Page 19 of The Truth About Love and Dukes

“There’s hardly any point to that now, since everyone is bound to guess from Lady Truelove’s column that I am the woman who wrote to her about him.”

“People may guess, but until the wedding, they will not know. And in the interim, I should like Sarah and Angela to enjoy what remains of the season.”

“Very well. You may be assured of my discretion. I will arrive home this evening, in time for sherry before dinner.”

Relieved, he bowed. “Then I shall see you this evening.” He turned to go, but he had barely reached the doorway before her voice called to him.

“Henry?”

He paused to look at her over his shoulder. “Yes?”

“I don’t suppose it shall make any difference to your point of view about this situation, or your low opinion of him, but Antonio makes me very happy.”

“If that is so, I hope I can find some consolation in the fact.”

With that, he departed, and though he had achieved one of his objectives in coming here, the other still loomed over their future like an impending storm, and he had no intention of giving up.

On the other hand, he doubted that hammering home the Italian’s many flaws, offering up the reports of private investigators, and presenting his mother with the gossip column accounts of Foscarelli’s past activities would accomplish anything. She knew what a scoundrel he was, that was clear, and the harder he pushed, the more likely she was to dig in her heels. But to sway her against this marriage, what other options did he have?

“Your Grace?”

“Hmm?” Startled out of these contemplations, he looked up to find his driver beside him. He’d been so lost in thought, he didn’t even remember taking the lift down to the foyer or exiting the hotel, but he must have done both, for he was now standing on the sidewalk, his brougham in front of him and his driver holding the door open.

“Sorry, Treves,” he said and stepped into the vehicle, his mind still racing to decide his next step. Fortunately, he’d barely settled back on the seat before inspiration struck.

He wasn’t likely to have much success in persuading his mother against the course she’d chosen, but he was not the only person she might listen to. “Take me to my solicitors, Treves,” he said. “Asgarth and Hopwood, 17 Norfolk Street.”

Chapter 5

“No, no, this won’t do at all.” Using a fat lead pencil, Irene crossed out yet another paragraph of the typewritten column that had been handed to her a short time ago by the young woman sitting across from her. “No one cares a jot about Lady Godfrey’s pet parakeet. You’re Delilah Dawlish, London’s most sensational gossip columnist. You’re supposed to titillate your readers, not bore them to death.”

The young woman on the other side of the desk, whose real name was not Delilah Dawlish, but the much more prosaic one of Josie Blount, grimaced at this criticism. “It’s rubbish, I know,” she said, “but there’s not a speck of interesting news to be had just now. The season’s nearly over. Until the Glorious Twelfth when the house parties start . . .” Her voice trailed off and she spread her hands in a gesture of futility. “There’s just nothing new to talk about.”

“There must be something more interesting than the death of a parakeet.” Irene tapped her pencil against the pages on her desk, thinking hard. “What about house parties, since we’re talking of those? Anything newsworthy there?”

Before Josie could answer, a tap on her door interrupted, and Irene looked up to find Clara in the doorway. “The Duke of Torquil is here to see you.”

Irene groaned. “For heaven’s sake, what does that man want now?”

“Now?” Josie sat upright in her chair, her keen eyes narrowing with speculation as she studied her employer, her excellent investigative instincts aroused. “The Duke of Torquil is here? And he has been here before?”

Irene shrugged, hoping to downplay the matter. “He came the day before yesterday, around teatime.”

“The Duke of Torquil coming to see the editor of this very newspaper,” Josie said, her voice holding an undercurrent of excitement that Irene perceived at once.

“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head. “The Duke coming here is not going in your column.”

“Look at it this way. He’s more exciting than Lady Godfrey’s dead parakeet.”

“Not one word, Josie. Not one.”

The journalist sighed. “Oh, very well, but why the secrecy?” She paused, glancing over her shoulder to the open doorway behind Clara, then back at Irene, her gaze turning speculative. “It’s about his mother, isn’t it? It must be. What else could he want?”

“My head,” she answered at once. “On a plate.” Before the other woman could ask any more questions, she stood up, holding out the sheets of paper. “We’re fortunate you have two days until press time. Give me something worth talking about, Josie.”

“Yes, Miss Deverill.”

The journalist departed, moving past Clara and out of the office, and Irene turned to her sister. “I suppose I have to see him,” she said without enthusiasm. “Though I can’t imagine why he’s back again. Send him in, but for heaven’s sake, leave the door open this time.”

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