Seducing Mr. Knightly (40 page)

As one would imagine, the lady’s brother was livid to discover that his sister was not only with child, but that the father was a lowborn dance instructor. Even more vexing, these lovers imagined a happy life together with their child. This was not to be, alas. She found herself locked in the tower of the country house; her lover was banished and threatened with deportation to Australia should he dare to see his beloved.

And what of the child? A boy was born and smuggled to its father. They live in squalor. ’Tis not merely a tale of a young woman’s missing season, but of love thwarted. The lesson to be gleaned from this? Love knows no rules or class or boundaries. And, we hope, that only fools stand in the path of true love.

To hear the story related by a breathless Julianna was one thing; it was quite another to read it in black and white. It quite explained Lady Lydia’s letter to Dear Annabelle, and she breathed a sigh of relief at the personal note she had included in her previous column. She had encouraged Scandalously in Love, otherwise known as Lady Lydia, to await true love. It had been the right thing to do.

But what could Knightly be about, printing this? Marsden was livid already. What purpose could this serve other than to provoke the man further? Did Knightly
want
to spend the rest of his days in Newgate?

The line of questioning was disturbed when something else caught her eye . . .

On the rightmost column of the page . . .

The headline
DEAR ANNABELLE
. . .

Usually her column appeared on page sixteen or seventeen, tucked behind all the serious and important news, but today it was prominently featured on page three. This was odd, as she hadn’t turned in a particularly interesting article. She had answered Mrs. Crowley from Margate’s question about the proper way to hold a teapot, she advised Mr. Chapeau from Blackfriars on which feather to decorate his hat, and settled a dispute between neighbors on who ought to sweep the sidewalk. In other words, it might have been one of her dullest columns to date.

Certainly nothing worthy of page three. Certainly nothing worthy of her portrait. What was her portrait doing in the paper? Owens must have put that in . . .

Intrigued, Annabelle began to read.

D
EAR
A
NNABELLE:
A
D
ECLARATION OF
L
OVE FROM THE 
N
ODCOCK

Dear Annabelle,

You have succeeded in winning my attention. I can think of nothing but you, day or night—and not because there is little else to do in prison, and not merely because of your low-cut bodices or other tricks to catch my eye. You are beautiful, Annabelle, inside and out. You intrigue me, Annabelle. I crave you, Annabelle. You have succeeded in winning my affections. Annabelle, I am in love with you.

Readers have marveled at the dim-witted and obtuse idiot you adored. I am a fool to have missed you for so long, and an even bigger one to have lost you once I found you. Dear Annabelle, please advise how I might win your favor, your affections, and your promise of a lifetime together.

Yours always,

D. Knightly, the Nodcock

She couldn’t quite believe the marvelous words just there, in black and white, making her heart beat hard and her breath catch in her throat. Hot,
happy
tears stung her eyes because once upon a time, on one otherwise unremarkable Saturday morning, her dearest wish came true.

He loved her.

Mr. Derek Knightly, man of her dreams, loved her.

Annabelle knew a Grand Declaration of True Love when it was printed in black and white. Her heart continued to pound hard and her breath hitched in her throat. Knightly loved her! And all of London knew it!

She had to go to him. Had to find him even if it meant storming into Newgate. She had to tell him YES.

Chapter 50

Newspaper Tycoon on Trial

T
OWN
T
ALK

The trial of newspaper tycoon Derek Knightly is such a crush, rivaling balls thrown at the palace. Everyone is eager to attend the most sensational trial of 1825. Especially as fears are high that one may not be able to read about it in the newspapers.

The Morning Post

The Trial

K
NIGHTLY
sat on a hard wooden chair before a plain wood table awaiting the start of his trial. All around him, people filed into the courtroom finding seats and carrying on tense, hushed conversations. He scanned the courtroom, searching for a lovely woman with milky skin, eyes blue like the sky, golden curls, and a mouth made for sin yet smiled so sweetly.

Increasingly his glances grew frantic—though he disguised the growing fear gnawing at him. Annabelle was not here.

Depending upon the outcome of this trial, he might be locked away for years. His fortune might suffer. The ton could have no use for him now. So much hinged on the outcome of this farce, in which he would defend himself. Everything depended upon his absolute focus, sharp wit, and keen observation.

Yet he thought only of Annabelle. Where was she?

Had she seen
The London Weekly
? She must have. Owens assured him that every last person in London had read it, or had it read to them, or discussed it at great length. No one was oblivious to its contents.

Had she seen his version of Dear Annabelle? Was there anything more anguish-inducing than a public confession of love with naught but silence in response? He would testify under oath that it was more punishing than Newgate.

Again Knightly deeply, painfully, empathized with what Annabelle must have endured all those years . . . waiting patiently. Always wondering. What she must have endured, each week as she published her exploits and her daring attempts to snare his attentions, when he had been as obtuse as ever. It was, in his mind, the very definition of bravery. To push oneself to great heights, risking such a great fall, with all of London watching.

“Order in the court!” the judge called out. His gray powdered wig shook with the force of his declaration. The gavel knocked hard on the wooden desk and echoed around the room.

Knightly would defend himself. He would do so with the premise that it could not be libel if it was, in fact, the truth. With Owens’s help he’d lined up witnesses, including the Lady Lydia Marsden, who might be called to testify against her own brother.

Did he buy her testimony? Perhaps. He preferred to thinking of it as investing in her freedom. In exchange for her story, Knightly settled a small fortune upon her, allowing her to marry and set up a dignified household with her lover and son, despite the wishes of her brother. They thought they might take an extended visit to Italy. They could go first class with the settlement he was providing. He thought it worth every penny, because he knew about love now.

On the other hand, Marsden was going to have a very bad day.

He saw the other
Weekly
writers file into the courtroom and take seats in the gallery. His mother joined them, and she beamed proudly at him from her seat in the gallery. Knightly watched the lot of them obviously peer around the courtroom, murmuring the same question.
Where is Annabelle?

“We are here for the trial of Mr. Derek Knightly, editor and owner of
The London Weekly
on the charges of libel,” the judge intoned. His voice carried across the crowded room and all conversations ceased.

Marsden sat on the opposite side of the courtroom with a smug smirk on his face. Obviously he did not know that his sister—his own flesh and blood—planned to provide the testimony that would devastate his case.

The premise was simple: it was said that
The London Weekly
regularly published false, inflammatory, and libelous statements. Knightly would offer proof of every statement in every issue of the newspaper.

The judge said that would not be necessary.

Marsden’s solicitor pointed out that the recent issue provided the most relevant and libelous and false statements.

Knightly said he was glad they brought that up, at which point Lady Lydia Marsden took the stand at his invitation. The courtroom erupted in audible gasps followed by a general uproar.

“Order in this court!” the judge hollered. He pounded the gavel again.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

Lady Lydia looked to Knightly with trepidation in her eyes. She had already stood up for him, so the damage to her reputation was done. But he lifted his brow, asking the question: Did she wish to go?

Lydia nodded her head. Somewhere, in the midst of their arranged courtship, they had developed a truce, which had led to something like friendship. He had earned her favor when he inquired about her wishes—it was an unfortunate fact of her life that he was only the second man to have ever done so (second to her beloved). When she shared her wish for a love match, he didn’t laugh or dismiss her. The question haunted him—until he fell in love himself. And then he knew that nothing was more important than being with the one you loved.

Through her story, Lydia provided him the means to defend his livelihood, and through his fortune she would have the means to live with her soon-to-be husband.

Thus, Lady Lydia took the stand, facing quite a few people who had whispered vicious rumors and snubbed her at every opportunity, so that she might take control of her own story and write the happy ending she so desired.

Knightly stood to address the room.

Where is Annabelle?

“Lady Marsden, it is said that
The London Weekly
takes liberties with its facts. Can you confirm that your story, as it appears in this last issue of
The London Weekly,
is the absolute truth?”

“It is the truth as I told it,” she said.

The reaction of the courtroom was explosive. Marsden paled. Other men shouted, more than one woman shrieked. The gasps stole around the room like a strong wind.

The judge’s face reddened as he called louder and louder for order once, twice, thrice.

“How can it be libel if it is the truth?” Knightly asked the courtroom, which had fallen silent when he began to speak. “By definition, it cannot be. If Lady Lydia’s story, which happens to be one of the most scandalous collections of words printed by
The Weekly
, is the truth, what does that say for the rest of the newspaper? We can examine every line. Or we can conclude that occasionally it is not the portrayal that is unflattering, but the actions themselves.”

The trial carried on for the rest of the day, reaching ever more sensational heights, in which Marsden alternated between glowering and gloating. Knightly fought the urge to pace, to drink. He scanned the crowds, ever looking for Annabelle. Where was she? Worry set in—not for his fate, but for her. In the end the jury deliberated and the judge pronounced Knightly’s fate. Not guilty.

The judge pounded his gavel to restore order before his concluding remarks:

“Good day, Mr. Knightly. You don’t belong here.”

Chapter 51