She swallowed and reached for the second, much thicker envelope.
Edgecombe sat back with a sigh. “I admit I am relieved. When you handed me pages, I feared you were going to ask me to read a manuscript. You cannot imagine how wearying it is to be a publisher. Everyone wants me to read their prosy twaddle, sure they’ll be the next Defoe or Burney. People hand me their manuscripts so often, I don’t even read them anymore. I use them for kindling. These days I only consider work recommended to me by one of our own authors.”
Rebecca snatched back her hand, leaving the larger envelope where it was. She straightened, cheeks heating at the thought of how humiliated she’d have been if she had handed it to him. The thought of him burning all those hard-written, handwritten pages!
Rebecca licked dry lips. “Your brother published Mr. Oliver’s last few novels, is that right?”
Sadness lit his eyes. “That’s right. I inherited the firm upon his death. Before that, I worked as a solicitor.”
She made herself hold his gaze. “I was sorry to hear of your loss.”
His nostrils flared as he drew a long inhale. “Thank you.”
She hesitated, realizing she needed to tread carefully. How much did he know? His brother, William, had threatened John with a defamation suit, and promised to make sure he never worked in publishing again if he continued to slander Ambrose Oliver. John could not afford to pay any amount of damages, let alone to have access to all respectable publishers closed to him.
She slowly asked, “Were you aware of the ... details of Mr. Oliver’s last book?”
His eyes narrowed. “What details?”
Was it a trap? Would repeating the accusations trigger the long-threatened action for libel?
She hedged, “Your brother engaged John as Mr. Oliver’s secretary, to help with dictation and the like, as I mentioned. Do you know why your brother gave John a small settlement even after Mr. Oliver insisted he be dismissed?”
Thaddeus Edgecombe gave an unconcerned shrug. “I imagine it was because he believed he’d earned it. Working for Ambrose Oliver cannot have been easy, as my brother learned to his detriment.”
“No, it was not, asmybrother learned to the detriment of his own writing career. Mr. Oliver took advantage of John’s trust and talent. You could say Mr. Oliver’s last book would not have been written without John, and I am talking about far more than dictation and clean copies.”
He gave her a hard stare, then slowly slid the first envelope back across the table to her. “I regret I cannot be of more help.”
Say it, Rebecca told herself. Push for John’s rights. Ask, no, demand that he publish John’s new book. Or, at a minimum, read it. Certainly Edgecombe & Co. owed him that much.
As she sat there vacillating, he stood and curtly bowed his farewell. He started to walk away, then turned back. “If you are referring to John Lane’s claim that he wrote Mr. Oliver’s last book, I hope we can agree thatifthere had been anything owed to him, it has been paid in full by the settlement your brother accepted. And I trust you will not raise the topic with me or anyone else again. For doing so would be violating the injunction against him.”
So he does know.A nervous lump rose in Rebecca’s throat. Had she said too much? Done more harm than good? Would he warn Mr. Oliver against her?
Edgecombe went on, “Furthermore, I insist that you not ... disturb ... Mr. Oliver with a repetition of old grievances which would be disgusting to him, not to mention an unwelcome distraction and waste of time. I will not have his concentration broken by a reminder of past unpleasantness.”
Past unpleasantness?Was that all it was to them? A man’s life ruined? His work stolen? His dreams dashed? At least, she hoped this meant he would not mention her to the author to avoid breaking his precious concentration.
“Have I made myself clear?” Edgecombe asked.
Rebecca choked down bile and a furious rebuttal. Shouting would not help their cause, although that was exactly what she wanted to do. She rose, nodded, and turned away, biting the inside of her cheek to stem the exasperated words and tears.
She strode into the passage, longing to retreat to her room. Instead she ran smack into the chest of Frederick Wilford.
“Oh!”
He caught her by the elbows. “Steady on, Miss Lane. Are you all right?”
“Forgive me. I was not looking where I was going.”
He studied her face in concern. “What has happened? What’s wrong?”
“I ... had an unpleasant encounter—that is all. I am well. Or will be.”
He looked past her into the hall. “Did that man say something to upset you? Or insult you?”
She shook her head and stepped back, although a part of her longed to throw her arms around him and cry out her woes. “Not directly, no. Never mind.”
