Page 40 of The Wallflower and the Duke
“I can prove it!” She dug through her reticule, pulling out her journal. “These are my notes from when I was writing this manuscript. The viscount obtained the original and published it under his name, but it’s my story. It’s been stolen from me, and I wish to make that right.”
Percy laughed, a cruel, wicked sound cut short when the door swung open.
Across the stage stood Alfie, his friendly green eyes now filled with untapped rage. He marched forward down the aisle and stepped onto the stage before ripping off his coat and draping it over Marjorie.
“Miss Merryweather is telling the truth, and I ask you to hear her pleas instead of dismissing her.”
Percy mumbled something under his breath, and Alfie spun around to face him. “We will speak after. Now, I want an apology. Go ahead. Make one.”
“I will not be making an apology,” Percy said. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You have. That book is hers, and you will no longer be profiting from it.”
Soon, a few more people filed into the room—two gentlemen and the Duchess of Abinger herself.
Marjorie’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking as her heart drummed in her ears. She stuffed her hands inside the pockets of Alfie’s coat, surprised to feel paper against her fingertips.
“Go ahead,” Alfie urged.
She slowly removed the papers from his coat, stunned to discover they were the notes she had been searching for all along.
Alfie leaned forward, his lips brushing against her ear. “They were in that desk at the folly all along.”
He reached for her hand and clasped it, turning back toward the crowd.
“Finally, the formidable Duke of Abinger returns to London,” someone shouted from the crowd.
The stage swayed beneath Alfie as he clutched Marjorie’s hand, his mouth dry as he scanned the crowd.
When he had entered, it had been chaos. Now, an eerie silence.
He cleared his throat, glancing down at her for a moment. At least she wasn’t shivering any longer under his coat.
“I have known Marjorie’s secret these past years, and she tells the truth. Along with her journals, I have her original notes with dates.”
“They could be fake,” Percy shot back. Alfie glanced over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes at his former friend, satisfied when Percy dropped back a step.
“I welcome anyone to come and examine them,” Alfie continued. “I have bought the company and the printing presses of this publisher. The story will no longer be published as Chadwick’s work because it does not belong to the viscount. Yes, it is true Miss Merryweather is M.E. Gastrell, and I urge you to consider holding back your disbelief when so many of you are true fans. It was an act of bravery today to confront Lord Chadwick onstage in front of you all. And it is just a sliver of who Marjorie Merryweather is as a person. If you must condemn anybody, it is not her today, but the man who is profiting off her hard work.”
Marjorie sagged against him, and he peeked over once more at Percy, who was slipping toward the edge of the stage.
“I will pursue legal action if the viscount does not stop claiming this novel as his own. My lawyers are here in attendance today along with my mother.” Alfie pointed his hand toward the two gentlemen standing by his mother, who had been working out how best to handle Marjorie’s conundrum these past few days.
“She is a dear friend,” he continued, “and she deserves credit for her hard work. She certainly doesn’t deserve any of your scrutiny.”
He heard her softly cry beside him, but he couldn’t chance looking away from the crowd who sat there quietly, as if they were seeing a ghost. An uncomfortable quiet washed over the room at his pleas.
His mother stood at the back of the room and clasped her hands together. “Ladies and gentlemen, as this event has been canceled for the evening, I have refreshments in my ballroom, and I invite you all there now. Perhaps Miss Merryweather will join us to read.”
Alfie couldn’t fight the urge any longer. He glanced down at Marjorie, worried his mother had asked too much. But she nodded, squeezing his hand as if silently saying, “I love you.”
Despite it all, it had been a long, horrible ride to London. He felt ill. But he wouldn’t let that ruin her night. She would have her moment, and he would see that all of London fell at her feet, as they should, because Marjorie Merriweather was no wallflower.
“I would be delighted, Your Grace.” Her voice wavered, but she forced a smile.
Alfie wished for nothing more than to gather her up in his arms and kiss her, to press his nose to her hair and smell her, to feel the weight of her in his arms.
But not now.
