The Duke's Night of Sin (14 page)

Siusan shifted her gaze. “Do you know of another publisher—a faster one?”

“Well, no, not a publisher of books …” Miss Grassley raised a finger, then dashed from Siusan’s bedchamber. She returned a moment later with a newspaper in her grip.

“A newspaper?” Siusan squinted at it, not understanding what Miss Grassley was about.

“A newspaper—exactly. Perhaps, to generate interest in your forthcoming manual, you publish an instructional column in the
Bath Herald?”

Siusan stared at the paper Miss Grassley fluttered in her hand like a silk fan. “But why would the newspaper publish my lessons?”

Miss Grassley smiled. “For the very same reason the publisher will print your manual—
public interest.
I am certain, if at the conclusion of each shortened lesson you mention ordering the manual and the direction of your potential publisher, you would certainly drive the publisher’s interest and purchase of your book.”

“Are you suggesting I promote the sale of the book before the publisher has yet agreed to see it into print?”

Miss Grassley didn’t need to reply. It was exactly what she meant. And utterly brilliant.

Siusan laced her fingers and once again began to pace the short distance between her pallet and the door. “Very well, I shall deliver my first lesson to the
Bath Herald
today. And, please, pray for me that they accept it.” Siusan was giddy at the idea of her work—
her work
—being presented to the public in print. Any money they offered her, while needed, wasn’t her motivation for sharing her knowledge with the less privileged females of Bath.

She would change lives.

If the newspaper would accept her abbreviated lessons, she would be doing the females of Bath a great service.

And maybe, just maybe, this service would be enough to do the impossible … make her father proud of her.

By the end of the day, Siusan had sent not one, but two abbreviated lessons to Bath’s most widely read newspapers. She’d submitted a very timely lesson on creating the perfect menu for a Michaelmas
dinner to the
Bath Chronicle.
To the
Bath Herald,
a publication she preferred because of the quirky yet informative
on-dit
column, the Strange But True column, she’d sent an indispensable step-by-step lesson on transforming last year’s fashions into gowns that are positively
à la mode.

Most certainly she had not expected either newspaper to reply to her query and sample column so quickly, but to her astonishment, by nine of the clock the very next morning, both newspapers had sent letters with astounding offers to
pay
her for any columns she would choose to submit. If she had an archive, the
Bath Chronicle
offered to publish one per day, except on Sunday.

Both, too, agreed to close each column with the direction of the publisher of her manual. Of course, she had not informed either publication that she had yet to be made an offer for her manual, but that was of little concern to her. Letters with offers of payment would be enticement enough for the London publisher to hurry her manual to press. Or so she believed.

She also agreed to submit her columns to both newspapers. She had some scruples, however, and would give each newspaper a different lesson with each submission, for neither had required exclusivity, and well, what sane woman in want
of funds—and a wish to do a good deed—would do otherwise?

Putting her spare time to use writing lessons made the days pass quickly, though not so quickly that she hadn’t noticed that Lord Wentworth had not visited the school so much as once in over a sennight.

Sometimes she absently glanced out of the schoolroom window for him, and, when she escorted the girls on their lecture tours of Bath, she took care to glance down the streets and into the stores, secretly hoping their paths might cross again soon.

Siusan peered down into a steaming cup of tea, remembering the one time they had danced at the Upper Rooms.

“Ah, so you already know.” Miss Hopkins had suddenly appeared at her right.

Siusan peered blankly up at her. “Miss Hopkins, whatever do you mean?”

“Oh! Then you haven’t seen them.” She bent close to whisper in Siusan’s ear. “I left two newspapers on your bed.”

Siusan stared up at her, silently quizzing the other teacher. “Y-you do not mean that my lessons …”

Miss Hopkins bobbed her head. Within an instant, Siusan was racing from the dining room to her bedchamber. She slammed the door behind and nearly spilled the dish of tea still clutched in her hands as she reached out for the first paper. The
Bath Herald!

Where? Where was her column? She settled the teacup to the desk, but her hands were still shaking so badly that turning the pages was nearly impossible. At last her eyes met the words she’d searched for.

Lud, there it is.
Tears of pride budded in her eyes. Ladies and misses of Bath and Cheltenham were reading her lessons, gaining experience in living a life of elegance and graciousness. All because of Lord Wentworth’s suggestion that she publish her lessons for the good of all.

How horrid she had been to Lord Wentworth. Why had it taken her so long to realize this? He
had not been mocking her at all. In truth, he
had
seen the value of her work and the potential in her—when she had never seen it herself.

He
had had faith in her. Lord Wentworth, when no one else in her world did.

Next, she snatched up the
Bath Chronicle,
trying to blink away the ridiculous tears that blurred her vision as she scanned the front page.

She saw it then, and a shudder shook through her body. It wasn’t her column, but rather a report from London. It detailed the riots over shortages and the immediate selection of a committee chosen from the House of Lords to draw up legislation and establish penalties to stop this violence and breaking of machinery. But the paragraph that truly snared her attention was the questioning of the experience of one newly appointed committee member—
the Duke of Exeter.

Siusan slapped her hand to her chest. Lord above, he was still in London and, judging from the seriousness of the insurrections, was not about to return to Exeter soon. A chill prickled her skin, and she dropped the newspapers on the bed in order to tighten her mantle around her shoulders.

Oh, Priscilla, what shall I do now? I canna stay in Bath forever, but what choice have I?

At least I have my work.

***

The very day the lessons were published in the Bath newspapers, three students’ mothers came to visit the school. Mothers, who, though living within the area, had
never
condescended to visit their daughters before—or so Miss Grassley claimed.

Over the next three days, six more parents came to visit their darlings and observe the lecture tours, which, at Mrs. Huddleston’s urging, had become more frequent.

To Siusan’s disappointment, Lord Wentworth was not included in this number, and though it was great folly even to entertain the notion that she might never see him again, the thought nagged at her mind constantly.

“Miss Bonnet?”
Oh dear.
It seemed that Mrs. Huddleston had crept up the passage to stand behind her like a spider ready to pounce on its prey.

Siusan whirled around. “Aye, Mrs. Huddleston?”

“I would have a moment of your time. In my office, if you do not mind.” Mrs. Huddleston pointed a felt-tipped walking stick in the opposite direction. The stick was padded, and Siusan bet the older woman’s shoes were as well. She narrowed her eyes at Mrs. Huddleston. No wonder she had not heard her approach!

“Certainly.” Had the parents complained about her methods of teaching? Of her growing notoriety? She fervently hoped not. From the girls’ chatter, she thought it more likely that the parents’ meetings with Mrs. Huddleston were highly complimentary.

Still, she could not help feeling like Marie Antoinette being marched to the guillotine. She paused at the open door of Mrs. Huddleston’s office.
How odd.
Her office door was always closed and locked.

“Enter, Miss Bonnet.” She tapped the handle of her walking stick on the door. “Sit.”

Siusan slowly moved inside and took the chair nearest the door. “How might I assist you, Mrs. Huddleston? Is there something wrong?”

Mrs. Huddleston chuckled as she sat down at her desk. The door remained wide open.

Siusan was more than a little anxious now. Just then, Siusan saw her eyes track to a bulging leather purse tied to Mrs. Huddleston’s chatelaine, one that had never been there before.

The instant Mrs. Huddleston realized that her own eyes had betrayed her, she slipped the cording free and stuffed the weighty bag into her desk drawer. “Miss Bonnet,” she began, “you should
have spoken with me before publishing your lessons in the newspapers.”

The blood in her veins seemed to chill. “I th-thought I had. Nay?”

“No.” Mrs. Huddleston manufactured a purely unconvincing smile and fastened it to her lips. “But never mind. I am pleased that the school is being put in such glowing light. Already, I have received correspondence from six other families wishing to install their daughters in my School of Virtues.”

“Oh, how lovely for the school.”
Is that all—a subtle thank-you? May I leave now?

“There is quite a lot of interest in
you
too, Miss Bonnet, apart from your unique way of teaching your lessons.” Her smile remained in place, but her lips went flat. “Not only from the parents of students or potential students.”

Why was she baiting her? “I am sure I canna imagine who else might be interested in me.”

“Can you not?” She narrowed her eyes. “According to a columnist from the
Bath Herald,
Bath Society is drooling with anticipation of learning your
true
identity.”

“M-my true identity?”
Oh dear. Stay calm. Do not react.

“No one believes you are of common birth or circumstance.” Mrs. Huddleston paused. She stared at Siusan, but then her gaze lifted to the door for the briefest of instants.

Siusan didn’t dare reply or turn around. Too dangerous. And so, she simply shrugged.

“I told the columnist all I know. That your name, as far as I know is Miss Siusan Bonnet and that you are Scottish. Though he offered me coin as enticement for anything else I might recall over the next few days.”

Siusan’s feet began to twitch. She wanted to run. She wanted to throw her clothes into her portmanteau and take the first mail coach back to London.

“And I have remembered one or two tidbits that might interest him.” She licked her thin lips. “That fact that you have a connection with Mrs. Wimpole of Mayfair, who sent you to me to hide you from a looming threat—of a man.”

Anger crested over her fear. “You would not share that information. You owe Mrs. Wimpole a great debt.” Siusan only wished she knew what that debt was—to lend weight to her own counter-threat!

“I do, but I do not owe
you
anything. You with your fine ways and clever wit, making everyone
else feel inadequate.” Mrs. Huddleston was seething.

“That is not my intent.” Siusan rose from the chair. “My goal is build confidence in the girls—in women. That is why I am writing the lessons!”

Mrs. Huddleston snickered at that. “So your lessons are to provide the community with a great good? You do not write them for the money the newspapers pay you?”

Och. Here it is. The real reason I am here in this room.
“You are saying you want me to
pay
you for your silence with the money I receive from the newspapers.”

Mrs. Huddleston chuckled softly. “You mistake me, Miss Bonnet, I do not believe I said anything remotely like that.” She winked at her. “However, it is something to ponder, is it not?”

Siusan turned to leave. She’d made for the doorway when Mrs. Huddleston called out to her.

“The school will be closed over Michaelmas. All of the students will be with their families, or elsewhere, so I am shutting down the school.” Mrs. Huddleston’s gaze was deliberately cruel as she delivered her plan.

“But you know that I have nowhere to go.” Siusan’s stomach clenched.

“You can always rent a room if you have no family.”

But I do have family. And I want to return to them,
she screamed inside her head. “But why should I when my bedchamber remains vacant?”

“Why waste coal, tapers, and food when none of the misses will be in residence?” The corner of her lip pulled upward.

“Because I will be here.”

“No, you will not. Miss Bonnet, I suggest you make arrangements to take a room for the three days, or else go back to wherever you came from.” She pushed her spectacles to the bridge of her long nose and turned her gaze at a stack of papers on her desk. “Good afternoon, Miss Bonnet.”

Movement just outside the doorway caught Siusan’s notice. It was Miss Gentree. Siusan flapped her hand outside the doorway and waved her away.

She cast a parting glare at Mrs. Huddleston, then silently turned and headed for her bedchamber.

Miss Gentree was waiting for her at her door.

“Lady Siusan—I mean Miss Bonnet, may I speak with you?”

Siusan wearily welcomed the girl into her chamber. “How can I help you, Miss Gentree?”
She doubted she could help her with anything, not with Mrs. Huddleston’s threats floating over her head.

“I-I heard what Mrs. Huddleston said … about Michaelmas. I apologize, for I did not mean to eavesdrop. There was a little man standing outside the door, but when he saw me he disappeared. I was going to report this to Mrs. Huddleston, but when I neared, I heard your voice.”

A little man?
Could he be the columnist Mrs. Huddleston mentioned?

Miss Gentree bowed her head as if in shame.

“Look at me, Miss Gentree. The door was left open, and Mrs. Huddleston made no attempt to lower her voice. I do not think you ill-mannered at all.” Siusan patted her small pallet for the girl to come and sit down. “Now, how may I assist you?”