“An apology, a retraction, and a name. I am Kynaston.”
Again a swallow, but then the man smirked. “If you can prove that anything I’ve printed is untrue, my lord, I will certainly apologize and retract.”
“My word should suffice.”
“Not for my readers, my lord.”
Kynaston slammed his furled umbrella down onto the mess on the desk, stirring a cloud of dust and something that scurried away.
Yarby shot to his feet. “None of that, my lord! The days are gone where the likes of you can threaten the press.”
“If you believe that, you’re a fool. If you don’t print a groveling retraction, you’ll next see me in court, and I’ll sue you for every penny you have and more. You’ll end up in the Fleet, and I’ll see this place torn down. Now, the name. What’s the source of your lie?”
“Don’t know. Truly, my lord! Anonymous letter.”
“Show me.”
Yarby scrabbled among the papers on his desk, discarding most onto the floor, and then snatched one. “Here it is, my lord. If it’s a lie, you can’t blame me.”
Kynaston didn’t bother to respond to that. He took the letter and read the words. Yarby had printed them almost exactly. Of course there was no signature, but when he turned the letter to see the address, he saw the man had signed it there to pay for delivery, and he shook his head.
Idiotic Lord Inching had franked the letter.
He folded it and put it in his pocket, then left without another word.
The newspaper office was located some distance from Mayfair, but he chose to walk back, even in the rain, in part to work off some of his simmering fury, but also in order to think.
He’d not led a virtuous life, nor one free of notoriety, but he’d never before been involved in this sort of scandal. The wrong reaction could fan the flames, and the one to suffer most would be Lady Ariana.
He searched his conscience. Had he done anything to precipitate disaster? In fact, yes, if anyone had known of that hot corridor kiss, but not in Peake’s cellar.
It was as if the universe were intent on making him suffer. He deserved that, but not at another woman’s expense.
He should put an announcement in the papers.Warning to all women! Keep your distance from the Earl of Kynaston or be caught with him in the wrath of heaven!
Lady Ariana should have been warned. She was magnificent, but part of her magnificence was her caring heart and a streak of powerful determination. She caredabout the fate of her home, and was set on a trip to the altar to save it. He’d berated his aunt for some of her selections, but she’d argued reasonably enough that she hadn’t known that Churston disliked clever women—or, indeed, that Ariana was a bluestocking—or that Arranbury was opposed to drink. Now Ariana was left only with Sellerden, but he should suit her well enough—as long as Kynaston hadn’t ruined everything with that kiss.
That kiss.
Had he truly wanted to teach her something, or merely to kiss her? He’d needed to kiss her from that time in the library, but he’d thought it drink-insanity then. The impulse had never left him, however. Perhaps it never would.
He dragged his mind from impossibilities to the service he could do her now. This mess must be sorted out and leave her blameless.
He wanted to thrash Inching, but it would be more suitable to call him out. That itself would be a new scandal, however, especially with their differing heights. The cartoonists would make hay of that, and though his reputation wouldn’t be dented by notoriety, Ariana could be ruined.
That brought to mind that cruel cartoon from years ago, of Ariana, enormous in her box, surrounded by midgets. He hoped she’d not seen it, but probably she had. A popular cartoon could be printed off in thousands and displayed in shopwindows all around London. Even if she’d avoided seeing it that way, people shared such things with the targets—all in sympathy, of course, and because they “needed to know.”
Sometimes—frequently—the world disgusted him.
Perhaps it was time to grasp the nettle and visit hisestates. Phyllis had not spared him in her description of the problems at Delacorte and his steward’s shortcomings, but his spirit still shrank from it. He’d already rid himself of the town house, but he could hardly shed Delacorte, even if the entail allowed. The house had been his family’s home for centuries.
If only he’d not returned to England.
With a sublime piece of misprognostication, his aunt had commanded him to return in time for the celebrations of the birth of the next in line to the throne. As an earl, she’d written, he must be present to represent the house of Delacorte. That, added to Phyllis’s pleas, had brought him back—to be assaulted by tragedy and embroiled in this protracted mourning.
Since then, he’d not attended to much except the brandy glass.
Until recently, when Lady Ariana Boxstall had entered his life.
