He looked up at her at last, then squinted—a deep creaseconnecting his brows. “You’re new,” he murmured, clearly not pleased about this interruption in routine.
“Yes.” She took a deep breath, pulled the manuscript from under her arm, and held it out to him. “And I entreat you most earnestly to ask your publisher to read this manuscript. He won’t accept any submissions unless one of his authors recommends it.”
Ambrose Oliver growled and threw up his inky hands. “Now even the chambermaids are penning novels and begging me to get them published! Is there no peace for me? No place a man can avoid desperate quill-drivers?” He sat back hard and ran a jaded gaze over her. “In truth, I am surprised you can read, let alone think you’ve written a work of literature worthy of Edgecombe’s attention, let alone mine.”
“I believe it is.”
“Bah! I don’t know whether to be impressed or offended. ‘Cheeky’ doesn’t begin to describe you. Good thing you are pretty or I would call for Sergeant George and send you packing—have you sacked as well.”
She bit her lip to keep from retorting that she didn’t work there, knowing she should conceal her identity to have any chance of securing his help.
“Please, sir. Simply ask Mr. Edgecombe to read it.”
“Is it a novel or poetry or what?”
“A novel. And if he doesn’t think it worthy of publication, so be it. You will never see me again.”
He narrowed his eyes in searing scrutiny. “You look familiar to me. Have we met?”
“No.”
“Yet you do seem familiar....”
Rebecca swallowed. Had he seen her from a distance as she had seen him? Or was he observing a family resemblance? Sheand John did resemble one another slightly, she knew. But surely with spectacles and her hair hidden under the mobcap he would not guess.
She lifted her chin. “Will you help?”
“Why should I? What’s in it for me?”
Forgiveness and redemption, Rebecca thought.The chance to right a wrong.But she could say none of those things without revealing or at least hinting at the author’s true identity.
Instead she said, “Because it might very well save a life.”
“Mine? Is that a threat?”
She sucked in a shocked breath. “Heavens, no! That is not what I meant.”
He set down his quill and eyed her. “You could make it worth my while....” His gaze moved from her face down her neck to her bodice, clearly trying to make out the figure beneath the shapeless frock and apron.
Mr. George had been right. Mr. Oliver didn’t have a sort. Any female would do.
But not her. That was a line she would not cross. Not even for John.
“What is your name?” he asked, setting aside the lap desk and rising. He stood to his full, impressive, intimidating height.
Rebecca took a step back. “I had better go.”
A rap of knuckles shook the door. “Mr. Oliver? Everything all right in there?”
Mr. George.
Would the author detain her? Make good on his threat to send her packing? He could not have her sacked, but he could definitely have her thrown out of the hotel and disgraced in Sir Frederick’s eyes as well as Lady Fitzhoward’s.
“Please,” she whispered, forcing herself to keep her head high and hold his piercing gaze.
His dark eyes gleamed with speculation. “You have certainly aroused my attention.”
“I’m all right,” he called through the door, then turned back to her, impudent humor quirking his mouth. “May I at least have a cup of coffee before you go?”
