by Maya Rodale
Down the great staircase in the foyer he went, his boots pounding on the marble floor. He’d nearly ravished Eliza with a look as she scrubbed these tiles on all fours.
All of his plans, dreams, and quests quite nearly felled by a mere slip of a girl with a pen and feather duster. And eyes like the ocean that saw into his very soul. A pink mouth that gave him untold pleasure from her kiss. A quick mind that perfectly put into words what he was feeling.
Of all that he had seen and experienced in the world, there was nothing quite like Eliza. And he would turn her in, take the money and run. He had to. Or Harlan was right—he would never leave if he wrapped himself up in the ties that bind a man to land, to a future, to a woman.
Wycliff pushed through the heavy oak doors to the library. The last embers of a long-forgotten fire burned in the grate, and he put them to work lighting a candle, which he took to the desk. The book of poems lay open to that one particular page, tempting any spies. How Alvanley knew to name the line that so perfectly, gut-wrenchingly named this moment in his life, Wycliff knew not. That it was poetry pricked his male pride. For ten thousand pounds and a chance at his dream, he would survive.
Removing a fresh sheet of paper and writing things, Wycliff sat down to copy out Lord Byron’s poem in its entirety.
So, we’ll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we’ll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.
He added For Eliza in his scrawl and signed it Wycliff.
He folded the page and sealed it shut with wax, pressing the signet ring into it so Eliza would know without a doubt that this was from him.
He’d recently taken to wearing the ring as a reminder of what he would leave behind—his inheritance, his reputation, his past, and one tempting vision of what his future could be. Eliza.
Funny how his heart still beat hard, with longing, given what he knew.
Treading a dangerous path, Wycliff returned to the attic and slipped the poem under her door.
Chapter 45
Deceiving Mr. Knightly
Offices of The London Weekly
There was the leaf of paper in Eliza’s hand—the latest installment of “The Tattooed Duke.” And then there was the one folded up and tucked into her bodice—a copy of Lord Byron’s poem, handwritten by the duke himself and stuck under her door.
The one that might break Wycliff’s heart, and the one that absolutely broke hers.
No more we’ll go a-roving by the light of the moon? Eliza could take a hint. And love itself have rest? Rest, expire—she took that hint, too. Its meaning was plain to her: he might still care for her. Maybe. But it was, unequivocally, over. No more would they go a-roving. Loving. Anything.
It stung, like the prick of a wasp. Or like the snakebite Wycliff had once described to her. Or perhaps like a bludgeoning.
To make matters even more excruciating, this was the last meeting of The London Weekly that she was likely to ever attend. Knightly would find out soon enough about her deal with Alvanley. And then he would fire her accordingly.
It seemed she was in the habit of betraying the men she cared about the most. Funny, that.
This wasn’t quite what she had in mind when she’d donned her disguise and got herself hired as a housemaid of the duke. Her intention had been to remain a Writing Girl, whatever it might take. And now she was walking away from it all . . .
“Well?” Sophie asked when Eliza slipped into the seat beside her.
“Yes, what is . . . I mean . . . how . . . Oh goodness. Where to begin?” Annabelle asked, flustered.
“For Lord sake, ladies, act normal,” Julianna hissed, and Eliza thanked her.
“I can’t. There is too much happening that I am too curious about!” Annabelle gushed, wringing her hands.
“Well here is something,” Eliza said. She reached into her bodice—and then glared at another writer when she caught him eagerly watching her, or rather, her hand. “I have lost his affections, for certain.”
“A poem,” Annabelle said, eyelashes aflutter, when she saw what Eliza handed over.
Julianna snatched it away and read it quickly.
“No more loving. No more roving. I hope you were merciless in your column,” Julianna said sharply.
“It should change once you have the money,” Sophie said in a low voice.
“We ought to invite him to your birthday party, Sophie,” Julianna said.
“He’s already on the list, I think,” Sophie responded.
“Did he reply?” Eliza asked.
“I don’t think so. I’ll send ’round a note tomorrow,” Sophie said, and then she turned full force to Eliza. “You are attending, right? It is my birthday.”
“If I can sneak out of the house,” Eliza answered.
“Why do you not just quit?” Julianna asked bluntly.
“Because she is close to him when she is there,” Annabelle said, answering perfectly for her. “And she may never see him again if she leaves. And when you are in love . . . well, just being near the person is a kind of warmth that is hard to forgo.”
“Yes, what Annabelle said. Precisely,” Eliza said. “Because any minute now he will turn me out and slam the door shut behind me. Until that happens, I’d like all my little moments with him, even if it’s me pouring his coffee.”
“I still think you should come to the party,” Julianna said. “I have a dress to lend you,” she offered. It would need to be hemmed, oh, a good seven inches. She could do that while sewing and sipping tea with Mrs. Buxby and Jenny. She realized then she would miss those two.
“I will attend,” Annabelle said. “And I shall need a fellow wallflower.”
“Nonsense,” Sophie said. “Eliza will dance with the duke, and perhaps Knightly will ask you to waltz, Annabelle.” Annabelle blushed furiously at that.
“Roxbury will dance with you both and flirt shamelessly,” Julianna added.
“The flirtations of a rake are not quite as thrilling when the rake in question is madly in love with his wife,” Eliza pointed out.
“Nevertheless you must come,” Sophie said. “And if you could cause some sort of scandal with the duke—say waltzing together, caught together, etcetera—as a hostess, I would be much obliged.”
“And I would as well, as a gossip columnist.”
Eliza’s two fabulous friends peered at her, smiling. She knew they meant well and wished nothing but the best for her. She knew they had adopted Knightly’s credo. She also knew they possessed a security that she did not, with their handsome, wealthy, adoring husbands, as well as a wide circle of friends both haute ton and beau monde.
At the moment everything for her was utterly uncertain.
“This is her heart at stake,” Annabelle chimed in, to her defense. “We mustn’t make sport of it.”
“Thank you, Annabelle,” Eliza said.
“You’re right,” Sophie agreed. “But I still think you should risk attending, and I shall hope Wycliff attends. All sorts of romantic things tend to happen at balls, and I hope that it should happen to you.” Sophie reached out and squeezed her hand, and suddenly everything was all right and she knew her friends only wanted true love for her.
“Ladies first,” Knightly said, striding quickly into the room for the weekly meeting with his writers.
“Was Knightly invited?” Annabelle whispered to Sophie, who whispered, “Yes.”
“Is he attending?” Annabelle questioned.
Knightly glanced curiously over at her, probably because she was talking and not paying attention to him, and most of
all not sighing upon his entering a room.
“Yes,” Sophie replied, again in a whisper.
“Then may I also borrow a dress?” Annabelle persisted.
“Yes,” Sophie said again, biting back giggles. The entire staff was watching them now and the room had fallen silent.
“Ladies?” Knightly questioned, raising his brow.
“We are discussing our attire and other plans for a ball later this week,” Sophie answered. Annabelle had gone mute. And pink.
“What rot,” Grenville complained, to the surprise of no one. “That’s why women shouldn’t work. They distract the men from real matters of business by discussing—”
“Matters of courtship and thus marriage and creating the next generation,” Julianna interjected. “Is there anything more noble than that?” she challenged. Eliza sighed. Her friend could never resist an argument. “No, I don’t think there is. And we tend to such matters while also authoring the columns that make this newspaper a sales phenomenon.”
“Speaking of that, Eliza, what do you have for us today?” Knightly fixed his piercing blue eyes on her. They hadn’t exchanged a word—written or spoken—since the confrontation on Saturday. Her final words to him hung in the air: I shall make it your problem.
“More noble deeds, or nefarious ones?” Knightly asked coolly. He might as well have asked if she wished to continue writing for The London Weekly, so loaded was the question.
She smiled mysteriously and handed over the column.
Knightly took the page and began to read aloud: “ ‘No one who had ever seen W.G. Meadows in her infancy would have supposed her born to be a heroine . . .’ ”
He paused and lifted a brow questioningly. Beside her, Sophie sucked in her breath. In this column, Eliza knew she was tiptoeing a fine line between writing about herself and Wycliff. And trying to please Lord Alvanley. She’d spent some very late nights spilling ink, burning her allotment of candles down low, scratching out sentences only to rewrite them.
Knightly continued:
“She was not remarkable in any way, and had little to recommend her. And yet, W.G. Meadows has captured the attention of London, feeding them tidbits of story like feeding a bird from her palm. Who is she? They wonder. The chatter is a low hum all over town. Lord Alvanley put a price on it, to the tune of ten thousand pounds.
And this author has a tidbit of gossip well worth the price. The duke is known to resist all efforts to tame him; Lady Shackley knows this well. Her attempts to lure His Grace into marriage with a young pawn of uncertain parentage was thwarted by the duke’s impressive deductive abilities. We cannot wonder at her desperate attempts to keep him; a woman is lucky to know a man like Wycliff, let alone possess his heart.”
“Are you saying that she faked a child so that Wycliff would be duty bound to marry her?” Julianna asked, in a dramatic gasp. It was unclear if she was aghast or delighted. Probably some combination.
“A pretend secret baby?” Annabelle questioned.
“Yes,” Eliza affirmed. She offered up a silent apology to the duke and a prayer for forgiveness. She had to reveal the trick child to ensure that Knightly would print the column. It was a strategic blow to ensure a greater win. The loss of a battle to win the war. Or so she told herself.
“I must send her an invitation,” Sophie murmured.
“And Eliza, you must ensure that the duke attends,” Julianna added. “This could be just the scandal this season has been lacking.”
“It sounds like we’ll have a stellar edition of ‘Fashionable Intelligence’ next week,” Knightly remarked. With that, he was off to the next topic and “The Tattooed Duke” was forgotten. Now all she had to do was wait for Saturday’s publication.
And hope that her column was printed as she had written it.
And that Lord Alvanley’s word was good.
And that Wycliff would forgive her.
And that nothing would happen between this moment and then to upset her carefully crafted plans.
Chapter 46
The Last of the Tattooed Duke
Usually, Eliza’s first chore of the day was to start fires in the grates of the downstairs rooms. Today, the fires could take second place to The London Weekly, which she managed to snare first, before Saddler even had a chance to iron it. Quickly she turned to page two—page two! Oh, her heart still skipped a beat at that!—and skimmed the words to the latest and last installment of “The Tattooed Duke.”
Eliza’s eyes ran down the column, printed as she had written it, with the most important lines last.
Without the Shackley fortune, no more shall His Grace go a-roving. W.G. Meadows has shared much with London, and nary a line for the duke. To him, I say: in secret we met, in silence I grieve. Or perhaps, instead:
So, we’ll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
Her reign as W.G. Meadows was over because heiresses did not need to write for newspapers.
Wycliff did not wait for breakfast time to read this week’s “Tattooed Duke.” In fact, he did not even wait for Saddler to iron and press the “scandal sheet of Satan.” He certainly did not wait for Harlan or Burke or even Basil to saunter in and avail themselves of his hospitality. He would not be a spectacle for their amusement.
He took the newspaper into the library. He turned to the second page.
Before he let his eyes find those cursed words, he paused. Everything depended upon this. The Wycliff estate, Timbuktu, Eliza . . .
He skimmed the column, skipping over words that did not suit him, seeking the particular line that would win the wager and determine his fate.
And then it was there: No more shall we go a-roving. . .
He tossed the newspaper aside and strode off to dress and to collect his winnings.
Chapter 47
The Great Reveal
Wycliff arrived with an issue of The London Weekly in hand. He was shown to Lord Alvanley’s drawing room to cool his heels. Ten thousand pounds. He could almost taste it. He could almost feel the blistering heat of Africa and the glorious sensation of being out, alone, in wide-open spaces.
Alvanley’s arrival was preceded by a maid bearing a tray of coffee things and a box of cheroots. She set everything up in a very particular way; it was clear she had learned her master’s preferences and habits and took great care to ensure that everything was just to his liking.
This, of course, made Wycliff think of his own housemaid. His lovely, traitorous housemaid. He pushed those thoughts aside, though, because they were too complicated to contemplate and because Alvanley strolled in. He wore a silk wrapper, as if he’d just awoken.
It was two in the afternoon.
“Good morning,” Wycliff said.
“Is it a good morning?” Alvanley mused. He settled into an obviously favored chair and poured a fresh, hot cup of coffee. Wycliff declined the offer of some himself.
“It is for me,” Wycliff replied, and handed over the issue of The London Weekly.
“Mmm,” Alvanley murmured, reveling in the pleasure of the first sip of his morning brew. Likely he would do the same in an hour or so, Wycliff thought, savoring the first sip of brandy for the day. Alvanley lit a cheroot and breathed deeply.
Then he reached for the newspaper, snapped it open to page two and began to read.
Wycliff did not see his face behind the sheets, but he would have liked to. Trails of silver-gray smoke rose up and faded away. Instead he had to content himself with the sound of a man reading. Save for the occasional hmmm, it was not illuminating.
But a moment or two later, one of those moments that felt like an eternity, Alvanley set down the sheet.
“You have satisfied our terms of the agreement,” he said.
Wycliff nodded. I know seemed the wrong thing to say, at least until the banknote exchanged hands.
“However, we may have a problem,” h
e said, and Wycliff suppressed his urge to growl with annoyance. So. Damn. Close.
The butler appeared in the entryway. “My lord, you have a caller. A female.”
“That would be the problem to which I am referring,” Alvanley said calmly. He reluctantly stubbed out the cheroot.
The butler stepped aside.
Eliza.
For a second Wycliff’s heart stopped. When the beat resumed, it was fueled by scorching, violent sparks of anger, sizzling and crackling.
Eliza.
He had suspected she was the author. He’d known. But her presence in Alvanley’s drawing room was not just a confession—and judging by her wide eyes and softly parted lips, an unexpected one—it was an admission that she had done it for the money.
Fire. He felt like he was on fire.
He had suspected, but to know was another matter entirely.
All those moments they had shared—or so he had thought—were merely fodder. Every kiss, every glance, every minute on the roof sharing his bloody hopes and dreams and everything . . .
All those damned conversations where he railed against the author of “The Tattooed Duke,” only to discover now that he’d been complaining to the authoress herself. In the flesh.
And she had gone and printed the damning details anyway, knowing full well the devastating straits it put him in.
He had suspected her duplicity; he had known deep down. But he’d ignored it because it was a truth he didn’t like, because he might have been in love with her.
That was the kind of idiocy that would get a man killed in the wild. It was slaying him now.
“I trust you two are acquainted,” Alvanley said cheekily, cutting through the thick silence.
