The Stanhope Challenge - Regency Quartet - Four Regency Romances (11 page)

“Work?” Adam was appalled as much at the very idea of his wife employed, as the idea that he never knew, never suspected, she needed to do so. “Doing what?”

“Typesetting.”

Jack spit his tea across the room.

Adam scrubbed a hand over his face. “How in hell…?”

Jack tugged a handkerchief from his weskit pocket.

Amaryllis sipped her tea nonchalantly. “Remember that her father owned the publishing company that Howell bought. Felice knew how to set hot type from the age of four.”

“Has she been setting type for Howell?” Adam demanded. “Is this what you are trying to tell me? That she is or was employed by him, and she set the words that have ruined my career?”

“I am telling you that she took money from Howell, yes. And though she did not set the type, she did write those stories for the
TellTale
.”

Adam reeled with rage and despair. “My god. Can she hate me that much?”

“On the contrary, she loves you to distraction.”

The words rippled through his bloodstream. “How can that be if she and Howell—?”

“Whatever has occurred there, Adam, dear boy, is nothing to what you and she could have together.”

Jack, who was still using his handkerchief to brush off his breeches, snorted. “Superb! No wonder the curse is operating at full throttle.”

“Absurd!” Amaryllis shot back. “The curse operates only if you let it. Only if you fail to see that marriage is not set in stone from inception but a movable feast for rational men and women who know how to compromise…and forgive.”

“What am I forgiving here, Aunt?” Adam probed. “Other than myself for not asking the right questions of my bride? Do I accuse myself of short-sightedness without taking my wife to task?”

“I think you must first talk with Drayton Howell. And then with your wife.”

Adam sneered. “If I see Howell, I will not talk. I will strangle him.”

“Well, then, dearest,” his aunt smiled serenely as she handed him a piece of parchment with a name scrolled upon it, “I think you need to call upon this gentleman before Howell or Felice.”

Adam took one look at the name on his aunt’s stationery and balked. “Crammer? The leader of the opposition? He would rather chop off his own nuts before—”

Jack said, “Whoa.”

Aunt Amyrillis said, “Please.”

Adam threw up his hands. “Very well. I will do it. I promise. Thank you for the enlightening conversation, Aunt. I am so full of tea and remonstrance, I shall leave. And quickly, too.” Adam kissed his aunt on both cheeks and bid her good day, Jack on his heels.

But as Adam climbed into his carriage, Jack halted and told the coachman to wait a minute. He trotted off out of sight.

In a minute, he returned, climbed in beside Adam and shoved a broadsheet into his hands.

“What’s this?” he asked Jack.

“The newest
TellTale.
Best you see this now. I just bought this from the boy on the corner.”

Adam opened the paper Jack handed him. It was his own party’s crier.

He read the headline and fell back into the squabs. “Damn it to bloody hell! I cannot believe it.”

“But will you do it?” Jack asked.

“Resign?”

Jack stared at him.

Adam was wide-eyed with shock. “
Ulmsly
wants me to
resign
? Never!”

The hall clock chimed half eight before Felice returned home. Adam had told his butler to notify him the moment she arrived, and she took her time climbing the stairs to their bedroom. Indeed, she took so long, Adam almost thought her to have fled the house instead of come to face him. He was wrong.

She opened the door and stood on the threshold for countless moments, her gaze locked on his as he sat ensconced in his wingchair waiting for her.

Her leghorn hat was a flat sodden mess. Her hair, always curly, was a riot from the humidity of the rainy day. Her slippers were soaked. The hem of her gown was so drenched that droplets fell to the carpet. Her face arrested him, however. Her complexion, usually so pink and lively, was lax and gray with regret.

Without saying a word, she closed the door. When she turned, she straightened her spine and looking quite resolute, walked straight for him. Her gaze absorbed him. His attire, his robe and trousers. His pose, relaxed but wary. Her gaze shot to the copy of the
TellTale
on his table, under his hand.

Her golden eyes lit with despair and remorse. “Oh, Adam, what are you doing reading that? You shouldn’t. It will only make you feel worse.”

“I thought it intriguing.”

Tears formed on her lashes. She reached up to rip out the pins in her hat then circled the little, felt coronet round and round in her hands. “What does it matter what Howell prints on a day when Ulmsly asks you to resign?” she mourned, barely above a whisper. “I am so sorry, Adam.”

He’d leave the regrets for later. For now, he cared more about her. “Where have you been?”

“Walking.”

“In this weather? Where?”

She shook her head. “Along the Thames. Near Somerset House and Whitehall.”

“All day?”

“Most of it. Yes, I—”

“I would have much preferred you be here with me on such a day as this.”

She tipped her head. “Would you?” she asked, a bit in wonder. “You shouldn’t.” She stiffened her backbone once more and sniffed away her tears. Putting her hat on a nearby table, she came to stand before him and clasp her hands together as she declared, “I am responsible for your downfall. I am the one to blame for it all.”

He owed it to her to hear her out. So he nodded and let her have her say. “Tell me then.”

“I have lied to you.”

For a man who had told her he wanted honesty, this opening salvo took his breath away. But he said, “About what?”

“I am Miss Proper.” She inclined her head toward the broadsheet. “I am the author of those columns. I took money from Drayton Howell, and in return, I was to write libelous pieces about you.”

Her forthrightness assuaged much of his bitterness. He inhaled.

She seemed to sway backward as if she thought he meant to strike her for her admission. He was appalled that she would have been so mistreated by others. Or that she would think such punishment suitable to her error in judgment.

At once, he put on a face of reason and calm as he asked her, “When did you begin this?”

Confused at his reaction, she went on. “Weeks before we married. Drayton came to me when he heard the rumor that you would come down and propose to me. I, of course, knew nothing of your intentions. But when he came, he did so asserting that my Wallace had owed him money. From losses at dicing and cards.”

“Did you ask for an accounting?”

“An accounting? No, no. I had no need. I knew Wallace’s penchant for gambling. We pinched pennies because of his ridiculous addiction to it. Howell’s statement seemed sound.”

“And did you agree that the stories would be aimed at me, about me and mine?”

“No, of course not. I simply agreed to write a series for him that would rival the other broadsheets for their scandalous stories. I had no idea he meant to rake you over the coals. But nonetheless, it happened.”

“How did he do it?”

“He told his typesetter to change the names of the characters. Once he started, he could continue to become more bold. And he did.”

“And this typesetter of his agreed to this?”

“Oh, yes. What’s a man to do when his family depends on his income to eat and pay the lodgings?” She shivered, rubbing her arms.

“You should stand before the fire. Change your clothes and get warm.”

“No. I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I am leaving, Adam. I have no excuses to give you for my behavior. I have no means to apologize other than my frail words. No way to ameliorate my sins against you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about Howell?” he blurted, done with beating about the bush for an answer to this mystery. “Why not just tell me?”

“I saw no way out. I saw Howell milking me forever!”

“Could he do that?”

“Why not? He could say I was willing participant. That I was the gambler, not Wallace. He even threatened to say Wallace had a child by a prostitute in the Seven Dials. That I was with child, and that’s why you married me so quickly. There was no end to what he would print in that rag of his!” She retreated backward to the fire. Shaking with fury and sorrow, she gave in to the tears that racked her. “I wanted to show you that your curse was a myth, a fable, and all I did was show you how real it is!”

She whirled toward her dressing room.

He caught her before she made it to the door. “Don’t cry.”

She turned up a face so ravaged by sorrow that his heart fell to his toes.

He cupped her cheek and brushed a stream of tears away with his thumb.

“Adam, I have ruined you. I want to go.”

“Fee,” he declared, “come sit with me and talk.”

“No! I can hardly bear to—”

“Look at me! I did not resign!”

Her lashes fluttered. She shook her head. “What? Why not?”

“Ulmsly retracted the request. Most unnecessary, he called it, in light of developments.”

“I am confused. What developments?”

“Come sit with me and I will tell you.” He took her hand and led her back to the chair he had left. Though she was reluctant to sit on his lap, he tugged her down. “There. Now. I went to see a few people today.”

Her brow wrinkled. “I want to hear about Ulmsly.”

“So you shall.” He pushed a wisp of her hair from her eyes. “Have I told you lately how I adore your eyes? They are brilliant as pure gold, you know.”

“Adam,” she beseeched him as her lips quivered. “Do not praise me, please.”

“But you are my wife,” he affirmed.

“Not for long. You cannot want me now, not after today and
this
.” She put a hand to the
TellTale
, while the other swiped at a stream of tears on her cheek.

“And if I do?” he ran his hand up her throat to cup her nape.

“I’ll say you’re mad.”

He put his mouth to the hollow behind her ear and whispered, “Such madness is proof of a man who adores his wife.”

“You mustn’t,” she rasped, her eyes closing as he wrapped her closer and kissed her cheek and her luscious, trembling lips.

“But I do love you, Fee.” He blessed her mouth with fierce possession. “I think I have loved you for years, darling, and only just have come to my senses.”

She struggled up from his grasp. “You cannot! The curse!” She waved her arms about. “Dear god, the damn thing has worked its will, and I have been its instrument!”

He sprang to his feet. She retreated, and he stalked her. “I would rather love you than not. Live with you than without you. To hell with the curse!”

“How can you say that?”

“Because I forgive you.”

She dashed tears away. “Oh, you
are
mad.”

“For you, yes. Don’t you see,” he said as he proceeded to follow her as she backed into her dressing room, “none of this was really your fault?”

She blinked. “I take responsibility.”

“And for that, my darling, I am proud of you. But you must not take more than your due.”

She stood now within the voluminous froth of her many gowns. Enfolded as she was in the colors of the rainbow, he had to grin at her.

“You are a rare jewel, Felice Stanhope. Stunning and inventive, wise and dear. I am a very fortunate man to be your husband.”

“I think you are foxed. Or someone has hit you on the head.”

“You do not know what is in that issue of the
TellTale
, do you?”

She gritted her teeth. “I do. I certainly do. I saw Howell order his man to set the type.”

“All of it?”

She rolled a shoulder. “What does it matter? All, some, none?”

“No matter. I know the answer to that question.”

“You do?”

He took her hand. “Come with me, and I will show you.”

“How do you know the answer?” she asked, scepticism written on her features as he led her back toward his bedroom.

When he sat her on the edge of their bed, he handed her the broadsheet. “Jack picked up this copy of the
TellTale
on the street this afternoon soon after he and I left Aunt Amaryllis. She had a few revealing facts to tell me. All of which you might have told me. Should have. But I am to blame here. I scared you half to death, being so damned focused on warding off the curse. Christ. I asked you to be honest with me then acted like a child afraid of ghosts.”

Felice stared at him.

“I know. Hard to imagine I am a man of reason, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“Read your column.”

Her eyes took in the words with growing surprise and increasing haste.

“The episodes here printed have been lies, fabrications…”

“…Outlined by Miss Proper, true. But edited by the publisher of this paper…”

“The malicious intent of the publisher to ruin the life and reputation of the Honorable Lord Adam Stanhope, M.P., is one I shall attest to here and in a court of law. Affirmed this twentieth day of June, 1809. William Bundy, typesetter. Formerly of Howell Publishing.”

She let the paper drop to her lap. “I cannot believe it.” She skimmed the piece once more. “How did this happen?”

“That Howell allowed that to be printed?”

“Yes! My god, Adam, yes, how?” She gaped at him, her eyes dancing over his features with delight, alarm and curiosity.

“Your man Bill Bundy tells me he is very grateful to you for freeing him of the yoke of Drayton Howell.”

“You spoke with Bill?”

“I did. Jack and I found him at work, cleaning his type and his presses right after we bought this. Howell had left for the evening after reading of Ulmsly’s demand for my resignation. Bill told Jack and me how Howell abused your words, changed them, forced Bill to edit them and made Miss Proper into a waspish witch out to destroy me.”

“And Bill composed this himself?”

“He did.” Adam thrilled to the look of excitement on her face.

“Wrote it and typeset it to expose Howell in his own broadsheet?” she blurted. “I can hardly believe it.”