Page 24 of The Duke of Spice
The editor ran his fingers through his gray mess of hair. “Perhaps keep the challenge going in the newspaper. Hold off on calling this chap out. I’m sure our readers are lapping up every word of this exchange over their tea and kippers and would be keen to hear more.”
He hasn’t corrected me on his name, so it must be William. I’ve finally gotten something right this morning.
“Yes, and I expect it helps to sell more newspapers. What would you suggest?” Remembering the man’s name had pretty much used up the rest of his brain’s good ideas.
“What about another personal attack? Something that calls his honor into question.”
Robert shook his head. He didn’t like this sort of thing. His business dealings might well be a bit shady. On the darker side of gray. Many would suggest outright illegal. But he was still a duke, and nobles with ancient bloodlines didn’t normally stoop to that sort of behavior.
They don’t normally hold up supply wagons at gunpoint either. But I digress.
He had just talked himself out of turning up the heat on the public battle, when a thought popped into his head.
What if I engage in a private battle with this chap, away from the pages of the newspaper?
Now that was something he could see himself readily doing. Intimidating his opponent from the shadows.
“Do you have the letters that our esteemed reader has sent to you? I mean it would be good for me to read them. It might serve to better inform me as to how I should proceed.”
William gave him a considering look. Even in this poor light, Robert could tell that the newspaper man wasn’t buying this story for one single minute.
“I will give you the letters, but on the proviso that you don’t embark on a personal vendetta against him. I have a newspaper to run, and owners who expect me to make them a profit.”
Robert held back a huff of disappointment. What was the point of seeking to identify his enemy if he couldn’t attack him?
“You clearly don’t have a military background, do you?” he mused. The moment he spied his foe on the battlefield, he was going to fire off a volley of shots.
“No, I don’t. Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” replied Robert, making a mental note to keep his nefarious plans to himself. “Now may I have the letters?”
“Wait here, Your Grace.”
William disappeared. When he returned, he was carrying a bundle of letters in his hand. “I have assumed that these have all come from the one person, as the handwriting is the same in each.”
How many letters has this idiot penned?
Robert took the letters and stuffed them into the folds of his greatcoat. “Thank you. Now if you would be so kind as to release me from this tiny prison, I shall be on my way.”
The editor cleared his throat. “About the reviews. Is there a chance that the one you intend to submit this week will be for an establishment that our readers would be happy to visit? I mean, I wouldn’t want to impose, but the idea of these reviews is to inform people as to places where they may actually want to dine.”
Touché.
The man had a valid point, one Robert couldn’t deny. “I shall make it my personal business to ensure that this week’s review is for a restaurant which is open and serves delicious fare. I apologize for the recent problems that I might have caused both you and your valuable readers.”
He made his hasty escape and headed back to Tolley House. Shrugging out of his clothes, Robert climbed into bed, snuggling under the warmth of the blankets. Lack of sleep tugged at him, and he was embarrassed over the matter of offering reviews for dining establishments that couldn’t deliver, but as he drifted off a soft smile sat on his lips. He had the letters which his review rival had sentthe Morning Herald.
Come tomorrow, his campaign to bring his newspaper nemesis to his knees would begin. And while his eventual victory would be a private one, he would still savor the taste of sweet revenge.
Chapter Eleven
The Duchess of Mowbray had turned the hunt for her daughter’s future husband into a full military campaign. Victoria was certain that if the British army had employed her mother, Lady Anne could have won the battle of Waterloo in half the time it had taken the Duke of Wellington to secure his triumph.
This morning’s trip to the modiste was their third in as many weeks, and Victoria was beginning to wonder if she should just move in with the dressmaker in order to save herself the worry of traveling across town from Mowbray House.
I dread to think how much money this is all costing. So many clothes.
She wasn’t sure if she could stand this shopping torture much longer. Lady Anne had never been one for doing things by half measure. Gideon and Serafina’s bedroom had been commandeered for Victoria’s new wardrobe. Boxes of slippers were stacked in neat piles. Hats. Ribbons. Pretty silk reticles. In the family safe sat every priceless earring and necklace set which the duke had retrieved from the custody vaults of the bank.
