Page 18 of The Trouble with True Love

“The correspondent comes from a much higher station than the man she loves. She is a widow of the aristocracy, while he is merely middle class. They have each declared their love for the other. They meet in secret and their families know nothing of their amour. They’ve been together a month. That’s quite a string of coincidences, wouldn’t you say?”

“But what other explanation could there be?”

“That is what I’ve been asking myself. Lady Truelove advised her correspondent that the man in question was a rotter, a scoundrel who was clearly out to take advantage of her in the most reprehensible way possible.”

“Don’t tell me you’re taking this personally? Really, Lionel, it’s not as if this woman is referring toyou.”

“You think not?”

“How could she be? She doesn’t know you.”

“Perhaps she does, even if I don’t know her. She told the girl,” he went on before Rex could respond to that rather enigmatic remark, “that the man would try to get ’round her somehow, that he would work his wiles on her and attempt to persuade her to continue this liaison.”

“Well, of course any man who found himself in such an agreeable situation would want it to continue for as long as possible. You certainly do. Dina’s far too discreet to air her private concerns to a newspaper columnist.”

“She is discreet,” Lionel agreed, and his expression hardened even more. “Which brings me to you.”

Rex stiffened, suddenly wary, not liking the resentful way his friend was glaring at him. “Just what are you implying, Lionel?”

Instead of answering, his friend reached into the breast pocket of his evening jacket, pulled out a cutting from a newspaper, and unfolded it. “Allow me to share with you Lady Truelove’s assessment of the situation and the advice she offered.”

Looking down at the page in his gloved fingers, he began to read. “‘I doubt that simple procrastination is the explanation for this man’s lack of action. My dear young lady, it is clear, I am sorry to say, that honorable marriage is not in his plans at all. To be blunt, he is using you in the most dishonorable way a man can do. Should you question his motives, I daresay he will attempt to make his reluctance to wed you sound honorable, even noble. He may declare that he cannot marry you because you are too far above his station, and that he hasn’t the means to support you in the way you’ve been accustomed.’”

“Any man would feel the need to underscore a vast difference in station between himself and his lady love,” Rex pointed out. “To marry with such differences between them would be precipitate and unwise.”

“‘He will say that you deserve more than he can provide,’” Lionel went on, ignoring Rex’s point altogether, “‘and that you are too good for the likes of him. He might make a token effort to break things off. He might say that he does not want to do this because he’s wild about you, that he can’t eat or sleep for wanting you, that your time together has been the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to him.’”

At this exact repetition of his own words from the other day, Rex gave a laugh borne of pure astonishment. “But how would—”

“‘Do not be fooled,’” Lionel interrupted. “‘Such a speech as this is not intended for the honorable purpose of ending what can only be regarded as an unsavory connection. Quite the opposite. Every word he speaks shall be designed to work on you, my dear, to play on your affections and bind you to him even more tightly than before. Following this attempt to break things off, I have no doubt that he will plead with you to continue as you are a bit longer. He might even throw himself on your mercy, expressing his willingness to settle for the merest crumbs of your affection—’”

“What the hell?” Rex snatched the newspaper cutting from his friend’s fingertips and scanned the entire column from top to bottom, and as he read the words of his own speech, a picture formed in his mind’s eye—a picture of that little tea shop in Holborn, a spray of palm fronds, and a pair of dark brown eyes looking at him with disapproval, and he suddenly knew just why Clara Deverill seemed so familiar.

“Because of this column, Dina has broken with me completely,” Lionel said, his voice rising. “She’s told me to leave her alone and never contact her again. This is all your fault.”

Despite his friend’s raised voice, Rex paid little heed, for in his mind, his aunt Petunia’s information was echoing far more loudly than Lionel’s angry words.

Her father’s family is in trade—newspapers, I believe.

His gaze moved to the masthead at the top of the sheet in his hand.

The Weekly Gazette.

“What cheek,” he cried, his temper rising as he realized what must have occurred. “What damnable cheek.”

“God, Rex, I thought you were a discreet chap, I really did. I thought I could trust you to keep my confidence.”

The implications of that caught his attention, and he looked up. “What? Lionel, surely you don’t think—”

“But seeing you dancing with the Deverill girl,” Lionel cut in furiously, “made me realize that my trust has been misplaced.”

Rex could not reply, for anger was rising within him.That minx, he thought, his hand tightening around the sheet of newsprint, crumpling Lady Truelove’s column in his fist.That clever, eavesdropping, opportunistic little minx.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to explain what must have happened. “Lionel, I didn’t tell this girl anything. It’s clear that she—”

“Don’t,” his friend snapped, cutting off explanations. “Don’t even try to justify yourself.” He jabbed at the paper balled in Rex’s fist. “Her father is the publisher, you realize that?”

Rex set his jaw, beginning to share his friend’s grim mood. “I have appreciated that point, yes.”

---