“Very well,” Lucy said abruptly. “We’ll go to Millworth.”
“Excellent.” Beryl nodded. “We should leave this afternoon. And I’ve decided to go with you.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“It is if I’m going to help you with a few more things on your list. Besides, I could use a respite in the country myself. I’ve been feeling a bit out of sorts lately.”
“Very well then. I’ll instruct my maid to pack and we will plan on leaving this afternoon. In the meantime . . .” Lucy pushed her chair back and stood. “I believe I’ll pay a call on the publisher of Cadwallender’s Daily Messenger.”
“I’m not sure that’s wise,” Beryl said thoughtfully, taking another piece of toast. “Wouldn’t it be better for him to simply suspect you exist rather than to know for certain?”
“Possibly, but if there is already speculation about a real American heiress then that ship has sailed, hasn’t it?”
“Still—”
“I’ve spent my entire life allowing events to unfold as it were. I’m not going to sit around and wait to see what happens next. This is my future at stake, after all.” Lucy thought for a moment. “I simply want to make sure he understands that should my name become connected with his paper’s stories, I will be very, very angry.”
“Oh, and he wouldn’t want to annoy you.” Beryl scoffed.
“My dear Beryl, perhaps you’ve forgotten that I have a great deal of money. My mother taught me that one should only use money as a last resort but one should not hesitate to use it when necessary. My mother taught me many things that I paid no real attention to.” She smiled. “This is not one of them.”
Beryl stared at her for a moment, then grinned. “My, you can take care of yourself. Oh, this will be fun.”
“You’ll come with me then?” It certainly wouldn’t hurt to be in the company of Lady Dunwell, wife of the prominent Lord Dunwell.
“As much as I would enjoy it . . .” Beryl shook her head. “I can’t. I do have to arrange for our travel and I need to discuss with Clement whether he and some of the staff here should accompany us or if we can make do with the staff in the country and . . . well, the truth of the matter is . . .” She wrinkled her nose. “Lionel and I have made certain promises to each other in recent years about avoiding so much as the appearance of impropriety. He does hope to be prime minister and, if that is what he wants, I want that for him. For me to accompany you to a newspaper office—”
“Say no more.” Lucy held up a hand to stop her. “I understand completely. Clara will come with me and, as I expect Mr. Fairchild—”
“Cameron Effington, you said?” Confusion colored Beryl’s face.
Lucy nodded. “He can accompany us as well.”
“Let me see if I understand this.” Beryl’s brows drew together. “Lord Cameron Effington, the youngest son of the Duke of Roxborough, has been acting as a bodyguard, watchdog, guardian, whatever you wish to call it—”
“He’s a private investigator,” Lucy offered.
Beryl nodded. “And he’s using the name Fairchild?”
“Exactly.”
Beryl’s brow furrowed. “That name sounds vaguely familiar.”
Clara stared. “When did you find this out?”
“At last night’s ball. Freddy Rutledge told me.” Lucy drummed her fingers on the table. “It certainly does answer a lot of questions.”
“And brings up even more, I suspect. Why would the son of a duke be masquerading as a private investigator?” Beryl said thoughtfully.
“Oh, I don’t think he’s masquerading at all. I think he’s trying to make his own mark on the world. He’s not very good, entirely too trusting, really, but one gets the impression that he’s new at it. I have no doubt he will be quite successful.” Lucy beamed. “Isn’t it wonderfully independent and ambitious of him?”
“Yes, I suppose. Although a more conceivable possibility might be that he’s run through his trust funds—all the Effington offspring have trusts,” Beryl said in an aside to Clara.
Clara nodded.
“He’s squandered all his money and now he actually has to work for a living.” Beryl shook her head in a pitying manner. “He wouldn’t be the first, although to give the man his due, most young men in that situation simply live off their families or live on credit against expectations until they find some suitable match whose dowry will restore their fortunes.”
“How terribly rude of them,” Lucy murmured.
“Perhaps, but it’s not at all uncommon.”
Cameron would never do such a thing. He simply wasn’t that type of man. Still, the fact that he hadn’t actually been hired was disconcerting.
“I suspect he knows Chapman,” Beryl continued. “In fact I would be surprised if he didn’t. Which explains why he took the job I had offered Chapman.” Beryl paused. “I do wonder how much I’m paying him.”
“Are you going to tell him you know who he is?” Clara asked.
“Oh, let’s not.” A few minutes ago, Lucy would have said she absolutely intended to tell Cameron she knew he had been using an assumed name. Now she wasn’t so sure. Not now that Beryl had raised the idea of a man who had lost his fortune looking for a wealthy wife. What better way to get into the good graces of a young woman with money than to portray yourself as her protector? Her guardian? Her knight straight from a fairy tale? She pushed the thought aside but it was impossible to ignore.
Nor could she ignore the very real possibility that if Cameron was acquainted with Chapman, might Clara not know him as well? And if Clara knew him, did that mean she too was in on his deception? And if so, to what end?
Regardless, it had always been apparent that Clara neither liked nor trusted Cameron, for whatever that was worth. And Lucy had indeed trusted Clara from the beginning. If she was wrong . . . well, she refused to think about that. About the possibility that her intuition, her instincts, were flawed or had failed her altogether. She was as confident of that as she was of Clara’s loyalties. Clara was a good, honorable woman and her friend. Clara would never betray her.
As for the idea that Cameron was engaged in an elaborate plot to marry Lucy for her money, why, it was utter nonsense. There were far easier ways to gain her affections than by arguing with her at every turn. She had no doubt that she’d spent enough time with him to know what kind of man he really was. And one did need to rely on one’s instincts. If one couldn’t trust oneself, who could one trust?
Admittedly, this revelation about his identity didn’t entirely explain everything about Cameron Fair—Effington. In fact, it brought up more questions than it answered. Given that he’d said he would talk to her today, and in a manner that indicated said talk was of some importance, she’d rather not let him know what she knew, at least for now.
“No,” Lucy said coolly. “I would much prefer to see how long it takes him to finally tell me the truth.”
Chapter Fourteen
“We’re going where?” Cam forced a casual tone and ignored the sense of impending doom that settled in the pit of his stomach.
“Fleet Street,” Lucy said briskly. “The offices of Cadwallender and Sons, the firm that publishes a somewhat questionable newspaper called Cadwallender’s Daily Messenger.”
She adjusted her hat in the mirror in the front foyer. Apparently, she and Miss West had been about to leave without him. Fortunately, he had arrived just in time. If Lucy was going to see Mr. Cadwallender, it meant only one thing. The surreptitious glares of disgust from Miss West reinforced his suspicion.
Lucy’s gaze caught his in the mirror. “Have you heard of it?”
“Vaguely.” He shrugged in an offhand manner, belying the panic threatening within him.
Miss West coughed or choked, one couldn’t be sure, although the sound had a distinct edge of disdain.
“It seems they are publishing a series of stories written by a Mr. Aldrich—”
“Have you heard of him?” Miss West asked in a
n overly pleasant manner.
He shook his head. “I don’t believe so.”
“No doubt,” Miss West said under her breath.
“Stories about a runaway American heiress.” Lucy blew a long breath. “Stories that sound suspiciously like they are based on my activities.”
“Really?” he said with feigned astonishment.
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Sarcasm dripped from Miss West’s voice. Lucy slanted her a sharp glance.
Good Lord, just how much did Lucy know? And how much did she suspect?
“So . . .” He chose his words with care. “You’re going to talk to the publisher?”
“I am indeed.” She tucked an errant strand of hair under her hat, then nodded in satisfaction.
“Do you think that’s wise?”
Again her gaze met his in the mirror. “You’re the second person today who has asked me that.”
“Which would indicate to me that this particular course is not especially wise.”
“Perhaps not.” She turned toward him and cast him a brilliant smile. “But it’s what I intend to do.”
“Still, you might want to reconsider.”
“Excuse me, miss.” The butler stepped into the foyer. “I know you are eager to be off as soon as you return from your errand, and Eloise, the maid who is packing your things, had a question for you. It will only take a moment.”
“Of course.” Lucy nodded and followed Clement out of the foyer.
The moment she was out of sight, Miss West moved toward him with the barely concealed animosity of an avenging angel, her voice low and venomous. “You need to tell her everything.”
“I intend to,” he snapped. “How did she find out about the stories?”
“How did you think she wouldn’t?” She stared as if she’d never seen an idiot before. “They are in a newspaper, for God’s sake.”
“You didn’t see them!”
“No, but Lady Dunwell did.” She clenched her teeth. “And there’s gossip, my lord, about whether or not the heiress in your stories is truly fictional or if she’s real.”
“They are doing well if people are talking about them,” he said more to himself than to her.
Miss West’s eyes widened in outrage.
“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” he said quickly. “I will tell her everything at the first opportunity.”
“Well, you’d better hope that’s soon.” She pinned him with a hard look. “The longer you wait, the more likely it is she will find out everything on her own. Everything. And that will serve neither of you well.”
“I know that but . . .” He ran his hand through his hair. “The moment has to be just right.”
“That moment might well be too late.” She shook her head in a pitying manner. “I gave you my word that I would not tell her about you, but the time is fast approaching when I may have no choice but to—”
“Are we ready?” Lucy swept back into the foyer. “I really do want to get this over and done with. And we don’t have any time to waste if we’re going to take the afternoon train.”
“Why are we taking the afternoon train?” he said slowly.
“We are not. Miss West and I have been invited by Lady Dunwell to join her at Millworth Manor. And I see no reason for you to accompany us.”
“No, I suppose not.” He studied her closely. She was obviously annoyed at him for some reason. If she knew that he was the author of the stories, surely Miss West would have said something. And Lucy would be far more than merely annoyed. No, there must be something else wrong.
“Didn’t you say last night that you had something you wished to discuss today?” A challenge shone in Lucy’s eyes.
“I . . .” No, this wasn’t the right time, especially not with Miss West glaring at him. He really did need to find a way to get rid of her. He shook his head. “It can wait.”
Lucy’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, that’s what I thought. Very well then.” With that she nodded to the footman at the door and strode out of the house, Miss West at her heels. Cam trailed behind.
He had absolutely no idea how this outing would end, but he was fairly confident for him it would not end well.
Stepping into the offices of Cadwallender and Sons Publishers would have been somewhat intimidating if one wasn’t filled with righteous indignation. Housed in a large building on Fleet Street, which was, according to Lucy’s copy of Collins’ Illustrated Guide to London, an area filled with newspaper and printing offices and literary associations, the offices of the assorted Cadwallenders themselves were on the first floor. The overall impression was of an enormous room divided into partitioned spaces by half walls, about four feet in height. Tall enough to give the illusion of privacy without going so far as to actually provide it. Each space contained a desk and chair and most were occupied with gentlemen. Some were busy on typewriting machines, others talked on telephones, but the majority seemed to be scrambling around as if whatever they were doing could not wait another moment. A row of decidedly worn and uncomfortable-looking chairs lined the walls on either side of the entry door and faced a long, wooden counter in what served as some sort of reception area. There was a sense of immediacy here, the feeling that everything was critical, heightened by the faint thrum of machinery and a cacophony of urgent voices. Under other circumstances, Lucy would have found it all fascinating.
In the center of this fortress of journalistic endeavor, some of the half walls supported glass windows to create enclosed, separate spaces. Lucy, Clara, and Cameron were shown to one of these, the private—although private did seem a relative term—domain of the publisher of Cadwallender’s Daily Messenger, Mr. James Cadwallender, as opposed to the publisher of Cadwallender’s Weekly Ladies World, a Mr. Matthew Cadwallender. Apparently there was also a Cadwallender Brothers Publishing, which published books. Beryl said she had heard there was something of a split among the Cadwallender publishing brothers. She had also mentioned that she thought the Cadwallenders had long been connected to the Duke of Roxborough’s family, although she didn’t know if that was personal or business. Beryl had then remembered that Cameron’s mother was a Fairchild, which explained his choice of name.
In the hour or so since Beryl had left, Lucy had found herself growing more and more annoyed at Cameron. Not because he hadn’t been honest about his name—she could easily see any number of legitimate reasons for that—but because she couldn’t get the idea of him wanting her for her money out of her head. It was like some sort of incessant noise, the constant drip of a faucet, that refused to be ignored. The worse thing about it was that it was entirely possible. Perhaps by going to Millworth and putting some distance between them, she could at least sort out her feelings about him and who he was and what he might really want from her. It was past time to accept that she might well be in love with the man. At the very worse her heart would be broken; at the very best it would all be an amusing misunderstanding. Fortunately, she had other matters to deal with first.
Lucy sat in a chair facing the desk of Mr. James Cadwallender. Clara perched on a chair beside the door to the glass-enclosed office, and Cameron stood nearby.
“Mr. Cadwallender,” Lucy began after the publisher had resumed his seat. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I am here.”
“That did cross my mind, Miss Merryweather,” Mr. Cadwallender said politely. He was some ten years older than she, with dark brown hair and eyes an interesting amber color. And, at any other time, she would have quite appreciated his dashing appearance. Today, she had other things on her mind. “How may I be of assistance?”
“It has come to my attention that you are currently featuring in your newspaper a series of stories about a fictional heiress.”
“We are.” He nodded. “They are becoming quite popular.”
“Yes, I have heard that as well. Unfortunately, I have also heard some rather distressing speculation.”
His brow rose. “Have you?”
She nodded. “The
re are rumors that your heroine is not fictional but rather based on a real person.”
He stared in feigned astonishment. “I had no idea.”
“Shocking, isn’t it? Worse yet, it does seem that, on occasion, the stories might be reflective of my own life.”
He gasped. “I find that hard to believe.”
“As do I.” She paused. “I’m certain this is nothing more than mere coincidence. Goodness, Mr. Cadwallender, I have certainly not run away, nor am I having daring exploits. I only wish I was. I fear my life is really quite sedate.”
“I doubt that, Miss Merryweather,” he said with a smile.
“How very nice of you to say.” She cast him a brilliant smile. “And even if I were having daring exploits or mild adventures for that matter, I will tell you, I would not mind the chronicling of them.”
“You wouldn’t?” he said slowly.
“Oh my, no. They are written in a most amusing manner. I find them extremely entertaining. Your Mr. Aldrich is quite skilled.”
“I’ll tell him you said so.”
“However.” She leaned forward slightly. “As I said, there is speculation, rumor, that sort of thing. You must understand, London is not overrun with American heiresses, therefore if your readers are wondering if indeed your stories are based in fact, well . . .” She shrugged in a helpless manner.
“I see your point.”
“While I am confident the young woman in these stories is not meant to be me, and any resemblance is no more than an odd quirk of fate, there are a few, oh, slivers of truth here and there in the stories. Vague similarities to my own life that, while no more than coincidence, could cause me great personal concern.”
His brows drew together. “Are you asking me to stop the publication of the Daring Exploits?”
“Why, Mr. Cadwallender.” She widened her eyes in a show of indignation. “I am an American and we are firmly committed to the basic principle of a free press. I would never tell you not to publish anything.”
“Then—”
“I simply request that you speak with your Mr. Aldrich and ask him to, I don’t know, expand his imagination perhaps, make his heroine’s exploits more far-fetched and improbable to make very certain your readers do indeed realize his stories are complete fabrications.”
The Daring Exploits of a Runaway Heiress Page 22
