Chapter 28
“If people knew my story, they’d never believe me. Clearly, they’d rather believe I’m one of them than see that they’ve been blind to the truth.”
Adelaide, printed in The London Times
“Noelle!”
The woman in question turned at the sound of her name on her younger sister's lips. Olivia stood in the doorway of Noelle’s equine themed bedroom with the governess and Kathleen.
“I found something while we were out shopping I simply had to share with you. You’ll adore it.” Her younger sister held up a package neatly wrapped in patterned paper and tied with a velvet ribbon. It was almost too beautiful to tear into.
Olivia prodded, “Well, sister, aren’t you going to open it?”
Noelle looked at her older sister, then at her chaperone, who had equally eager smiles on their faces. Untying the bow gingerly, Noelle looked inside. She let out a reverent sound.
Inside the wrapping was a leather-bound volume with gilt lettering.
Fitz had spared no expense for her work.
Her knees felt too heavy, and so did the tears.
She fought to master her emotions and her body, meanwhile longing to throw her arms around the man and tell him what the sight of this book, her book, had done to her. If he didn’t already know.
The title was a single name that adorned the cover. Three syllables. The sight rendered her without speech. Without words. Without air. The only thing filling her was joy.
“Everyone on Bond Street was talking about this new book. No one knows the identity of the author, but many are speculating,” Kathleen added.
Noelle searched her expression for more, for signs of knowing, and found none.
Either her sister was good at pretending or really hadn’t known, Noelle couldn’t be certain.
“We just knew it was the kind of thing you’d love. A new novel. A mysterious author. It has your fingerprints all over it,” Olivia’s eyes were twinkly and full of adoration, “I even purchased a second copy for myself. We shall read it together.”
Libby held up her copy. It was a penny copy, meant to be read only once and not nearly as impressive to look at.
Somehow it made Noelle feel even more wobbly.
He’d known, of course he had because he listened, that her book being read by as many people, young and old and rich and poor and male and female, was the thing she had most wanted.
“Libby, you’re a jewel. This is such a thoughtful surprise.” Noelle kissed her sisters each on the cheek and squeezed Miss Kelley’s hand. Miss Kelley looked at her and Noelle knew that she knew.
Noelle looked back at the book. At her creation.
Adelaide by N. Honnimers. If only her mother could see this now.
Noelle was surrounded by well-wishers on the night of her engagement ball.
Seemingly no expense had been spared, the ballroom of the Pomfrey mansion turned out in gilt and dark green, the Pembrooke family colors.
It had been Fitz’s idea to take the hosting duties from Kathleen, who only had a few months left in her confinement.
Large garlands of summer green adorned alcoves and doorways.
Candelabras spilled over with lit candles.
Swaths of green cloth in the Pembrooke colors trailed banisters and alcoves.
An orchestra played notes with soft edges that filled the ballroom with lively music.
Throngs of well-wishers crowded the marble floored front hall, the ballroom, shoulder to shoulder throughout the first floor of the stately London mansion.
Lady Noelle had found herself flush with companions from among the elite once her engagement had been announced.
The attention of the ballroom narrowed in on her and Fitz like a beam of light.
This uncomfortable with all the pageantry surrounding her engagement, she could scarce fathom how she’d endure the rabble that would ensue had her identity as the author of Adelaide accompanied the announcement.
Adelaide.
The name was all the ton could talk about the last few weeks and tonight was no exception.
And with a copy mysteriously appearing for purchase as a penny novel, it wasn’t just the ton who were reading it now.
Seeing her book in the hands of Ella, her housemaid, and then a footman who’d been reading it when he’d been waiting with the family carriage, had her feeling so elated she might float away.
Noelle was currently encircled with young ladies standing near the dance floor who had converged around her to gawk over her ruby betrothal ring and make conversation that said ladies hadn’t previously included her in to the same degree.
There were so many female voices in conversation at once that they collided around Lady Noelle, who stood at the center.
“I’m sure you’ve already read that book everyone is talking about. My modiste even asked me if I had read it yet.” A girl wearing far too many feathers spoke to Noelle, to the group at large.
Noelle’s cheeks flamed at the mention of her work, the crush of bodies, the too-warm-room, the swell of music that echoed in dissonance with her heartbeat.
“I heard that her Majesty purchased copies for her court to read as well,” A dark-haired debutante waving her fan distractingly pointed out.
“The author is anonymous so one can only speculate over the author, but it has to be a man of the upper 10,000,” one of Moria’s acquaintances said. Noelle’s head snapped to another voice speaking before she could answer.
“I agree, whoever wrote it seems to have intimate, inside knowledge, whoever he is.” Said Too-Many-Feathers.
“It’s my personal belief,” Noelle’s loyal friend Margot argued, “that the author has to be a woman. Surely no male author could pen such a compelling and believable female character.”
Noelle knew Margot had been her friend for a reason. Her words had Noelle clenching her jaw tightly so that tears didn’t brim in her eyes and thus give her away.
Margot continued, “Perhaps the author is ‘anonymous’ because declaring that she was a female author would have hindered her being published at all.”
Noelle nodded her encouragement of Margot’s assertion. She only prayed Margot wouldn’t be too upset when she told her the truth, eventually.
Another young lady to Noelle’s left, a rather short but loud creature, rebutted with a wave of her hand, “At any rate, I strongly believe the author was a man. Perhaps he left his identity a secret so that no one would perceive his writings as confessions of his past escapades.”
“A scandalous rake confessing to what exactly ...that he’s a fugitive posing as a lady? That hardly fits the bill, Lady Claire,” Noelle argued.
Perhaps her tone was sharper than she meant, her friend Margot placed a hand at her elbow and said with cool grace: “I apologize, Lady Noelle, we will change the topic. We are very rudely stealing from your big night, your triumph.”
“Oh no, do go on. The next great literary sensation launching on the week of my engagement party…if I’d planned it myself, I wouldn’t have planned it better, I assure you.”
And yet, she had planned it. Margot’s eyes twinkled perceptively.
“Was it the Viscount? Did he write this?” Another of the ladies asked in poorly hushed tones, their attention fixed on Lady Noelle.
“Fitz? You think Fitz wrote this?” Noelle questioned, incredulous. Maybe it sounded as though she was questioning his intellect, but it was more out of shock to have a woman’s creativity dismissed by members of her own sex.
The ladies in the group looked pensive, one of them countered, “Something about the dashing rogue “Lord Swindle” reminded me of Viscount Ludlowe. That could be a coincidence. He hardly seems the scholarly sort. However, he does seem the type to enjoy keeping us all guessing.”
Devil take the chit, Noelle had to give credit to the young lady in the blue dress.
She was more perceptive than she’d given her credit for.
Before she could respond (or pull her hair out of jealousy), one of the ladies distractedly pointed out with a hand on Noelle’s arm, “There’s your sister. Who is she dancing with, do you know?”
Saved by Moria, even unwittingly. Noelle adjusted her spectacles. Lady Claire answered for her, “The recently titled Earl of Drysdale, Lord Templeton; or, my brother said the gentleman at White’s have taken to referring to him as Lord Simpleton, instead.”
“He’s a rather nice-looking simpleton at least. He even has an exceptional head of hair,” a Victoria-something who was friends with Fitz, amended.
“And…tall. As well as rich,” Margot Wimbley added, with a tilt of her ratafia to her lips.
When the song ended, Moria made her way over to the group. She greeted firstly her younger sister with, “Is that lemonade? I’m parched,” and took the glass from Noelle’s hands. So like Moria to take what was not hers.
“It was mine first,” Noelle said.
Moria narrowed her eyes, “Was it?” she questioned.
Noelle’s nostrils flared.
“I’m sorry, are we still talking about lemonade?”
Margot Wimbley questioned; the other ladies looked at her nervously as though she’d taken a heavy gamble.
Moria gave a small, throaty laugh; then linked her arms with Margot’s.
Noelle noticed how the image of Moria grasping Margot by the arm, looked like a peacock linking wings with a pigeon.
Margot’s eyes were locked on the woman beside her, then looked away as though she’d looked too long at the sun.
“Of course we are, dear. Don’t be silly,” Moria said, and because she was Moria, there was a biting kiss to her voice. A palpable silence permeated the group, none wanting to be the first to speak. Moria did, because of course she did.
“Oh,” her voice came out soft and reverent, “Who is that rather delicious specimen over there?”
The entire group of 6 or 7 ladies turned their heads in a single direction. Moria muttered under her breath and said through gritted teeth. “Don’t all of you look at once.”
Too late. Noelle had lain eyes on a tall man with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. He had wavy black hair and the greenest eyes she’d ever seen, set off gorgeously by the deep bronze of his skin. An aristocratic chin set against chiseled dark features. He matched her sister’s classical looks.