Page 8 of The Truth About Love and Dukes

Miss Deverill shifted her weight and looked away, straightening the blotter on her desk, an obvious attempt to stall for time. “How should I know your mother’s whereabouts?”

He opened the paper to the appropriate page and began to read. “‘Lady Truelove can help. You may write to her through her publisher, Deverill Publishing, 12 Belford Row, Holborn.’” He looked up. “I am hoping in her correspondence with you she may have given some indication of her intentions or whereabouts.”

“She did not, not to Deverill Publishing anyway.” She paused again, this time to tidy the papers on her desk, then she looked up. “Lady Truelove is employed by this paper, but her correspondence is her own business.”

“Miss Deverill, your words to your secretary a few moments ago could only have one meaning, and I do not have the luxury of pretending otherwise for the sake of your sensibilities or to preserve your pseudonym. In your role as Lady Truelove, you have clearly been in correspondence with my mother, and I need to know any information she may have given you. I am particularly anxious to locate her and be reassured that she is all right.”

“Locating a person who is missing would seem to be the purview of the police.”

“My mother is the Duchess of Torquil. A matter such as this cannot be taken to the police.”

“Private detectives, then.”

“I have every intention of engaging the services of private detectives, but such inquiries take time. By the time detectives discovers her whereabouts, it could be too late.”

“Too late?” She frowned as if she actually found those words bewildering. “Too late for what?”

“To stop the elopement, of course. Thanks to you, my mother intends to make what can only be viewed as a grievous mistake, and I intend to persuade her to reconsider, if I can. In your correspondence, did your advice to her include a recommended location for the nuptials? Did she give you a forwarding address? A date she intends to wed? Any information at all?”

She tilted her head, studying him thoughtfully. “Why do you consider that your mother’s marriage would be a mistake?”

He stirred, growing impatient, for he was not here to answer questions, but obtain answers. “It is not surprising, I suppose, that someone of low social position would fail to understand why this elopement would be disastrous, but that makes it no less so.”

She stiffened, seeming affronted by what was an obvious fact. “Of all the snobbish, arrogant, condescending remarks I have ever heard . . .”

Her voice trailed off in a splutter, her mind clearly having run out of disparaging adjectives, and he took advantage of the momentary silence. “Tell me what you know.”

She did not reply. Instead, she pressed her lips together, glaring at him.

He dropped the newspaper onto her desk and leaned forward, flattening his palms on the desktop, his eyes staring down the resentment in hers. “I was not making a request, Miss Deverill.”

“That’s a pity,” she countered at once. “For I don’t respond well to commands.”

“And I don’t respond well to unnecessary intransigence.”

“It is not a matter of intransigence. Even if Deverill Publishing was aware of your mother’s whereabouts or was privy to her plans, I would not be at liberty to reveal any of that to you. Society Snippets promises its readers that the information conveyed to Lady Truelove by those who seek her advice shall be held in confidence. While I can understand that you are concerned for your mother’s well-being and have apprehensions—however misplaced—about her decision to wed—”

“Misplaced?” he interrupted, giving an incredulous laugh at her choice of words. “Do you have any idea what my mother’s marriage to Antonio Foscarelli would do to her life? To her social position? To the position of her family? While we are on the subject,” he added before she could answer, “do you ever consider the disastrous consequences that may result from the advice you dispense so carelessly?”

“There is nothing careless about Lady Truelove’s advice, and on her behalf, I resent your accusation, sir.”

“Resent it all you like, but it’s clear you have no consideration for the lives you may ruin.”

“Or perhaps I simply don’t define ruin the way you do.”

Henry’s mind tumbled back into the past, and the image of a shopkeeper’s dark-eyed daughter flashed through his mind. “Being trapped in a union all of society would view as a disgrace, a union where the two people have nothing in common but their mutual passion—that is not ruinous in your view?”

A hint of color came into her cheeks at the mention of passion, but she did not address that aspect of his point. “Unlike some, I don’t view the opinions of you and your precious ton as something to worry about.”

Henry shoved thoughts of Elena and his own stupid mistake back into the past where they belonged. “You say that only because you are unaware of the power we wield. You have no idea what it would be like to be in her shoes, how it would feel to be shut out of—”

“Oh, but I do know,” she assured him. “I fully comprehend what it means and how it feels to be cold-shouldered by your set, believe me. And I don’t care a jot.”

Despite the defiant declaration, there was an unmistakable hint of bitterness in her voice. Another time, he might have been curious enough to explore the reasons for it, but just now, he had more important things to consider. “Even if that’s true, Miss Deverill, my mother is not you. Her life is not like yours, and you have no idea what your advice will do to her. Nor, I suspect, do you care.”

“That is not true! I—”

“It’s a sensible outlook, I suppose,” he interrupted, ignoring her protest, “if one is a newspaper hawker.”

---