Page 7 of The Truth About Love and Dukes

“You are laboring under a misapprehension, sir.”

Her voice, cool and prim, brought Henry out of this somewhat erotic reverie and reminded him of the business at hand. “What misapprehension is that?” he asked.

“You seem to believe I am Lady Truelove.”

“It seems a reasonable assumption, given what I overheard just now. Do you deny it?”

“I see no reason to confirm or deny anything . . . to an eavesdropper.”

“If you don’t wish your conversations to be overheard, perhaps you should close your door. However,” he added before she could make any further efforts to divert the conversation to his behavior, “I can understand why you wouldn’t wish to admit your identity. If I dispensed the same abysmal advice to the British public that you do, I should be loath to admit it, too.”

Despite his attempt to provoke her into defending herself and her work, thereby ending any tiresome arguments about her identity before they could begin, she did not rise to the bait.

“I have the authority to speak for Lady Truelove,” she said instead, “which is why my secretary brought you to me.”

If she wanted to deny being the notorious columnist, so be it. “And you are . . . ?”

“I am the publisher of Society Snippets.”

This woman was the publisher? He’d been led to expect a man in that role, and he had to smother a laugh, appreciating that at this point in his day, he ought to be taking the unexpected in stride.

She frowned at the stifled sound. “Something about my position amuses you?”

“I wasn’t amused, madam,” he hastened to assure her. “But there are times when a man is reminded of how absurd life can be.”

“You find the idea of a female publisher absurd, do you?” she asked, her tart voice indicating she’d taken offense, and he realized that he was conversing not only with a female publisher, but also a suffragist.

“I confess, I do.” He cast another glance over her and thought again of sheer silk chiffon. “In this case, at least.”

She bristled at that, but he scarcely noticed, for his body was beginning to respond to the direction of his thoughts, and he was too occupied with bringing it back under his own regulation to pay much heed to her sensibilities.

If he was having lusty thoughts about suffragists in neckties, he reflected in some chagrin, it had clearly been too long since he’d had a woman. If this sort of wayward thinking continued, he might be forced to take a mistress or stop procrastinating about finding a suitable wife.

“I’d have thought a duke would have the good manners not to stare at people.”

Her acerbic comment about his manners brought him out of his reflections with a start. “Forgive me,” he said, striving to remember civilities and offer an excuse for his preoccupation to the irate beauty of the poisonous pen. “You may attribute my thoughtless words of a moment ago to my . . . ahem . . . confusion.”

“Confusion?”

“Yes.” He set his hat on one corner of her desk, then drew the previous evening’s edition of Society Snippets from the breast pocket of his jacket and refolded it so that the front page was visible. “The masthead of your publication states that one Edwin Deverill is the owner and publisher,” he said, pointing to the bottom left corner of the page. “Are you Edwin Deverill?”

That took some of the wind out of her suffragist sails, he noted. “I daresay I am old-fashioned,” he went on before she could reply, “but to me, Edwin seems an odd name for a woman, Mrs. Deverill.”

“Miss Deverill,” she corrected him at once, her pointed chin jutting up a notch. “I am Edwin Deverill’s eldest daughter.”

A spinster as well as a suffragist? And she offered advice to the lovelorn? This situation was sliding from absurdity into farce.

“My father,” she went on, “has passed all duties of this publication to my care. Any matter that concerns Lady Truelove, you may share with me, and if I feel her attention is warranted, I will bring the matter to her.”

Despite this pretense, he knew what he’d heard. She was the infamous columnist, and he saw little point in beating about the bush with her. “Then I shall come straight to the point of my call, Miss Deverill. My mother is missing. She departed from her home in the middle of the night, alone, declaring in a note to me of her intention to elope with a man.”

“A travesty, indeed.”

She said nothing more, and Henry felt his resentment returning. “Her family is worried about her.”

“Of course. In what way can Lady Truelove and Deverill Publishing assist you?”

“My mother gave no indication of her intended destination. Perhaps you can tell me where she has gone?”

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