Evie laughed. “I put that paper on top, in case you wanted to have a look at it.”
Clara wasn’t sure she did. If their fiercest rival was trying to steal theGazette’s readers with their own version of Lady Truelove, that made it even more crucial for Clara to do her job well. “Thank you, Evie. You may go.”
The secretary departed with a nod, closing the door behind her, and Clara opened theInquirerto take a peek at the latest threat to Lady Truelove’s reign as queen of the advice columns, but after turning only a few pages, she stopped, her attention caught by a particular headline.
“Oh, dear,” she murmured, a little smile curving her lips.
It wasn’t right, she supposed, to take a measure of delight in someone else’s difficulties, even if that someone was Lord Galbraith. On the other hand, the man’s notorious reputation had been well-earned and something he seemed proud of.
I enjoy life, Miss Deverill, and I fail to see why I should be condemned for it.
Clara glanced at the headline again, and her smile widened. The viscount, it seemed, was about to pay a price for all his enjoyment of life.
Feeling a rather wicked sense of anticipation, Clara decided she could spare five minutes from her task to find out just how he’d blotted his copybook, and she settled back in her chair to read the article she’d stumbled upon. She’d barely finished the first paragraph, however, before her attention was again diverted by a tap on her door.
She straightened at once, wiping any trace of a smile off her face as she folded the paper and placed it back on the stack Evie had brought her. “Come in,” she called, reaching for her pen, striving to appear hard at work as the secretary once again appeared in the doorway.
“There’s a gentleman here to see you, Miss Deverill,” she said as she approached Clara’s desk, a certain amount of awe in her voice and a card in her hand. “Viscount Galbraith.”
“What?” That the subject of her reading material and the primary object of her thoughts today was right outside her door brought Clara to her feet. Dismayed, she snatched the card from the other woman’s outstretched hand. “What on earth does he want?”
Even as she asked the question, she began to fear she already knew, and a knot of apprehension formed in her stomach.
“Does it matter?” Evie countered, grinning as Clara looked up. “He’s such a treat to look at, who cares what he came for?”
Clara offered a reproving frown in reply, and the other woman’s smile vanished at once. She gave a cough and resumed her usual air of brisk efficiency. “He didn’t state the purpose of his call. He merely asked me to inquire if you will receive him.”
“No, I—” Clara broke off, reconsidering even as her apprehension deepened. She could refuse to see him, of course, but would that do her any good? He could pay a call at the duke’s house any time, or ask her to dance at the next ball, or corner her at some party during the season. If he had found her out somehow, it might be better to face the music here in her private office than in front of anyone else’s prying eyes. And if he hadn’t told anyone Lady Truelove’s identity, she could reason with him, perhaps persuade him somehow to keep mum.
“Show him in,” she said, tossing his card onto her desk.
The secretary departed, and Clara worked to dampen her growing apprehension as she gathered up the letters on her desk. She might be wrong. Galbraith might be here for some other purpose, something wholly unconnected with Lady Truelove.
Ravish you would be a sight more likely.
Clara sucked in a deep breath, that unthinkable notion doing nothing to calm her jangled nerves. She shoved the letters to Lady Truelove into a drawer and strove to find some of the same bravado she’d managed to display the other night, but the attempt faltered the moment Galbraith entered the room.
Unmistakable anger glittered in those gorgeous eyes, and there was a hard, uncompromising cast to his countenance that confirmed Clara’s worst fear and told her reason or persuasion would probably prove useless. Every line of his body as he halted in front of her desk made it clear he’d come to do battle, an impression underscored by the dark purple bruise under his eye and the gash at his temple.
Clara swallowed hard, looking past him. “Thank you, Evie,” she said, donning a pretense of unflappable calm she was far from feeling. “You may go. And close the door behind you.”
The secretary’s auburn brows lifted at this rather scandalous instruction, but she complied, smiling a little, a smile that widened into a meaningful grin and a girl-to-girl wink just before she closed the door.
“Lord Galbraith,” Clara greeted him, dipping her knees in a quick curtsy.
“Miss Deverill.” He bowed in return. “Or,” he added, straightening, “perhaps within the walls of your own offices, it would be more correct to refer to you by your nom de plume?”
Her worst fear now confirmed beyond any doubt, Clara nonetheless worked to keep any hint of emotion off her face. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He tilted his head, studying her for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, he gave a laugh, though Clara feared there was no humor in it. “Appearances can be so deceiving,” he murmured. “You look the sweetest, most dulcet little thing, with those big brown eyes of yours, and yet, you are also one of the coolest liars I have ever encountered. I doubt butter would melt in your mouth.”
Clara stirred at his accusation of deceit, not only because she was in no position to refute it, but also because to her mind, it was a case of the pot and the kettle if ever she’d heard one. “Do you have a point?”
He raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t answer her question directly. “When we first met, I thought you looked familiar,” he said instead, “that I’d seen you somewhere before, but I couldn’t place you. You, however, insisted otherwise, and I was inclined to think I’d been mistaken. But later that evening,” he added as he reached into the breast pocket of his morning coat and pulled out a newspaper cutting, “when my friend Lionel confronted me with Lady Truelove’s most recent column, I realized I had made no mistake.”
Clara’s heart sank as she watched him unfold the wrinkled, ragged-edged sheet of newsprint. Not only he, but also his friend, knew her secret. Even if she could somehow convince Galbraith to exercise discretion, she could never ensure that his friend would do so. Lady Truelove’s identity would soon be known to the world, the mystique would be utterly spoiled, the column condemned, and Deverill Publishing’s competitors overjoyed. And it would all be her fault. What would she tell Irene? How could she face her sister with the news that Lady Truelove was ruined because of her?
“In offering advice to her correspondent, your columnist made some very specific predictions as to the behavior and motives of the gentleman in question,” he went on, looking down at the cutting in his hands. “So specific, in fact, as to be uncanny. Both Lionel and I appreciated how familiar her words seemed. Lionel actually suspected me of being Lady Truelove, but when he saw me dancing with you, he formed an alternative theory.”
