A Scandalous Deception

by Lynn Messina

  Kesgrave kept his eyes trained on the publisher, but his lips twitched at the compliment.

  “’Twas only a guess,” Mr. Cornyn said quickly, his eyes darting from the front door to the one in the back of the room as he waited impatiently for someone—anyone—to enter the office and bolster his story. His anxiety was so acute, Bea thought she could detect a new thin layer of sweat starting to form, this time above his lip. “I don’t know for certain if the jade knife found in Lord Fazeley’s back was the same jade knife he wore about his person when he visited my office. It seems unlikely there would be two blades matching that description in circulation that day, but I could not rule it out as a possibility. As I said, my conclusion was only a guess.”

  The proprietor’s anxiety about appearing guilty had the unfortunate effect of making him appear guilty, Bea thought.

  “The knife Fazeley wore was jade?” Kesgrave asked.

  Mr. Cornyn nodded firmly. “Jade and shaped like a horse’s head. Quite intricately carved, as well. It was very eye-catching and not just because the handiwork was so fine. It’s unusual to see a gentleman sporting a dagger as decoration and I congratulated his lordship on how well the knife looked on him, as I knew he would appreciate the compliment. Although it was not mere puffery,” he hastened to add, suddenly fearful of appearing too calculating. “I sincerely admired the way he wore it. As a chronicler of his time, Lord Fazeley lacked the flair necessary to excite his reader’s interest, but as a dandy, he wanted for nothing. I tried to tell him that the second was a more impressive accomplishment, but he was not in the mood to listen. The brief tussle followed soon after and then his lordship left.”

  As persuasive as Bea found his mild description of the events, she still found his propensity to lie troubling. “If everything is as you say, then why did you lie about having the manuscript to the duke’s man when he inquired? That does not strike me as the act of a person who has nothing to hide.”

  “I feared for my life as well,” he said stiffly.

  Bea furrowed her brow, as if uncomprehending, and turned to the duke to see if his understanding was more developed than hers.

  Perceiving her suspicion, Mr. Cornyn explained with a moue of impatience. “We do not know what motive inspired the murderer to act, and it could very well have been the threat of the manuscript. His lordship had let slip the possibility of a memoir chronicling the follies of the ton to excite interest, and there’s every reason to believe someone feared the book would reveal a dire secret. That was, after all, the only reason I’d commissioned the work in the first place, as Lord Fazeley promised many remarkable revelations. What I did not realize at the time is that he meant remarkable revelations about himself. But nobody knows that, of course, so as long as the murderer remains at large, I fear my life may be at risk too.”

  “Papa!” a soft voice gasped in surprise. “How could you not tell me you were in danger!”

  Bea looked toward the back of the room, where a lovely woman with auburn curls, almond-shaped eyes and a dainty nose stood staring at her father in shock. She was young, perhaps a year or two older than Flora’s twenty, and tall, with a generous figure that was shown to advantage in the unadorned silk dress. Although her beauty wasn’t as ostentatious as Miss Otley’s, a diamond of the first water with whom they’d spent time in the Lake District, she was just as much of an Incomparable. Indeed, in her simple gold necklace with a red pendant, she shone twice as brightly as the other woman in her diamonds.

  “I did not want to worry you,” Mr. Cornyn said soothingly as he spared an angry look at Bea, as if it were her fault he had been forced to do so now. “I’m sure I’m just being fanciful, and yet I see no harm in taking a few precautions if I can. But let’s not dwell on the things we cannot change. Do come here so I may introduce you to the Duke of Kesgrave.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise as she noticed her father’s company, which was far more illustrious than that to which she had grown accustomed. Earls, Bea thought with amusement, weren’t nearly as impressive as dukes.

  Miss Cornyn complied with the request, gracefully navigating the small, crowded room until she reached the counter. Realizing the wooden obstruction made proper introductions awkward, the publisher raised the worktop so they could both pass through. After Miss Cornyn made a neat curtsy to Kesgrave, she turned her attention to Bea, who noted her eyes were a deep bottle green.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wright,” Miss Cornyn said softly.

  Bea sketched the sort of bow she had observed her cousin Russell do a hundred times and assured the young lady it was a pleasure for her too.

  As Mr. Cornyn explained why her presence had been requested, Bea found her eyes drawn again and again to the vibrant red necklace she wore at her throat. There was something about the piece—the pear-shaped drop pendant surrounded by seed pearls—that struck her as familiar. Did Flora have something of a similar design? Or perhaps Aunt Vera? For the most part, the Hyde-Clares were too sensible to spend their money on lavish accessories, but there was that stunning emerald necklace her aunt took out of the safe for special occasions like the Leland ball. Did it bear a resemblance to the one Miss Cornyn wore now?

  No, Aunt Vera’s beloved piece was a choker.

  Bea was so consumed by the sensation of familiarity, she didn’t realize she was being introduced to Mr. Cornyn’s associate until she was called upon to greet him. It was only then, as she turned her head to meet the outraged glare of Mr. Hill, that the impropriety of her interest occurred to her. Yes, she had been examining the necklace, but to everyone else it looked as if she was admiring Miss Cornyn’s bosom.

  And it was, she thought, her embarrassment rising, a generous bosom to admire.

  Impersonating a man was rife with unexpected pitfalls.

  Mr. Cornyn, wisely perceiving no threat to his daughter’s virtue from the duke’s steward, explained the many valuable services his associate performed as Bea struggled to recover her composure. She kept her gaze firmly away from Kesgrave’s, for she could easily imagine the humor that must be lurking there.

  “Truly, he’s indispensable to the firm, as he has a remarkable eye for detail,” Mr. Cornyn said. “As the publisher, it’s my responsibility to make sure the books we publish are coherent and sensible and thoroughly entertaining to the reader. My concerns have to do with the story itself, with the themes and issues it’s addressing and its ability to surprise. As an undertaking, it’s quite huge and sometimes the details get lost in the process. That’s where Mr. Hill’s contribution becomes invaluable because he reads every single word and makes sure they all adhere to their correct spellings and that none are missing. And, of course, he does all the coordinating with the printing house on my behalf, which provides me with further opportunities to craft interesting and well-told tales.”

  Mr. Hill, several inches taller than Bea and as spindly as a foal, thanked his employer for the praise and blushed when Miss Cornyn reaffirmed it with her own words of appreciation.

  “I’m grateful to you both, of course,” Mr. Hill said firmly, “but I’m sure the duke did not call to discuss me. Let us return to the matter that concerns him.”

  “Right you are,” Mr. Cornyn said fervently. “Right you are. He and his steward are here to discover what happened to the Earl of Fazeley’s manuscript.”

  At the mention of the deceased peer, Miss Cornyn shuddered in horror, and Mr. Hill, observing her distress, responded with a sympathetic look. The young lady, however, was too distracted to notice.

  “Do forgive my daughter,” the publisher said with a sad shake of his head. “We were all so upset to discover what had happened to his lordship. It is so unusual to see the death of someone you know described in the newspaper.”

  “And the last time you saw him, Miss Cornyn, was on Tuesday?” Bea asked matter-of-factly.

  Finding the question indelicate, Mr. Hill sent her another disapproving look and answered on the young lady’s behalf. “Yes, that w
as the last time she saw him. I, as well. He and Mr. Cornyn had a brief conversation about a project we were working on, and then his lordship bid us good day and left.”

  As much as Bea appreciated his discretion, she did not have the patience for it. “That’s not exactly what happened, is it?”

  The young man flinched at her tone and conceded that perhaps his lordship had not offered a thoughtful goodbye on his way out. “His leave-taking might be described as rude by another, for he made a vulgar gesture that is not fit for mixed company, but it’s not for me to remark upon the manners of my betters,” he said, putting enough emphasis on the last word to make his true opinion of the earl known.

  “He was quite cross when he left,” Miss Cornyn said. “He and Papa had had a business disagreement, and he felt he had not been treated with the respect he deserved. His leave-taking was therefore abrupt. It made for an awkward few moments after his departure, for we were all uncertain if we should try to appease his lordship. But my father announced that he had much work to do, and we all returned to our various occupations. I believe that was the day the Harrison manuscript was due to the printer, was it not? There was much to get done.”

  Mr. Hill accepted the rebuke silently, then confirmed the timing of the earl’s visit and looked at the duke to ascertain if he was satisfied with these accounts. By any measure, they substantiated Mr. Cornyn’s claim that Fazeley had left the office in a peevish mood and the publisher had remained behind to address important tasks.

  Kesgrave nodded his assent and announced they would leave them to their business as soon as Mr. Cornyn provided them with Fazeley’s manuscript.

  “Naturally, I will compensate you for the work,” he added before the publisher could object. “I’ll meet the terms of your original contract. Does that sound fair?”

  Mr. Cornyn, who had never expected to get value out of the manuscript, smiled brightly and said that was more than fair. “But as you read it, I pray you remember that it’s not our typical style. As I explained previously, we have a reputation for sensationalism to maintain and I fear Lord Fazeley’s tedious tome might do it irreparable harm.”

  To the publisher’s delight, Kesgrave promised to always consider Sylvan Press to be twice as lurid and shocking as Minerva Press.

  “Wonderful,” he said, beaming. “Wonderful. I tucked it up in my apartments upstairs as an act of precaution. It will take me a moment to get it.”

  Mr. Cornyn dashed off to get the manuscript, and his daughter apologized for not offering refreshments. “If I had realized you were here when Papa requested my presence, I would have brought a pot of tea with me and some biscuits as well. We are a small concern, but I try to observe the proprieties.”

  “You succeed,” Mr. Hill assured her with admiration so ardent it revealed more about his feelings than perhaps he’d intended.

  Seemingly oblivious to his affection, Miss Cornyn, striving to be the ideal hostess to a duke in circumstances that were less than hospitable to her goal, explained that she would offer her guests a seat except the only available options were a pair of rickety chairs. “As Mr. Hill can attest, you are much safer waiting here.”

  Indeed, the young man rushed to do just that, telling a tale of bruised dignity and scraped knees, which Kesgrave, despite his penchant for superciliousness, listened to with an affect of interest. It was the sort of act of kindness and consideration Bea didn’t expect from him, and she found herself staring at him with surprise and perhaps a little bit of confusion. As if aware of her attention, he turned to look at her, his eyes pulled together, as if perplexed himself.

  Embarrassed by the sudden scrutiny, she turned toward Miss Cornyn and her gaze settled again on the shiny jewel at her throat. “That’s a lovely necklace,” she said, drawing closer to admire the piece and to inspect it more fully. Although the stone, about twice the size of Bea’s thumbnail, caught the light with the intensity of a ruby, she knew a publisher’s daughter could not afford such a dazzling gem. “Is it a garnet?”

  Miss Cornyn, who had also been listening to Mr. Hill’s unfortunate treatment at the hands of a recalcitrant chair, turned to Bea with a faint smile on her lips. “Yes, of course. A garnet with charming seed pearls.”

  The pearls were indeed lovely, Bea thought, but the garnet was something more—shiny and sparkly and brightly faceted. Without thinking, she reached for the pear-shaped pendant and lowered her head to examine it.

  At once, the room became silent.

  Bea looked up to find Mr. Hill, who had broken off his sentence abruptly, staring daggers at her.

  Devil it!

  It had slipped her mind again that she was a man and could not freely study the bosoms of unmarried young women.

  Or any woman.

  As if burned by the stone, she dropped the pendant, stepped back and hastily apologized for letting herself get carried away by its beauty. She was clearly talking about the necklace, but Mr. Hill thought she was flirting with Miss Cornyn and glared even more severely.

  Offended by the conclusion—for if she were the type of man who flirted with the daughters of publishers she would do it with far more grace—Bea opened her mouth to protest, but Mr. Cornyn returned at that moment with Fazeley’s manuscript. He was also carrying half a dozen novels that he insisted the duke had to read to counterbalance the monotony of the earl’s memoir.

  “Well, obviously, you don’t have to read them if you do not desire to,” he amended immediately, “but if you are curious to try one, I strongly recommend you start with The Devil’s Covenant, which has many of our most popular elements, including a mysterious stranger, a foreboding castle and a beautiful young lady trapped in a loveless marriage with her cruel stepfather.”

  Kesgrave promised to send his man around with the appropriate funds posthaste, then solemnly thanked the publisher for his generosity.

  The proprietor of Sylvan Press smiled happily as he offered the cumbersome stack of books to Bea, who, surprised at the shabby treatment, stared at him in confusion before recalling that she was not only a man but the duke’s man. Of course the burden fell to her to carry the pile.

  She submitted without complaint, the heavy stack resting awkwardly in her arms, and waited impatiently as the duke thanked Mr. Cornyn for his help and promised to read The Devil’s Covenant with all due haste.

  Mr. Cornyn gushed appropriately at Kesgrave’s gracious condescension and asked him to please keep him in mind if he should ever desire to publish a chronicle of his ducal experiences. “Without question, Sylvan Press would be delighted to bend its rule about sensationalism to accommodate the gravity of your situation,” he explained.

  Kesgrave pronounced himself to be touched by the consideration and pledged to keep the offer in mind should he ever feel moved to pen such a work. “And please give my regards to your father on his travels,” he added with a touch of humor. “You may assure him I think you’re doing a fine job taking care of the legacy he bestowed on you.”

  “Grandfather is traveling?” Miss Cornyn said in confusion.

  Her father darted an anxious glance in her direction and immediately began to speak quickly in hopes of distracting from the moment. “Yes, traveling the countryside in search of new authors. It’s something I should do in his stead, as he’s too old to be knocking about. But I’ve always preferred to stay close to home. I’ve never even been outside the confines of London,” he said with a nervous laugh as he played with his shirt cuff. “Regardless, I appreciate your kind words and will eagerly pass them along. Thank you, your grace.”

  As soon as they stepped outside into the bright sunshine of Catherine Street, Bea said, “You were cruel to tease poor Mr. Cornyn. He’s quite the worst liar I have ever seen. I feared he might fray his shirtsleeve, he was fiddling with it so much.”

  “Here,” Kesgrave said, reaching for the stack of books she carried. “Do let me take them.”

  Bea danced lightly away and said chidingly, “Think of what it would look like t
o observers: you weighed down by a pile of Gothics while your man walks empty-handed at your side. Surely, it would be alarming proof that your faculties are on the wane. No, your grace, I have too much respect for your importance to expose you to such vile speculation. And do recall how close we are to the Strand. Any one of these fellows we see around us might work for the newspaper. Your humiliation could be the on-dit as soon as tomorrow.”

  “Once again, Miss Hyde-Clare, you do not comprehend what it means to be a duke. The very moment I decide to carry a pile of Gothics while my man walks beside me unburdened that becomes the fashion. By the end of the week, we will see marquesses holding packages for their footmen and viscounts opening doors for their butlers.”

  He was teasing her, of course, but at the same time he was not.

  Indeed, it was true: She did not comprehend what it meant to be a duke. It was a mistake she made more and more because he seemed to act like one less and less. She could not picture the toplofty lord she first met at Lakeview Hall listening with such respect as a lackey at a publishing company detailed his misadventures with a rickety office chair and marveled at the change. Was the difference in him or in her perception of him?

  The question distracted her so much, she did not realize they were tracing the earl’s last steps until they reached the Strand. As they turned the corner, she examined the scene thoughtfully, noting that the landscape was made up primarily of establishments that published newspapers—London Daily Gazette, Daily Advertiser, The World News—and the neoclassical wonder that was Somerset House.

  The idea that the earl, fresh from his argument with Mr. Cornyn, would march into a newspaper office to report his ill treatment was inconceivable. His destination had never been the Gazette. That had simply been the door he had stumbled against after the knife was plunged into his back. The London Daily Gazette was off to the left, across from Somerset House, the large public building that housed several administrative offices, the Royal Academy of Arts and the Society of Antiquaries of London.