“You know why everything is covered. We are renovating.”
“Are you? I thought you stopped all that after Marina died. The refurbishments were her idea, after all.”
“I have put off the plans for this floor. The men are working upstairs for the present, finishing the guest rooms.” He gestured behind himself. “But I can’t leave that gaping hole open between the library and drawing room forever.”
His brother’s eyes glinted. “Like a wound refusing to heal?”
Frederick frowned.
“Look, I can’t stay here again,” Thomas announced. “Not with these paint fumes and all this dust flying about. I left here with a rattling cough after Christmas. Let’s stay at the abbey—a birthday treat for you and a little holiday for us both. What do you say?”
Hammering started up again from above, making Frederick’s headache all the worse.
“Come on,” Thomas wheedled. “You are holding the canal meeting there anyway. Besides, when is the last time you’ve spent a few nights away from this place?”
And from all the memories it holds ...Frederick silently added. “Very well. Assuming they have rooms.”
Thomas beamed. “Excellent. You won’t regret it. We shall have a merry time.”
Frederick highly doubted it.
In the morning, while Rebecca was still asleep on the sitting-room sofa, her brother burst from his room with a stack of pages in hand.
“It’s fate you’re here now, Becky.”
Startled awake, Rebecca surveyed her brother’s unkempt appearance and fevered gaze. “Have you even slept?”
He shook his head, greasy dark hair flopping over his forehead. “Up working and thinking all night, and I’ve decided. You are the perfect person to place my new manuscript into his hands.”
Confusion pinched. “What?”
“I’ve tried sending it to other publishers directly, and they all rejected it. Most without reading it. ‘Declined by Return of Post’! My only chance is if Oliver will recommend it tohispublisher.”
Rebecca struggled up into a sitting position. “But would he? Considering your history with him?”
“Rose made a clean copy for me. He doesn’t have to know it’s my work until he passes it on to his publisher. We’ll use a pen name.”
Rebecca considered the plan and felt her brow furrow. “Will Mr. Edgecombe be at the hotel too? I met him that day, we—” She broke off, not wanting to remind John of that unhappy scene, and instead said, “Perhaps I might give the manuscript to him directly?”
John shook his head. “William Edgecombe died over a year ago. His brother, Thaddeus, has taken over, and he doesn’t accept unsolicited manuscripts either.”
“Then, might we not work on Mr. Oliver’s sympathies—remind him what he owes you?”
John sat on the sofa near her feet. “No, Becky. Do not mention me. You know it will put him on his guard. He’d probably burn it out of spite.”
“Or steal it,” Rebecca muttered.
“Maybe. But if I want to risk my own work, that’s my decision.” John’s eyes gleamed. “And if he does steal it again, we’ll be prepared this time. We have a copy and Rose has read it. Perhaps you might read a few chapters as well, as you failed to do before. Then it would not be my word against his.”
Remorse stabbed her. His fall from the tree was not the only injury she felt responsible for.
“There are no other options,” John went on, voice rising. “This is the only way.”
Rebecca didn’t trust Ambrose Oliver and couldn’t believe her brother would either. Moderating her tone, she said, “I don’t think it would be wise to—”
“Stop!” he interjected. “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand. I know far more about publishing than you do.”
Rebecca bit back a retort, realizing he was working himself into one of his fits of pique.
