Jamie wanted to do with those issues.
The door opened. “Back at last!” cried Bathsheba. She must have been working, judging by the cap pinned over her hair and the large, ink-spotted apron she wore. Then she spotted Olivia. “Oh. I beg your pardon . . .”
“This is Mrs. Olivia Townsend,” Jamie said. “Olivia, Miss Bathsheba Crawford. May we come in?”
“Of course!” Blushing, Bathsheba swept open the door. “Come in, ma’am.”
Jamie led Olivia down the servants’ cramped stairs. Instead of a kitchen or other storage rooms, though, the arched hall below held a printing press. The walls were lined with cords strung the length of the room, and pages hung from every inch of them. Olivia’s lips parted in wonder and she craned her neck, trying to take it all in. Jamie felt a bit of surprise as well. The issues must be selling better than ever, judging from the number of pages drying. Early on, they could hang an entire order on half this many cords. The press, a giant wooden apparatus that occupied the center of the room, was making a dull groaning noise as Daniel operated it, but that ceased when he caught sight of Jamie.
“Ho there!” He spun the lever back, then came around the press, wiping his hand on the stained apron he wore. His other sleeve was rolled up and pinned closed below his elbow, where his left arm ended.
“Daniel,” Jamie greeted him. “Still at it, I see.”
He laughed. “Someone must. We decided to print back copies, and the orders flooded in. Bathsheba’s near wrung her arm off, trying to keep up.” He darted a quick glance of veiled curiosity at Olivia.
“Olivia, this is my friend Daniel Crawford. He’s responsible for tempting me into wickedness. And this, Dan, is Mrs. Olivia Townsend.”
Olivia bobbed a curtsy. “How do you do, sir?”
“’Tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Townsend,” said Daniel Crawford gravely. He bowed just as Bathsheba came in.
She’d swiped the cap from her head and removed her apron, and now she came forward with a wary look. “Welcome back, Jamie. I hope everything turned out well on your journey.”
“So far.” Jamie went to close the door, although there was probably no one else in the house. Daniel gave his two servants the day off when there was printing to be done. He told everyone he was printing volumes of poetry for private collections, to explain the quantities of paper and ink. Jamie wondered if anyone believed that anymore. “I’ve come to talk to you about that. Shall we sit down?”
Daniel and his sister exchanged a glance as they took seats on the battered collection of chairs at the back of the room. Bathsheba’s mouth set into a grim line, and Daniel seemed to be bracing himself. “Do you need further help?” he asked, almost resigned. “More information? I’ve put out the word on your queries to everyone I can.”
“Today I’ve come to talk about Constance.” Both Daniel and Bathsheba froze, their expressions mirror images of alarm. As one they looked at Olivia. “She knows,” Jamie told them.
Bathsheba inhaled. “No! Not now! Orders are coming in every day—Danny and I can hardly print enough to keep up, even though we work at it all week long! It would be foolish to stop now, no one need know. You must understand how important this is,” she appealed to Olivia. “You must keep it in the strictest confidence—”
“Of course I will,” said Olivia in surprise.
Jamie shook his head. “We’re not stopping. I’ve got twelve issues left and I need every one of them. Constance is going to help us destroy Lord Clary.”
Both Crawfords stared at him, Bathsheba’s mouth still open in protest. “Er . . . What?” Daniel finally said.
Jamie looked at Olivia, and she gave a firm nod of approval. The Crawfords already knew about Clary, after all. “You know I’ve been keen to know what Clary does and where he goes. The reason is that he’s been harassing Olivia. When she wouldn’t agree to become his mistress, he assaulted her. It turns out her husband ran with a fast set and didn’t always follow the law of the land. Clary knows this—because he was part of that same crowd—and he’s threatening her. When she left town to avoid him, he tried to kill my sister because Penelope refused to tell him where to find Olivia. This man deserves to be locked in a prison, but he’s got connections.” Jamie smiled darkly. “And since he doesn’t intend to play honorably, neither do I.”
“How is Constance going to help ruin him?” asked Bathsheba slowly.
“People tend to believe Constance is telling the truth, or something close to the truth. Every gent who gave a sly wink and a nod when people whispered that he was the man Constance described has established her credibility better than I ever could. Therefore, if a villainous man named . . . Lord Brarely starts harassing and hurting Constance . . .” Jamie shrugged. “I think he might even try to kill her.”
Again the Crawfords exchanged a glance. “Is there part of this plan that prevents us being sued?” asked Daniel.
“Sued?” Jamie raised his brows. “You mean, will Lord Clary publicly admit he’s the murderous rapist in the story?”
“He’s a lord,” Bathsheba pointed out. “Lords are wealthy, and you said this one has connections. He’ll drive us out of business, if not see us put in prison for obscenity.”
“We’re going out of business in twelve issues anyway.”
Her mouth firmed into a flat line. “We’ll have no choice if members of Parliament swear out warrants for our arrest!”
“It’s all fiction,” Jamie said. “Lord Clary must have a guilty soul if he recognizes himself in the villain of a tawdry little pamphlet.”
“Tawdry!” Bathsheba scowled at him.
“It’s not so little,” added Daniel under his breath. “But more to the point . . . How do you know anyone will believe it? Gents who wink and nod when people ask if they’ve known Constance are one thing, when Constance is . . . er . . . complimentary.” He avoided looking at either woman. “Now you’re going to portray a gentleman as a monster. People won’t be so eager to believe that.”
“Everything else will be the same,” he assured them. “Constance will meet a man and find pleasure. It will merely happen after she escapes the clutches of the villain.”
Bathsheba continued to glare at him. “Must you? Any Minerva Press novel will give that story. This is special—Constance doesn’t need to be rescued! She’s perfectly capable of looking after herself and now you want to make her a fainting, delicate woman. I think readers have taken to her because she’s strong and able and because there is no villain she must be saved from.”
“She’s right,” said Olivia. He glanced at her in surprise. Her blue eyes gaz
ed solemnly into his. “Don’t make Constance weak.”
“Have faith.” He covered her hand with his. “I’m too fond of Constance to let her helplessly suffer abuse or indignity. But she’s led a charmed life thus far; she’s got her way in everything she’s decided to do, and has never suffered censure or unwanted attentions. We both know that is virtually impossible for any woman. Facing adversity will demonstrate her strength, not destroy it. How much more inspiring will it be when she triumphs over the villain in the end?” He paused, looking from Bathsheba to Olivia. Bathsheba still looked angry, and Olivia worried. “Dare I mention once more that she’s fictional, and not some actual woman I intend to subject to cruelty?”
Olivia blinked, then smiled ruefully. Bathsheba colored and threw up her hands. “Very well. Do what you will.”
“And this will help spare a flesh-and-blood woman real harm,” Jamie went on. “Isn’t that enough reason to do it?”
“It is.” Daniel put his hand on his sister’s arm. “You know it is.”
“I do,” she agreed at once, with a penitent glance at Olivia. “Of course.”
Daniel exhaled. “What is your plan?”
They were with him. Jamie hid his surge of relieved elation and quickly outlined what he intended to do. By the time he finished, Daniel’s forehead had developed the deep groove it got when he was thinking, and Bathsheba was staring at the floor, tapping her fingers against her skirt. “How rapidly do you want to publish these?”
“As fast as I can write them.”
Daniel and his sister exchanged a glance. “It takes a full week to print one edition now.”
“We’ll have to work faster,” said Jamie impatiently. “I want two or three a week.”
“Three a week!” Bathsheba threw up her hands. “We’ve got orders for nearly nine thousand copies of the next issue. Since you left, and there are no new issues, the booksellers have been ordering older issues again. We can’t print twenty thousand copies a week. We can hardly print six thousand.”
Jamie didn’t say anything. His eyes traveled over the reams of paper hanging from what looked like miles of rope. At the beginning, they’d developed an efficient system. Each issue could be no more than eight pages long, so they could print all the pages on one sheet of paper. The first day they printed the first side, the second day the second side. The third day they cut and bound the pages, and then the pamphlets went out to the bookstores and shops. If all three of them worked on it, they could deliver several thousand copies a week. But Bathsheba was right; there was no way the three of them, or even the four of them, could produce twenty thousand copies or more every week.
Bathsheba put her hands on her temples. “Perhaps it won’t take long to sway opinion. If this man is as evil as you say, surely you can do it in two or three issues.”
“No,” he said slowly. “It must be more than that. People will fear for Constance’s life. I intend to show Clary for the monster he is, not some reckless or impulsive fellow who is easily brushed aside. It will last all twelve issues remaining, and we have to keep a steady stream of them. I want everyone in London to be talking about it. We’ll have to get help.”
“Help.” Daniel burst out of his seat. “Where? From whom? You were the one so crazed with secrecy you swore you would stop if anyone discovered it!” He glanced at Olivia and held up one hand in apology. “Not that I regret your change of heart. But because of that I never hired anyone. Bathsheba has been forced to work down here every day with me, and it’s still a struggle to keep up.”
“Well,” said Jamie evenly, “I did offer to stop many times before this.”
Daniel flushed. “And I persuaded you not to. I know. But—who are you going to find to help us? I presume you still don’t want the secret out.”
Absolutely not. Constance had become the means of salvation and his greatest vulnerability at the same time. The safest thing, for his good name and social future, was to stop writing at once. He had to be free of Constance before he could marry Olivia in good conscience. The uproar if he were revealed in public was too dreadful to contemplate.
But he would give everything he had to bring down Lord Clary. Constance had begun as little more than a joke to him, then become the means to help a friend. Now she had the power to serve justice to someone who might otherwise escape unscathed, and save the woman he loved. Even at the risk of ruining his own name, he was determined to press ahead.
That reminded him of something. “It’s quite possible my name will come out anyway,” he warned them. “I told you Clary stole some pages from my book in Ramsgate,” he said to Olivia. “They were notes for future stories.”
Her mouth opened in a perfect O. “That’s why he said he would denounce me as Lady Constance!”
Jamie cleared his throat, aware of Bathsheba’s avid gaze. “Erm. Yes. But if I write stories featuring Clary, he’ll either believe it’s you, or suspect it’s me.”
“Why?” Bathsheba asked.
Everyone looked at her. She just shrugged. “There’s a half dozen imitators already. I daresay even if Clary showed your notes to people, they wouldn’t believe it was by the real Constance. Don’t forget, I’ve read your first drafts, Jamie. They all improve markedly after I make some changes—”
“Yes, I see,” he said testily. Her changes were minor and they both knew it. “Well, I certainly will act astonished if anyone accuses me, and Olivia can deny it with complete honesty. But then we’re all agreed?”
Daniel nodded, Bathsheba pursed up her lips but didn’t demur, and Olivia declared a stout “Yes.”
“We need a partner,” he repeated. “Someone who understands the need for secrecy, someone who might even revel in it. And of course someone who grasps the reward associated with success.”
“I could hire an illiterate boy,” said Daniel after a moment. “He’d only be able to work the press, not set the type.”
“The pamphlets look distinctive,” Bathsheba pointed out. “Even an illiterate boy would notice. Besides, one boy won’t speed us up very much.”
“No, we need someone who knows his way around a press.” Jamie frowned in thought.
“A newspaper printer,” said Olivia. The other three looked at her. She nodded. “Newspapers know how to print quickly.”
“They also don’t know how to keep a secret,” replied Bathsheba.
“Well, there must be some who can. The London Intelligencer has anonymous reporters. The lady who writes the scandal page for them has never been identified.”
“How do you know it’s a lady who writes that page?” asked Daniel in surprise.
Olivia looked startled. “Oh! I thought it was obvious. She must attend all the parties, to hear the things she writes of, and men never listen to gossip the way women do . . .”
Jamie raised his head. The London Intelligencer. He knew that name. He knew that paper. He also knew the man who printed it, Liam MacGregor, was a bold and ambitious Scot with nerves of polished steel. And Olivia’s words made him recall one curious fact he’d learned over the last year. Every week MacGregor had an appointment at Wharton’s Bank. Jamie did some business there, and more than once he’d seen the man arrive and be shown into a private office. And on one occasion earlier this year, MacGregor’s appointment had been with Mrs. Madeline Wilde.
The lady who had been publicly accused just a few months ago of being Constance.
Waiting idly while a bank partner fetched the papers he needed, Jamie had seen both of them arrive and go into the same office. That didn’t prove anything, but Mrs. Wilde had been the subject of rumor and fascination even before the scandalous accusation . . . because she moved in the very best society circles but cultivated an air of aloofness. Or she had, until accepting Douglas Bennet’s marriage proposal in front of one hundred and fifty guests at Lady Cartwright’s midsummer ball.
Jamie, knowing the truth, had found the entire thing wildly amusing. Mrs. Wilde didn’t seem perturbed by the uproar—in fact, she ga
ve every appearance of being blindingly happy with her new fiancé—and after Mr. Bennet thrashed a couple of fellows who called her Lady Constance, even that rumor died down.
But Liam MacGregor . . .
It might be pure coincidence, but if anyone would employ a female writer, it would be MacGregor. And the man who accused Mrs. Wilde must have had some reason to suspect her. She was well-known for attending society events, after all, where she must hear all the gossip. And either way, MacGregor had managed to keep his scandal page author a complete secret.
“I’ll find someone to help run the press,” he said abruptly. “We’re going to meet this schedule, and Lord Clary will be reviled across London by the time we’re done.”
Chapter 24
Jamie set to work with a vengeance. He moved all his writing to his bedroom and told the servants he wasn’t to be disturbed. Olivia soon learned to stay out of his way, too. He would sit for an hour, staring out the window with a small frown knitting his brow, then reach for his pen and cover pages and pages. Sometimes he stopped halfway through and cursed, wadding up the paper and throwing it onto the fire. Other times he would cross out a word or a paragraph and write on without pause.
At night he still came to her. She supposed he waited until the servants had gone to bed, but every night, often very late, he would let himself into her bedroom and slide beneath the blankets and draw her close. Many of the regular servants had gone to Richmond with the elder Westons, which made it easier on Olivia’s conscience. Jamie seemed as comfortable doing for himself as she was, so they were left in peace unless they rang for someone. The house in Grosvenor Square became a small private world, where Olivia at times felt nearer to being married than she had ever felt with Henry. She and Henry had inhabited the same house but never shared a life. Even when Jamie spent hours working in the next room, she felt close to him.
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