Seducing Mr. Knightly (39 page)

“He must be planning to propose to her, of course,” Annabelle said matter-of-factly. She wondered if he had a ring. Or if would be on bended knee when he asked. Probably not in Newgate.

“What an awful proposal. I would refuse,” Sophie said with a shudder.

“What if Brandon proposed to you in a prison?” Annabelle asked, rephrasing the question to include her beloved husband.

“Brandon would never find himself in prison. Unless it was to rescue someone,” Sophie replied.

“Well Knightly was bound to be arrested,” Eliza said frankly, and to murmurs of agreement. “I’m only surprised it has not happened sooner.”

Annabelle frowned, annoyed, because she found there was something wild and exciting about a man who might be imprisoned. It meant he was bold, daring, adventurous, as if he could be a hero or a villain in equal measure.

Do not feel affection for him
, she commanded herself.
He is probably proposing to another woman this very minute.

But then she thought of how it must feel to be locked up and away. He would feel so frustrated with the lack of liberty, and that must drive him mad. Would he go mad?

No, because he would escape first. He would find a way out. Knightly always found a way to get just what he wanted.

If only he wanted her . . .

No, she was done with that line of thinking—done! Now she was going mad herself, oh blast.

He was going to marry Lady Lydia. It was the sensible thing to do. Would she be invited to the wedding? Would she have to smile while he recited vows to love and cherish another woman?

“Annabelle, are you all right? You look close to tears,” Sophie said, peering closely at her.

Her eyes did feel the hot sting of tears starting, but she would
not
let them fall.

“Or like you’re about to cast up your accounts,” Eliza added with a cringing expression. Indeed, her stomach was in knots.

“What if he does marry Lady Lydia? What do I do?” Annabelle asked, and she did not even try to disguise the anguish in her voice.

She had spent her whole life waiting for a Grand, True Love. And since she met Knightly three years, eight months, one week, and three days ago, she had been waiting for that Grand True Love to blossom between them.

She could never love another, she was sure of it.

She had always just assumed that he would marry her and love her . . . eventually. For the first time, Annabelle honestly confronted the prospect of a lifetime—a bloody lifetime, for she was only six and twenty—without love, without Knightly. The prospect was bleak indeed.

A lifetime of Blanche’s barbs and orders and snide remarks. Forever living in a household where she was merely tolerated because she served so selflessly.

A lifetime in which her brother—her own flesh and blood—ignored her and buried his face in
The London Times—
of all the newspapers in London, for Lord’s sake.

A memory of one glorious night in which almost all of her secret wishes and dreams had come true . . . One night in which she was not only wanted, but loved . . .

After which followed a lifetime of remorse.

“You will be fine, Annabelle. You will be loved,” Eliza said in a fierce whisper with an affectionate squeeze of her hand.

Annabelle didn’t let go, even as Sophie and Eliza chattered on and she made an effort to follow their conversation about dresses and scandals and books they had read and Eliza’s upcoming plans to travel to Timbuktu with her adventurous husband.

But Annabelle also watched the clock, awaiting Julianna’s return. Watched it so intently that it seemed time would stop if she looked away. Finally, two hours, forty-nine minutes, and twenty-six seconds later, Julianna burst through the doors.

“You would not
believe
what I am now privy to,” she exclaimed breathlessly. “Oh my Lord. Be still my throbbing heart. Fetch the smelling salts. Do you remember when I found Drawling Rawlings in that unfathomably scandalous barnyard position with the most unlikely of characters?”

Sophie, her face an expression of awe, replied: “The scene you described as, and I quote, ‘The single most scandalous compromising position of your career, second to Roxbury’s.’ That one?”

“This is better,” Julianna said with a broad grin. “Better even than unmasking the Man About Town. This is the biggest story of my career.”

Annabelle supposed Knightly’s Newgate proposal to Lady Lydia might be classified as that interesting.

“I know what happened during Lady Lydia’s missing season! She related it to me directly. And Knightly has given me
orders
to print every last salacious detail!”

Chapter 49

A Most Scandalous Edition of
The London Weekly

L
ETTER FROM THE (
I
MPRISONED)
E
DITOR

London, prepare to be scandalized.

The London Weekly

The Swift Residence

T
HIS
particular issue of
The London Weekly
became the most widely read and discussed issue of a newspaper in years. Many would mention it in the same breath as Thomas Paine’s
Rights of Man
or the
Declaration of Independence
from the Colonies.

A typical issue of the paper might sell twelve thousand copies, with each one read by a few, then read aloud to many more. The issues in which Eliza revealed the exotic secrets of the man known as the Tattooed Duke in a column set sales records, as did Julianna’s very public battle of words and wits with the rival gossip columnist, the Man About Town and her now-husband Lord Roxbury. But neither of those topped this one.

From prison, Knightly authorized the purchase of a new printing press to keep up with the demand.

Even from behind bars,
The London Weekly
plainly belonged to him. His touch, his vision, and his love was apparent in every line of type on this, the most scandalous issue of a newspaper ever printed.

How scandalous was it?

Even the Swift household possessed a copy. It was the second one ever to cross the threshold. (The first was the issue featuring Annabelle’s debut column. Only that page remained carefully folded and tucked into a copy of a Jane Austen novel.)

Annabelle wasn’t even the one to buy this particular issue. Thomas, a lifelong loyal reader of
The London Times,
brought it home the previous evening, muttering something about everyone at his cloth company offices reading it. It was not until breakfast that Annabelle was able to read it privately, after finding it discarded in the bin.

On the front page was a defiant letter from the editor displaying Knightly’s razor sharp wit, slicing and shaping the facts to tell the story he wanted. She could hear it—his voice, strong and commanding and so self-assured—as if he stood behind her and read the words aloud.

She loved him, of course, and admired him because when the world turned against him, he stood proud. Even from the dankest of prisons he possessed wit, intelligence, defiance, and grace. It made her love him all the more.

Annabelle poured a cup of tea and sat at the breakfast table, alone, and began to read
The Weekly
.

L
ETTER FROM THE (
I
MPRISONED)
E
DITOR

I write this from Newgate, where I am imprisoned on charges of libel. When has it become a crime to print the truth?

Taxes keep the prices of newspapers high, in a deliberate attempt to keep information out of the hands of the common man and woman. Yet the coffeehouse culture flourishes, and newspapers are shared, thus ensuring the printed word will be read and discussed.

It is foolish to try to put a stop to this. But fools will persist in their madness, will they not?

It is a well-known but oft unspoken fact that the government pays newspapers for favorable reports and portrayals.
The London Weekly
never took a farthing. This publication is beholden to no one but the reading public.

The London Weekly
has long brought you “accounts of gallantry, pleasure, and entertainment.” It has also brought a level of equality and truth to the press. which has resulted in great success—and my imprisonment. I stand by every word in this paper, especially in this particular edition. London, prepare to be scandalized.

Annabelle caught herself with a wicked, delighted grin. Her heart was racing. Who knew so much adventure and anticipation could be contained in a newspaper? Knightly did. Like thousands of others all over London at that very moment, she turned the page, eager to delve into more.

But unlike the rest of London, Annabelle felt a glow of pride that she
belonged
to this paper and was a part of something so daring and great. She, little old Annabelle Swift, was a beloved member of an exclusive club: the writers of
The London Weekly.
If nothing else . . . she had this triumph in her life.

If nothing else, Knightly was and would always be the man who gave her a rare chance to be more than a Spinster Auntie from Bloomsbury. For that alone, she thanked him and loved him and granted him her undying devotion.

On the second page, she found Julianna’s masterpiece. Even though Julianna had breathlessly confessed every last detail, Annabelle still read the printed version. She knew that Owens and Knightly had gone through it to ruthlessly remove anything that would not be supported by fact. The story, so detailed and salacious, occupied the entire second page.

F
ASHIONABLE
I
NTELLIGENCE BY A
L
ADY OF
D
ISTINCTION

The mystery of Lady Lydia Marsden’s missing season has been solved, and was related to this author by the lady herself. It involves a lover, of course, as all great gossip does. Like the fairy tales, there are unfathomably cruel relatives; lovers, separated; innocence lost. But will there be a happy ending?

Lady Lydia took a lover, a man hired to teach her the fine art of dancing. It has often been noted that she moved across ballrooms with an unparalleled grace; that she could waltz better than any debutante, that she possessed such a poised and regal bearing and knew by heart the steps to every dance, even the most obscure country reels. We now know why. Hours spent in practice, in the arms of a man she had come to love.

For years their love was expressed only in the hearted gaze of illicit lovers, or hours spent in each other’s arms as they danced across the ballroom of Marsden house. In time, that was not enough . . .

Rumors soon surfaced of Lady Lydia’s condition after a particular incident in which she was discovered casting up her accounts in a potted fern during a breakfast party.

A remarkably intrepid reporter from
The London Times
sought confirmation of the lady’s condition by impersonating a physician (he now languishes in Newgate, awaiting trial). The lady in question was discovered to have been in a delicate condition. Her lengthy stint in the country—the infamous missing second season—did nothing to stifle rumors to that effect.