Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
A s she hurried along the crowded pavements of Cheapside, Celia felt as though everyone could see straight through her veil to the disgrace of what her father had been. She was filled with shame. How had she not suspected that her whole life had been a lie?
Oh, by the time she was fifteen or sixteen, she’d seen her father for what he was—or so she’d thought, anyway. His London shopping trips, his rings and stickpins and snuff boxes, his travel, his horses… all his interests were expensive and frivolous, and always seemed to leave him with little time to be at home—let alone to manage the estate.
But she’d excused all of this. After all, everyone in Oldbourne knew that Mr. Julian Talbot wasn’t just anyone . He was the third son of Sir Ramsey Talbot. He was the owner of Talbot Hall! And he was tall and handsome, with easy manners that gave him a natural consequence everywhere he went. He received countless invitations and spent months traveling from country house party to country house party, his valet and hunters in tow.
He didn’t remarry. As the years passed, his vanity continued to be gratified by his belief that various ladies were secretly infatuated with him—but he snickered at all of them behind their backs. He could discern faults in the loveliest ladies, and hints of barely repressed desire for him in the most banal conversations.
Still, he was unfailingly charming, and everyone began to say that the reason that poor Mr. Talbot hadn’t married again was that he’d loved his wife so much that he couldn’t bear to think of it.
But Celia knew him better. And finally, she’d begun to admit to herself that the father she’d once idolized wasn’t what he ought to be. And when he’d told her that she must marry Wilkes, she’d asked herself whether he cared about her happiness at all.
Well, now she had no choice but to face the truth: Her father hadn’t been a careless gentleman who’d kept poor records of his expenditures. He’d known exactly what he was doing. He’d even tried to rob her—his only child—of the legacy that her grandfather had left for her.
Meanwhile, Wilkes had continued to advance him money—likely on no more security than a handshake and a night of drinking. No doubt the gangster had thought had that he was taking advantage of her father’s lack of business sense. But all along, her father had been the one cheating him.
At least now she knew why Wilkes was still hunting her.
He wanted what was owed to him. He wanted Talbot Hall.
“It is at number thirty-three, Leadenhall Street. The offices are upstairs.” Pomona was all but wringing her hands. “You are certain that you do not mind? It is dreadfully fashionable. If you are anxious that you may run into Miss Spry or some of her friends, I should understand completely.”
“Why should I be anxious? I have nothing to hide. Any connection between me and Miss Spry is at an end.”
“Is it, though?” She looked at him. “I, for one, shall not feel secure of that until she has actually married the marquess!”
“ Pomona . Now, you have told me the direction three times. I promise you that the fact that Mr. Wynde’s offices are above his lending library is burned into my memory. And I am certain that I am quite capable of locating the door.”
“He has ever so many, you know. Libraries, I mean. In Brighton, and Tunbridge Wells, and Bath, and… well, all the fashionable places.” She turned pale and swallowed. “Oh no! What if he publishes it and no one likes it? Then I shall be the laughingstock of the entire country!”
He laid a hand on her shoulder. “Pomona. Take a deep breath. In thirty seconds you have gone from imagining that Mr. Wynde will not like your book to imagining that all of England will not like it.”
She gulped. “I would feel so much better if I could speak to Mr. Wynde myself. Do tell him that if he wishes me to make any changes—anything, the slightest changes at all!—I shall make them without hesitation!” She clutched the brown paper-wrapped parcel tighter. “Oh, if only mama had not arranged this last-minute dress fitting!”
“I shall tell him that only if he brings it up himself first. You need not volunteer until then.”
A housemaid knocked on the open dressing room door. “Miss Keynsham? Begging your pardon, but Lady Alford says that you must leave now.”
Keynsham nodded. “Thank you, Sally. You may tell her ladyship that Miss Keynsham will be with her in a moment.”
Sally winced, curtseyed, and hurried off on the unenviable errand of giving this message to their mother.
Pomona—who was dressed in a dowdy lavender bonnet and pelisse that made her look jaundiced—gave her brother a pleading look. “Promise me that you will remember every word that he says! And you must not reveal your identity.”
Keynsham was dressed for the building site, where he was going later. “I promise. And I shall tell him that I am the imaginary Mrs. Elizabeth Brown’s… brother-in-law? Cousin? Uncle?”
“Brother will do.” She bit her lip. “Oh dear! What if something goes wrong?”
“Thirty-three, Leadenhall Street. Upstairs. Give manuscript to publisher. I cannot imagine that there is much to go wrong—even in the hands of a blockhead like me.”
“Pomon- a !” Lady Alford’s voice echoed through the house in a most unladylike fashion.
“Oh no! She is on the stair! Here!” She thrust the heavy parcel into his hands. “Be certain that she does not see it! She threatened to burn it if she saw me working on it again.”
“ Pomona !”
“Go!” He squeezed her shoulder. “And please stop making yourself ill.”
With a final anxious glance, his sister hurried away.
“Well, well, well.” The grubby little man leaned back against the wall with a smirk. “Seems a lending library is the place where all the ladies is nowadays, eh? Wonder what’s in them books. All kinds of filth and smut, I shouldn’t warrant —for all these gentry morts look so innocent and clean in their lace and their frills!” He spat into the gutter. “What do all the ladies want to be reading for, anyways?”
Fenton folded his arms. “Mayhap you’d have a better notion of that if you’d ever learned your letters.”
Gooley squinted up at the threatening sky. “Waste of time, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t ask you.”
“And as to that Miss Talbot, you got no way to know she’s going to be 'ere.”
“I seen her at this library before.”
“Is that so?” Gooley snorted. “That don’t mean she’s coming back.”
Fenton stared down at him. “Thought you was supposed to be clever, Gooley. Thought you was the boss’s big man in London. Don’t you know how a lending library works?”
Gooley spat again. “No. And I ain’t interested.”
They were standing in the mouth of an alley off Leadenhall Street. Further down the alley, a carriage waited, its shades already pulled down. This little operation ought to be easy enough.
But the racket of the City was making Fenton’s head ache. He’d got his bell rung when Lord Alford had pistol-whipped him, and no mistake. Not only that, but there was still a sharp pain in his side whenever he took a deep breath. Curse the young lord. He hit harder than a gorger like him should have any business hitting.
Gooley elbowed him. “Boss weren’t too 'appy when you didn’t come back, eh?”
His elbow caught Fenton in his sore ribs. He swore loudly. “Keep your mitts off.”
Gooley held up his hands in exaggerated innocence. “Didn’t lay a finger on you.”
Fenton stared down at him until Gooley looked away. “Prime pair of stinkers you 'ave there,” he said finally, by way of a conciliatory remark. “The young lord pulled your cork, eh?”
Fenton didn’t bother answering.
“Don’t see what we’re doing this for, anyway.” Gooley spat again. “Why this particular bit of skirt? Plenty of London ladies prettier than her.”
“It’s because her father…” Fenton broke off. He still got the shivers when he thought of that night. It was Wilkes who’d done it. But Fenton had helped him get rid of the evidence. He’d seen plenty in his time, but…
Gooley was staring at him expectantly. “Her father what?”
“Nothing. Her father were the village squire.”
“Oo- er !” Gooley began to snicker. “Well, why didn’t you say so? Dearie me! The daughter of the village squire, is she? Very grand, very grand. What village was it, again? Nothington, Nothingtonshire?”
Fenton’s naturally blank and slab-like face betrayed none of his inner rage. He wished now that he hadn’t come back to London at all. He shouldn’t have told Wilkes that he’d seen Miss Talbot. It would be a bad day’s work turning the poor girl over to him.
In his opinion, Wilkes had gone a little queer in the attic. On the terrible night when he’d tried to call in his loans and the squire had told him that the deed to the property was no longer his—well… the memory of Squire Talbot’s bloody, battered body out there in the stables still turned Fenton’s stomach.
He shook his head to try to clear it. At least he could be certain that the young lord wouldn’t interfere again today. Fenton’d had more than enough of him swooping down out of nowhere, all gleaming hair and righteous blows, like a stained glass window of the Archangel Michael come to life.
Fortunately, there wasn’t the slightest reason that the viscount would be visiting a lending library in the City on a showery Tuesday morning. Besides, Fenton would have spotted him. With his liveried coachman and his matched grays and his silk top hat, Lord Alford was hard to miss.
Gooley spat again. “How long we going to stand out 'ere, then? Why, any one of these London girls is twice as smart and pretty as that whey-faced Miss Talbot. Look at that frigate!” He jerked his chin towards a young lady in a bonnet bedecked with blue silk flowers. “Fetching thing, ain’t she, with them pink cheeks and that yellow hair? And that’s if the boss wants a lady. Me, I wouldn’t bother. Since the war, the brothels is full of the prettiest French whores you ever seen. Clean, too. Or mostly clean. Boss could 'ave 'is pick. 'E’s made a success of 'imself 'ere in London.”
Fenton snorted. “Oh aye. He’s a regular Dick Whittington, Wilkes is.”
Gooley narrowed his eyes. No doubt he planned to report this disloyal remark to Wilkes.
A downpour began. The chattering girls on the pavement shrieked as they scattered to waiting carriages. Within a minute or two, the street was nearly deserted.
At that moment, a veiled lady appeared and darted into the library. If you hadn’t been watching for her, you’d never have known she was Miss Talbot.
Fenton straightened. Poor girl. She’d never done him any harm.
But then, business was business.
The clerk who showed Keynsham upstairs eyed his broad-brimmed hat and loose hopsack jacket with a raised eyebrow. “Mr. Wynde will be with you momentarily.” He gave a little cough. “ Sir .”
Keynsham took off his hat and suppressed a smile as he made himself comfortable on the elegant settee. He’d driven himself in his gig—as he did every morning—and was dressed to walk through a muddy building site with Downey later. No doubt he’d have had a different reception dressed as Lord Alford… rather than Lord Something.
The antechamber was remarkably stylish. Evidently the Thetis Press took its status in the fashionable world seriously. The walls were papered in arsenic green set off by glossy white woodwork, and a polished ebony table displayed stacks of what must be the latest titles from the publisher, smartly bound in gold-embossed blue and red morocco.
At length the inner door opened. “Mrs… ah… Mr. Brown?” The harried-seeming man who spoke bounced a pair of gold-framed spectacles in one hand as he studied Keynsham. “I confess, sir, that you are not at all what I expected! Although it is fair to say that your prose does have a certain, er… muscular quality to it.”
Keynsham stood and bowed. “Oh, I am not the author. That is my sister—Mrs. Brown. I am come merely to deliver her manuscript to your hand.”
“Indeed, sir!” Mr. Wynde bowed as well. “Because we do have a considerable number of male authors who use ladies’ names. I assure you that we at Thetis Press are notably discrete.”
“And I assure you that I have never had a literary bone in my body.” He handed the manuscript to Wynde.
Wynde put on his spectacles. “Ah. Thank you.” He hefted the parcel as though he were assessing its weight. “Well, please tell your, er, sister how favorably impressed I was by the sample chapters that she sent me. The opening scene of the heroine’s escape down the icy mountainside in the Alps was positively harrowing. Harrowing ! I could not put it down! I must tell you, Mr. Brown, that unless I am very much mistaken, The Tomb of Valdarno will be amongst our most successful debuts of the year.”
The Tomb of Valdarno ? Keynsham blinked at the tightly wrapped parcel. “I… see.”
“Of course, the story is thrilling, but you—er, she , I mean—could not possibly have chosen a more fashionable setting than Italy. There is unquenchable demand for Italian stories amongst our readers. Unquenchable !”
“I… had no idea.”
“Oh yes! It is, perhaps, due to the association with Lord Byron, lending a frisson of forbidden passion and romance.” He waved a hand. “And with the scenery and the ancient ruins… well, the whole country is simply irresistible to our patrons. It is a stroke of genius, sir, that you—er, she , of course!—set your tale there.”
Keynsham didn’t know what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this. Alps? Tombs? Harrowing scenes ? Pomona had never even been to Italy!
“You seem surprised, Mr. Brown. Is it possible that you were unaware of Italy’s popularity?”
“I, er… had never considered it.”
“Ah!” Wynde’s face took on a look of satisfaction. “Then the book proceeded from a purely artistic motivation. I thought as much! It has the unmistakable ring of sincerity.”
“How gratifying it is to hear you say that.” Keynsham was beginning to enjoy this.
“Now, assuming that the manuscript is accepted, you… er, the author , of course… will then be asked to sign a contract. Though I have little doubt that it will be. Accepted, that is.” He gave the wrapped pages a possessive pat. “Would the author be available tomorrow? Or the next day? We shall wish to finalize matters and get it onto our presses as soon as possible.”
Tomorrow was the ball—which would go on until six the following morning. “I am afraid that I must confirm that with my sister. She finds herself with social obligations this week.”
“Certainly! Certainly! Your sister . Yes. Social obligations .” He eyed Keynsham. “Of course, I would like to be certain that you—er, she, of course — is not entertaining offers from rival publishers.”
Keynsham bowed. “I cannot doubt that you would. I shall pass along your message to Mrs. Brown . Good morning, sir.”
Downstairs, the library seemed twice as busy as it had been only a half hour earlier. The outer door to the street was temporarily obstructed by a group of laughing, chattering young ladies who’d darted in from the rain. As he stopped to avoid walking into them, someone bumped into him from behind.
“I beg your pardon.” The lady had a large wrapped book in her arms, which she was endeavoring to stuff into her reticule, and her face was obscured by a heavy veil. Both of these facts perhaps explained why she hadn’t been quick enough to avoid colliding with him.
He stepped out of her way with a slight bow. She looked up at him... and froze.
The veil was heavy, but when he saw her face in the light coming through the large windows, he couldn’t fail to recognize her even through its obscuring folds.
Celia.
He would have that his heart stopped beating. He would have sworn that the busy library went utterly silent. He would have sworn that everyone around them vanished. He would have sworn that time ceased to run, and that nothing existed but her.
He reached toward her. “Miss Talbot.”
She glanced to one side of him, as though calculating whether she could make a dash for the street.
“Please. I must speak with you. It is important.”
She shook her head, stepped past the chattering ladies, and was gone out the door.
What the…?
To have seen her, after all this time, only to have her dismiss him without a word?
He took a step to follow her. But one of the chattering girls turned at the same instant and collided with him. In the ensuing giggling, and hat straightening, and batting of lashes, he lost sight of Miss Talbot’s bonnet. “I beg your pardon!” he said, a little too forcefully.
“Well!” The young ladies fell silent and glared at him as he strode past them and out the door.
He looked right and left. It was raining harder now. There she was, making for Cornhill, one hand to her bonnet, her head bent as though to shield her face from the rain. She was walking so quickly that she was very nearly running.
And because she had her head down, she didn’t what see he saw: Two of Wilkes’s thugs were moving toward her from the mouth of the alley in which they’d been lurking.
“Miss Talbot!” he shouted. “Look out!”