‘I’m not pretending?—’
‘Are you not? You get admiration from your favourite opera performers by stealing another woman’s reputation, even making claims for her next work. What happens if that gets back to her? She might already have another novel about to come out… What if someone influential like Madame Catalani claims she is disappointed that it wasn’t the story she was expecting, or Mr Incledon says the authoress herself had promised but not delivered?’
‘You are taking this too seriously.’ Miss Austen folded her hands and stared out at the passing trees of Hyde Park.
‘Only someone who has never had to worry about where their next meal is coming from would say that.’
Miss Austen snorted, adding fuel to Dora’s temper.
‘What if the writer is depending on her literary success for her living?’
‘Few people can earn enough from writing to live on.’
‘That’s what your sort think. All the people you know have safety nets spread under the tightrope; nearly everyone I know will break their necks if they fall because there is nothing to catch them.’
‘What an excellent image,’ murmured Miss Austen, but that only further inflamed Dora’s temper. ‘Like Lucy Steele, the unprotected female stealing Elinor’s chance, morality go hang, because she is desperate.’
‘This isn’t a story! You can’t go stealing someone’s reputation without a thought of what it means for them. I regret I agreed to let you come.’
Her piece said, Dora folded her arms and glared at the back of the cab horse. Miss Austen would likely leap out and complain to her brother at her treatment and get them thrown off the job they had been given. She wouldn’t mind, pleased to be shot of the annoying Austens, but Jacob would feel his honour had been impugned.
Blast. The client had to be humoured. She was going to have to apologise, wasn’t she?
Before she could speak, Miss Austen cleared her throat.
‘Thank you.’
‘Thank you for what?’ grumbled Dora.
‘For caring about the writer’s reputation. I will be more circumspect in future. My excuse is that my excitement at meeting the opera singers made my tongue run away with me. I wanted them to approve of me.’
‘I can understand that.’ She felt herself relenting a little.
‘It is far more exciting to be the mysterious writer of a novel than plain Miss Jane Austen from Hampshire.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with being…’ Dora struggled for a polite way of saying an ordinary woman from a village.
‘Being a spinster whose brothers and sister-in-law are much more interesting than she is? Miss Fitz-Pennington, I know whatI am and how others see me. Occasionally, it is pleasant to surprise people to be something else, someone of note.’
‘You’re talking to an actress. I know all about worrying where one’s name appears on the billing.’
‘I imagine you do. Families are the same. I’m not expecting you to like me, or even understand me, but I do think we can work well together if you allow it.’ She held out her slim gloved hand. ‘Are we agreed?’
Dora hesitated, running back through what they had said and realising her main issue had not been addressed. ‘Will you misrepresent our findings to save your brother’s bank?’
Miss Austen pursed her lips. ‘I am more likely to be silent on the subject than lie about it.’
‘That’s not an answer.’
Miss Austen sighed and dropped her hand. ‘I suppose it is not.’
Arriving at Barnes, they descended from the cab and sent the jarvey on his way with a handsome tip. Dora had a quick word with a crossing sweeper and then headed for the nearest tavern, the White Hart. According to the lad, the inquest had taken place in the inn and it was likely the landlord would be taking a personal interest in the case, not least because talking about it would drive customers to his taproom. The sweeper had earned himself sixpence with that intelligence.
Miss Austen trailed in her wake.
Dora went up to the bar and tapped a shilling on the counter in front of the russet-haired pub landlord, his face and hands speckled with freckles to match his locks. One of his eyes wandered, giving him a boss-eyed gaze. He wouldn’t be winningany prizes in a beauty contest. ‘A glass of gin and information please.’ She turned to her companion. ‘What’s your poison?’ She knew her tone lacked civility, but irritation had that effect on her.
‘A little wine wouldn’t go amiss.’ Miss Austen’s tone was humble, but Dora wasn’t buying what she was selling.
