Miss Richardson Comes Of Age (Zebra Regency Romance) (5 page)

“Uh-oh,” Berwyn said. “Please, Thorne, do not get her started—she will hold forth for hours.” Berwyn grinned at Annabelle, but Thorne thought others seemed to share this view of Miss Richardson’s inclination to speak out on such matters.

Annabelle slanted Berwyn a look of exaggerated hurt, but addressed herself to Thorne’s question. “No, not precisely. For the most part few English women have horsewhips taken to them on a regular basis. However—”

“However, my dear Annabelle,” Celia interrupted as she stood and extended her hand to Miss Richardson, “we all know that you not only freed your Jamaican slaves these two years and more ago, but you provided settlement on them to allow their relocation—
and
you sold that plantation. Now, come. Helen promised to play for us. Those of us who feel so inclined will lift our voices in song—not social issues.”

Jamaica? Selling a plantation? Providing settlements to freed slaves? Although he joined his baritone to the singing, Thorne’s mind reeled with Celia’s comments. He felt somewhat abashed at the discovery of Miss Richardson’s apparent wealth. Any woman with those kinds of resources would have no need of his brother’s modest inheritance.

Annabelle had heard that Lord Rolsbury was in town and she remembered vaguely that he had been a commanding officer in Frederick Hart’s cavalry regiment. Therefore, she was not overly surprised that he should be present at Celia’s entertainment. She
was
surprised at the man himself.

He was much younger than she had expected. She had assumed from the respect Hart accorded him that he was a man of more mature years. Also, despite his case of hero worship, Luke had chafed against his brother’s advice and strictures in terms other young men used for their fathers.

Lord Rolsbury was not only younger than she expected, he was also disconcertingly attractive. Images of nature and the outdoors leapt to mind with him. Despite the necessity of the walking stick, there was something solid and earthy about him. He had dark brown hair and heavy dark brows. He was smooth-shaven, but a firm jaw showed a hint of the beard he might have allowed. When he smiled, even white teeth flashed against a complexion that suggested much time spent in sun and weather. His most arresting feature, though, was his eyes. They were a deep gray-green, the color of a cloud-draped forest.

A tall man, he carried himself with military erectness. Most people requiring a walking stick would be somewhat stooped from leaning into that tool. Not this man.

At dinner she had been seated across the table from him. Since rules of etiquette required that she confine her conversation to persons on either side of her, she had not actually talked with him beyond the merest polite exchange. However, she felt his gaze directed her way from time to time. Whenever she caught his eye, she felt a confusing warmth suffuse her body. They
might
have had a substantive discussion later, but of course it had been diverted by the music and singing.

Still, she had been extraordinarily aware of him from the moment Celia introduced them. She found this rather strange, for Annabelle Richardson rarely reacted in such an elemental way to another person. Moreover, she knew she had not imagined his gaze on her from time to time. What had Luke told him?

Annabelle had been irritated with Luke over that miserable poetry presentation in the Oglethorpe drawing room. But she also knew Luke’s feelings had been hurt not only by her laughter, but by the fact that the entire company had found the incident amusing. She had hoped for an opportunity to speak with him and smooth things over with an apology. However, when they did chance to meet at social affairs afterward, Luke avoided her and refused even to look at her. He was often seen laughing and joking with Lord Beelson and Mr. Ferris. She knew from their sly looks and occasional gestures that she was often the chief topic of their discussions. This, in turn, raised her hackles.

Then the destructive nature of the gossip campaign had hit and Miss Emma Bennet was called upon to help control the damage by turning the tables on the perpetrators of this smearing of Miss Richardson.

Very few people knew that Emma Bennet, author of several popular novels, and Annabelle Richardson, sometime darling of ton society, were the same person. Harriet and Marcus knew and had approved her literary endeavors early on. Mr. Murray, the publisher and editor, had been sworn to secrecy. Certain of her friends probably remembered she had once been enthusiastic about writing, but they were—even then—not privy to the name she used as a
nom de plume.
Annabelle was content to allow her friends to think writing had been only a passing fancy of youth—even though it remained a driving force of her life.

Miss Emma Bennet’s latest offering was a slim volume—hardly more than a pamphlet—that presented a scathing satire of the mating practices of the
ton.
It centered on two experienced rakes and a naive young man just up from the country, all of whom pursued an heiress through drawing rooms and balls. The portraits were somewhat disguised, but the principals of the tale were readily identifiable. Certain minor characters were apparent as well, but Miss Bennet dealt more kindly with the nervous debutantes and anxious mamas trying to manage the intricacies of the marriage mart.

The motivating factor for the would-be suitors was, of course, the fictional heiress’s fortune. The rakes—called Brewster and Franklin—needed her wealth to continue their profligate lives in gaming hells and brothels. The young man—Lester—had come to town on the advice of his older brother to seek a rich wife. “Lester” explained in detail his brother’s instructions on how to conduct the courtship—instructions by which Miss Bennet depicted an ignorant country bumpkin trying to ape his betters.

Annabelle had delivered the manuscript to the editor two days before Celia’s dinner party. It would hit the streets the following week. Even before the story was copied in its final form, the author had had second thoughts about it. She had produced it in a fit of pique. Yet, in the last few days, Luke had begun to make conciliatory overtures. She had an impression of his not being quite so agreeable to the tales Beelson and Ferris had spread. Perhaps, she reasoned, Luke’s anger had cooled enough that he saw how truly vicious the rumors were.

However, she had promised the work and had struggled to meet the due date for it. So, despite her misgivings, she delivered it as promised.

Then she met the real brother at Celia’s party and her vague misgivings became a raging case of apprehension. The man was a far cry from the country clod she had depicted! Moreover, he was a writer whose work she admired. She tried the next day to call the manuscript back, but it was too late to do so. She would just have to weather it through and hope no one—least of all the Wainwright brothers—discovered that Miss Annabelle Richardson and Miss Emma Bennet were the same miss.

 

 

By the end of the following week, Miss Emma Bennet’s story,
Innocence Betrayed,
was the primary topic of conversation in London drawing rooms. Annabelle cringed whenever she happened to overhear others discussing it. She did not concern herself with the possible reactions of Beelson and Ferris, for she was still angry with their attempts to blacken her name in Society. She had forgiven Luke’s role and harbored no ill will toward him. Now she worried about how he had reacted to the piece. And—even more—she wondered how the Earl of Rolsbury might have taken it.

Marcus reported that the story figured heavily in conversations in the gentlemen’s clubs as well.

“Beelson and Ferris can hardly show themselves,” Marcus said one evening as he, Harriet, and Annabelle awaited the announcement of dinner. “Of course, Luke has not been seen so much in their company since his brother arrived in town.”

“The story has become a much bigger sensation than I expected,” Annabelle said. “I ... I wish now I had shown it to you before sending it off to Mr. Murray.”

“Well, the tone may be a trifle strident,” Harriet said, “but it is wonderfully funny—and those two, especially, deserved a comeuppance.”

“That they did,” Marcus agreed. “But really, Annabelle, you were rather harsh on poor Luke Wainwright, were you not?”

“Perhaps—in retrospect—I was,” Annabelle agreed. “But I was so angry at his going along with them, you see. And I
did
try to soften it a bit by showing that his innocence, too, was betrayed.”

“I doubt either he or Rolsbury will see it that way,” Marcus responded.

“Oh, once he gets over the initial shock, Luke will come around.” Annabelle tried to believe this was true. “He does have a good sense of humor.”

“Yes, but does his brother?” Harriet asked.

“We shall see,” Annabelle said, but she felt an inkling of apprehension. Rolsbury did not strike her as the sort to ignore a direct insult.

“We had best not ‘see’ too closely,” Marcus warned.

“Why? What do you mean?” Annabelle looked worriedly at Marcus.

But it was Harriet who answered, “Let us hope that Miss Emma Bennet remains the anonymous entity she has been heretofore—at least for a while. If it gets out now that you wrote that story, the gossip will be renewed a thousandfold.”

“And,” Marcus added, “there is no telling
what
Beelson might take it in mind to do.”

Throughout dinner, though they talked of other matters, Annabelle’s mind kept returning to the concerns Marcus and Harriet had expressed—and to her own second thoughts on the matter.

Well, there was little that could be done about it now.

 

 

In another part of the city, the Wainwright brothers sat in their own drawing room, each with a glass of wine at hand, and considered Miss Bennet’s tale. One was embarrassed; the other was furious.

“Who is this Bennet woman?” Thorne demanded, waving the pamphlet under his brother’s nose. “Are you acquainted with anyone named Bennet?”

“N-no. At least . . . that is ... I don’t think so. Jeremy Kenton says ladies often take a false name when they write stuff.”

Thorne snorted disdainfully. “And rightly so with this sort of drivel.” Trying to calm himself, he took a fortifying sip of wine. “Hmm. Well, we know this much—
she
knows you fairly well—and she is sympathetic to Miss Richardson.”

“It could be a man writing under a woman’s name,” Luke ventured. He clenched a fist on his knee. “And would I ever welcome a chance to give him a facer!”

Thorne gave this conjecture serious thought, then said, “It
could
be a man, but somehow I doubt it—it seems so definitely a female viewpoint.”

This appeared to take the wind out of Luke’s sails. He slumped back in his chair, a picture of dejection. “I think maybe I should return to the country for a spell. Just until this thing blows over.”

“You will do no such thing!”

“But, dash it, Thorne! It is embarrassing to walk into a room knowing people have been laughing behind your back!”

“Yes, it is. But you might have considered that before you became a party to bandying about a lady’s name as you did.”

Luke’s face reddened. “How did you—? I did not—”

“I doubt you actually told any of those scurrilous tales—I grant you that much. But you apparently did nothing to quell the gossip either—as a gentleman should have done.”

“I don’t see how you came to that conclusion.” Luke’s voice was full of petulance and injured youth.

“For starters, I asked around. Obviously, this . . . this
thing
was written in reaction to some perceived abuse. The writer makes that point quite clear.”

Luke apparently did not want to examine
that
idea too closely. “I still think I should leave town for a few days.”

“Turn tail and run? Absolutely not! That is not the Wainwright way—and you well know it!”

“But—”

Thorne held up his hand. “No buts. You will stay here. And, we will accept every invitation that comes our way. We will ride or drive in the park at the most fashionable hour. And we shall make calls on the most notorious gossips in the
ton.”

“Oh, Lord—” Luke groaned.

“What is more,” Thorne added, “we shall ask Miss Richardson to join us on occasion.”

“Why?” Shocked surprise forced out this single word. “She will never agree. She hates me.”

“Because doing so may help divert the talk. And she did not seem to ‘hate’ you when I met her at the Harts’ party.”

“What if Annabelle refuses? And what if she is privy to who did this?”

“She may well be. I would not rule out that possibility. However, I doubt the current talk redounds to her credit any more than it does to ours.”

“So that’s it? That is all we do? We just smile and pretend all is well? I cannot like this at all.” Luke sounded rebellious.

“No, that is not all we do.” Thorne’s words were all the more menacing for the soft tone he adopted. “I intend to find out precisely who this Emma Bennet is. No one subjects me or a member of my family to public humiliation and gets away with it.”

 

 

In his usual manner of attacking a problem head-on, Thorne’s first step was a visit to the publisher of the questionable pamphlet. The man invited Rolsbury to a seat in his office.

“I am sorry, my lord.” Mr. Murray was polite but unhelpful. “I cannot give you the information you seek.”

“Can
not?” Thorne raised a skeptical eyebrow.

The publisher looked away. “I am bound by contract, sir.”

“I am willing to make it worth your while. No one need ever know.” Thorne watched the man’s expression turn decidedly cold at this suggestion.

“I have explained that I have a contractual obligation to the writer.” Murray sounded offended.

Thorne nodded and stood. “So be it. In truth, I am sorry not to obtain the information I seek, but I am glad to make the acquaintance of a man of your principles.” He offered Murray his hand, which the publisher took without hesitation.

Thorne’s next stop was the printer. Publishers usually sent their work out to independent firms for the actual printing. In this case he encountered a stroke of luck, for the same printer had been listed for the last three of the Bennet books Thorne had found in a bookshop.

Here, too, however, he initially met a blank wall. The printer was a harried-looking man of middle age with thinning black hair and thick eyeglasses. He stood behind the battered counter of his shop and Thorne could hear the slap of presses in a rear room.

“I honestly do not know the identity of the writer,” the man said, wiping ink-stained hands on a canvas apron. “I hardly know Mr. Murray. He just sends the stuff over with one of his clerks, we print it, and send it back to Murray.”

“What if you have questions that need to be answered?”

“Have to go through Murray.”

“That seems rather inefficient in terms of time.” Thorne hoped he sounded sympathetic enough to the printer’s problems to soften the man to persuasion.