Chapter 1
Robert Donnelly,the thirty-year-old Earl of Donnelly, was seated at his desk staring out his library window across the splendid parkland of his estate. It was a blustery early March day, and there were small whitecaps on the lake embraced by walls of maple and beech forest on eitherside.
It is good. It is really good. Robert thought as he put his hand onThe Adventures of Hudson Harding,his first work of fiction which he had just finishedwriting.
He let out a sigh of satisfaction and stood, walked over to the French doors leading out to the terrace, and watched the scuttling clouds cast fleeting shadows across the broad expanse of lawn and garden leading up to thelake.
Robert was a tall broad-shouldered man who one might mistake for a laborer with his wide chest and sturdy legs. But his face was refined and noble looking with his surprisingly handsome blue eyes and black, well-groomed hair. He dressed like the gentleman he was, and many in the county of Cambridgeshire were surprised he remained unmarried at his age with so many eligible young aristocratic maidens paraded before him by his older sister, Amelia, who lived with him atBalfour Hall—the familyseat.
And while his sister was insistent on the need for a Donnelly male child, today Robert’s thoughts were on his first literary child. Any moment now he expected the arrival of his dear friend, Sir Cecil Hancock—perhaps the most renowned London publisher of qualityfiction.
The estate’s wealth came from London income properties long held by the Earls of Donnelly. And Robert decided to review the statements from his agents in London who managed the properties while he awaited Sir Cecil’sarrival.
Shortly thereafter, there was a knock at the library door and Sithens, theBalfour Hallbutler,entered.
“Your Lordship, Sir Cecil Hancock has just arrived and begs to beadmitted.”
“Show him in, please,” Robertreplied.
Sir Cecil was a man in his early sixties—red faced, balding, and looked as though he might be suffering from gout by the way he walked unsteadily and supported himself with acane.
“Robert…” Sir Cecil, said breezily as he hobbled across the room and took hold of Robert’s hand. “It has been far too long. When were you last inLondon?”
“Several months at least.” He clapped Cecil on the shoulder and asked. “Whiskey? Sherry? Tea? What shall it be, oldman?”
Cecil gave a nod. “Would not say no to a dram or two of your finest singlemalt.”
Robert turned to Sithens and nodded. “Make that two,” he instructed. Sithens went to the sideboard and prepared the drinks as Robert invited Cecil to sit with him by the fireplace where a cheerful fire was keeping the cold atbay.
“Now then, Robert, what is so pressing that I needed to take a day from my busy schedule to meet with you all the way up here in the wilds ofCambridge?
Robert laughed slightly. “I’ve written a cracking good book and I want you to publishit.”
Cecil seemed taken aback. “A book? What kind of abook?”
“After my travels to the Americas, I decided to write about my adventures. It’s a romantic adventure novel. Set in the American west and in the South American Amazon. I think you will find it to be a strapping good tale, my friend. How soon can you publishit?”
“Wait… wait… Is it a history of your travels or is it anovel?”
“You might say it’s a bit of both. My hero—not me—meets a charming lady and… well… it becomes a romance yousee.”
Cecil was silent as he sipped his whiskey and digested what Robert had just told him. Finally, he looked up and said, “I am sincerely sorry, Robert, but it would be most unwise for you to publish such a work under your ownname.”
“Why ever not?” Robert asked sternly as he stood and towered overCecil.
Cecil seemed to be uncomfortable and shifted in hischair.
“Robert, you cannot be that naïve. Surely you know that other than scholarly works and sermons--and maybe, in a reach, a book of travel and exploration--a gentleman of your stature cannot conceivably publish a work of romance. There is a terrible stigma attached to anyone of your class stooping to the level of writing fiction. You would be laughed out of the House of Lords, not to mention ridiculed by the critics and press, and most likely excommunicated from the Church ofEngland.
“Oh, Cecil, that cannot be. Certainly, you exaggerate,” Robertinsisted.
“Well, maybe about excommunication. But I most certainly do not exaggerate about the rest. Remember the scandal that pursued from the publication of the Duke of Bedford’s ill-advised novel,The Trials of Cybil,several yearsago?”
“Hmm. I might remember something like that.” Robert began to pace in front of thefire.
“I know it seems extreme and unfair, but what you want to do is just notdone.”
Robert turned and faced Cecil. “But, certainly, in this progressive day and age of eighteen hundred and seventy-two, such conventions must be ripe for a challenge, do you notthink?”
