by Becky Lower
The Duplicitous Debutante
Becky Lower
Avon, Massachusetts
Copyright © 2014 by Becky Louise Lower.
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
Published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.
www.crimsonromance.com
ISBN 10: 1-4405-7894-X
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7894-6
eISBN 10 1-4405-7893-1
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7893-9
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © iStockphoto.com/darkbird77 and 123RF/belchonock
In memory of Gail Jones, book reader extraordinaire, and an early champion of my work. I know you were anticipating Rosemary’s story, and I’m very sorry I didn’t get it finished in time.
Family Tree
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Family Tree
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Author’s Note
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
Also Available
CHAPTER ONE
Harry Hawk and the Tycoon’s Daughter—Book Six in the Harry Hawk Series
Harry Hawk stared down the barrel of his Colt .45. A huge Sioux Indian was in his sights, but was holding the girl in front of him as a shield. Her eyes were as big as saucers as she struggled against the man, and she trembled as she kept her eyes on the end of Harry’s gun.
New York City, March 1859
Rosemary Fitzpatrick laid her fountain pen on the paper, oblivious to the blob of ink that fell from its tip and damaged the page. She picked up the letter she had received earlier in the day.
It was her own gun, and she was staring down the barrel.
The letter informed her that her publisher, Page Books, had been sold, as Mr. Page had retired. The new company, Cooper and Son Publishing, was sending an envoy from Boston to New York to meet with all the authors. And to decide whom to keep.
She read the words between the lines. And whom to cut.
She had never met Mr. Page. All their correspondence had been through the post. So Mr. Page had no idea one of his best-selling dime novel authors was a woman. F.P. Elliott was the name she’d come up with when she was only fourteen and submitted her first story, not once imagining she’d become one of Mr. Page’s most productive and popular authors.
She had only two days in which to find someone to impersonate F.P. Elliott.
Rosemary ran her ink-stained fingers through her hair as she pondered what to do. The logical choice, and her only real hope, was her older brother Halwyn. But he was married now and settled. And, despite the fact he loved his sister, Rosemary doubted he’d ever cracked open one of her books.
Well, it was worth a try, anyway. She hastily stood, removed her pinafore—which was covered in purplish-blue stains resembling bruises, but protected her dress—patted her hair back in place, and glided down the steps from her garret study in the four-story townhouse to the main level, where she encountered her mother in the drawing room.
“Oh, good. I was just on my way upstairs to find you. Do come in.”
Rosemary took a seat opposite her mother, who picked up the embroidery she had been working on. Rosemary took a moment to smooth her pale blue muslin dress and inhaled her mother’s subtle, comforting scent of lilacs before she brought her eyes up.
“Mother, I have a problem.”
Her mother glanced up from her needlework. “Well, if it’s a problem with one of your stories, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I don’t know where you get your ideas. Help yourself to some tea and a bit of Cook’s tangy lemon cake, why don’t you?”
Rosemary rose and poured herself a cup of tea, forgoing the cake. “Well, indirectly, it is about my stories.” She took a deep breath. “Mr. Page has retired and he’s sold the company to a Boston publisher.
Charlotte Fitzpatrick’s eyes locked on Rosemary’s. “Oh, dear.”
“Precisely. And the new publisher is sending someone to New York in two days to interview all the authors Mr. Page currently has under contract. They insist upon an in-person visit. Whatever can I do?”
Charlotte tapped her finger on her teeth for a moment, before her face broke into a smile. “We’ll just have to find someone to be Mr. Elliott! What about your father?”
“Papa’s way too busy to spend an afternoon impersonating me. I was thinking more along the lines of Halwyn.”
“Hmmm. I suppose either of them would be a good choice. They can certainly think on their feet. But has either of them read your stories? Do they know where your inspiration for Harry Hawk comes from?”
“No, I don’t think either of them cares. They merely pat me on the head and tell me they’re glad I have a ‘hobby’ that keeps me off the streets and away from the Bloomers and their demonstrations for women’s rights.”
“All right then. Here’s what I suggest. You can prepare a series of questions about your stories, not just your characters but also about your current contract with Mr. Page, and administer the test to both your father and brother. Halwyn and Grace are coming over for dinner tonight, so your timing is perfect. Whoever does the best on the test will be the one to impersonate your Mr. Elliott.” Charlotte clapped her hands together.
“Your idea might just work,” Rosemary replied as a touch of excitement washed over her. “I’ll compose the pertinent questions this afternoon.”
Her mother patted her hand. “Surely we New Yorkers can pull the wool over a Boston Brahmin any day of the week.” She set aside her needlework and picked up the most recent copy of Godey’s fashion magazine. “Now we must discuss the important business of your debut next month. That’s the real reason I wanted to talk to you.”
“Must I still go through with this archaic European folly?”
Charlotte fixed a level stare on her daughter. “It is neither archaic nor European anymore. Judging from its success in finding suitable partners for our young ladies of society since its introduction into American culture five years ago, I must say it’s a convention that’s here to stay. I let you talk me out of it last year, when you should have had your season, simply because I was exhausted from planning the weddings of your two sisters. But no more dawdling, Rosemary. 1859 has to be your year. You’re nineteen and must begin entertaining the idea of getting married. Besides, if the talk of war between the States evolves into ac
tual battle, the cotillion may be cancelled temporarily—at least until we take care of the Southerners and free all the slaves. You may not have another chance to find a husband for years.”
Charlotte pointed to a gown in the magazine. “Jasmine has already created a lovely white gown for your coming-out ball, but we must think beyond the dance, to the entire season. We’ll have a formal dinner in the weeks following the dance. How about a dress such as this?”
Rosemary placed a hand on her stomach, which now knotted with anxiety on top of her excitement. “Mother, I can’t think of dinners or ball gowns right now. My entire future is in jeopardy.”
“Quit being so melodramatic, for goodness’s sake. I’m quite certain your father or brother can come up with a solution, so indulge me a bit and let’s talk dresses. After all, having a wonderful season is part of your future, too.”
”I’m sure whatever you decide will be fine, Mother. I need to get to work on my questions for Papa and Halwyn.”
Rosemary’s stomach calmed a bit as she rose and went back to the garret to compose her test. Maybe her mother’s idea would work. Perhaps her father or brother could pull it off.
• • •
Boston
Henry Cooper stood defiantly in front of his father. His back was ramrod straight. Instinctively, he lifted the toes of his right foot and straightened his leg at the knee, pushing his heel out in front. He landed on his heel and brought his back foot up to the en garde stance. This was indeed a fencing match, even if the weapons were words rather than swords, and he was ready for it. Prêt, his mind whispered as he prepared for his father’s initial attack.
“I am not pleased, Henry.” His father, Maxwell Cooper, glanced up from his perusal of the latest issue of The Atlantic Monthly, tossing it across the desk toward Henry. “Why didn’t you think of this magazine-style format? Wasn’t the purpose of your fancy education to give you an advantage over our competition? I still don’t understand why you couldn’t have just gone to my alma mater.”
Allez. Henry took a deep, steadying breath. The bout had begun. This was nothing more than a beat. His father’s simple preparatory motion was designed to hit Henry’s blade at its weakest point, but Henry refused to give way. Instead, he returned the jab.
“The fact you went to Harvard was enough reason for me to choose to go elsewhere. Besides, you’re the one who shipped me off to Uncle Jacques when I was just a boy.”
His father glared at him. “You are well aware of the reason you were sent to your uncle’s.”
Henry remained silent, refusing to get drawn into a counter-attack. This match would be played out on his terms.
His father picked up the magazine once again.
“James Lowell took the helm of this magazine, which was founded by Francis Underwood and host of other liberal writers. And he immediately flaunted convention by featuring a female writer on a regular basis. Here’s another article written by that Harriet Beecher Stowe woman. If he keeps up with this kind of behavior, his innovation won’t last. Then, we can swoop in and take it over.”
Henry paused before he spoke. He followed up his father’s attempt at a parry with a riposte, an attack of his own.
“I think Lowell’s idea is brilliant. Miss Stowe is an excellent writer. What does a person’s gender matter if they are the best at their craft? Or at business? I would prefer to work on the expansion of the railroads with Uncle Jacques. Why not let Marguerite take over here? She’s much better suited to publishing.”
His father’s brows knit together, and his face twisted into a sneer. “I did not name my company Cooper and Daughter Publishing. It is Cooper and Son, and for a very good reason. Marguerite spends her days writing sonnets, and not even good ones. Keats and Shelley have nothing to fear. Her job is to get married—and soon, before the eligible pool of bachelors disappears. Your job, however, is to help expand my empire.”
Now they were getting down to it. It was Henry’s turn to parry. “I have no interest in your ‘empire’ or in working for you.”
“Nonsense. Why else would I have called you home? I’m sending you to New York City tomorrow. I have purchased a company there, a small outfit, but they have been experiencing some success. They specialize in those quickly written, lurid potboilers called dime novels. Your job will be to integrate their stable of authors into our company. We don’t need to honor any of their current contracts, but they do have some good authors I want to hold on to.”
Henry glanced at his father, his right hand immediately coming level to the floor and his wrist twisting inward, ready to thrust. He brought his hand down from its fencing position with considerable effort.
“While I readily admit leaving Boston is most appealing, I will only take over the new company if I can have complete control.”
His father took a cheroot out of the top drawer of his desk and made a grand show of lighting it before he spoke again. Henry inhaled the cigar’s soothing aroma as he waited for his father to continue.
Maxwell rolled the cigar in his fingers as he glanced up at his son. “Maybe you’re right, and the publishing business isn’t for you, Henry. Any stiff competitor, such as James Lowell, would ride roughshod all over you. I will need to oversee the business, to make certain you are running it to my satisfaction.”
Henry couldn’t stop the threat from leaving his lips. “It’s complete control, or I go back to Uncle Jacques and work with him.” He almost wished his father would turn his back on him once more. Then, Henry could be free from his undeniable need to please his father. The need that began when he was only fourteen, with the loss of his mother.
“This is your final test, son. If you can’t do my bidding in New York, I’ll find another partner to take over that branch of the company. Perhaps Lowell.”
Henry took a small breath to steady himself. His father was asking for a real battle. “You couldn’t abide working with Lowell, Father. He sees women as equally competent as men when it comes to penning good works of prose. You’ve presented an idle threat. I’ll give you one month, possibly two. If I am still as disillusioned with the publishing business as I am now, you may give the business to Lowell or whomever else you damn well please.”
“You’ll have to prove to me you’re worthy of me turning over the business to you first. Meet my first assignment and sort through the authors. I want you to meet each of them face-to-face and test their mettle. Then we’ll talk about who has control.”
“It’s complete control right now, or I leave for New Orleans today rather than wait.”
His father’s eyes narrowed. Then he spread his hands wide. “All right. Let’s see if you can make a go of it. Page Books has a small press and a shop set up, as well as a business office. It makes sense to keep the entire operation up and running if there are enough good authors to warrant it. We can produce the dime novels from there, and the better books can continue to be published here.”
“And no interference from you? I run things my own way?”
His father huffed. “I said all right, didn’t I? You’ll have dinner with me and your sister tonight, and be off on one of your beloved trains in the morning. My friends the Cabots have relatives in New York, so they can assure your entry into the proper New York circles.”
“I have plans for this evening already, but I will stop in and say goodbye to Marguerite before I leave.” Counter-parry. They had circled around each other, but no real resolution had been gained to ease their strained relationship. They were back where they started.
CHAPTER TWO
Rosemary ran her hand over her stomach as she took her place at the table for the evening meal. The silk gown was one of her favorites, with its stripes of brown, caramel, and white intersecting to provide a delicate crisscross pattern. The creamy lace at the sleeves added a touch of elegance and refinement. Bands of ribbon were placed at strategic points to showcase her small waist.
Halwyn and his wife, Grace, were joining the family gathering for tonig
ht’s dinner. Grace was nearing her due date for the their first child’s birth and could barely squeeze her body in under the table.
Rosemary’s mother, Charlotte Fitzpatrick, stated the obvious. “Only a few more days now until our Grace provides us with a new grandchild, George.” She ran a hand lightly down Grace’s arm. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m a bit uncomfortable tonight. I think our child wants out, and soon.”
Saffron, the youngest child in the Fitzpatrick family, chimed in. “Halwyn, may I be the first to hold the baby, after you and Grace?”
Halwyn glanced at his sister and smiled. “Don’t you think the honor should be reserved for your mother?”
“No, I don’t. She always gets to do it. Jasmine and Parr’s baby Finn, Ginger’s babies, all of them. Mother gets to hold all of them first. For once, I want to be first, especially since it’s your baby, Halwyn, and you are my favorite brother. Just because I’m only eleven doesn’t mean I can’t be careful with it.”
Charlotte laughed. “I remember when you were born, Saffy. We allowed Valerian to hold you. He was six at the time, and he nearly dropped you.”
Saffron pouted. “Well, I’m not a boy, and I won’t drop the baby. Valerian’s just clumsy, which is why he’s not my favorite brother. But since I’m the youngest in the family, I’ve never gotten to hold any of my brothers or sisters when they were babies, so I think I should now.”
Valerian, who was delving into the mashed potatoes, grinned. “I remember the day I first held you. You were so tiny. And I’m not clumsy. Mother screamed when I tipped you, and scared me so much I almost did drop you. It was her fault.”
Saffron made a face at Valerian before turning back to her favorite brother. “Halwyn, please? Can I be the first one to hold your new baby?” She was not about to be led astray from her quest.
Grace and Halwyn shared a glance. Then he turned to Saffron. “Yes, you may.”
“And it will probably be sooner than we all think.” Grace ran a hand over her stomach and her lovely blue satin gown.
