Page 5 of The Truth About Love and Dukes

“The paper may not be the same sort of publication you began placing advertisements in twenty years ago,” she said in her most placating tone of voice, “and the content may no longer be to your taste. Or mine,” she added hastily as he opened his mouth to give his opinion on that score yet again. “But neither of us can deny the results. Circulation has risen 300 percent since the changes to our editorial content were implemented ten months ago.”

Clara gave a little cough. “Three hundred and twenty-seven percent, to be exact.”

Irene lifted her hands in a self-evident gesture. “There you are. Shaw’s Liver Pills must surely see the benefit of such a massive increase in our readership. More people are seeing your advertisements than ever before—”

“We cater to a certain class of clientele.” He drew himself up with injured dignity. “The people who now read your publication are not the sort we desire as our customers.”

Irene could not understand what difference it made to Shaw’s what class of clientele purchased their liver pills as long as those pills were paid for in ready money, but she knew it wouldn’t do to say so. Before she could decide how best to proceed, Mr. Shaw spoke again.

“Our annual advertising contract is coming up for renegotiation, and I feel that before we can do that, the problems I see must be addressed.”

“Of course,” Irene agreed. “What is it you wish me to do?”

“Do? Do?” Mr. Shaw’s eyes bulged as if he couldn’t believe she’d asked such a preposterous question. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Not to me,” Irene answered truthfully. “How can I alleviate your concerns?”

“Return the newspaper to the way it used to be, of course.”

Irene cast her mind back five years, to her grandfather’s death and her father’s attempts to run Deverill Publishing on his own. Those attempts had been dismally unsuccessful, for her father had a serious fondness for brandy and no talent for business. As a result, the prosperous enterprise built by the two previous generations of Deverill men had collapsed with breathtaking speed. Within four years, their entire income had been obliterated, the publishing offices on Fleet Street forced to close, and most of the presses and equipment sold at auction for a fraction of their value. Their home on Belford Row, their only remaining property, had been mortgaged to pay debts.

It was at that point that Irene, well aware from managing the household just how precarious their financial situation had become, decided something must be done. Insisting that her father take care of his health and leave the worries of the business behind, she had taken over the Weekly Gazette, the only remaining vestige of her grandfather’s once-vast newspaper empire. With much grumbling from her parent, she had moved Deverill Publishing into the family library, added a door to the street, and turned her father’s study into her office. She had then changed the name of the paper from the Weekly Gazette to Society Snippets and transformed it into a scandal sheet. In less than a year, thanks to Lady Truelove and a few other inventions of Irene’s imagination, the paper had become a raging success, the family business had been saved, and the days of irate tradesmen, demanding creditors, and perpetual skimping on coal and butter were over.

Mr. Shaw might—for reasons she couldn’t fathom—wish to return to a time when her little weekly had discussed “serious and important events of East and Central London,” but she vastly preferred a profitable publication, a household that could pay its bills, and a tidy nest egg in the bank. Irene thought of the 327 percent rise in the paper’s circulation and reminded herself there were other advertisers besides Shaw’s Liver Pills.

“I’m afraid,” she said, giving Mr. Shaw her prettiest smile, “what you are asking for is not possible.”

The bulging eyes narrowed. “Perhaps it would be best if I spoke with Mr. Deverill about this.”

Her smile faltered a little. “That’s not possible either. My father is ill, you see.”

“Ill?”

“Quite ill,” she added, reminding herself that wasn’t really a lie. To her way of thinking, if a man spent most of his time in an inebriated condition, he was suffering from an illness.

“Your brother, then. Surely Jonathan Deverill must now be in charge, if your father is ill.”

“My brother is out of the country. Since finishing at university, he has been . . . ahem . . . seeing the world.”

That was, she supposed, the best way of putting it. No need to mention that Jonathan and Papa were not on speaking terms, and hadn’t been for three years now.

Mr. Shaw’s gooseberry-green eyes narrowed. “Then, we are back where we started. I shall need to speak with your father. I really must insist.”

Irene stiffened.

“Uh-oh,” Clara murmured, perceiving the telltale movement. “That’s done it.”

With an effort, Irene kept her smile in place. “Shaw’s has been advertising with our newspapers for many years with great success. Like my father and grandfather before me, I have always regarded your company as our most valued and important client.” She paused, waiting until she saw the gleam of satisfaction in the eyes of the man across from her before she spoke again.

“But,” she went on as she rose to her feet, “I believe it might be time for both of us to reevaluate the strength of that relationship.”

“I beg your pardon?” His astonishment would have been amusing if it wasn’t about to cost her the newspaper’s greatest source of revenue. “You would sacrifice our business without any attempt to address our concerns?”

“I believe I have made that attempt, but you do not seem to agree, so I fail to see what else I can do. The loss of your business shall be a terrible blow, of course, but I cannot allow advertisers to dictate the editorial content of the newspaper. It would set a most dangerous precedent.” Her smile was still pleasant as she came around her desk and crossed to the door of her office. “I’m sure you understand,” she added and opened the door, glancing at her sister.

Clara took the hint at once. Setting aside her clipboard, she rose. “I will show Mr. Shaw out.”

Irene mouthed a heartfelt thank you to her sister as Clara took the spluttering Mr. Shaw firmly by the arm, much as a good nursery governess might have done, and escorted him out of the office.

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