Page 24 of The Truth About Love and Dukes

“But the paper is my life! I have no desire to be introduced into your set, and certainly not to marry into it!”

“Frankly, Miss Deverill, what you desire is of little consequence to me at this moment.”

Frustrated, trapped, Irene tried a different tack. “This is absurd! How can I possibly persuade your mother to go against the very advice I gave her?”

“That, I leave to your ingenuity. My mother has agreed to return home until her wedding, and I have arranged for you and your sister to come to stay with us during that time. With my mother and sister-in-law there, you and your sister will be suitably chaperoned, and I have two unmarried sisters as well, so you will not lack for company and amusements.”

“You expect me to stay in your house?” Irene stared at him, appalled by the very idea. “For a fortnight?”

“Yes. That will provide you with many opportunities to use your powers of persuasion on my mother. No one will be told of our little bargain.”

“Including my father? If I succeed, his hopes for me and Clara, hopes you put into his head, shall be crushed, for I doubt any reconciliation with my mother’s family would continue if I were to remain editor of a scandal sheet.”

“You and Viscount Ellesmere shall have to work that out between you. As for your father, he will be adequately compensated. The ten percent fee is already in trust for him should you succeed and keep your paper.”

“Compensation or no, you are offering him false hope for a reconciliation with my mother’s family. He does not deserve that.”

“Does he not?” Torquil leaned forward in his chair, folding his hands over the document on her desk. “Miss Deverill, let us speak plainly. Your father drinks.”

Irene’s hands curled into fists beneath her desk, her cheeks afire. Not only was this man making her appreciate that she possessed a temper, he was also teaching her just how deeply she could resent another human soul. “My, my,” she managed. “Your private detectives have been busy, haven’t they?”

“I didn’t need detectives to provide that information, merely my own eyes. During the hour I spent discussing this business with him this afternoon, your father consumed an entire bottle of brandy and opened a second one.”

Anger and shame roiled inside her in equal measure. “My father’s . . . fondness for brandy is hardly the point—”

“It is also public knowledge that your grandfather’s newspaper business, once highly successful, was forced into bankruptcy due to your father’s mismanagement.”

“There are reasons for that—”

“Of course. As I said, he drinks. My point is that he has failed in his primary duty as a man, which is to protect and care for his family. In consequence, I cannot feel much compassion for him, and I shall certainly feel no guilt over crushing his hopes, as you put it.”

“You are also deceiving your own relations, including your mother. Have you no guilt there?”

“It is a deceit, I grant you, a deceit of omission.”

“A lie of omission is still a lie!”

He moved in his chair and looked away, indicating that perhaps that shot had gone home. But when he looked at her again, any notion that she’d pricked his conscience might just as well have been a figment of her imagination. “It is regrettable, but I do not see any other way. If my mother knew I had tendered an offer to buy your father’s newspaper, she would never believe it was simply for investment purposes. She would instantly become suspicious, and any efforts you made to change her mind about Foscarelli would ultimately be futile. I cannot afford the scruple of forthright truth.”

“Quite a moral dilemma for you.”

If he perceived the sarcasm, he ignored it. “Only you, your father, and I—and your sister, if you choose to make her aware—shall know about this purchase offer. If you tell anyone else what we have discussed, or reveal anything about the situation of my mother and the Italian, I will execute the terms of this agreement at once, and your editorship of this newspaper will end immediately. I hope that is clear?”

“Perfectly.” Irene’s jaw was clenched so tight, she could barely utter words. “What will you tell your relations?”

He shrugged. “I went to see your father in high dungeon over this Lady Truelove column, and came away appalled by Ellesmere’s shameful neglect of his granddaughters and aware of your father’s attempts at reconciliation. I was happy to offer my assistance in brokering a peace.”

“Out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Your father loathes owning a scandal sheet and would happily shut it down if he knew his daughters would be well-regarded by their relations. Ridding London of a scandal sheet that prints gossip about my family is an endeavor in which I am quite happy to assist, and a circumstance most of my family would not lament.”

That was probably the unvarnished truth. She swallowed hard. “It seems you have it all planned out.”

“Yes. But the choice of whether or not to carry out this plan rests with you.”

That contention provoked her beyond bearing. “Choice?” she echoed, jumping to her feet. “It’s a Hobson’s choice, which means no choice at all. And how is my newspaper to function for the next two weeks while I am gallivanting around London, being introduced to your acquaintances?”

“That is another thing I shall leave to your ingenuity. If Society Snippets ceases to function during your absence, I will not bemoan the fact.” He took up that horrid purchase agreement and rose to his feet. “Two weeks is not much time,” he added as he replaced the papers in his portfolio. “So I suggest you and your sister come to us as soon as you have made your arrangements here. Around teatime, shall we say?”

---