Suddenly You (5 page)

Someday he would be back in her arms, with no deception between them. And the next time, no power in Heaven or hell would be enough to stop him.

Her voice sounded unsteady as she snapped out a question. “How was it that you came to call at the exact time I was expecting my, er…other guest?”

“I seem to have been willfully misled by our mutual friend, Mrs. Bradshaw.”

“How is it that you are acquainted with her?” Amanda's silvery eyes narrowed in accusation. “Are you one of her customers?”

“No, peaches,” Jack murmured. “Unlike you, I've never solicited the services of a professional paramour.” An irresistible grin tugged at his mouth as he saw her face turn scarlet. Oh, how he enjoyed rattling her composure! Rather than prolong her discomfort, however, he continued in a soft tone. “I'm acquainted with Mrs. Bradshaw because I've just published her first book,
The Sins of Madam B
.”

“I suppose it's filthy stuff,” Amanda muttered.

“Oh, yes,” he said cheerfully. “A threat to morality and decency everywhere. Not to mention my best seller yet.”

“I'm hardly surprised that you exhibit pride rather than shame at that fact.”

He raised his brows at her prudish tone. “I'm certainly not ashamed at having the good fortune to acquire and publish a work that the public obviously likes.”

“The public doesn't always know what is good for it.”

He smiled lazily. “And I suppose
your
books are appropriate for the public diet?”

Amanda flushed, clearly embarrassed and incensed. “You can't put my work on the same level as the vulgar memoir of a notorious madam!”

“Of course I can't,” he said at once, relenting. “Obviously Mrs. Bradshaw is no writer…reading her memoirs is like listening to a few hours of below-stairs gossip. You, on the other hand, have a talent that I sincerely admire.”

Amanda's expressive face clearly registered her conflicting emotions. Like most writers, who shared the universal need for praise, she took reluctant pleasure in the compliment. However, she could not allow herself to believe he was sincere, and she threw him a glance of ironic suspicion. “Your flattery is unnecessary and wholly ineffective,” she informed him. “Spare yourself the effort, please, and go on with the explanation.”

Jack continued obligingly. “During a recent conversation with Mrs. Bradshaw, I mentioned my acquisition of
Unfinished Lady
and my plans to become acquainted with you. And then Mrs. Bradshaw surprised me by evincing a friendship with you. She suggested that I should come to call on you at the specific hour of eight o'clock on Thursday night. She seemed certain that I would be well received. And as it turned out,” he couldn't resist adding, “she was correct.”

Amanda shot him a discreet glare. “But what reason would she have for making such an arrangement?”

Jack shrugged, unwilling to confess that the same question had bothered him for days. “I doubt that reason had anything to do with it. Like most women, she probably makes decisions that don't conform to any pattern of logic known to man.”

“Mrs. Bradshaw wanted to make sport of me,” she said in a sullen tone. “Perhaps of us both.”

He shook his head. “I don't think that was her intent.”

“What else could it be?”

“Perhaps you should ask her.”

“Oh, I will,” she said grimly, making him laugh.

“Come, now,” he said in a gentle tone, “it didn't turn out all that badly, did it? No one was hurt…and I feel compelled to point out that most men in the same circumstances wouldn't have acted with my gentlemanly restraint—”

“Gentlemanly?”
she whispered in seething outrage. “If you had possessed any manner of integrity or honesty, you would have identified yourself as soon as you realized my misunderstanding!”

“And spoil your birthday?” He adopted an expression of mock solicitude, and grinned when he saw the way her small gloved hands clenched longingly. “Don't be angry,” he coaxed. “I'm the same man I was that night, Amanda—”

“Miss Briars,” she corrected him instantly.

“Miss Briars, then. I'm the same man, and you liked me well enough then. There's no reason we can't cry
pax
and be friends.”

“Yes, there is. I liked you better as a prostitute than as a thieving, manipulative publisher. And I cannot be friends with a man who intends to blackmail me. Furthermore, I will never allow you to publish
Unfinished Lady
. I'd rather burn the manuscript than see it in your hands.”

“I'm afraid there's nothing you can do about it. However, you're welcome to visit my offices tomorrow and discuss the plans I have for the book.”

“If you think I would even entertain the notion—” she began heatedly, then clamped her mouth shut as she saw their host, Mr. Talbot, approach.

Avid curiosity was stamped all over the lawyer's face. He regarded them both with a smile of appeasement that caused his round cheeks to push up beneath his merry eyes. “I've been called forth to intercede,” he said with a low chuckle. “No quarreling between my guests, if you please. Allow me to point out that the two of you are hardly well enough acquainted to regard each other with such animosity.”

Amanda seemed to bristle at the attempt to make light of their brewing argument. She spoke without taking her gaze from Jack's face. “I've discovered, Mr. Talbot, that a mere five minutes' acquaintance with Mr. Devlin is sufficient to try the patience of a saint.”

Jack replied softly, allowing his simmering amusement to show in his eyes. “Are you claiming to be a saint, Miss Briars?”

She colored, and her lips thinned, and just as she was ready to unleash a barrage of furious words, Mr. Talbot interceded hastily. “Ah, Miss Briars,” he exclaimed with an overly hearty laugh, “I see that your good friends the Eastmans have just arrived. I beg you to act as my hostess and assist me in greeting them!” Throwing a warning glance at Jack, he began to steer Amanda away.

Before they left him, however, Jack bent to murmur close to Amanda's ear. “I'll send a carriage for you tomorrow at ten.”

“I won't come,” Amanda muttered, her body rigid except for the slight, luscious quiver of her breasts, encased snugly in beaded black silk. The sight gave Jack an immediate shock of awareness. Heat seemed to dance beneath his own skin, until his body began to awaken in dangerous places. Some unknown emotion surfaced in him, something like possessiveness, or excitement…or even tenderness. He wanted to show her whatever small scrap of goodness he might find at the bottom of his soul, to entice and tempt her.

“Yes, you will,” he said, knowing somehow that she could not resist him any more than he could resist her.

The guests proceeded into the dining room, a large mahogany-paneled room filled with two long tables, each set with fourteen places. Four gloved, liveried footmen bustled quietly around the tables, assisting guests to their chairs, pouring wine, and bringing out huge silver-plated platters of oysters. Next came sherry and bowls of steaming turtle soup, followed by turbot fish dressed with tart hollandaise.

Jack found himself seated next to Mrs. Francine Newlyn. He had a feeling that Francine had designs on him, but though he considered her attractive, she was hardly worth the trouble of having an affair with. Especially if one didn't care to have one's personal life revealed in detail to a horde of gossips. Still, her hand kept sliding to his knee beneath the table. Each time he brushed the hand away, it returned to explore further territory of his leg.

“Mrs. Newlyn,” he muttered, “your attentions are most flattering. But if you don't remove your hand…”

Francine's hand slid away, and she regarded him with a catlike smile, her eyes round with mock innocence. “Forgive me,” she purred. “I had merely lost my balance and was trying to restore it.” She picked up her small sherry glass and sipped delicately. The tip of her tongue retrieved a golden drop that clung to the rim. “Such a strong leg,” she commented softly. “You must take exercise quite frequently.”

Jack suppressed a sigh as he glanced at the other long table, where Amanda Briars had been seated. She was involved in an animated conversation with the gentleman on her left, something about whether the new serial novels published in monthly installments were truly novels. The debate was currently a popular one, as several publishers—including himself—were launching serial novels without much success so far.

Jack enjoyed watching Amanda's face in the candlelight, her expression by turns thoughtful, amused, and lively, those gray eyes gleaming more brightly than the polished silver.

Unlike the other women present, who picked at their food with appropriately feminine disinterest, Amanda displayed a healthy appetite. Apparently it was one of the privileges of spinsterhood, that a woman could eat well in public. She was so natural and straightforward, a refreshing change from the other sophisticated women he had known. He wanted to be alone with her. He envied the man seated next to her, who seemed to be having a better time than anyone else present.

Francine Newlyn persistently pressed his leg with her own. “My dear Mr. Devlin,” she said silkily, “you can't seem to take your gaze from Miss Briars. But surely a man like you couldn't entertain an interest in her.”

“Why not?”

A laugh came sputtering from her lips. “Because you're a young, full-blooded man in his prime, and she…well, it's obvious, isn't it? Oh, men
like
Miss Briars, certainly, but only in the way they would like a sister or an aunt. She's not the kind who would arouse a man's amorous instincts.”

“If you say so,” he replied blandly. The woman clearly considered her own attractions far superior to Amanda's, never dreaming that a man might prefer a spinster's charms to hers. But Jack had been involved with women like Francine before, and he knew what was beneath her shallow, pretty facade. Or, more to the point, what was
not
beneath it.

A footman came bearing a dish of creamed pheasant, and Jack accepted a serving with a nod, suppressing another sigh of frustration as he thought of the long night ahead. Tomorrow morning, and Amanda's visit to his offices, seemed like an eternity away.

I'll send a carriage for you tomorrow at ten
.

I won't come.

Yes, you will.

The remembered exchange had troubled Amanda all night, echoing in her dreams, causing her to awaken far earlier than usual the next morning. Oh, how she would love to give Mr. John T. Devlin a well-deserved set-down by refusing to step into his carriage! However, his underhanded acquisition of her novel
An Unfinished Lady
would have to be dealt with. She did not want him or anyone else to publish it.

It had been years since she had written or read the thing, and although she had done her best at the time, the novel undoubtedly contained many faults of plotting and characterization. Were
Unfinished Lady
printed now, she feared it might be harshly reviewed by the critics and reviled by readers unless many revisions were made. And she had neither the time nor the inclination to do painstaking work on a novel for which she had received only ten pounds. Therefore, she would have to retrieve the book from Devlin.

There was also the matter of potential blackmail. If he spread the rumor around London that Amanda was the kind of woman who hired male prostitutes, her reputation and career would be in tatters. She would somehow have to secure Devlin's promise that he would never breathe a word about that dreadful birthday night to anyone.

And much as she hated to admit it, she was curious. No matter how much she berated herself for letting her dratted curiosity get the better of her, she wanted to see Devlin's establishment, his books, his bindery and offices and everything else inside that massive building on the corner of Holborn and Shoe Lane.

With Sukey's assistance, Amanda pinned her hair into a tightly braided coronet atop her head, and dressed in the most severe gown she owned, a snugly fitted, high-buttoned gray velvet with regally swishing skirts. The gown's only ornamentations consisted of a narrow belt that looked like interwoven silk cords fastened with a silver buckle, and a full white lace ruff that nestled high beneath her chin.

“Ye look like Queen Elizabeth must have, just before she had them cut off the Earl of Essex's head,” Sukey commented.

Amanda laughed suddenly, in spite of her inner nervousness. “I'd like to cut off a certain gentleman's head,” she said. “Instead, I'll have to settle for giving him a harsh rebuff.”

“Are ye going to see yer publisher, then?” Sukey's narrow face resembled that of an inquisitive woodland creature.

Amanda shook her head at once. “He's not my publisher, nor will he ever be. I intend to make that clear to him this morning.”

“Ah.” The maid's expression brightened with interest. “Some gentleman ye met at the supper-party last eve? Do tell, Miss Amanda…is he handsome?”

“I hadn't noticed,” Amanda said crisply.

Sukey appeared to suppress a delighted smile as she hurried to fetch Amanda's black wool cloak.

As they fastened the cloak around Amanda's shoulders, the footman, Charles, came inside from the front doorstep. “Miss Amanda, the carriage has arrived.” The footman's middle-aged face was reddened from the bitter November breeze. A fresh, icy scent clung to his livery, mingled with the dry smell of his white-powdered hair. He retrieved a lap shawl from the entrance hall chair, draped it neatly over his arm, then made to escort Amanda outside. “Step carefully, Miss Amanda,” he warned. “There's a patch of ice on the top step—‘tis a damp winter's day.”

“Thank you, Charles.” Amanda appreciated the footman's solicitude. Although he lacked the usual height required of a footman—most fine families preferring to hire only those who were at least six feet tall—Charles made up for his lack of physical stature with sheer efficiency. He had given the Briars family—and now Amanda herself—the benefit of loyal and uncomplaining service for nearly two decades.

Weak morning sunlight did its best to illuminate the narrow terraced houses of Bradley Square. A little iron-fenced garden was set between the two rows of homes that faced one another, and frost clung stubbornly to the dormant plants and trees set between the graveled walkways. At the hour of ten in the morning, many of the town homes' upstairs windows were still shuttered, as occupants slumbered to atone for the previous night's amusements.

Aside from a rag-seller walking along the pavement leading to the main road, and a long-legged constable with his baton tucked smartly beneath his arm, the street was quiet and still. A chilly but clean-smelling breeze rattled along the house-fronts. Despite Amanda's aversion to the winter cold, she appreciated that the odors of refuse and sewage were far less acute than in the warm summer months.

Amanda stopped midway down the flight of six steps that led to the street level when she saw the carriage that Devlin had sent. “Miss Amanda?” the footman murmured, stopping with her as she stared at the vehicle.

Amanda had expected a carriage as well used and serviceable as her own. She had never thought that Devlin would send such an elegant conveyance. This was a glass-quartered coach, plated in lacquer and bronze, with steps fashioned to open and close automatically with the door. Every inch of the vehicle was polished and perfect. The beveled windows were framed with silk curtains, while the interior was upholstered in cream-colored leather.

A team of four perfectly matched chestnuts stamped and blew impatiently, their breaths puffing white in the frosty air. It was the kind of equipage that well-heeled aristocrats owned. How was it that a half-Irish publisher could afford such a carriage? Devlin must be even more successful than the rumors had led her to believe.

Marshaling her composure, Amanda approached the vehicle. A footman jumped from his carved standard and quickly opened the door, while Charles assisted Amanda up the carriage steps. The well-sprung vehicle barely jostled as she settled into the leather-upholstered seat. There was no need for the lap shawl Charles had brought, as a fur-lined carriage blanket had been provided for her. A foot warmer stocked with coals caused Amanda to shiver pleasantly as waves of heat rose beneath her skirts to her knees. It seemed that Devlin had remembered her dislike of the cold.

Almost dazedly, Amanda settled back against the soft leather upholstery and stared through the steam-fogged window at the blurry outlines of her terraced house. The door closed smartly, and the carriage rolled gently away. “Well, Mr. Devlin,” she said aloud, “if you think that a mere foot warmer and a blanket will cause me to soften toward you, then you are sadly mistaken.”

The carriage stopped at Shoe Lane and Holborn, where the massive white five-story building awaited her. Devlin's was swarming with customers, the jaunty glass doors swinging in constant motion as a steady stream of people entered and exited. Although she knew Devlin's was a successful establishment, nothing had prepared her for this. It was clear that Devlin's was far more than a store…it was an empire. And she had no doubt that its owner's keen mind was constantly devising ways to extend his reach.

The footman assisted her from the carriage and rushed to hold open the glass door with the deference one might have accorded to visiting royalty. As soon as her foot touched the threshold, Amanda was instantly met by a blond gentleman in his late twenties or early thirties. Although his height was average, his slim, well-exercised physique made him appear taller. His smile was warm and genuine, and his sea-green eyes sparkled beneath a pair of steel-framed spectacles.

“Miss Briars,” he said quietly, giving her a welcoming bow, “what an honor it is to make your acquaintance. I am Mr. Oscar Fretwell. And this”—he gestured to their bustling surroundings with unmistakable pride—“is Devlin's. A store, circulating library, bindery, stationer, printer, and publisher, all under one roof.”

Amanda curtsied and allowed him to guide her to a relatively sheltered corner, where bundles of books had been placed on a mahogany counter. “Mr. Fretwell, in what capacity do you work for Mr. Devlin?”

“I am his chief manager. Occasionally I serve as a reader and editor, and I bring unpublished novels to his attention if I discover they have merit.” He smiled once again. “And it is my good fortune to be of service to any of Mr. Devlin's writers, whenever they require it.”

“I am
not
one of Mr. Devlin's writers,” Amanda said firmly.

“Yes, of course,” Fretwell said, clearly anxious not to offend. “I did not intend to imply that you were. May I express what great pleasure your work has brought to myself and our subscribers? Your books are constantly on loan, and the sales are quite brisk. For the last one,
Shades of the Past
, we could not get by with an order of less than five hundred.”

“Five hundred?”
Amanda was too startled by the figure to conceal her amazement. Books were luxury items, too dear for most people to afford, and therefore, her sales of nearly three thousand volumes had been considered exceptional. However, she had not realized until this moment that a large percentage of her sales could be attributed to Devlin's support.

“Oh, yes,” Fretwell began earnestly, but paused as he became aware of a minor disturbance at one of the counters. It appeared that a clerk was perturbed by the return of a book in poor condition. The subscriber, a lady covered in heavily applied face paint and perfume, was vigorously protesting the charge that the book had been damaged. “Ah, it's Mrs. Sandby,” Fretwell said with a sigh. “One of our frequent subscribers. Unfortunately, she likes to borrow a book and read it at the hairdresser's. When she returns a volume, it is usually caked with powder and the pages sealed together with pomade.”

Amanda laughed suddenly, glancing at the woman's old-fashioned pile of powdered hair. No doubt she—and the novel—had spent a great deal of time at the hairdresser's. “It appears that your attention is required, Mr. Fretwell. Perhaps you should settle the dispute while I wait here.”

“I shouldn't like to leave you unattended,” he said with a slight frown. “However…”

“I'll stay in this exact spot,” Amanda said, her smile lingering. “I don't mind waiting.”

While Oscar Fretwell hurried to smooth over the situation, Amanda gazed at her surroundings. Books were everywhere, lined neatly on shelves that went from floor to ceiling. The ceiling was two stories high, with an upper balcony that provided access to a second-floor gallery. The dazzling array of red, gold, green, and brown bindings was a feast for the eyes, while the wonderful smells of vellum, parchment, and pungent leather almost caused Amanda to salivate. An exquisite waft of tea leaves lingered in the air. For anyone who enjoyed the pursuit of reading, this place was surely paradise.

Subscribers and purchasers waited in lines at counters laden with catalogs and volumes. Wheels of cord and spools of brown paper turned constantly as clerks wrapped orders. Amanda appreciated the clerks' expertise as they quickly bound smaller stacks of volumes in paper and string. The larger orders appeared to be packed in fragrant old tea chests—ah, the source of the tea smell—and then carried out to carriages and carts by attendants.

Oscar Fretwell wore an expression of rueful amusement when he rejoined her. “I believe the matter is settled,” he told Amanda in a conspiratorial whisper. “I bade the clerk to accept the book in its current condition—we'll do our best to restore it. However, I did tell Mrs. Sandby that she must try to take better care of our books in the future.”

“You should have suggested that she simply leave off the hair powder,” Amanda whispered back, and they shared a quick laugh.

Fretwell crooked his arm invitingly. “May I escort you to Mr. Devlin's office, Miss Briars?”

The thought of seeing Jack Devlin once more gave Amanda a strange rustling of pleasure mixed with anxiety. The prospect of being in his presence made her feel curiously alive and agitated.

She straightened her shoulders and took Fretwell's arm. “Yes, by all means. The sooner I deal with Mr. Devlin, the better.”

Fretwell glanced at her with a puzzled smile. “It sounds as if you don't like Mr. Devlin.”

“I do not. I find him to be arrogant and manipulative.”

“Well.” Fretwell appeared to ponder her words carefully. “Mr. Devlin can be a bit aggressive when he sets his mind on a particular goal. However, I can assure you there is no better employer in London. He is kind to his friends and generous to all those who work for him. Recently he helped one of his novelists to purchase a house, and he is always willing to arrange for theater tickets, or locate a specialist when one of his friends is ill, or help them in any way to resolve their personal difficulties…”

While Fretwell continued to offer praises of his employer, Amanda mentally added the word “controlling” to the list of adjectives she had applied to Devlin. Of course the man did his best to make his friends and employees feel indebted to him…then he could use their own feelings of obligation against them.

“Why and how did Mr. Devlin become a publisher?” she asked. “He's not at all like the other publishers I am acquainted with. That is to say, he doesn't seem like a bookish sort.”

A strange hesitation followed, and Amanda saw from Fretwell's expression that there was some interesting and private story to tell, related to Devlin's mysterious past. “Perhaps you should ask Mr. Devlin the ‘why and how' of it,” Fretwell finally said. “But I can tell you this: he has a deep love of reading, and the greatest respect for the written word. And he possesses a great ability to discern a writer's particular strengths and encourage his or her highest potential for success.”

“In other words, he pushes them to make a profit,” Amanda said dryly.

Fretwell's smile contained a hint of teasing. “Surely you have no objections to making a profit, Miss Briars.”

“Only when art is sacrificed for the sake of commerce, Mr. Fretwell.”