Chapter Thirteen
“M rs. Greer! Anne! Where the devil are you?” Matthew charged down the hallway, immediately forgetting his promise to Fortuity that he wouldn’t bellow. “Where the bloody hell has everyone got to?”
“Your lordship—here! I am here.” Anne popped out of the servants’ stairwell with several of Fortuity’s gowns in her arms. “Is aught amiss?”
“Yes, aught is amiss. My wife is gravely ill. Fetch Mrs. Greer immediately so the two of you can bring her some ease.”
“Oh my goodness. Yes, my lord. Immediately.” Anne dipped a hurried curtsy, then took off running with the clothing still clutched to her chest.
Matthew debated whether to return to Fortuity or hunt down Thebson and send for every physician in London. As he stood at the top of the stairs, trying to make up his mind, Eleanor emerged from her rooms.
“Whatever could be wrong, cousin?” she asked, with a little too much interest for his liking.
He glared at her. “I am in no mood, Eleanor. Either return to your rooms or go elsewhere. I have neither the time nor the patience for you today.”
“As you wish, my lord.” After an indulgent tip of her head and a graceful curtsy, she floated down the staircase and disappeared toward the parlor.
He scowled after her long after she was no longer in view, noting she had neither appeared shocked nor displeased at his directness. The chit was up to something, again. He would wager his best bottle of brandy on it. Perhaps she was the one behind the humiliating entry in the tattle sheet. That would make more sense than Olandra selling it to the publication and bringing embarrassment to herself. Also, rather than avidly pursuing the most eligible gentlemen at every soiree, Eleanor had situated herself amongst the cackling hens known for their cruelty and penchant for tormenting the weakest members of the ton. It had been well over a fortnight since his cousin’s arrival, and she was no closer to courting a husband than the day she showed up on their doorstep. He would speak to Thebson and Mrs. Greer about Eleanor’s mingling with those of the household. He had warned them once she was not to be trusted. With this most recent debacle, it bore repeating.
He turned to rejoin Fortuity when a rapid thudding from the staircase made him look back. About bloody time. Mrs. Greer, Anne, and the maid, Mary Louise, hurried toward him.
Huffing and puffing from the exertion, Mrs. Greer clutched her chest, trying to catch her breath while she spoke. “Her ladyship? Ill?”
“A terrible pounding in her head, and she fears she is about to cast up her accounts.” He herded them down the hallway toward the master suite. “She is on the bed. On top of the counterpane. There was no time to strip it back. I covered her with my coat to keep her warm. Pray, tell me you can help her.”
The housekeeper gave him an understanding dip of her plump chin. “It sounds like one of her terrible megrims. They often struck her when I helped tend to her mother.” She narrowed her eyes, pinning him with an accusing squint. “They usually come on when she has been overset with worries longer than she can tolerate. Much like a covered pot boiling over because the fire burns too hotly.” Before he could defend himself, she turned to Mary Louise and handed her a key from the ring pinned to the starched white apron lashed around her ample waist. “Fetch up a kettle of hot water, a sturdy cup and spoon, and the three bottles from the highest shelf in my apothecary. And do not fail to lock the door back upon your exit.”
“Yes, Mrs. Greer.” The maid took off at a hard run.
The housekeeper nodded at Anne. “You fetch her softest night rail, and the lavender and peppermint oils I gave you for her toiletries in the dressing room.”
Anne skittered away as quickly as the other maid.
Mrs. Greer turned back to Matthew and shooed him off as if he were a trespassing goose. “Go away, my lord. She needs darkness, quiet, and nothing to remind her of the trying day she has endured.” The matron’s face reddened with a fierce scowl. “Are you aware of that hideous publication? That is what caused our dear lady’s illness.”
“I am aware of it, and I fear you are correct about it making her poorly.” Although, if he were to be honest, he felt sure he had a hand in Fortuity’s misery as well. He could have been a damn sight more understanding with her at breakfast.
“Daren’t you worry about her, my lord,” Mrs. Greer said over her shoulder. “She will be fine soon enough.”
“Swear to it, Mrs. Greer. I cannot bear the thought of losing her.” And he meant that more than he had ever meant anything before. He couldn’t tolerate the possibility of life without Fortuity.
Pausing with her hand on the door latch, the housekeeper smiled back at him. “She will be fine, my lord. Mark my words.” She disappeared into the room, quietly muttering to herself as she was wont to do.
“I need a drink,” he told the cats winding in and out around his ankles. He loped down the stairs and was greeted at the bottom by Ignatius. The dog plopped down on his square behind, cast a glance at the parlor door, and growled.
“Too true, old man.” Matthew didn’t trust himself with another unpleasant confrontation with Eleanor, not in his current frame of mind. “Come, Ignatius. We shall take refuge in our lady’s sanctuary.”
The faithful dog followed him into Fortuity’s office and jumped onto the low cushioned bench in front of the corner window that Fortuity had placed there specifically for him and the cats. Matthew went straight to the amply stocked cabinet of spirits he had ordered installed in the office in case he and his lady love decided to lock the door and make good use of the settee once again.
After pouring himself a glass of port, he went to the other window and eyed the view of Chesterfield Street but didn’t see a bit of it. All he saw was his beloved wife: pale, her forehead peppered in a cold sweat, gulping air and holding it to keep from being ill. Damn and blast this sorry mess of rumors and gossip and the misery they caused her.
A soft knock on the door interrupted his inner turmoil. “Yes?” he said without pulling his gaze from the sunny day outside.
“A parcel has arrived, my lord,” Thebson said from the doorway.
“A parcel?” Matthew still didn’t turn from the window. He preferred to sulk in solitude with the softly snorting dog and his drink. “And the sender is?”
“Minerva Press, my lord.”
Minerva Press was the publisher printing Fortuity’s stories. Matthew hurried to the doorway and accepted the carefully wrapped package that was the perfect size for a single copy of her book. “Thank you, Thebson. That will be all.”
“Very good, my lord.” The man nodded and closed the door, leaving Matthew to himself with what surely had to be Fortuity’s copy of her first of many books. This would most definitely make her feel better after the terrible day she’d had. He tucked it under his arm, tore out of her office, and vaulted up the stairs, his excitement growing with every step. She would be so very thrilled when she saw her name on the cover. His heart threatened to burst with love and pride. She had worked so hard for this, and now she could hold her dream in her hands.
He slowed when he reached their suite and quietly crept inside just as Mrs. Greer and Anne emerged from the bedroom. “Is she asleep?” he whispered, hoping they would tell him no.
Mrs. Greer fixed him with a stern look that almost backed him up a step. “No, my lord, but she does not need to be disturbed.”
He held up the parcel. “Her dream has come true. I am certain this is a copy of her book. It is from her publisher. I thought that might brighten her day and help her feel at least a little better. Would you not agree?”
Both the housekeeper and Anne beamed at him with the widest of smiles.
“Do go in, my lord,” Mrs. Greer said. “What a fine way to make her feel better.” She held up a finger. “Mind you, the light hurts her eyes a bit, so I turned down the flame on her lamp. Just warn her before you adjust the wick and brighten it.”
“I will.” As excited as a lad escaping his lessons for the day, Matthew eased into the bedroom. “Fortuity,” he said in a loud whisper. “You have received a parcel, my love. A package I feel certain you will wish to open immediately.”
She lay on her side, holding her head and shielding her eyes from what little light filtered into the room from between the closed draperies and the lowered flame of the oil lamp. “A parcel?” she replied weakly. “I am really not up to parcels right now.”
“It is from your publisher.” Surely that would tempt her.
Her deep sigh echoed through the dimly lit room like a lonely wraith rising from its grave. “Are you certain, Matthew? I do not feel well at all.”
“I am positive, my love. Minerva Press is stamped in great, bold letters on the wrappings.”
“Adjust the light,” she said with another heavy sigh. “But forgive me for not sitting upright. My head will surely split in two if I rise even a little.”
After turning up the flame, he eased down onto the side of the bed beside her, taking great care not to jostle her. “Shall I cut the twine for you?”
“Yes, please.”
With the aid of the wick trimmer for the night candle, he snipped the twine, then placed the loosely wrapped book in her hands. It was only right that she be the first to see the physical reality of her dream.
Squinting against the light, she pulled the brown paper wrapping away. The joyous smile Matthew expected never came. Instead, she puckered her brow with the slightest frown. Abruptly, she shoved the book back at him and rolled away from the light.
“Fortuity?”
“Take it away,” she bit out with a short hitching sob. “It is not my story—but yours.”
“What?” He turned the leather-bound book and read the gold lettering beneath the title she had so carefully chosen: Written by Lord Matthew Ravenglass. Hands trembling, he opened the cover to the title page, then bared his teeth. It also stated he was the author. “I shall go to the publisher this very moment and have this heinous oversight corrected. All copies will be pulled and reprinted. I swear it.”
“It does not matter,” she said in a despondent whisper. “Dreams are for children.” She buried her face in her pillow and wailed with heartbreaking fury.
“Fortuity—” He touched her shoulder, but she shrugged him away.
“Just go, Matthew. Leave me and never return. You heap sorrow upon me from every direction.”
“I did not do this, Fortuity. Surely you know that.”
She rolled to the edge of the bed, grabbed the basin off the table, and retched into it. Sobbing as she finished heaving, she shook her head. “Leave me! Now!”
“I will fix this,” he swore as he backed toward the door. “I promise you.”
“Get out!” Her agony-filled shriek ripped through him.
“What in heaven’s name—” Mrs. Greer charged into the room, then hurried to the side of the bed. “Bless my dear lady. Bless your poor, aching soul.” She gave Matthew an angry scowl, then glared at the door, giving him a clear and urgent dismissal.
He tore out of the room, realizing too late that his coat remained behind. “Ablesby!”
“Yes, my lord?” The valet stepped out into the hallway from Matthew’s adjoining dressing room.
“I need a coat. I am going out immediately.”
“Right away, my lord.”
Ablesby dashed back into the dressing room and quickly reappeared with the items needed. “Here you are, my lord. Do you require your cloak? The day has become considerably warmer.”
“No. My frustration will keep me heated enough, thank you.” Matthew dashed back down the stairs, bellowing, “Thebson! Thomas! My coach! Immediately!”
He would make this right for Fortuity even if he had to throttle A.K. Newman with his bare hands. How on earth had they made such a grave error when only Fortuity’s name had been on everything submitted? He found it inconceivable.
“Thomas and Mr. Turnmaster shall be around with the coach momentarily, my lord,” Thebson said as he offered Matthew his hat and gloves. “Mr. Turnmaster prepared it when informed of her ladyship’s illness in case additional help was needed. I do hope our lady has not taken a turn for the worse?”
Matthew found reassurance in the butler’s genuine concern. “She is not well, Thebson, not well at all, but it is my intention to get things sorted, so she will soon feel better.”
“I indeed hope so, my lord. Godspeed to you.”
Thomas the footman burst in through the front door, then came up short and tried to adopt a composed demeanor. “Beg pardon, my lord. Carriage is ready. Mr. Turnmaster wasted no time.”
“Indeed, he did not.” Matthew followed the footman out and climbed into the carriage.
“Where to, my lord?” Mr. Turnmaster asked.
“Thirty-three Leadenhall Street, and make haste as much as possible in this London traffic,” Matthew replied. Perhaps he should’ve ridden his horse rather than bothered with the carriage. Damn this sorry day. It had turned him into a mindless fool.
“’Twill be done, my lord.”
As the carriage lurched into motion, Matthew stared down at the book, still unable to believe the error. Fortuity’s abject disappointment and heartbreak played over and over in his mind. Gads alive! Why the devil had he not unwrapped the bloody thing and looked at it before carrying it up to her? “I am the greatest sort of idiot.”
All he had wanted to do was make her feel better and share in her joy when she realized her dream. But instead, he had broken her heart and torn her soul asunder. He had absolutely crushed her. “This will be made right,” he said with a low growl as he stared out the window. “This is her book, and all shall know it.”
The ride through the crowded London streets seemed interminable. When they finally reached Minerva Press, Matthew leapt from the coach before it rolled to a complete stop and marched into the establishment, letting the door bang shut behind him.
“Might I be helping you, sir?” asked the startled clerk from behind the counter.
“Lord Ravenglass to see Mr. Newman. Immediately.”
“I… Uhm… Yes. I see. One moment, my lord.” The lad bobbed a polite nod, then rushed down a narrow hallway to the right of the counter.
Matthew rocked up onto the balls of his feet as if preparing to spar at Gentleman Jackson’s club. He felt like sparring and would not regret doing so if he did not get satisfaction regarding the reprinting of the book.
“Lord Ravenglass.” Arthur King Newman, the partner who had taken over upon the retirement of William Lane, the founder of Minerva Press in 1773, hurried to open the swinging door that led to the hallway beside the counter. “Do come back to my office, my lord. My clerk seems to think something is amiss. Surely he is incorrect.”
“He is not incorrect,” Matthew said as he charged down the hall and into the only office walled off from the printing and binding operations. He paused long enough to allow Newman to close the door, then charged toward him brandishing the misprinted book. “Would you care to explain why I am listed as the author of this work, and my wife is not?”
“I beg your pardon, my lord?” The gentleman appeared not only confused but thoroughly shocked. He dodged to one side, caught hold of the book, and backed away with it clutched to his chest. “Forgive me, but did she not apprise you of her decision?”
“ Her decision?”
The publisher tapped on the book’s cover. “She requested that you be listed as the author, so a wider range of readers would accept the book. Quite a wise marketing decision, if you ask me. Upon reading her letter, I heartily agreed, and ensured that the change was made before the copies went to print.”
Matthew stared at the man, his roiling emotions making it difficult to fully comprehend what the publisher claimed. “Lady Ravenglass asked that her name be removed and rather than state the author as anonymous, she requested you use my name?”
Newman nodded but remained close to the door. He looked ready to make a hasty exit to save his sorry hide.
Cowardice rolled off the man in steady waves, but Matthew sensed he was telling the truth. Newman was too afraid to lie—a wise decision on his part.
“Show me this letter,” Matthew said through clenched teeth.
“Of course, my lord.” Newman sidled his way along the wall of the small room, ensuring he faced Matthew at all times until he was behind his desk. While shooting quick, nervous glances Matthew’s way, he opened the top drawer of the tall cabinet in the corner and removed a folder. He placed it on his desk, then backed away and nodded at it. “It is the most recent document, my lord. There to the front.”
What a bloody coward. Matthew opened the file and stared down at the letter written on Fortuity’s favorite stationery. He read it, then flipped it over. What a poor fraud, but it had served its nefarious purpose. Not only was it not written in Fortuity’s hand, but neither did it bear her former Broadmere seal nor the Ravenglass seal, which his beloved wife always took great pride in using, rather than simply tucking a letter within its own folds and sealing it with a plain wax wafer.
He tossed the forgery back onto the desk. “My wife did not write that letter.”
Newman’s coloring diminished considerably, and he appeared to clutch the book tightly to his chest. “Are you quite certain, my lord?” Perhaps she simply wished to surprise you.”
Matthew slammed his fist on top of the offensive paper. “That is not her hand. Compare it to the manuscript, you bloody oaf, and see it with your own eyes.”
The man opened and closed his mouth like a fish yanked from the water. He alternately stared at the letter on the desk, then eyed Matthew.
“Do it, man!” Ready to lunge over the desk and shake the fool until his teeth rattled loose, Matthew fought for control as he pounded his fist on the letter again. “See for your bloody self.”
Newman hurried to nod and turned back to the same cabinet, opening the bottom drawer this time and drawing out a thick sheaf of papers tied together with the same sort of twine that had sealed the parcel bearing the completed copy of the book. He cut away the strings, shuffled through a few of the sheets, and studied them alongside the fake letter. “It appears you are quite correct, my lord,” he said quietly before looking up and adding, “I am so very sorry.”
“Repair this.” Teetering on the brink of uncontrollable rage, Matthew bared his teeth. “Immediately.”
The publisher lifted his trembling hands with a pitiful shrug. “How, my lord? Copies were delivered to libraries and every bookshop in London and beyond earlier this week. Your copy was inadvertently sent late, and for that, I most heartily apologize. Some have surely already found their way into reader’s hands.” He sadly shook his head. “I fear the damage is done. If we were to attempt to collect every copy sent out, reprint the book, and reissue it, word of the cruel scheme would get out and be the talk of the ton , possibly causing your wife’s future works irreparable harm. All we can do now to save her reputation as a talented writer is claim this book was a marketing ploy to introduce her work without the bias against female authors overshadowing it.”
Matthew sagged down into the nearest chair and dropped his head into his hands. Heaven help him, what a bloody mess. The soundness of Newman’s logic was not lost on him, but how in the devil would he ever explain it to his beloved Fortuity? Eleanor and Olandra’s escapades had already worn her patience and good nature to the snapping point—made her physically ill, in fact. He lifted his head and glared at that damnable letter. There was only one individual who could have done this. He rose from the chair, picked up the forgery, and studied it one last time before folding it and tucking it away inside his waistcoat.
With a glare he knew would terrorize the publisher, he said, “In future, all of my wife’s books shall bear her name: Lady Fortuity Abarough Ravenglass . Is that understood?”
Newman nodded. “Understood, my lord. And if perchance any letters are received requesting changes, no changes will be made before personally confirming the adjustments with yourself and your wife.”
“Very good, Mr. Newman.” Without waiting for additional pleasantries from the publisher, Matthew charged out of the office and into his coach. “Home, Mr. Turnmaster, and once there, keep the carriage ready. We will have need of it within the hour.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
As soon as they reached the townhouse, Matthew loped up the steps and headed straight for his office, not pausing for a word to any servants or animals. Rage had his blood roaring in his ears. The closer he drew to the proof he sought and intended to use for sentencing the culprit, the harder his heart pounded.
He yanked open the bottom drawer of his desk, dug through an orderly stack of letters, then selected one of them and spread it open in front of him. He pulled out the letter that had been sent to the publisher and compared the two. Just as he’d thought. The handwriting was, without a doubt, the same.
Rather than bellow with rage and shatter the quiet of the townhouse, he yanked on the bellpull, then returned to his chair behind his desk.
Thebson appeared at the doorway almost immediately. “Yes, my lord?”
“Escort Miss Sykesbury to my office. Immediately.” Matthew fisted his hands so tightly that his knuckles popped. “And inform her maid to pack her belongings, under the supervision of one our maids. Miss Sykesbury will depart for Bombay on the East India Company’s next ship. Hastings owes me a favor.” He scratched out a quick note on his formal stationery, sealed it with the Ravenglass insignia, and gave it to the butler. “Have Thomas deliver this to their port office at once.”
Thebson nodded. “Yes, my lord.”
Matthew leaned back in his chair, grazing his fingertips across the stubble of his chin as he glared at the closed office door. His cousin Agnus would not be pleased, but so be it. It was time her daughter Eleanor reaped what she sowed and returned to where he should have left her when she had written requesting sanctuary from the marriage her father’s family had arranged. The Sykesburys could bloody well have their granddaughter back now to do with whatever they wished. May God have mercy on their souls and shield them from Eleanor’s evil.
Eleanor burst into his office without knocking, the color riding high on her cheeks. “What has come over you, cousin? I am not returning to Bombay.”
He glared at her, knowing that his silent scowl would infuriate her even more.
“You promised Mama to help me find a husband here in London.”
“And how have you thanked me for that courtesy, Eleanor? How have you shown your appreciation for your rescue not only from my enraged parish in the country but also from India?”
She tossed her dark head and squared her shoulders, scowling at him as if sizing him up for battle.
Good. He was ready for a battle.
“Mama and I have expressed our gratitude many times,” she said while jutting her chin higher.
“Yes. I suppose you have.” He leaned forward. “You placed me in a compromising situation with a dear lady that ended in a marriage she is still attempting to adjust to. You sell information to the gossip sheets to make her adjustment to the marriage even more difficult, and then you ruin her lifelong dream by forging a letter to her publisher and changing the authorship of her book. Your definition of gratitude needs correcting, dear cousin, and correct it I bloody well shall.”
Eyes flashing with hatred, her lovely mouth curled into an ugly sneer. “I meant for you to use that compromising situation to force the Duke of Broadmere to marry me, you fool! But instead, you leg-shackled yourself as meekly as a lamb led to the slaughter.” She stormed closer. “Have you no cunning? No sense of survival? Not only could you have been rid of me and my spineless mother, but you could have remained a bachelor to bed whomever you wished.”
“I consider the duke a friend. Never would I have saddled him with the likes of you.”
She shook with rage, fisting her hands at her sides. “I am not going back to India.”
“You will either go willingly, as a free woman to the Sykesburys of Bombay, or you will go in shackles as a prisoner charged with forgery and whatever else I decide the authorities might find interesting.”
“You cannot do this to me.”
“I already have.”
Tears welled in her eyes and overflowed, streaming down her cheeks. “This will kill Mama. You know that. You know how much she loves me. She would never wish me trapped in a marriage so far from her.”
“She will either overcome it or die with it. The choice is hers, and I am certain her new husband will help her rise above her turmoil.” He slowly rose out of his chair but kept the desk between them for her protection. “Did you truly believe I would allow you to continue your torment of my beloved wife?”
“You do not love her. You said so yourself. Said she was nothing but a friend.” She dove toward the desk and tried to grab the proof of her forgery, but he snatched it out of her reach. “We are blood, you and I,” she sobbed. “You cannot do this to me.”
“As far as I am concerned, my only family is Fortuity and our future children.” He yanked on the bellpull.
Thebson and Thomas both came to the door.
“Ask Mr. Turnmaster to deliver Miss Sykesbury and her maid to the port. Thomas, you go along and assist him. If Miss Sykesbury does not behave like a genteel lady and go willingly, hand her over to the authorities and ask them to come and speak with me.” Matthew put the letters in his center desk drawer and locked it.
“Come along now, miss,” Thebson said.
Young Thomas stood beside him, looking ready to drag her away if need be.
Eleanor stood taller and fixed Matthew with a haughty glare. “I will never forgive you for this.”
“I can live with that.” He waved her away. “Godspeed to you, cousin.”