“Of course, my lord.” Newman sidled his way along the wall of the small room, ensuring he faced Matthew at all times until he was behind his desk. While shooting quick, nervous glances Matthew’s way, he opened the top drawer of the tall cabinet in the corner and removed a folder. He placed it on his desk, then backed away and nodded at it. “It is the most recent document, my lord. There to the front.”
What a bloody coward.Matthew opened the file and stared down at the letter written on Fortuity’s favorite stationery. He read it, then flipped it over. What a poor fraud, but it had served its nefarious purpose. Not only was it not written in Fortuity’s hand, but neither did it bear her former Broadmere seal nor theRavenglass seal, which his beloved wife always took great pride in using, rather than simply tucking a letter within its own folds and sealing it with a plain wax wafer.
He tossed the forgery back onto the desk. “My wife did not write that letter.”
Newman’s coloring diminished considerably, and he appeared to clutch the book tightly to his chest. “Are you quite certain, my lord?” Perhaps she simply wished to surprise you.”
Matthew slammed his fist on top of the offensive paper. “That is not her hand. Compare it to the manuscript, you bloody oaf, and see it with your own eyes.”
The man opened and closed his mouth like a fish yanked from the water. He alternately stared at the letter on the desk, then eyed Matthew.
“Do it, man!” Ready to lunge over the desk and shake the fool until his teeth rattled loose, Matthew fought for control as he pounded his fist on the letter again. “See for your bloody self.”
Newman hurried to nod and turned back to the same cabinet, opening the bottom drawer this time and drawing out a thick sheaf of papers tied together with the same sort of twine that had sealed the parcel bearing the completed copy of the book. He cut away the strings, shuffled through a few of the sheets, and studied them alongside the fake letter. “It appears you are quite correct, my lord,” he said quietly before looking up and adding, “I am so very sorry.”
“Repair this.” Teetering on the brink of uncontrollable rage, Matthew bared his teeth. “Immediately.”
The publisher lifted his trembling hands with a pitiful shrug. “How, my lord? Copies were delivered to libraries and every bookshop in London and beyond earlier this week. Your copy was inadvertently sent late, and for that, I most heartily apologize. Some have surely already found their way into reader’s hands.” He sadly shook his head. “I fear the damageis done. If we were to attempt to collect every copy sent out, reprint the book, and reissue it, word of the cruel scheme would get out and be the talk of theton, possibly causing your wife’s future works irreparable harm. All we can do now to save her reputation as a talented writer is claim this book was a marketing ploy to introduce her work without the bias against female authors overshadowing it.”
Matthew sagged down into the nearest chair and dropped his head into his hands. Heaven help him, what a bloody mess. The soundness of Newman’s logic was not lost on him, but how in the devil would he ever explain it to his beloved Fortuity? Eleanor and Olandra’s escapades had already worn her patience and good nature to the snapping point—made her physically ill, in fact. He lifted his head and glared at that damnable letter. There was only one individual who could have done this. He rose from the chair, picked up the forgery, and studied it one last time before folding it and tucking it away inside his waistcoat.
With a glare he knew would terrorize the publisher, he said, “In future, all of my wife’s books shall bear her name:Lady Fortuity Abarough Ravenglass. Is that understood?”
Newman nodded. “Understood, my lord. And if perchance any letters are received requesting changes, no changes will be made before personally confirming the adjustments with yourself and your wife.”
“Very good, Mr. Newman.” Without waiting for additional pleasantries from the publisher, Matthew charged out of the office and into his coach. “Home, Mr. Turnmaster, and once there, keep the carriage ready. We will have need of it within the hour.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
As soon as they reached the townhouse, Matthew loped up the steps and headed straight for his office, not pausing for a word to any servants or animals. Rage had his blood roaring inhis ears. The closer he drew to the proof he sought and intended to use for sentencing the culprit, the harder his heart pounded.
He yanked open the bottom drawer of his desk, dug through an orderly stack of letters, then selected one of them and spread it open in front of him. He pulled out the letter that had been sent to the publisher and compared the two. Just as he’d thought. The handwriting was, without a doubt, the same.
Rather than bellow with rage and shatter the quiet of the townhouse, he yanked on the bellpull, then returned to his chair behind his desk.
Thebson appeared at the doorway almost immediately. “Yes, my lord?”
“Escort Miss Sykesbury to my office. Immediately.” Matthew fisted his hands so tightly that his knuckles popped. “And inform her maid to pack her belongings, under the supervision of one our maids. Miss Sykesbury will depart for Bombay on the East India Company’s next ship. Hastings owes me a favor.” He scratched out a quick note on his formal stationery, sealed it with the Ravenglass insignia, and gave it to the butler. “Have Thomas deliver this to their port office at once.”
Thebson nodded. “Yes, my lord.”
Matthew leaned back in his chair, grazing his fingertips across the stubble of his chin as he glared at the closed office door. His cousin Agnus would not be pleased, but so be it. It was time her daughter Eleanor reaped what she sowed and returned to where he should have left her when she had written requesting sanctuary from the marriage her father’s family had arranged. The Sykesburys could bloody well have their granddaughter back now to do with whatever they wished. May God have mercy on their souls and shield them from Eleanor’s evil.
Eleanor burst into his office without knocking, the color riding high on her cheeks. “What has come over you, cousin? I am not returning to Bombay.”
He glared at her, knowing that his silent scowl would infuriate her even more.
“You promised Mama to help me find a husband here in London.”
“And how have you thanked me for that courtesy, Eleanor? How have you shown your appreciation for your rescue not only from my enraged parish in the country but also from India?”
She tossed her dark head and squared her shoulders, scowling at him as if sizing him up for battle.
Good.He was ready for a battle.
“Mama and I have expressed our gratitude many times,” she said while jutting her chin higher.
“Yes. I suppose you have.” He leaned forward. “You placed me in a compromising situation with a dear lady that ended in a marriage she is still attempting to adjust to. You sell information to the gossip sheets to make her adjustment to the marriage even more difficult, and then you ruin her lifelong dream by forging a letter to her publisher and changing the authorship of her book. Your definition of gratitude needs correcting, dear cousin, and correct it I bloody well shall.”
