Seducing Mr. Knightly (8 page)

Oh, but what a problem to have! Annabelle smiled proudly and, Lord help her, a giggle escaped her lips. She was not so disconsolate that she couldn’t appreciate such a lovely problem: whether or not to pen a thank-you note for an exquisite bouquet of hothouse flowers from an eligible gentleman.

Not like, say, the man of your dreams asking if you have something in your eye when you are attempting to throw sultry glances his way.

Best not try sultry glances on Lord Marsden. Or anyone she might ever wish to pursue.

It was now her noble duty to alert the female population of London not to heed the well-intentioned advice of a “Courtesan from Mayfair.” Annabelle returned to her writing desk, this time with more focus. After another heavenly inhalation of the roses, she began to write her next column.

Ladies of London, beware! A Courtesan from Mayfair suggested that this author delivery sultry glances to the object of her affection. My attempts resulted in utter mortification! He—henceforth known as the Nodcock—merely inquired if I had something in my eye.

Here Annabelle paused, and tapped the quill against her cheek as she thought about Knightly reading these very words. In an instant he would know that she had concocted a massive scheme involving the ten thousand regular readers of
The London Weekly
in a desperate attempt to gain his attention.

And that she called him a nodcock.

That was not acceptable. True, but unpublishable.

Her quill was poised above
nodcock,
ready to strike it out, when she meanly thought that Knightly wouldn’t even read the column at all! The Nodcock.

However, it would do to make it just a touch more vague, because if she were to examine the contents of her heart and soul—as she was doing, in an effort to procrastinate, as one is wont to do—she would see that she wasn’t ready to give up the jig just yet. In spite of the Awful Incident, she had made progress.

Her wardrobe had improved, and with it her confidence. A man had sent her flowers. She had managed a conversation with Knightly. Readers were responding with great favor to her column and to her quest. A New Annabelle was emerging; one who had adventures and flirtations to go along with Awful Incidences.

New Annabelle had much more fun than Old Annabelle, and being in possession of a great imagination and curiosity, she wondered where it would all lead. She wanted to know. She
could
know, so long as she did not allow one little Awful Incident to set her back. And as long as she composed her column to be vague enough so that Knightly might not put two and two together straight away.

Annabelle wanted his heart and she wanted his attention. But not from some slip of the pen. She wanted him to be drawn to her, interested in her, desperately in love with her. If she had to become a better version of herself, so be it. Frankly, it was much more exciting.

And so she rewrote the column to be a touch more vague, just in case Knightly did read it, and had a mind to place himself in it.

Then she rummaged through her assortment of reader letters for questions to answer, advice to dole out, and tricks to try to gain Knightly’s attention.

“Ah, this one is perfect,” she murmured. “Excellent idea, Sneaky From Southwark.”

Chapter 9

Newspaper Proprietor Seeks Aristocratic Bride

D
EAR
A
NNABELLE

I was eager to attempt to “seduce a man with naught but the smoldering intensity of my love, revealed wordlessly in a sultry gaze,” as per the advice of a Courtesan in Mayfair. Alas, dear readers, this led to a mortifying disaster! Rather than succumb to the fervor in my gaze, more than one person inquired if I had something stuck in my eye.

The London Weekly

Home of Mrs. Delilah Knightly, Russell Square

“W
ELL
if it isn’t my favorite son,” Delilah Knightly remarked with a laugh as Derek Knightly strolled into the breakfast room unannounced. He was in the habit of calling on his mother every Saturday morning, like the good progeny that he was. Also, her cook made the best breakfast biscuits and refused to share the recipe with his cook. Never mind that he paid for them both.

“I’m your only son.” This correction came with a slight grin.

“That’s what I said. You’re so literal, Derek. How did that happen?” she asked. Her voice was loud—all the better to carry to the back of the theater—and there was always a note of mirth in her tone, whether she was scolding her young child or requesting more tea from a servant. No matter what, life was terribly amusing to Delilah Knightly.

“I believe you possess all the acting ability and inclination to fantasy in this family,” he said. She was a renowned stage actress, and one of his guiding principles was to avoid drama, unless it was on the stage or the printed page. ”I’m as straightforward as they come.”

“I know, I’m you’re mother,” she said with a broad smile, pushing a basket of freshly baked biscuits in his direction. “How are you, my dear?”

“Business is good.” He took a seat and poured himself a cup of steaming hot coffee.

“Which means that everything is good. Such devotion to your work!” She paused, smiled wickedly, and said: “I wish you’d employ some of that infamous work ethic of yours on providing me with grandbabies.”

“Mother.” The word was a statement, a protest, and an answer. She loved to vex him with the topic and he refused to react. He didn’t see why she bothered bringing it up.

“Oh for Lord’s sake, Derek, I can’t help my natural inclinations. Tell me, how is Annabelle faring?”

“Annabelle?” This caught him off guard. So much so that it took a moment before he realized whom she was referring to. Dear Annabelle of the lowered bodices and sultry gazes who was on a quest to win the heart of some nodcock.

That his mother was mentioning this topic did not bode well.

Why the devil would his mother give a whit about one of his Writing Girls? Granted, she was tremendously proud of those girls and was known to say that hiring them was the best damn thing he’d ever done. Made your mum, proud, she’d say.

Which isn’t why he did it. The chits were good for business.

And how had Annabelle—a chit he never gave much of a passing thought to—suddenly intruded upon his every thought and conversation? He brooded over this, sipping his coffee, as his mother explained.

“ ‘Dear Annabelle.’ The gal with the advice column. The one who is soliciting tips from readers on how to attract a man. You’re really onto something with that one. I hadn’t laughed so hard in an
age
.” She chuckled again just thinking about it.

“Actually, I’m sure you have,” he replied patiently. “You find humor in everything.”

“It’s an important life skill. But regardless, that girl is a doll. What is she really like?” His mum sipped her tea and then fixed her full attention upon him. The hair on the back of his neck stuck up in warning. When his mother took an interest in something . . . Things Happened.

“Annabelle?” He repeated her name in an effort to stall. And why was everyone asking him what Annabelle was like? He made a note to himself to read her columns more closely in the future.

His mother gave him a look that distinctly communicated
you dolt.

“She’s young. Pretty. Nice.” The answer was deliberately evasive. The same answer he’d given to Drummond and Gage, and for the same reason. If Annabelle and this column didn’t come across as too interesting, his mother might lose interest. Like playing dead to avoid a dog attack.

She yawned. Dramatically.

“You should include a picture with her column. One of those illustrations.” Knightly thought about what the blokes in the coffeehouse had talked about. Was she pretty? Were they advising a grandma to show more cleavage? Some protective instinct flared; he did not want those louts looking upon Annabelle’s beauty. In some way, she belonged to him, in that he had hired her and given her this platform to enact her romantic schemes.

But a portrait of her would be damn good for business. Pretty girls sold so well.

“That’s a fine idea. Randolph can have it done in an afternoon,” he answered, and made a mental note to make the request when he returned to the office later.

“What did you think of her column? Wasn’t it hysterical?” his mother asked. “Is she unwell? What a nodcock! Ha!”

It was not hysterical. He felt like an ass. She wrote of her failed attempts to employ a sultry gaze and that numerous people inquired if she had something in her eye. He took consolation in the fact that he was not the only one to ask. But still—he felt like an ass.

She must have been idly practicing in the meeting, or the man she was after was on staff. Definitely not Grenville. She was set up for heartache if it were Alistair. It had to be Owens. It mattered not to him.

But really,
Owens
? The man was young and talented but hotheaded, and with a habit of frequenting gaming hells and embarking on the most dangerous schemes to get stories. He spent most of his hours chasing down murders, investigating fires, and impersonating footmen and officers. When would he have time to court Annabelle? Or perhaps that was the point of her escapades.

“It was amusing,” Knightly answered carefully. His mother’s eyes narrowed. Bloody hell. She suspected something.

“You were one of the men to ask if she was unwell, were you not?” she asked, her eyes narrowing further. Damned intuition of mothers. Why they were not employed by the Bow Street Runners was a mystery to him.

She sighed heavily. “Oh, Derek, I do worry about you, taking everything so seriously. So literally. Then again, I do tend to the dramatic—”

“Overdramatic?”

“Oh, hush you,” she said playfully and swatting at his hand. “Speaking of my flair for drama, I have a new show opening. I play the wicked fairy-godmother-like character. I love it.”

“Sounds perfect for you,” he said, grinning. “I shall be there opening night.”

“You are a good son. A Great Son would bring that theater-reviewing employee of his. The one with the brilliantly colored waistcoats. If he gives me a bad review, you mustn’t print it.”

“I wouldn’t dare. And I won’t worry about it because you’ll be fantastic,” he said. And she would. For all her dramatics off the stage, Delilah Knightly had a gift and was a supremely talented actress.

“What will you do with the rest of your day? Back to the office?” his mother inquired, sipping her tea.

“Actually, I must pay a visit. Lord and Lady Marsden,” Knightly said, sipping his coffee. Once he decided something, he acted. And he had decided to accept Marsden’s offer. Thus, he would court Lady Marsden.

“Still angling to marry into the ton? I really don’t know why,” his mother said dismissively. It was an argument they’d had often over the years, ever since October 4, 1808, when he’d been forcibly ejected from his father’s funeral.
Throw the bastard out. He doesn’t belong here.

But he did belong. And he would prove it.

She carried on with her condemnation of the ton, as she tended to do: “The lot of them are stiff and stuffy old bores with naught to do but make up silly rules and gossip viciously when they are broken. Except for your dear departed father, of course.”

His father, the Earl of Harrowby, an esteemed member of Parliament and the ton. Respected peer of the realm. Beloved father.

There was a moment where they both fell silent, both thinking the same thing. There was someone missing from this scene. Even after all these years,
decades,
there was still a vague sense of incompletion. Like all the i’s hadn’t been dotted and the t’s hadn’t been crossed.

Her lover. His father. The late Earl of Harrow.

They had been
almost
the picture perfect family. Knightly remembered a home filled with warmth and laughter. His parents would dance around the drawing room to songs his mother would sing.

And inevitably his father would return to his other family. The proper family. The family that wanted no part of the bastard by-blow. The brother that shared his blood but wouldn’t look him in the eye.

“I am not cultivating this connection for amusement. Merely for business,” Knightly answered curtly. The business of claiming what he deserved. What he had spent every moment since the funeral pursuing. He would not lose everything now.

“Oh, business! It’s always business with you, Derek,” his mother said with a huff and a pout.

How could he explain that amusement and work were one and the same for him? That everything he had ever wanted involved acceptance from the one person who wasn’t alive to give it to him, and the next best thing was his half brother and the society that had claimed the late earl as one of its own.