Seducing Mr. Knightly (14 page)

Newspapermen in Newgate

A
CCIDENTS &
O
FFENSE

A fire at the offices of
The London Times
was deemed suspicious. A source informs that the editors were burning compromising files gathered by rogue reporter Jack Brinsley before Lord Marsden’s Inquiry could collect them.

The London Weekly

Newgate

B
RIBERY
was wonderful. Some men had compunctions about that sort of thing, but not Knightly. He valued accomplishments and efficiency. Especially when one was at Newgate. It was not the sort of place where one wished to linger.

He was here because of Annabelle and her brilliant insight.

“It was only a matter of time before you showed up.” Jack Brinsley, reporter and “physician” said gruffly upon Knightly’s arrival. “At least one newspaper editor isn’t afraid to show his face.”

“Hardwicke has not visited?” Knightly inquired about the editor of
The London Times.

“That patsy?” Brinsley spat on the floor.

“You have caused quite a scandal, you know,” Knightly told him.

“You’re welcome,” Brinsley said with a smirk.

“It occurs to me that there’s more to your story than the gossip or the paltry information I receive from the parliamentary inquiry.” Knightly caught himself about to lean against the walls and then thought better of it.

“And I’m just supposed to tell you it, am I? I’m supposed to just tell-all to the rival newspaper,” Brinsley said with a bemused expression.

“Aye, the rival newspaper that isn’t turning its back on you,” Knightly said pointedly. “Do you have a minute to talk?”

Brinsley snorted. Of course he had time, being in prison. He would talk. They always did with the hangman’s noose swaying in the not-too-far future.

“Tell me about the day you woke up and thought ‘I know! I’ll pretend to be a physician to the aristocracy.’ ”

Brinsley took a long pause before answering: “It was a Tuesday. Foggy.”

Knightly gave him A Look.

“I heard rumors about a particular lady. Hardwicke gave me orders to confirm them. And I thought, how the devil could I manage to confirm rumors about a pregnancy? Before anyone else did, that is.”

“By impersonating a physician,” Knightly surmised. Annabelle was right. Brinsley wasn’t pulling this stunt on a lark, there had been a reason.

“Assisting one,” Brinsley corrected. “But then the old blighter took ill himself and sent me on his calls. It proved to be rather informative. Lucrative, if you understand me.”

It was a mad, genius scheme that definitely went beyond the pale, even for Knightly’s bold tastes. He’d never support a reporter going to such
personal
lengths for a story.

But Damn, how lucrative it must have been. All newspapers made a small fortune in suppression fees when they obtained information the person in question did not wish to see in print. In this instance, it could be details of pregnancies or the pox or the devil only knew what else.

Some might say collecting those suppression fees was akin to blackmail. Others might say that’s the newspaper publishing business. This was probably first on Marsden’s list of practices to attack. One had to wonder, though, why he suddenly cared so much about an age-old practice?

“Whatever happened to bribing a housemaid?” Knightly mused.

“Child’s play. Can’t compete with
The Weekly
with those simpleton methods,” Brinsley retorted.

“And the woman with the pregnancy rumors. Who was she?” Knightly asked. He had his suspicions.

“You’re not stupid, Knightly, I’ll give you that,” Brinsley replied. “You’re the only one to suspect I had a reason for this scheme. That I was after a lead and not just on a lark.”

The credit was for Annabelle. He’d been as obtuse as the rest. But a more urgent matter persisted:

“Who is she?”

“I’m not just going to
tell
you,” Brinsley said in an obvious play for cash. Knightly did love bribery. But he abhorred wasting money.

“Suit yourself. I’m confident I can discover it with a little sleuthing. I’m sure the ton will be riveted. Especially now that you and
The London Times
have so kindly set us up to reveal the details of such a riveting scandal.”

“You’re not going to publish this, are you?” Brinsley asked, jaw hanging open.

“I am,” Knightly said. Publish and be damned.

“I take it back. You’re not stupid. But damn, you are insane.”

Chapter 16

Drama Is Not Just on the Stage

D
EAR
A
NNABELLE

Let the Nodcock know you care by a simple affectionate touch on his hand.

Affectionate from All Saints Road

The London Weekly

Covent Garden Theater

B
Y
the end of Act One, Annabelle’s cheeks were as red as her crimson sash and she was thinking some very uncharitable thoughts about Affectionate from All Saints Road, whose well-meaning suggestion that a delicate caress or an affectionate gesture would somehow make Knightly notice her, desire her, love her.

This hint of affection was supposed to be a suggestion of
more
.

Who could predict that such a simple action would be so fraught with peril?

First, she practiced upon Alistair Grey, who had brought her as his guest to the opening night of
Once Upon a Time
, featuring Delilah Knightly.

“Knightly’s exact words to me were, ‘My mother receives rave reviews or I find a new theater reviewer.’ I understood this to mean I should attend,” Alistair told her. “Of course, I always bring a guest. Given your situation and the assurance that you-know-who would attend, I thought to extend the invitation to you, Dear Annabelle. I expect a public display of gratitude in your next column.”

“But of course,” Annabelle replied, lightly touching her gloved hand to Alistair’s forearm, clad in a deep mauve wool that set off his violet silk waistcoat to great effect.

Alistair did not take much notice of the gesture, but more importantly, he did not laugh or mock or ask her what the devil she was doing touching him thusly.
She could do this.

She mustered her courage, straightened her spine, and quite nearly lost her nerve when Knightly arrived at the box appearing impossibly handsome in the stark black and white of his evening clothes.

If he was surprised to see her, he didn’t show it. His eyes were as blue and focused as ever and his expression as aloof and inscrutable. She couldn’t help it, a little sigh of longing and desire escaped her lips.

After greeting Alistair, Knightly took the seat beside her.

“How are you this evening, Annabelle?” he asked, leaning in toward her so his low voice might be heard over the din of the audience chattering before the start.

“Fine, thank you. And how are you?” Then she dared to brush her fingertips along the soft wool covering his arm, just for a second before snatching her hand away. Meanwhile, she kept her gaze upon him, so riveted was she by his blue eyes. That, and she was attempting to discern if that light touch had any effect upon him.

“I’m very well, thank you. Prepared for an evening of theatrics.”

“Drama is for the page. Or the stage,” she remarked, drawing a slight smile of recognition from him. She recognized an opportunity to seek an answer to a question that had been vexing her ever since their carriage ride. “Mr. Knightly, I don’t think you ever mentioned your third truth.”

Annabelle dared to punctuate this by placing her gloved hand upon his arm. In her head, she counted to three. Did he feel the warmth, the shivers? She felt positively electrified by the touch, however slight, and however much fabric separated his bare skin from hers.

Knightly leaned in closer. Her heart started to pound. She was sure her bosoms were heaving in anticipation, but in the dim light of the theater she couldn’t tell if Knightly dared a glance or not.

“Be beholden to no one,” he said in a low, heartbreaking voice.

“Oh,” she replied, withdrawing her hand. That was the mantra of a man who refused love or attachment. The sort of man a woman ought not waste her time upon. That was a declaration of “Abandon all hope, ye who venture here.”

But then she did catch Knightly glancing at her. And her bodice. She would swear that she felt his gaze like a caress. Her skin warmed. With the rush of pleasure from his attention was the satisfaction of knowing she had dared, she had achieved some small triumph.

The lights dimmed further. The audience hushed. The thick red velvet curtains were drawn apart, revealing a stage set to reveal a bedroom and a brightly dressed cast of characters ready to play.

The play was excellent, but couldn’t fully capture her attention. Beside her, Knightly shifted and his soft wool coat brushed against her bare arms like the gentlest caress. She bit her lip, craving more.

Oh, it was just the brush of wool against her skin. It ought to have been nothing. But it was a tactile indication of all the affection she’d been lacking and all of her longing. It was an indication of how far she’d come, how close she was.

Old Annabelle never had moments like these, alone in the dark with Knightly, close enough to touch.

Throughout the performance, she’d kept her hands folded in her lap. But then she thought perhaps . . . perhaps she ought to try a little more.

She slid her hands across the pink silk of her skirts, over to the edge of her velvet chair just to where her fingers brushed with Knightly’s, interlocking and then releasing for one exquisite and all-too-fleeting second.

In the middle of the first act Knightly leaned over to whisper in her ear some remark about the play. His voice was low, whisper quiet, and her attentions were distracted.

“What was that?” she asked at the exact moment when, as per the instructions of Affectionate from All Saints Road, she reached over intending just a brief gesture of affection on his arm, or his hand. But he had shifted and she accidentally brushed her hand across a more personal and intimate and decidedly male portion of his anatomy. At the precise moment she had asked
What was that?

Dear God, he would think—

That wasn’t what she meant!

She just hadn’t heard him!

All the words and explanations stuck in her throat. With cheeks flaming, Annabelle clasped her hands firmly on her lap and spent the second act regretting deeply the advice of Affectionate from All Saints Road and praying that she might disappear.

K
NIGHTLY
sincerely hoped that Alistair had paid excellent attention to the performance and planned to write an extensive, thorough, and meticulously detailed review, for he had not paid attention at all.

No, he’d been too damned distracted by Annabelle. First, it was those little flirtatious touches during their polite conversation, which fortunately consisted of just small talk. He’d had the devil of a time concentrating and instead wondered if Annabelle was
flirting
with him and if so, since when did Annabelle flirt?

It was probably for her column and probably practice for Owens or Marsden. But it tortured him all the same.

Especially when she had inadvertently touched him on a certain portion of his anatomy, which was far too pleased by it, given the circumstances. Such as a crowd of hundreds preventing him from
more.

“Would you care for a glass of champagne?” Knightly asked Annabelle. Alistair had gone off to interview the actors backstage, leaving the two of them alone. He needed a drink, badly.

“Yes,
please
,” she replied, averting her gaze. Her cheeks were pink.

“Shall we?” He offered his arm and she entwined hers. It was the gentlemanly thing to do. But after all those little, taunting touches he wanted to feel more of her, feel her against him. With the slightest caress, she had started a craving.

With her tucked against him, he noticed Annabelle was taller than he expected—her head was just above his shoulder, and he towered over most men. He also noted that if he glanced down discreetly he was treated to a marvelous view of her breasts rising above the cut of her gown. God damn—or God bless?—that damn Gage and all the rest who made the suggestion that she lower her bodice. He hadn’t been able to think of much other than Annabelle’s breasts since.