Page 1 of The Trouble with True Love

Chapter 1

Clara Deverill was twenty-two years old before she discovered in herself a flaw she hadn’t even known she possessed.

It wasn’t her shyness, for she was already quite familiar with that aspect of her character. It was something she battled on a daily basis.

Nor was it her unremarkable looks, for she’d long ago accepted the fact that brown hair, a round face, and a freckle-dusted button nose were not characteristics that set the average man’s pulse racing, particularly when combined with a figure that was more reminiscent of a young girl than a fully-grown woman.

And it certainly wasn’t her traditional views and values, for though her bold, very modern sister, Irene, often teased her about her hopelessly old-fashioned outlook, most people, including Clara herself, regarded the desire to find a good man, get married, and become a mother as a perfectly reasonable goal in life.

No, Clara admitted as she cast a gloomy eye over the pile of letters on her desk, procrastination was her greatest flaw, and a facet of her character she had only begun to appreciate a mere ten days ago.

She plunked an elbow on the desk and her chin in her hand, staring at the telegram that rested atop the pile of envelopes before her. There was no need to read it, for she’d done that so many times already that the words were engraved in her memory.

Glad papa is well Having wonderful time Want to extend trip eight weeks see greece and egypt You can manage lady truelove cant you darling Dont worry You will be splendid Respond via cooks venice by 07 may Irene

Clara was glad her sister was enjoying her honeymoon, but she couldn’t summon any enthusiasm about Irene’s plan to lengthen the trip, for things here at home were not going quite as smoothly as her letters to her sister might have implied.

Their father had always had a fondness for brandy, a fondness that had only increased since his eldest daughter’s departure for the Continent. As for Jonathan, their brother had agreed to come home from America and take over management of the family newspaper business, but nearly two months after his promised arrival, he had still not appeared, and Clara’s letters to him inquiring on the subject had been answered only with vague promises. Her cable a few days ago demanding a specific date had not yet garnered a response.

Still, Clara had no intention of worrying Irene with any of that when she was on her honeymoon, and she had cabled her sister a positive reply at once. There was nothing else to be done. Irene had always taken care of her and provided for her, never once asking for anything in return until now, and Clara would rather have cut off her arm than object to her sister’s once-in-a-lifetime trip.

Still, as she stared down at Irene’s cable and the pile of correspondence beneath it, she appreciated that sisterly loyalty did have its drawbacks. Irene had composed only enough iterations of the Lady Truelove column to last until her intended return. Now that she’d extended her trip, Clara would be offering advice to London’s lovelorn until Jonathan arrived or her sister came home.

Don’t worry, darling.

Clara wasn’t the least bit encouraged by those words. All very well, she thought darkly, for Irene to say such a thing.

Her sister never worried about anything, and why should she? Irene was beautiful, accomplished, and filled to the brim with self-confidence. After their mother’s death ten years ago, she had taken over the household and managed it on nearly nothing a year. She’d reinvigorated the family’s deteriorating newspaper business by producing a profitable society paper, and in doing so, she had also created Lady Truelove, London’s most popular advice columnist. She’d then capped those triumphs by marrying the handsome and very eligible Duke of Torquil, and upon her return to England, she intended to use her influence as a duchess to help achieve the vote for women. Clara had no doubt her sister would succeed there, too. Irene succeeded at everything she touched.

You will be splendid.

Would she? Clara couldn’t share her sister’s faith in her abilities. A woman who was shy and plain, who stammered when she was nervous and had never caught a man’s eye in her life, could hardly be splendid at advising people about love and romance.

That was the gist of the problem, of course, and the entire reason she’d spent over a week with the letters stacked, untouched, on one corner of her desk. But now, she was running out of time, and she did not have the luxury of procrastinating any longer.

Reminding herself of all that Irene had done for her, Clara took a deep breath, shoved aside her sister’s telegram, and reached for the first letter on top of the pile.

A knock on her door gave her pause, and Clara felt an irrational wave of relief. The emotion was short-lived, however, evaporating the moment the door opened and Mr. Beale entered her office.

Augustus Beale was the editor of theWeekly Gazette. Before her marriage, Irene had been both the newspaper’s editor and publisher, but before leaving on her honeymoon, she’d hired Mr. Beale to take over the editorial portion of her duties. It had proved a surprising and rather uncharacteristic error in judgement. Despite substantial experience and laudatory letters of character, Augustus Beale was, at least in Clara’s opinion, an odious man. At this moment, she noted, he was also a very angry one.

“Miss Deverill.” He ground out her name as if its utterance took great effort. “Is there any word of your brother’s arrival?”

A question the man asked every day, and one to which she always gave the same answer. She tried to give it with cheer. “I’m afraid not. But,” she added, crossing her fingers under the desk, “I’m sure he’ll be arriving any day. In the meantime, can I be of help?”

He frowned, his thick dark brows coming together over his nose in a shape rather reminiscent of an overgrown yew hedge. “I doubt it.”

“I see. Well, then...” She paused, casting a hopeful glance at the door. Sadly, Mr. Beale did not depart.

“I still do not have Lady Truelove’s column.”

“It hasn’t arrived?” She worked to put an expression of innocent surprise on her face, for the famous columnist’s real identity was a closely-guarded secret, one even theGazette’s editor wasn’t allowed to know. “Oh, dear. I can’t imagine what is causing such a delay. Lady Truelove is usually most reliable.”

He strode to Clara’s desk and dropped the layout of Monday’s edition on top of the letters on her desk. It was opened to a page bearing the typed headline,Dear Lady Truelove.

“Do you see this?” he demanded, stabbing a finger at the vast expanse of white space below the headline. “It’s blank,” he added, as if she couldn’t see that for herself. “The blasted woman is two days late now. You and I seem to have very different definitions of reliability, Miss Deverill.”

Clara grimaced, guilt pricking her conscience. She might not like Mr. Beale, but he had every right to be frustrated. “I shall pay a call upon Lady Truelove immediately and see what—”

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