Page 65 of The Trouble with True Love

Chapter 14

With Lord and Lady Montcrieffe’s charity ball, Clara’s season took an even more frantic turn. The next day, invitations began to pour in, and within two weeks, she found that every moment, from breakfast to the wee small hours, was being conscripted for some activity. Luncheons, picnics, charity meetings, Afternoon-At-Homes, and water parties filled her days, while dinner parties, theater, opera, suppers at the Savoy, cotillions, and balls filled her evenings. The pace became so rigorous, that had she only had herself to consider, she might have begun refusing invitations to give herself a rest.

But the duke’s family benefited greatly from her elevation in status, for almost all the invitations included them as well, and she didn’t have the heart to turn away any opportunity to help them.

As for Rex, she continued to treat him with the same offhand disinterest she had before, and he continued to play the role of interested suitor in pursuit. For Clara, however, the charade seemed harder to maintain after the ball than it had before. The image of him, one shoulder against a marble column and his face so grave, often came into her mind, and whenever it did, a tiny throb of sweet pain always hit her square in the chest.

Sometimes, she would catch him looking at her as he had that night—across someone’s drawing room, or down the table at a dinner party—and his voice—low, vibrant with intensity—would echo in her ears.

I want it, Clara.

Sometimes, he would invade her dreams at night, his mouth on hers and his arms around her and his body hard beneath her, and she’d wake up with her lips tingling and her body aching as if she had a fever. She ought to have found it easier as time went on to put that forbidden afternoon out of her mind, but as the days passed, the memory only seemed to grow stronger, ever harder to suppress.

As for their efforts to reunite Dina and Lionel, Rex reported that he and his friend had forged a truce, but beyond that, he knew nothing of how the other man’s romance with Dina was progressing, or if it was progressing at all. He continued to send the Lady Truelove column to her through the post, and she never found cause to change a single word he wrote. His advice to London’s lovelorn was always spot-on, and morally acceptable, though whether the latter fact was due to her influence, Clara could not have said.

She tried to carve out at least an hour or two each day to spend at the paper, but she couldn’t always manage it. One morning about a fortnight after the Montcrieffe ball, a glance through her calendar at breakfast revealed that a full four days had gone by since her last visit to Belford Row. Worse, it was Friday, which meant she had not yet read Rex’s column, nor had she reviewed that week’s layout of the paper. Constructed by Mr. Beale the previous day, the layout was probably sitting on her desk, still waiting for her approval. Either that, she thought wryly, or Mr. Beale had used her absence as an excuse to increase his own authority and had taken it upon himself to approve the layout. He may even have opened and read this week’s Lady Truelove column, perhaps even editing it himself. With that thought, Clara knew a visit to Belford Row was in order.

Truth be told, she was rather relieved to take a bit of time away from luncheons and parties and have a bit of peace and quiet in her little office. Cancelling all her appointments for the afternoon, she took a taxi to Belford Row.

But the moment she arrived at the newspaper office, she realized peace and quiet were the last things she was to have. She’d barely opened the door a fraction when Mr. Beale’s enraged voice poured to her through the doorway.

“This is the most idiotic piece of writing I’ve read in my life, Miss Trent. You call this journalism? It’s shallow, facile rubbish.”

“Shallow and facile?” a female voice countered. “That’s a bit redundant, isn’t it, sir?”

That pert reply earned stifled giggles from the other women on the staff, but when Clara pushed the door fully open, she found Mr. Beale wasn’t laughing with them. Instead, he was glowering at the petite Elsa Trent, his usual sour expression replaced by one of unmistakable outrage.

“Mr. Beale, what is going on here?” Clara demanded as she stepped inside the office.

The other women glanced at her, but by Mr. Beale, she was ignored. He didn’t even glance in her direction.

“I’ll have none of your cheek, miss,” he said to Elsa, waving a sheaf of papers in the girl’s face. “To read this was difficult, to edit it is impossible. Throw it out and start again.”

“But, sir, I’m not sure what’s wrong with it. If you could just tell me—”

“Start again,” he interrupted her, “and if I hear one more word of argument, you’ll be looking for other employment.” And with that, he tossed the pages in Elsa’s face.

Fury erupted inside Clara, and before she knew it, the door had slammed behind her, and she was across the room, coming between Elsa and Mr. Beale as the pages of the other woman’s composition fluttered to the floor around them.

“That will be enough!” she said. “Mr. Beale, cease this unthinkable abuse of Miss Trent at once.”

“Abuse?” He left off berating Elsa and turned to scowl at Clara. “The abuse is upon me, Miss Deverill, that I am expected to edit fluffy stories about nothing by silly women who can’t write, and that I should suffer cheek from them when I order changes to be made. But the most galling part,” he added, as she opened her mouth to reply, “is that I should be reporting to a chit of a girl who’s half my age, and hasn’t a fraction of my experience. And,” he went on giving her a disdainful glance up and down, “to be upbraided by someone unworthy of my respect when I am attempting to exert my rightful authority is unbearable. It’s—”

“You’re right,” Clara interrupted, and she knew all the fury she felt was in her voice, because her two clipped words cut through his tirade at once. “Itisunbearable, so much so, in fact, that I can’t think of any reason I should tolerate it from you a single moment longer.”

Her choice of pronouns was not lost on the editor. His jaw slackened and his eyes bulged, and Clara might have found his shock rather comical, if anger wasn’t freezing in her veins like ice water.

“For three months, Mr. Beale, I have overlooked your bellicose manner, your arrogance, and your lack of consideration for the others who work here,” she said, relishing every word as she spoke. “For too long, I have striven to see your point of view, and I have worked to ignore your denigrating remarks. But in berating a member of the staff,” she went on as he attempted to object, “in this vicious manner, you have gone utterly beyond the pale.” She took a deep breath, exhilaration making her almost dizzy. “Mr. Beale, you are fired.”

“You don’t have the authority to terminate my employment.”

“No?” She laughed, savoring this moment far more than she probably ought, given the problems it would cause. But she knew she’d never have any regrets, no matter what happened next. “Who’s to stop me?” She looked him up and down with scorn. “You?”

“As we have discussed many times, I do not work for you, Miss Deverill. I was hired on the understanding that I would be working for your brother—”

“But my brother is not here,” she cut in, spreading her arms wide in an encompassing gesture. “I am. And as the only Deverill on the premises with the authority to act, I am terminating your employment immediately. This decision,” she added as he attempted to speak, “is not open for discussion.”

“I refuse to stand for this. I shall go to your father.”

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