Seducing Mr. Knightly (28 page)

A Misunderstanding with the Marquis

D
OMESTIC
I
NTELLIGENCE

The total number of newspaper reporters arrested: 38

The total number of newspapers that have been shuttered: 4

Only
The London Weekly
seems immune. For now.

The London Times

White’s Gentlemen’s Club

St. James’s Street

T
HERE
was no point in refusing Marsden’s request to join him for a drink at White’s. They had business to discuss and it could happen here or there, sooner or later. That Marsden should wish to meet in a place that would display his rank and power was not lost upon Knightly. Clever, too, for White’s would remind him of what he stood to gain—or lose.

I ought to belong here, Knightly thought as he strolled up the four short steps to the entrance to this exclusive haven.

The first thing he saw was the New Earl, seated with a few gentlemen, card game in progress. The look in his eyes conveyed those taunting, menacing words:
Throw the bastard out. He doesn’t belong here.

Only now, Knightly saw beyond the obvious hatred in his glare to see hurt and confusion. When the New Earl leaned to whisper something scathing to his companion—all the while shooting daggers with his eyes—Knightly wondered what his relationship had been like with their father. Did they have the same long conversations? Did they share the same dry sense of humor? Did they go to the theatre together?

His mother had mentioned debts as a factor for the marriage. Had the countess’s dowry paid for his own gentlemen’s education? Had it provided the inheritance with which he purchased
The London Weekly
?

They were questions he’d never known to even ask. His mother had stormed in and delivered all this devastating information and then made an elegantly cutting exit, as befit one of London’s best actresses.

The marquis had claimed a table in a dark corner of the club. He sat there, steely-eyed and seething. If he was supposed to be intimidated, Knightly thought, then the marquis ought to try harder. Or just not bother.

“I thought we had an understanding,” Marsden began, without offering a drink. It was to be one of those conversations. “I thought I had been abundantly clear that I would steer the parliamentary Inquiry away from the notoriously unsavory reporting methods at your newspaper if you would marry my sister.”

Knowing what he knew now—namely, the reasons Lady Lydia remained impossibly unwed—Knightly knew what a bad bargain it was. Not because she wasn’t some pure ideal, but because her heart was otherwise engaged, and that would make for a cold marriage indeed. Certainly it wasn’t good enough to violate truth number three:
Be beholden to no one.

But that was information he had no intention of revealing. Yet.

“No date had been set,” Knightly pointed out.

“Which is exactly why I am here,” Marsden said. At least he was the sort of man who got quiet when enraged. None of that undignified blustering sported by lesser—though more amusing—men. “No wedding date has been set. Not even a proposal. And I hear that you enjoyed a significant, extended, private interlude with Miss Swift.”

“You must be referring to the item that appeared in
The London Times
this morning. Surprising what information such a second-rate paper manages to uncover, isn’t it?”

The mark hit home. Marsden visibly reddened. They now both knew that Knightly had learned he’d nearly bankrupted himself paying suppression fees to
The Times
and launched this Inquiry when his funds began to run out.

“I saw you. With Annabelle,” Marsden said through gritted teeth.

Ah, now that was interesting. Not that they were spotted, for neither had made any effort at discretion—and why did they need to? Neither were haute ton, with reputations to maintain—but that Marsden gave a damn.

“I believe you are referring to Miss Swift,” Knightly corrected.

“Devil take it, Knightly, we had an understanding,” Marsden growled.

Knightly only shrugged, and said, “We did not agree upon a date by which I would propose. We did not agree upon a love match or some pretense of romance. We may have had an understanding, but there was no discussion of the terms.”

“I assumed your word was that of a gentleman,” Marsden said tightly.

“That was your first mistake, Marsden,” Knightly said with a laugh—and a glance across the room at the New Earl. “We all know I’m no gentleman.”

Marsden went silent. Was Marsden shocked that he had so directly referred to his bastardry when it was something he ought to be ashamed of?

In that silence, Knightly realized, deeply, that he was not a gentleman. He did not belong here, in White’s. He missed Galloway’s and its raucous company, the rustling sound of newspapers, and the scent of coffee and cigar smoke. He liked the ease one felt there. And the lack of angry glares launched in his direction.

“Pity, that,” Marsden said thoughtfully, “because we gentlemen protect our own. And we actively suppress those who are . . .
not
.”

The emphasis he placed on that little word
, not,
was remarkable.
Not
suddenly had the connection of rats, dung heaps, mud larks, and rotting corpses.

When Knightly replied, his voice was the drawl of a bored man. Between the glares from the New Earl (which were now, at this point, making it difficult to maintain a shred of that newly discovered empathy) and Marsden’s overbearing manner and the restrained silence of this club, Knightly felt his chest tighten, as if a thousand-ton anvil pressed upon his chest, making breathing impossible.

He needed to walk and to get lost in the busy, meandering streets of London until night and silence descended upon the city. He needed the slap of cool air on his face. He needed to think about Lydia and Annabelle and
The London Weekly
and the family he’d never had. And to think about love.

He had no more time or patience for Lord Marsden and his bad bargains.

“Marsden, if you have something to tell me that I don’t already know, I’d like to hear it. But the pretentious, heavy hand of the upper orders is not news. If it’s not news, then I’m not interested.”

“Oh, I have news for you, Knightly,” Marsden said with a nefarious grin. “But I think I’ll let you read it in the papers tomorrow.
The London Times
, in fact.”

Chapter 34

Lovesick Female Driven to Desperate Measures

DRAFT:

Dear Annabelle

What is the proper way to conduct oneself after being discovered in a compromising position?

Composed by Miss Annabelle Swift, unsolicited, on behalf of Mr. Derek Knightly.

Offices of
The London Weekly

K
NIGHTLY
must know that he was the Nodcock. No man as successful as he could be so obtuse. Annabelle allowed that all her sighs and blushes and stammers over the years were very missable. But they had kissed, Knightly and she. Twice.

Furthermore, the gossip columns had reported on it, thus mercifully offering concrete proof that such an exquisite event had actually happened and was not some wicked tease from her imagination.

And yet Knightly strolled into the weekly meeting with the same grin and drawling “ladies first” as he had for every other meeting since the dawn of time. He didn’t act differently. He didn’t give any indication that Something Momentous had occurred.

Annabelle scowled. Why was it all so hard, every step of the way?

A wink would have done wonders. A lift of one brow would have been a simple, unremarkable thing that spoke volumes to her. A knowing smile, perhaps? And really, what was the point of discretion now when
The London Times
printed up the details for all to see? Almost anybody in London now knew that:

1. At the charity ball benefiting the Society of Unfortunate Women, she and Knightly had enjoyed an extended, moonlit interlude, complete with a passionate kiss. Every Londoner was surely imagining the most wanton behavior on both their parts.

2. Knightly was one wicked lothario, dallying with an unmarriageable chit (Annabelle) while his very marriageable intended (Lady Marsden) languished in the ballroom.

Upon seeing her today, Owens had placed his hand on the small of her back and leaned in close to inquire about her extended moonlit interlude. Her response was a breathless “Nice” because she had been too flustered over his affection and concern. She gazed up to his warm brown eyes, searching for a reason why he would be so involved in the trials and tribulations of her little love life.

How to make heads or tales of any of it? A glimmer of anything remotely resembling acknowledgment might have gone a long way. Had Knightly nothing to say to her after that gossip rag? It was ungentlemanly to ignore it. Unsporting not to say something. Unless his silence was the answer she sought.

Sophie was chattering about weddings and the latest fashions; Eliza continued her reporting on the adventures of the Tattooed Duke, the previously unsuspecting subject of her writing, and now her husband.

Knightly warily turned his attentions to Julianna.

“Julianna, what salacious gossip might we find in your column this week?”

“I thought I might comment upon the Man About Town’s recent column. Set the record straight, perhaps?” She asked this with a challenging lift of her brow.

“I don’t know that there is much more to be said,” Knightly replied, leaning against a table. Annabelle wanted to disagree strongly. There was plenty to be said—to her. Knightly added: “I’m certain any member of the aristocracy is engaged in much more scandalous activities that will be of significantly more interest to our readers.”

In other words: don’t talk about it. In other words: there was nothing to say. In other words: if we ignore it perhaps it will go away.

Julianna scowled. Annabelle did, too, for that matter. And then Knightly fixed his attentions upon her.

“Annabelle, what schemes do you have for us this week?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to say she would offer advice on how gentlemen ought to conduct themselves after passionately kissing women during moonlit interludes at a ball. Alas, Bold Annabelle had not progressed so far as to airing her personal business in public. Though she now entertained wicked and sassy retorts, she was not yet able to voice them.

Instead, she said, “I think it might be time for desperate measures.”

“Are your efforts thus far unsuccessful?” Knightly asked with a lift of his brow. Was that a reference to their conversation or just a thing to do? And why did he have to be so impossibly handsome when he leaned?

“Oh, there have been some
small
successes,” she replied, making every effort to sound haughty and dismissive. “ Nothing grand enough to be
satisfying
.”

Beside her, Julianna stifled a chortle, and Annabelle caught Owens’s mouth hanging slack-jawed. These things made her rather proud of herself.

“What do you have in mind, Dear Annabelle?” Knightly was grinning, ever so slightly. She saw it in the upward tilt of the corner of his mouth, but mostly she saw it in his eyes.

“You’ll see when you read my column,” she said, with a little bit of sass, which was all bluster because she had no idea what desperate measures she would try.

“Not sooner?” Knightly asked casually. Oh, he had to know. He must! But she needed more certainty than a lift of his brow or an easily asked question in front of a room full of people.

Annabelle lifted her head higher and replied, “Quite a few of my readers have encouraged me to maintain an aura of mystery. And some even say that if the Nodcock cannot figure it out for himself, he doesn’t deserve to know.”

A
FTER
the meeting, the Writing Girls proceeded immediately to Gunther’s for some ices. They parked Sophie’s open-aired carriage in the shade of a tree, and with raspberry ices in hand proceeded with the important conversation.