by Maya Rodale
“No, a young lad. Probably a footman,” Branson said with a shrug.
“Probably the lady in disguise,” the Man About Town suggested, leaning forward.
How did he know?
“I’m sure it wasn’t. He was wearing breeches, boots, and he was alone,” Branson said, defending himself.
“Anyone can put on breeches and boots or a dress and speak in falsetto,” he lectured. “If you’re going to take on this job, Branson, you cannot believe everything you see or hear. That’s one of the key lessons about being the Man About Town. I’ve learned it, my predecessors have learned it, and you will, too.”
Julianna gasped. So that was how it was done!
It wasn’t one man for forty years, but a succession, each one training his replacement. It was quite beautiful, really, how the column itself was bigger, grander, and greater than its writers. She would do well to copy this, so that if anything should happen to her—were she to be fired, again, for example—the column could live on in the hands of a trained and skilled gossip columnist.
“Right. Be skeptical,” Branson said.
“Verify,” the Man About Town corrected.
What was his name? He was Lord Something. But how could she not know this?
“And the other lessons of the Man About Town, passed down from one to the next?” the Man About Town tested his successor.
Branson clasped his hands behind his back and began to recite them.
“First, never speak of the Man About Town.”
The real Man About Town nodded.
“Second, never speak of the Man About Town.”
The real Man About Town nodded again, adding a grin.
“Third, nothing is sacred. Everything is fodder.”
Julianna had learned that the hard way.
“Fourth, verify.”
A good one, she thought. Wild speculation led to all manner of trouble. Consider Roxbury, the duel, their marriage. All sorts of wonderful trouble.
“Fifth, print anything and print everything, so long as it’s gossip,” the new Man About Town finished.
“Damn right. Now let’s write this thing. I have a party to attend tonight,” the Man About Town said as he picked up the pen, dipped it in ink, and began to scrawl on the sheet of paper before him. He spoke as he wrote.
There was no greater proof of his identity than this. She knew the tone of the writing, the turns of phrase, and here they were coming out of the man’s mouth. But what was his name? Julianna wanted to jump with glee, and cry out in vexation.
And then he finished with a flourish, set down the pen and said, “One column closer to retirement.”
“What will you do if you don’t do this?” Branson asked.
“Haven’t you heard?” The Man About Town leaned back in his chair, folded his arms behind his head and grinned. “I’m going to inherit.”
“Oooh,” Julianna said softly under her breath. Now she knew who he was! The Earl of Selborne was on his deathbed, and had been for weeks now. They all said he was holding on just because he didn’t want the title and the wealth to go to his heir, his brother’s son. Now she understood.
“Which reminds me of the last vow,” said the future Earl of Selborne, currently known as Lord Brookes. “I am not the first Man About Town and I shall not be the last.”
Chapter 54
Outside of the coffeehouse, Roxbury quickly hailed a hackney for them.
“We’re going to 24 Bloomsbury Place,” he told the driver.
“We are?” she asked. After all that, she thought he might take her home—to their home.
“Do you have an objection?” he asked.
“No,” she said, and then she added, “I cannot thank you enough.”
“My pleasure. I live to oblige my lady,” he said gallantly. “And now if my lady will oblige me by—”
“Oh Simon, I have missed you,” she burst out. She’d never been one to hold her tongue and now was really not the time to start.
“I missed you, too,” he said softly, reaching out for her hand.
Why had they parted? Because of a plan she didn’t like that had been put in effect with the best of intentions. Did it merit a fight? Yes. Was it worth abandoning their marriage? No.
It all seemed so silly now. She’d been overly sensitive and emotional, most likely—not that she would ever admit that aloud to anyone, especially him. Roxbury had more than made up for any mistakes. But it didn’t even matter, really, because they missed each other and now they had a chance to reconcile.
“I was going to ask if you would listen to my heartfelt pleas to have you return to our home and truly be my wife,” he said, smiling a bit shyly.
“I shall hear you out,” she said, trying to sound like a disaffected lady. But she couldn’t; tears of happiness stung her eyes and she knew that he saw them.
Somehow, Roxbury managed to kneel in the carriage. She laughed and placed her hand in his.
“My dear Julianna,” he began. “We married for all the wrong reasons. For money. For reputation. For convenience. The marriage has been a disaster, and some of that has been my fault. No, don’t protest, you are just as guilty as I and you know it.”
“This is not very romantic, Roxbury,” she chided. And yet, it was heartfelt and the truth, which was, she knew, true romance.
“Have patience, woman, I’m getting to it,” he told her. Then he took a deep breath and carried on. “And yet, in the wreckage of our marriage thus far, I have fallen in love with you. The real you. The one who occasionally cries and teaches her friends boxing, the one who is fiercely proud and independent and witty. The one who has been hurt before and has dared to love again—and brave enough or mad enough to dare to love a disreputable rake like me.”
“I must be mad,” she said. Madly in love.
“Stop interrupting and let me finish,” said Roxbury. “Where was I?”
“Marriage for the wrong reasons, it was a disaster, but still you love me anyway because you must be mad, etcetera,” she reminded him. Then she squeezed his hands affectionately because she thought her heart would just burst with happiness.
“Ah, right. Julianna, marry me again for the right reasons. Because I love you, and you love me—don’t try to deny it, I know you do. Marry me because we are so suited for each other and because I want to spend the rest of my life having adventures with you and only you.”
“Oh Simon,” she said, sighing like the worst sort of lovesick ninny. “I love you, too.”
“Tell me you are weeping because you are so overcome with joy.”
“I am. I have missed you horribly. Since our separation, I have gotten exactly what I wanted—my column, and now I know the identity of the Man About Town—but then it wasn’t everything I wanted anymore. I just want you. The whole time, I missed you intensely. But still . . . I’m crying because I love you and you love me and yes, I want to marry you again, for all the right reasons.”
The carriage rolled to a stop in front of her little gray townhouse with white trim at 24 Bloomsbury Place. It had been her late husband’s, and then it had been hers. It all seemed like a lifetime ago. And it was a lifetime that she was ready to relinquish so that she could go forth as Lady Roxbury.
Roxbury looked out the window as well, and then at her.
“I won’t give up my column,” she declared. She loved it, writing gossip suited her, and Lady Roxbury could certainly moonlight as the Lady of Distinction.
“I would never dream of asking you to,” he said.
“Terribly sorry, driver. We’ll be going to 28 Bruton Street,” she called out. And then, softly so only he could hear, she whispered, “I love you,” and there wasn’t much talking for a while after that.
His lips met hers for a kiss that promised a love match, forever.
Epilogue
White’s
The new Earl of Selborne, previously known as Lord Brookes, sat by the fire with a brandy in one hand and a copy of The London We
ekly in the other. It was the first week since he inherited and since he officially retired as the Man About Town. He might have given up skulking about town at all hours, but he would not cease to follow the gossip. Thus, he opened the paper directly to page six and began to read.
FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE
By a Lady of Distinction
The first rule of the Man About Town is that you do not speak of the Man About Town.
The color drained from his face.
Of course, all of London breaks this regularly and this Lady of Distinction shall be no exception because this lady has news about the gentleman—or gentlemen?—that composes that popular column in a small room in High Holborn. This lady learned the secrets of the Man About Town and might reveal them at any time.
A slick sheen of sweat beaded upon Selborne’s forehead. How could she know? For forty years the secret had been secure. He drank, heavily.
There are more secrets to share, of course. We are told that Lady Stewart-Wortly is comfortably ensconced at a nunnery in France.
He already knew that, but it was a small comfort indeed.
She will be at liberty to write and one has to wonder—will she continue to publish conduct guides for ladies, or turn to writing romances?
The eminent collector, Lady Hortensia Reeves, has donated her vast collections to the British Museum and has resolved to begin collecting suitors.
All of London is saddened by the loss of the eminently respectable Earl of Selborne. His heir, Lord Brookes, is certainly less than respectable; in fact, one might say he’s thoroughly disreputable. What has he been up to these past few years, we wonder?
Selborne glanced about the room, and shrank into his seat. For years he had gone undetected and now this Lady of Distinction had learned his secrets!
By the time he reached the final paragraph, his color was wan, his skin was damp, and his heart was pounding. But nevertheless, he managed a wry smile at the answer to a mystery that had plagued him. He raised his glass in salute, and downed the rest of his brandy.
In other news, Lady Roxbury is now wearing a stunning diamond and ruby ring, gifted to her by her husband. By all accounts, including their own, the marriage is indeed a love match.
Acknowledgments
This book would not have been possible without . . .
~ Coffee. Lots of good, strong, organic coffee.
~ My agent, Linda, and my editor, Tessa. Yea, team!
~ Jocelyn, for a clean apartment and thus a clear head and free time for writing.
~ Mark, for organizing my wedding so beautifully and so reliably so that I could be a relaxed bride who had met her deadline.
~ The folks at Rodale Institute for being awesome to work with and for understanding about this other job of mine.
~ The usual assortment of friends and writing partners.
~ My graduate school professors who enthusiastically supported my studies of popular romance novels and tabloid–esque newspapers from the 19th century.
~ To the cowboy poet in Wyoming who gave me the idea for Roxbury’s scandalous parking spot.
~ To my old family and my new family!
~ And Tony, for walking the dog so I could write, listening to me ramble about the book, for championing me when writing was hard, for reading more drafts than anyone, doing the dishes, reaching high things and most especially for marrying me. Hallelujah, I finally found a boy like me!
Author’s Note
In every age, there are women who buck conventions and defy expectations. Those are the women I’ve found most fascinating and inspiring, and those were the characters I wanted to write. And so the Writing Girls were born.
Nothing like them actually existed in the Regency Era. However, at that time and earlier women were active in publishing. Mary de la Riviere Manley was the editor and founder of The Female Tatler (1709), and later of The Examiner (1711). Eliza Haywood launched The Female Spectator, the first magazine created by women, specifically for women, in 1744. Mrs. Elizabeth Johnson, a printer, published the first Sunday paper, The British Gazette and Sunday Monitor, in 1779. La Belle Assemblee, a Regency era women’s fashion periodical, employed women.
Furthermore, virtually all articles in newspapers and periodicals were published anonymously, so who’s to say there weren’t women writing?
The London Weekly is based on papers like John Bull or The Age—very gossipy weekly papers—or, more contemporarily, the New York Post. Julianna’s column draws on a long tradition of printed gossip (with a few having that same name, Fashionable Intelligence). For more information about women writers, my books, the Writing Girl world, and to sign up for my newsletter, please visit www.mayarodale.com.
About the Author
MAYA RODALE began reading romance novels in college at her mother’s insistence, and it wasn’t long before she was writing her own. Maya is now the author of multiple Regency historical romances. She lives in New York City with her darling dog and a rogue of her own.
Please visit her at www.mayarodale.com.
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Ascension
By Sable Grace
Copyright © 2011 Heather Waters and Laura Barone
Kyana has straddled both the human world and the underworld for the past 200 years after being turned half-vampire, half-Lychen by a stranger following a frightful stint in a Sultan’s harem. Being able to go between the Above and Below as she pleases, Kyana relishes in the freedom that comes with being a “Dark Breed.” With no love or sympathy for the human race that she once dwelled among, it comes as a shock to hear what the Order of the Ancients have in store for Kyana, and the handsome demigod from her past who they’re teaming her up with.
Below wasn’t technically below anything. More like sideways or parallel to the other two realms—Above where the humans resided and Beyond, a.k.a Olympus. But, Below was where nonhuman creatures did their daily business. Though some, like Kyana, preferred to live Above, smack in the middle of the action, most lived here. This was where magical herbs were tended, where lesser gods and demigods resided, where the Order’s Vamps hid from daylight. It served as a mirror to the Earth, so to speak, where the sun burned hot and bright, but was merely an illusion just as were the sea, the moon, and the stars. In other words, Vamps could sunbathe Below without becoming a spectacular fireworks event.
The portals leading from Above to Below had become revolving doors for Order members since the Break-out, but right now, in the predawn hours, the alcove and streets around it were blessedly quiet. Moonlight bounced off the white, marble buildings, disorienting Kyana. She squinted and made her way past the small marketplace that, come morning, would be busy with the hustling herbalists peddling their wares to Mystics and Witches.
A little further down the narrow street, a butcher shop was ablaze with lights, busy in its late-night workday for Vamps who came in for sustenance before sleeping the day away in their chosen shelters. As Kyana passed the building, she closed her eyes and breathed in the sweet aroma of fresh blood. Not nearly as rich and decadent as human blood, but still quite addictive.
She turned away from the intoxicating scent and pressed on.
Along the cobbled streets, tiny alcoves carved out of alabaster led to different locations within the human world Above, as well as a very potent, magically-guarded portal alcove to Olympus where gods could come and go to do their duties. But the one Kyana sought, however, led directly to the River Styx.
She headed to the end of the street, enjoying the stillness of the city. Soon, other night dwellers woul
d be wandering the curving roads, loud and bawdy as they boasted of their latest feats and accomplishments, but for now, the quiet was the first bit of peacefulness Kyana had experienced in a week. She entered the cave nestled between large marble boulders, her keen eyes having no trouble finding the path in the dark. Down. Down. Down. The carved steps spiraled like a snail’s shell, and soon, she was able to hear the faint whisper of water lapping at sand.
The darkness shifted, giving way to a faintly glowing gold light a short distance away. As her foot made contact with the soft sand, she breathed in the scent of death that always came with entering the River Styx, and made her way to Charon, the ferryman. Flipping two coins at the haggard old spirit, Kyana stepped onto the long, flat boat and braced her feet for balance.
She loathed the River Styx. She hated the smell of death and the low wails coming from Tartarus below that chilled even her icy Vampyric blood, reminding her of her fate should true death ever find her. While some of the spirits waiting for eternal placement roamed visibly along the banks of the River, some remained unseen, and those she hated most of all. It was as though they passed through her, each of them pleading quiet demands to her soul as she tapped her foot impatiently at the torturously slow ferry.
“Can’t you make this thing go faster?”
Charon didn’t acknowledge her request. He stood at the helm of his little ferry, not needing to do anything more than stare in the direction of their destination to make his vessel obey.
