by Merry Farmer
“Everyone who the mysterious author of Nocturne has written about has seen their social standing tumble,” Lady Maude added.
“How fortunate for me, then,” Phoebe said with a smile. “I cannot tumble any farther than I already have. Good day, ladies.”
Lady Jane and Lady Maude weren’t used to being dismissed. They stood where they were for a moment, fiddling with their purses, biting their lips, and looking generally disappointed. At last, they gave up and walked away.
As soon as they were gone, Phoebe blew out a breath, shoulders sagging. She wished she’d thought to keep the copy of Nocturne so that she could read through the entire story to find out just how bad it was.
“Psst!”
Phoebe jerked out of her thoughts as Hilda whispered to her from across the aisle. When she glanced up questioningly, Hilda said, “I know where to buy copies of that Nocturne thing,” with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
“Do you?” Hope—and trepidation—filled Phoebe’s heart.
“Oh, it’s all the rage at my boarding house,” Hilda said. “You wouldn’t believe the things written in there. Every time I read it, I think my eyes are going to fall right out of my head. That author leaves nothing at all to the imagination.”
“Oh, dear,” Phoebe sighed. She’d heard as much about the publication, but now, knowing that she and Danny had somehow been made the subjects of the author’s fantasy, she wasn’t sure if she approved. Even if she did burn to read the story now.
She had to wait until her entire, long shift was over to do anything about it, though. It made the day creep by. She was bristling with impatience by the time she left work and made her way to the newspaper stand Hilda had told her about to purchase a copy—a ridiculous process that involved speaking to a particular man selling the thing and using a code to ask to buy it. Once the paper was in her hands, she took herself to Hyde Park and found a bench in the shade where she could read it.
“Oh, Lord,” she sighed as she skimmed through the dazzlingly explicit details of the erotic story. Though truth be told, it was fascinating and filled her with a naughty urge to act out the things the mysterious author had imagined about her and Danny.
A thought struck her that wiped the coy grin from her face halfway through a description of Danny doing shocking things between her legs with his tongue. Whoever the author was, they had to have been present at Lady O’Shea’s ball. There were too many distinct descriptions for them to simply have made everything up. She leafed through the rest of the issue in her hands. Everything it contained had its origin at the ball. The details of decoration and food, even what the orchestra had played, were explicit in more ways than one. Phoebe felt as though she were on the verge of discovering the identity of the author, and the one thing she knew about Nocturne was that London had been anxious for months to discover who that author was.
A second thought struck her as she stood, tucked the journal under her arm, and made her way out of Hyde Park, heading toward Mayfair. Journals such as the one she’d just read genuinely could make or break reputations. She’d heard rumors that the authors of scandalous rags like that made small fortunes blackmailing their subjects. Whether blackmail was involved or not, appearing in print could damage someone’s reputation. Her reputation was already long gone, but Lord Cosgrove’s wasn’t. Yet. And a man without a reputation was the sort of man Parliament would never grant a contract for land development to.
She reached the door to Hopewell House within fifteen minutes and knocked eagerly. Lady O’Shea’s butler smiled as he opened the door to greet her, which filled Phoebe with confidence.
“Is Lady O’Shea at home?” she asked, stepping into the house as the butler gestured for her to come in.
“For you, my lady, I’m certain she is,” the butler said, gesturing for her to follow him down the hall. “We were all so delighted with the ball the other night,” he went on. In spite of his august years and stiff posture, he leaned closer to her and said, “We servants don’t ordinarily get the chance to enjoy ourselves as much as our betters while serving during a ball. You and your friend, Mr. Long, provided as much joy for us as you did for the esteemed guests.”
“Why, thank you, sir,” Phoebe beamed in response.
She didn’t have a chance to say more, as the man led her to an afternoon parlor where Lady O’Shea was taking tea. She wasn’t alone, though. Miss Garrett sat with her, as did Natalia, who Phoebe had come to see.
“Phoebe!” Natalia yelped leaping out of her chair and rushing across the room to hug Phoebe. “We were just talking about you. Come and have some tea.”
“I don’t want to disturb you, Lady O’Shea,” Phoebe said, following Natalia into the room. “I came to have a word with Natalia.”
“Have a word with all of us,” Lady O’Shea said, gesturing to the sofa where she sat. “Miss Garrett and Natalia and I were just discussing your grand entry into the realm of fiction, something I see you have discovered as well.” Her eyes practically glittered with mischief as she nodded to the pink-tinged paper under Phoebe’s arm.
Phoebe blushed furiously as she had a seat. “I’m a bit alarmed by the whole thing, to tell you the truth,” she admitted.
“Nonsense.” Natalia fluttered about, fixing Phoebe a cup of tea. “How exciting to be made the subject of such a popular and scandalous journal.”
Phoebe sent her a wary look. “If my reputation wasn’t already nonexistent, I would be devastated.”
“But you aren’t devastated?” Miss Garrett asked.
Phoebe considered the question seriously. “I’m not sure I have farther to fall,” she admitted. “But reading this story has given me a wicked idea.”
“I should say so,” Miss Garrett said, her eyes sparkling with wickedness of her own. “Particularly if there is any truth to the association it implies between you and Mr. Long.”
Phoebe blushed harder. “Well, as to that, it’s not something I feel as though I should discuss.”
Her answer was a dead giveaway, which all three of the others knew in an instant.
“Well,” Lady O’Shea said with an excited smile, sipping her tea.
“That’s not what I came to discuss, though,” Phoebe said, taking a sip of her own tea before changing the topic. “I trust you’ve all heard about the fire that destroyed The Watchman pub and surrounding buildings.”
All three of the others instantly lost their cheer, their grins replaced by grimaces and frowns.
“Yes,” Natalia said. “And I think Lord Cosgrove is horrible to do such a thing.”
Phoebe’s brow shot to her hairline. “So you’ve heard the speculation that Lord Cosgrove was responsible?”
“Of course,” Lady O’Shea said. “Remember that your friend, Mr. Long, is friends with my husband and Natalia’s brother.”
“And Freddy and Reese,” Miss Garrett added. Phoebe found it particularly interesting that she didn’t refer to Lord Harrington as her fiancé, even though he was.
“The man should be drawn and quartered,” Natalia said with particular vengeance.
“I will admit that I agree,” Phoebe said. “He was positively dreadful to me and Danny when we went to confront him at his club the morning after the fire.”
The other three ladies exchanged looks as though highly impressed by Phoebe’s initiative.
Phoebe went on before they could steer the conversation away from the idea that had formed in her mind in Hyde Park. “After reading this delicious story, presumably of me and Danny, I had an idea.”
“What sort of an idea?” Lady O’Shea leaned closer to her.
“An idea to strike back at Lord Cosgrove the same way he sought to strike at Danny,” Phoebe said. “Surely, a parliamentary committee would not award a development contract to a man whose reputation has been brutalized in the press.”
“If that were true, then the story in Nocturne would discredit Mr. Long and take him out of the running for the deal,” Lady O’Shea said circumspect
ly.
Phoebe had thought of that, but she shook her head all the same. “This bit of frippery is the sort of thing men pat themselves on the back over,” she reasoned. “If you ask me, it might actually improve Danny’s standing in the eyes of the men on the parliamentary committee.”
“That’s certainly true,” Miss Garrett agreed.
“But if the information printed were of a more damaging sort, if it were an account of the misdeeds and crimes a man was guilty of by association to a man who is already well-known to have ruined a great many members of the aristocracy—”
“Your father,” Lady O’Shea said, leaning back with a smile, as though Phoebe had announced “checkmate”.
Phoebe nodded. “All I need is a journal willing to print a story implicating Lord Cosgrove in the crimes my father committed. His reputation would be ruined in a substantial way, Danny would win the development contract, and perhaps my mother would finally stop trying to convince me to marry the bastard, Cosgrove.”
The other three looked as though Phoebe had just presented them with a marvel.
“Why, Phoebe,” Natalia said, giggling. “I had no idea how ruthless you were.”
Phoebe sat straighter. “I’ve had to become ruthless to survive. And no, I have no qualms about bringing down a man associated with my father who has caused me so much personal distress.” Her shoulders drooped slightly as another thought came to her. “I have no idea how to start the thing, though. I don’t know a single newspaper editor, or anyone of any importance, really.”
“Oh, but I do,” Miss Garrett said, her grin growing in size and cheekiness. “I’ve spent enough time in London now to make a few friends who might be of use. One more recent friend in particular.” She reached across and patted Phoebe’s hand. “You leave this to me. I know exactly how to proceed.”
Chapter 14
“The good news is that the pub, the entire building, actually, was insured,” Tuttle said from across the table and a pile of paperwork in Danny’s dining room. “Not many property owners are taking advantage of the new insurance schemes, but I’ve always tried to steer you in the right direction.”
“I know,” Danny said, wanting to sound thankful, but too frustrated to so much as smile. He’d been in a terrible mood for days, since the fire itself and his and Phoebe’s confrontation with Cosgrove at the man’s club. More than just the stink of smoke lingered in the air. As he stared out the window at a cloudy, London sky and the dull building across the mews from his flat, he writhed with the need to do something, to wring someone’s neck. The only time he hadn’t felt like marching back to that club, dragging Cosgrove out of the place by his ear, and pounding his fist repeatedly across the man’s face was when Phoebe had snuck up to visit him in the middle of the night the previous evening.
It had been a glorious visit at that. Just when he’d begun to wonder if he’d taken things too far between the two of them and shocked her sensibilities by behaving like such a lion after the fire, she’d reassured him of her affection by coming willingly to his bed. And she’d been a dream, sighing with pleasure and meeting his passion with her own, in spite of her inexperience. Her eagerness to make love with him was the only thing that had kept him from sinking into anger and despair to the point of doing something rash.
“Demolition crews should begin work taking down the destroyed buildings before the end of the week,” Tuttle went on, shuffling through the papers on the table, “which means—”
“By the end of the week?” Danny sat up straighter, pulling his full focus back to the conversation at hand. “What about the arson investigation?”
Tuttle pressed his lips together, looking as sheepish as he did irritated. “The police refuse to look into the matter further,” he said.
“Refuse?” Danny boomed, gaping at the man.
“The officer who filed the initial report, Officer Mull, says it’s a clear case of accidental fire,” Tuttle said with a wince. “He dismissed your claim that Lord Cosgrove was responsible.”
“How dare he?” Danny pounded on the table, standing. “Everyone knows Cosgrove was behind it. Cosgrove himself didn’t deny it, not really.”
“Whether Cosgrove was behind the arson or not, Scotland Yard isn’t willing to investigate,” Tuttle said.
“Have you appealed to Jack Craig yet?” Danny asked, beginning to pace his flat. “Jack would do something about it.”
“Lord Clerkenwell was very responsive to my appeal,” Tuttle told him. “But when he attempted to press the matter internally, he was refused in no uncertain terms.”
“And why was that, I wonder?” Danny fumed, shoving a hand through his hair.
He didn’t need Tuttle to answer, but the man did anyhow. “As far as Scotland Yard sees it, you’re a middle-class pub owner at best, and you’re accusing a member of the aristocracy. Not a soul is going to touch that claim.”
“Bloody English values,” Danny growled, tempted to snatch up a vase on his mantelpiece and dash it to bits in the grate just to smash something. “I’m sick and bloody tired of the upper classes being so untouchable. As if their shit doesn’t stink.”
Tuttle spread his hands in a hopeless gesture. “’Twas always thus and always thus will be’,” he quoted.
“Well, it shouldn’t be,” Danny grumbled.
He continued to pace for a moment, unable to shake the irritation that bunched the muscles of his back and made him grit his teeth. Tuttle sat silently at the table, alternately glancing between the papers containing all of the business dealings involved with the demolishing and rebuilding of the fire-damaged buildings. Because Danny sure as hell was going to rebuild. He wouldn’t let Cosgrove cow him in the least. His new construction would be bigger, better, and more modern than anything that part of the city had seen.
At length, Tuttle cleared his throat. “Am I correct in understanding that your chief frustration is the lack of respect you receive from authorities and those in positions of power?” he asked.
“Yes!” Danny shouted, spinning to pace toward the man. “I’m richer than all of them, so why shouldn’t they treat me as their equal?”
“Birth,” Tuttle answered with a shrug, but rushed on before Danny could do more than laugh bitterly. “You could, of course, do what industrialists and entrepreneurs have been doing for a hundred years and more.”
Danny crossed his arms and frown. “And what is that?”
Tuttle chewed his lip nervously before saying, “You could marry into the aristocracy.”
Danny knew in an instant what Tuttle had in mind. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought of marrying Phoebe in every single waking moment that wasn’t already consumed by the business of his pub and the land deal. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted a woman before. She was goodness and light. She was stronger than she thought she was, and at the same time, she needed him to protect her. In short, she was everything he’d ever looked for in a woman and the only woman he could see himself living out the rest of his life with.
“There is the matter of her inheritance,” Tuttle went on, hitting exactly the nerve that had stopped Danny from proposing to Phoebe and pledging his life to her when he was between her legs the night before. “According to what you told me about her father’s will, she is set to inherit a country estate and everything that goes along with it. And that estate would pass to her husband once she marries.”
“I know, I know,” Danny grumbled, the twist of guilt that usually came with thoughts of the whole thing gnawing at his gut.
“You cannot change your birth,” Tuttle continued, “but you’re extraordinarily wealthy. I’ve made a few initial inquiries, and your investments are more than enough to cover the debt that Credenhill Grange has accumulated. I might have a few suggestions for men who could be hired as land stewards as well. A country estate is the ultimate accessory of high society. The daughter of a marquess would be another trapping of importance and respectability that money cannot buy.”
Danny huffed a frustrated breath and rubbed his hands over his face as he returned to pacing. It was all so easy, so simple. He loved Phoebe. He wasn’t too proud to admit it. He was reasonably certain she loved him. For now. But how would she react if he married her, or even proposed marriage, only to find out later that he was well aware of her true value and the social advancement marriage to her would provide him with? She was too intelligent not to believe he was using her for his own gains.
Or worse still, if he told her about her inheritance before proposing, there was a chance she would drop him and everything her life had become to return to society. He’d seen the way she smiled at everyone in that ballroom at Hopewell House. It was the happiest Danny had ever seen her. Well, the happiest he’d seen her with clothes on. There was no denying she loved that life, loved the clothes and the music and the company. He had much to offer her, but he wasn’t sure he could compete with the entire, bloody English aristocracy.
“I’m not some brute, like Cosgrove, who wants to collect a woman of substance for all the things she can do for me,” he said aloud, voicing his prickliest concern. “I’m not going to use Phoebe as a pawn for my own advancement.” If he proposed now, he would be every bit the mercenary that Cosgrove was.
“I don’t think you’d be using her,” Tuttle said, rising and gathering his papers. “You are a man of honor and integrity, Danny. You always have been. I can see clearly that you’re worried any matrimonial offers you might make to Lady Phoebe would be seen as self-serving, but I know you as a person as well as a business associate. You love her. I believe she loves you. And love trumps business.”
Tuttle’s words were a bit of a comfort. They were certainly something Danny would have to consider. The other aspect of the whole, mad muddle was that he hated making decisions quickly. He hadn’t taken the business built by three generations of his family and grown it into an empire by making rash decisions.
A knock sounded at the door as Tuttle stuffed his paperwork into his satchel. Danny crossed to answer it. His heart leapt and his mood improved vastly at the sight of Phoebe standing in the hall.
