“I’m right, aren’t I?” Angela murmured after the butler and the footman had departed to carry out his instructions. “She’s gone off with that man, hasn’t she?”
Henry pressed his tongue to his teeth, working to find a palatable reply, but in this case, there was none. “I’m afraid so, yes. They seem to have eloped.”
A sob from Sarah flared up his barely contained anger and put Foscarelli’s health decidedly in jeopardy. “I will take care of this,” he said. “I will find Mama and bring her back before she can complete the foolish course she has embarked upon.”
“If you can,” Angela said before Sarah could reply. “But if you fail, Mama will become the laughingstock of society.”
“Not only Mama,” David added. “By doing this, she subjects the entire family to shame and ridicule.”
With that, Sarah began to cry in earnest. “This is my first season,” she wailed, “and before it’s even over, my mother has gone off with a man nearly half her age, a man who isn’t even a gentleman. I shall never be invited to any ball or party of significance again. How shall I even hold up my head in society? And what of marriage? She talks of her happiness, but what of ours? If she marries that man, she risks my social position and my matrimonial future, and Angela’s, too. How could she do this to us?”
“Do not make yourself so uneasy, Sarah,” Henry advised. “Even if Mama has been as reckless as you fear, none of you will suffer for it. I promise you that.”
“Even you won’t be able to prevent her from being laughed at, and all of us along with her,” David pointed out. “Not unless you can stop this elopement altogether, and it’s seems too late for that. You can’t chase her and her Italian all the way to Gretna Green.”
Henry cast his brother a glance of impatience. “Mama is fifty years of age. She has no need to sneak off to Scotland in order to marry. Foscarelli is somewhere here in London, so they probably intend to marry here, perhaps at the Registry Office, since I daresay he’s a Catholic. Let’s hope that is the case.”
“Hope?” Sarah echoed in tearful disbelief. “You talk as if there could be a worse alternative.”
There were several, but Sarah was an innocent, and he refrained from voicing the more unsavory ones. “They could be thinking to go abroad and marry there,” he said instead. “The Continent is much more lenient than England. Here, the law requires fifteen days of established residency before a license can be obtained, and I’m not certain Foscarelli has his own establishment. The man has no family here, and he seems to live off of friends, floating from one residence to the next every other week or so—at least, if the gossip can be believed.”
“The gossip might be out of date,” Jamie pointed out. “He may have established residency and obtained the license already.”
“He may have done,” Henry acknowledged, “but I doubt it. A man like that would never pay the fees for a license and sign the lease for a residence unless he was certain of Mama’s consent.”
“And before agreeing to marry him,” Angela added, gesturing to the paper by Henry’s plate, “she was clearly waiting to see what this Lady Truelove would advise.”
“Then the woman did tell Mama to marry him?” Jamie asked.
He reached across the table for the paper so that he might read the columnist’s reply for himself, but Henry flattened his hand over it before the other man could pick it up. “She did, but let’s not dignify this column by giving it our attention.”
Jamie acquiesced, once more sitting back in his chair. “Still, whatever the woman’s advice, we seem to be taking it for granted that marriage is Foscarelli’s intent, but I’m not sure the man’s even that honorable. He could simply have Mama holed up with him somewhere—”
“That’s enough, Jamie,” Henry cut in with a glance at his sisters. “There are ladies present. And there’s no point in speculating at this stage. Now,” he added, rising to his feet as the doors opened and Boothby came in, “I believe my carriage is waiting.”
He started to move away from the table, but then paused, studying the newspaper that was causing everyone such anxiety. He’d thought to have the footman throw it away, but upon reflection, he deemed it best to take it himself, keeping it—at least for the moment—from his distressed siblings. And he might need to refer to its contents later. He took it up, and started for the door.
“But Torquil,” David called after him, “what are you going to do?”
“Find Mama, of course,” he replied as he walked out. “That is,” he added under his breath, “if I’m not too late.”
No matter what the situation was at present, he knew there were various steps he could take to resolve it or mitigate the damage, and he contemplated them as he went downstairs.
If, despite his conclusions to the contrary, Foscarelli had already obtained the license, the damage might well be done, but if so, the marriage could perhaps be annulled. Making a mental note to consult with his solicitors about that, he paused to accept his hat and stick from the footman waiting by the front door. If annulment was not possible, then paying off the groom to move abroad and stay there was the only other option.
On the other hand, Jamie could very well be right about Foscarelli’s true motives. It wasn’t hard to imagine that scoundrel putting Mama up in some seedy flat in an obscure part of London, with no intention of marrying her at all. If so, a demand for funds to keep the whole thing hushed up would no doubt be forthcoming.
Either way, the family would be supporting a worthless cur of a man for the rest of his life unless Henry could prevent it.
To that end, his first step was to find his mother, which would necessitate the employment of private detectives. If it was determined that she’d gone abroad, there was nothing more that could be done until she returned. If she was still in England, however, private detectives would find her, though it might take days, or even weeks. Unless—
Henry paused by his carriage, struck by an idea, and he looked again at the newspaper in his hand. He glanced past his mother’s question and the columnist’s ridiculous reply, his gaze coming to a halt at the bottom of the page.
Are you suffering the pain of unrequited love? Are you baffled by the unaccountable behavior of the opposite sex? Are you tormented by an affair of the heart and feel there is no one to whom you can turn for understanding and advice? Fear not. Lady Truelove can help. You may write to her through her publisher, Deverill Publishing, 12 Belford Row, Holborn. All letters will be answered, and will only be published by mutual consent.
As Henry read those words, he wondered if a method of finding his mother more expedient than even London’s finest detectives might just be staring him in the face.
Chapter 2
Publishing a scandal sheet was not for the faint of heart. It required a shrewd head, an unsentimental heart, and a thick skin. Fortunately for the Deverill family and for all the avid readers of Society Snippets, Irene Deverill possessed all three of those qualities. She was also blessed with a sense of humor, and there were days when Irene found that trait to be the most necessary one of all. Today was one of those days.
“Mr. Shaw,” she began for the third time, hoping she could at last succeed in getting a word in amidst the angry stream of criticism from the irascible, elderly man seated on the other side of her desk, “I do see your concerns, but—”
“The Weekly Gazette,” he said, referring to the paper by its former name, “was a newspaper, young woman, and its purpose was to convey to the public serious and important events of the day in East and Central London. But now? Now, thanks to you, it is nothing more than a . . . a purveyor of scandal and titillation.”
Irene tried not to smile as she studied the prim mouth of the man opposite. A bit of titillation, she felt, would do Ebenezer Shaw far more good than the liver pills sold by his company, but it wouldn’t do to say so. “I realize the changes I have made may be a bit unsettling—”
“Unsettling?” Mr. Shaw tossed his copy of yesterday’s edition on top
of her desk. “Gossip columns, fashion news, advice to the lovelorn . . . what’s next? Reports of England’s haunted houses and a weekly astrology report?”
At once, Irene’s imagination began to envision a series of articles on England’s most haunted places—Jamaica Inn, perhaps, and Berry Pomeroy Castle, the Tower of London . . .
She glanced past Mr. Shaw to her sister, Clara, who was seated by the door, clipboard in hand. Clara, who acted as her secretary, perceived the meaning in that glance and scribbled a note. With that, Irene was forced to abandon the delight of contemplating future issues of Society Snippets, and return her attention to one of the less appealing aspects of her profession: pacifying irate advertisers.
“The paper may not be the same sort of publication you began placing advertisements in twenty years ago,” she said in her most placating tone of voice, “and the content may no longer be to your taste. Or mine,” she added hastily as he opened his mouth to give his opinion on that score yet again. “But neither of us can deny the results. Circulation has risen 300 percent since the changes to our editorial content were implemented ten months ago.”
Clara gave a little cough. “Three hundred and twenty-seven percent, to be exact.”
Irene lifted her hands in a self-evident gesture. “There you are. Shaw’s Liver Pills must surely see the benefit of such a massive increase in our readership. More people are seeing your advertisements than ever before—”
“We cater to a certain class of clientele.” He drew himself up with injured dignity. “The people who now read your publication are not the sort we desire as our customers.”
Irene could not understand what difference it made to Shaw’s what class of clientele purchased their liver pills as long as those pills were paid for in ready money, but she knew it wouldn’t do to say so. Before she could decide how best to proceed, Mr. Shaw spoke again.
“Our annual advertising contract is coming up for renegotiation, and I feel that before we can do that, the problems I see must be addressed.”
“Of course,” Irene agreed. “What is it you wish me to do?”
“Do? Do?” Mr. Shaw’s eyes bulged as if he couldn’t believe she’d asked such a preposterous question. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not to me,” Irene answered truthfully. “How can I alleviate your concerns?”
“Return the newspaper to the way it used to be, of course.”
Irene cast her mind back five years, to her grandfather’s death and her father’s attempts to run Deverill Publishing on his own. Those attempts had been dismally unsuccessful, for her father had a serious fondness for brandy and no talent for business. As a result, the prosperous enterprise built by the two previous generations of Deverill men had collapsed with breathtaking speed. Within four years, their entire income had been obliterated, the publishing offices on Fleet Street forced to close, and most of the presses and equipment sold at auction for a fraction of their value. Their home on Belford Row, their only remaining property, had been mortgaged to pay debts.
It was at that point that Irene, well aware from managing the household just how precarious their financial situation had become, decided something must be done. Insisting that her father take care of his health and leave the worries of the business behind, she had taken over the Weekly Gazette, the only remaining vestige of her grandfather’s once-vast newspaper empire. With much grumbling from her parent, she had moved Deverill Publishing into the family library, added a door to the street, and turned her father’s study into her office. She had then changed the name of the paper from the Weekly Gazette to Society Snippets and transformed it into a scandal sheet. In less than a year, thanks to Lady Truelove and a few other inventions of Irene’s imagination, the paper had become a raging success, the family business had been saved, and the days of irate tradesmen, demanding creditors, and perpetual skimping on coal and butter were over.
Mr. Shaw might—for reasons she couldn’t fathom—wish to return to a time when her little weekly had discussed “serious and important events of East and Central London,” but she vastly preferred a profitable publication, a household that could pay its bills, and a tidy nest egg in the bank. Irene thought of the 327 percent rise in the paper’s circulation and reminded herself there were other advertisers besides Shaw’s Liver Pills.
“I’m afraid,” she said, giving Mr. Shaw her prettiest smile, “what you are asking for is not possible.”
The bulging eyes narrowed. “Perhaps it would be best if I spoke with Mr. Deverill about this.”
Her smile faltered a little. “That’s not possible either. My father is ill, you see.”
“Ill?”
“Quite ill,” she added, reminding herself that wasn’t really a lie. To her way of thinking, if a man spent most of his time in an inebriated condition, he was suffering from an illness.
“Your brother, then. Surely Jonathan Deverill must now be in charge, if your father is ill.”
“My brother is out of the country. Since finishing at university, he has been . . . ahem . . . seeing the world.”
That was, she supposed, the best way of putting it. No need to mention that Jonathan and Papa were not on speaking terms, and hadn’t been for three years now.
Mr. Shaw’s gooseberry-green eyes narrowed. “Then, we are back where we started. I shall need to speak with your father. I really must insist.”
Irene stiffened.
“Uh-oh,” Clara murmured, perceiving the telltale movement. “That’s done it.”
With an effort, Irene kept her smile in place. “Shaw’s has been advertising with our newspapers for many years with great success. Like my father and grandfather before me, I have always regarded your company as our most valued and important client.” She paused, waiting until she saw the gleam of satisfaction in the eyes of the man across from her before she spoke again.
“But,” she went on as she rose to her feet, “I believe it might be time for both of us to reevaluate the strength of that relationship.”
“I beg your pardon?” His astonishment would have been amusing if it wasn’t about to cost her the newspaper’s greatest source of revenue. “You would sacrifice our business without any attempt to address our concerns?”
“I believe I have made that attempt, but you do not seem to agree, so I fail to see what else I can do. The loss of your business shall be a terrible blow, of course, but I cannot allow advertisers to dictate the editorial content of the newspaper. It would set a most dangerous precedent.” Her smile was still pleasant as she came around her desk and crossed to the door of her office. “I’m sure you understand,” she added and opened the door, glancing at her sister.
Clara took the hint at once. Setting aside her clipboard, she rose. “I will show Mr. Shaw out.”
Irene mouthed a heartfelt thank you to her sister as Clara took the spluttering Mr. Shaw firmly by the arm, much as a good nursery governess might have done, and escorted him out of the office.
Irene watched from the doorway as Clara led Mr. Shaw past the printing press and the long table of typewriting machines. Those machines were silent now, for the three journalists on her staff were off pursuing the investigations that would comprise next week’s edition, and there was no one in the office save Clara and herself. She continued to watch until her sister had ushered Mr. Shaw out to the street, then with a sigh of relief, she stepped back and closed her office door. Only after she had resumed her seat did the ramifications of her decision hit her, and her relief was displaced by a sudden throb of panic.
She slumped forward with a groan, plunking her elbows on her desk, thinking of all the revenue she’d just tossed out the window. “Oh, dear God,” she mumbled, rubbing her hands over her face, “what have I just done?”
If Shaw’s could not be replaced, and soon, the loss to the paper would be enormous. They might be making a profit now, but Irene knew how easily they could descend back into destitution if she did not take care. And while genteel poverty made for romantic
stories in the paper’s fiction section, it was too much a part of Irene’s recent past for her to find anything romantic about it. In fact, the possibility that her decision might return her family to that state made her feel slightly sick.
Still, what was done was done. The question was what to do now. With that reminder, Irene lifted her head and reached for notepaper and a pencil.
Within three minutes she had scribbled down the names of twenty companies that might be suitable replacements for Shaw’s Liver Pills, and her innate optimism began to return. There were a dozen or more possible prospects in her mind, but before she could write them down, there was a tap on her door, and she paused, looking up as Clara once again entered the room.
Her sister’s big brown eyes were wide and her lower lip was caught between her teeth. Irene felt compelled at once to offer reassurance. “It’ll be all right. I already have a plan to make up the lost revenue. We shan’t miss that old curmudgeon and his liver pills in the least.”
“I know.” Despite those words, her sister did not look reassured.
“I shan’t let us descend into poverty again, I promise—”
“I know, I know.”
Irene frowned in bewilderment. “Then what has you looking as if we’re headed back to queer-street?”
The younger woman leaned back in the doorway, casting a glance into the room behind her, then looked at Irene again. “There’s a gentleman out front,” she said in a low voice as she approached Irene’s desk, a card in her hand. “He wants to see Lady Truelove.”
“And I’d love to own a unicorn,” she whispered back, smiling, her good humor restored. “We shall both be disappointed, I fear.”
“This is serious, Irene.” Clara held out the card. “This man isn’t some nobody from nowhere.”
Irene stood up, shoved her pencil behind one ear, and took the card from her sister’s outstretched fingertips. Plain and white, it was unadorned but for a thin silver border and a coronet watermarked across its surface. She didn’t know one coronet from another, but she knew the feel of expensive, high quality paper.
The Truth About Love and Dukes Page 2
