“How shall you like being married to a clergyman?”
That question, Felicity did not need to answer. “Oh, but Mama was furious. When I told her I saw very little use in being trotted around to garden parties and balls and soirees after that, she took King and went into the country.”
Cami leaned forward and took her cousin’s hands in hers. “I envy you your happiness. You were truly named, Felicity.”
Felicity accepted the compliment with a blush. “Now, let’s see,” she said, tapping her lips with one finger. “What else have you missed while you were away?”
“Lord Sebastian said something about a scandalous book…?” she prompted, feeling certain her eagerness was once more plainly to be read on her face.
“Oh, yes. The Wild Irish Rose. Every tongue is wagging about it. What with the uprising, people are intrigued by anything to do with Ireland. One of the papers called it…what was the phrase? Oh, yes: ‘a prescient allegory for the present troubles.’ But it’s not a book. At least, not yet.”
“I beg your pardon?” Cami said, although she had heard every word.
“The story is being published in parts in some gossip sheet called The Quizzing Glass.”
Cami knit her brow. “In parts?”
“A section at a time,” Felicity explained. “They began appearing a month ago. Papa says it’s really quite innovative—far more people can afford a penny for The Quizzing Glass than can afford a guinea for a novel. The idea is that each installment builds up interest for the next.”
Cami’s mind flooded with more questions. Had Mr. Dawkins changed his mind? Gone to print with what she’d first sent him? Decided the story was too timely to wait, the appetite for scandal too great, to risk forgoing the potential profits? But she asked only, “Have you read it?”
“Everyone has, Cousin.” Felicity rose from her chair to search through the papers on her mother’s escritoire. “Ah, here it is. The latest installment. See for yourself.”
Hesitantly, Cami took the periodical from her cousin’s hand. Her words. Róisín’s story. In print. And in the hands of half of London, according to Felicity.
She had expected to feel joy at having realized her dream. Instead, it felt a great deal more like she’d swallowed a lump of lead. “Is the author known?”
“‘A lady.’ That is all the printer will say. One of your countrywomen, evidently, as Lord Sebastian said. And something of a radical.”
Remembering her uncle’s wink, she tried to detect any hint of slyness in her cousin’s voice or face. Did she, too, suspect?
To hide her own expression, Cami dropped her eyes to the page Felicity had put before her, some early bantering exchange between Lord Granville and Róisín. The villain’s similarity to Gabriel struck her afresh. No wonder Lord Sebastian seemed sure he could use the story against his nephew.
“Why, Cousin Camellia, are you ill?” Felicity rose and hurried to her side. “I should have realized the story might upset you. It has made you think of things you would doubtless rather forget.”
Cami looked down and realized she was crumpling the pages of the magazine. With trembling fingers, she tried to smooth them out.
She’d given Gabriel the story for safekeeping. Oh, what had he done?
Chapter 22
“I would not wish to complain, my lord.” From the doorway, Arthur Remington spoke in his starchiest voice. “But that…creature would seem to have found another of my shoes.”
The rumbling, gnawing sound of a beast worrying its prey drew Gabriel’s attention from what he had been reading to the carpet that stretched between the doorway and his customary chair near the window. Nearly half of what had been a fine Turkish rug was covered by the sprawling form of a large tan dog whose enormous feet indicated it still had a great deal of growing to do.
“Has she?” He dropped onto one knee to scratch the dog’s ears with his left hand, while the right snatched away her plaything. “Now, Elf, my girl. We both know Remy has decidedly poor taste in footwear, but you mustn’t keep tormenting him about it.” As Gabriel held up what remained of the shoe, now dripping with slobber, Remington regarded both master and dog with an uncharacteristically fastidious shudder. “Remember, he only agreed to let me bring you here after I gave him his ticket to leave, and if we are too bad, he might just decide to use it.” He dropped his voice lower, as if taking the dog in confidence. “I confess I did not write him a glowing character, for I did not wish it to go to his head, but I suspect he’s more than capable of forging a better one.”
Remington only arched one brow. “If you are quite through, my lord? You have a visitor.”
“In broad afternoon? Surely Foxy has better things to occupy—”
“It is not Mr. Fox, my lord. I’ve taken the liberty of letting her in.”
Her?
With the slightest tip of his head, Remy stepped to the side, and the doorway now framed a slender, bespectacled woman with raven hair.
“Camellia.”
He was quite certain he must be hallucinating, until Elf lumbered to her feet and began to snuffle around the apparition’s hems. Camellia did not flinch—more proof she was a product of his wayward imagination. He reached out one hand to catch the dog’s collar, discovered he was still holding the battered, slobber-coated shoe, and dropped it. Delighted at the unexpected return of her plaything, Elf snatched it up and resumed her prior occupation.
So many times in the weeks since he’d left Dublin, he’d been on the point of throwing caution to the wind and going back to her. Then he would remember: She had made her choice. A wise woman, as he’d once said. Too wise to plan a future with him.
Still kneeling, hand outstretched, Gabriel held his breath when Camellia reached out and
