Arthur turned to the hoarse-sounding voice. Phineas, the dogged reporter, entered the mews. The man leaned against a wall with one of his trademark Hessian boots lifted onto the stall rail. “Are you sure you have to leave now? I could buy you a brandy, and we could chat.”
Trying to ignore the hound, Arthur worked on his horse, checking the harness, tugging each ring and each strap. At his flat in Cheapside, Jonesy would do it, but away from there, he needed to be careful. Someone against his message of abolition might play tricks or create sabotage. He tightened the backhand and bellyband around his silver gelding. “I have an appointment, Phineas.”
The man came to the other side of his gig. “A late-night rehearsal? Or a rendezvous? I hear it’s not uncommon for men of the theater to keep numerous mistresses.”
Phineas was an irritant, one who’d successfully become a burr in Arthur’s saddle. The man wouldn’t quit digging. “You should know. You follow me everywhere. Take a break from this chase and go interview the countess again. She’s always ready for gossip.”
The reporter started to laugh. “Oh, you saw my article in last week’s paper. Mighty interesting, your being involved with a woman for two years and yet she knows nothing of your past.”
Arthur hated that the woman had again tried to make a headline out of him, a year past their break. A woman who wouldn’t seek scandal was what he needed. His quick gamble to marry the shy Miss Croome was looking better. “Phineas, why not report on matters like slavery in the colonies and help stop all the blasted slave ships that still roam the seas? That’s a worthier fight to take on than the private life of an actor. Go fight wrongs. Do good.”
The reporter chuckled. “Finding out the sins of famous men is what I do. You know those make the front page. That’s what people want to read.”
Tired of games, Arthur drew in a breath and readied his sore knuckles to come to blows. “If you have something to accuse me of, say it. The newspapers print sinful lies. They need to be sued.”
Pushing away until he backed into the rails, Phineas frowned. “I have nothing yet. But there is a great deal of smoke about you, Gunpowder. No one had heard of you before your acting debut. You have no family or lifelong friends. No pretty little wife to talk of your good points. No children. You’re in your late thirties, right?”
Barely thirty-four, but he’d not say that. Giving Phineas any detail could give the dog new life on his digging. Yet, what the man said was true. There was no one to attest to anything good or bad about him, except Jonesy, and most would discount the boy because of his disfigurement. Arthur had lost all connections when he had righted a horrible wrong, but no one fretted about those details when hunting juicy tidbits. “Over thirty. And I have not had the fortune to marry.”Yet.
Phineas’s lips drew to a circle. “Pretty peculiar to be at this point in your life with no one to attest to your goodness. You do like women, Bex.”
“I do. I also prefer solitude. It helps to perfect my craft. Why are you pestering me? Is there a sister or niece you wish me to meet? I’m very picky but could keep them both entertained.”
That got to Phineas because the man frowned, and his beak nose flared. “I have a gripe. Your debut, the starring role that made you—do you remember it?”
Arthur looked up at the sky, his heart pounding with the memory of taking the stage. The role of Hamlet wrapped about him. “Yes. It was a character meant for me.”
“It was my brother’s.” Phineas pounded his fist into the post. “He’s now reduced to bit parts.”
Arthur rent his frockcoat open. “Then he shouldn’t have been so drunk on opening night.”
“So, yes. This reporting started as revenge, but my articles have added to my readership. Now, I’m more than curious. Give me your story, Bex. Be cooperative. I could make your interview in print be more forgiving. It’s obvious you’re hiding something. Confess to me. It’ll make the medicine less painful.”
“I am neither sick or stupid. I want to be left alone.”
“A man in your position with no family or connections is rare. You should take care. Someone could make things up, and not a soul would be able to come to your defense.”
Arthur fisted his hand. “Phineas, I’d be careful if I were you.”
“Is that why your knuckles are red?”
The drunk from the cellar had come back at him after the young woman left, saying all types of crass things—slave-lover, fancy-thief, or the oddest one, accusing of him of wanting tar-water kisses. Arthur flexed his stinging fingers but reined himself in from slamming his fist into the reporter’s face. “I don’t take kindly to threats, or to people who threaten those under my protection.”
“Who is under your protection? Was boxing in your past?”
Arthur stepped up upon his phaeton and bowed in dramatic fashion, as if he were leaving the stage. “This interview is over. Chase one of the folks in Parliament who are standing in the way of justice for a scandal. Write on freeing men in our colonies—then we’ll have more to speak of.”
“No, I’ll stick with smoke, Gunpowder.”
Gripping the reins, Arthur pushed his hat down. “Good evening, Phineas.”
“When you’re ready to confess, Bex, I’ll be around.”
Arthur’s uncle would say something about ticks latching on to a dog’s coat. Arthur didn’t like ticks, Phineas, or memories of his uncle. “You’ll be waiting a long time.”
“Time is my friend. What is that actor’s line about truth outing?”
Stewing, Arthur made his horse race forward, away from the determined reporter. He didn’t want the man to follow him to the stables where Arthur would lease a second horse for the trip to Gretna. He couldn’t afford the man asking questions that would lead to Miss Croome, especially when Arthur wasn’t sure if she’d actually elope with him.
