The longer he waited, the less likely he could ever come clean.
It was a lie all of London believed. Then a lie all of England believed. A lie so big it felt like it was happening to someone else. Perhaps separating himself from his nom de plume was Jacob’s way of coping with the unexpected consequences of what had seemed like an insignificant deception.Hewasn’t a famous writer. Sir Gareth Jallow was.
Except the calling cards in his hands read,Jacob Wynchester, Poet.
He wondered what Vivian expected him to do about it. In his shoes, she probably would send out ten poems a day to every singlepublisher in Britain until they published her bloody poetry or committed her to an asylum.
Every so often, Jacob sent fresh work in his own name to Jallow’s publisher, who didn’t read a word of it. Jacob knew this to be true, because the same poems in his solicitation later appeared in Jallow’s subsequent anthology, and no one at the publishing house so much as raised an eyebrow.
Maybe written queries were the wrong approach. His publisher had been begging to meet Sir Gareth for years. Mr. Pagett wouldn’t be expecting Jacob of course, but they’d exchanged so many letters over the years, Jacob felt like he knew his publisher. Mr. Pagett seemed a friendly sort.
Perhaps all Jacob needed to do to stand out was to step up and meet with him in person. Face his fears.
He glanced at his pocket watch. Two hours until Zeus, the mastiff, and Hippogriff, the goshawk, would be needed for Elizabeth and Stephen’s newest mission. Technically enough time to walk the two and a half miles each way to meet with Pagett, if the publisher were available and Jacob were granted prompt access. A wait was more likely. If he was going to go, he needed swifter transportation.
Before he could talk himself out of it, Jacob saddled Sheepshanks and set off. Upon arrival, he tied his horse at the closest available iron post, then strode up to the publisher’s huge front doors.
Belatedly, Jacob realized he might have given a better first impression if he’d dressed in his dinner-soirée best. But it was three o’clock in the afternoon on Fleet Street, not the twilit ballrooms of Almack’s. His clean buckskins, tan waistcoat, and trim blue coat tailored to his form would have been more impressive if he’d remembered to take off his leather apron.
He tossed the apron behind a bush before he knocked on the door.
A white lad with blond hair and tortoiseshell spectacles swungopen the door with a welcoming smile… that faded upon sight of Jacob.
“We’re not buying anything,” said the lad.
“I’m not selling anything.”
“We’re not hiring new employees, either.”
“I’m not applying for a post. I’m here to see Mr. Pagett. Can you take me to him, please?”
“He’s not receiving at the moment.”
“You didn’t ask him.”
“I’m authorized to use my good judgment.” The lad began to close the door.
Jacob blocked it with his boot. “Please. My name is—”
“Mr. Pagett is too busy to entertain presumptuous strangers. Now, if you’ll kindly step aside?”
Jacob did not step aside. A bolt of stubbornness stiffened his spine. “I’m not a stranger. You don’t even know my name. I receive holiday greetings every year from Mr. and Mrs. Pagett, full of anecdotes about their daughter’s new poodle and their—”
The lad laughed harshly. “As Mr. Pagett’s apprentice, I handle his correspondence myself. I am certain he has sent no such thing to the likes of you. Now, if you’ll allow me to return to my post—”
Footsteps rushed up from behind Jacob, heralding a virago in a raffish green bonnet.
“If you were at all competent in your post, you would have recognized that you were in the presence of a great writer, perhaps the finest poet England has ever known—”
“Vivian?” Jacob blurted out in surprise and horror. “What the devil are you doing here?”
She winced. “I—”
Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, the lad shoved Jacob’s chest, pushing him off balance. The apprentice slammed thedoor shut in both their faces, leaving Jacob and Vivian abandoned on the exterior step.
“He put his hands on you,” she spluttered. “He pushed you! I saw it!”
Jacob ground his teeth and wished he’d fallen into a bottomless hole. As if it weren’t mortifying enough to be disrespected by his own publisher, Vivian had witnessed the entire encounter. Including the humiliating moment the most successful poet in Britain had been pushed around by a snot-nosed lad, as though Jacob were a mangy stray nosing around for scraps.
