Page 56 of The Truth Serum
“You’re being purposely difficult,” he huffed.
“And you’re lying to me.”
There it was, spoken baldly between them. Of all the things that he couldn’t tell her, this was his most private. It would be easy to confess being a spy for the Crown, if one ignored the implications for the war effort. But it was hard to tell her that all those ridiculous tales he’d spouted as a teenager had blossomed into real income. In fact, it was thanks to theWicked Talesthat he had had any lodging in London at all.
Except, of course, that he was currently living with Ras.
He sighed as he looked down at his hands. “Of all the things…” he said softly.
“What?”
He met her gaze. “Of all the things you’ve said and believed of me…” He let his gaze roam the bookshelves until he found the shelf that was reserved for his books. It was half empty. He took pride in that. It was half empty because people kept buyingor borrowing his words. They liked what he did, even if thetonwould crucify him for it.
He was a writer. Not of gossip, not of dark things that needed to be exposed to the world. He’d done that as Mr. Pickleherring. But the tales of Pirate Lucifer? He’d done that because he’d loved telling her the stories. Back when they had been nothing more than the wild fantasies of a bored adolescent.
Except he’d matured. He’d written them in his journal when he was sailing back and forth to Spain. He’d lost himself in the tales when the war had gotten too brutal to face. And when he’d come back to London, he’d screwed up his courage and brought them to Mr. Newman.
They’d been published. They’d been loved!
And she didn’t believe him.
He sighed as the truth hit him broadside. There was nothing left between him and Becca. Nothing to stand on, if she didn’t believe anything he said. And nothing to pine for, if she refused to see him for who he was.
“Thank you for coming, Lady Rebecca,” he said. “I won’t bother you again.”
Then he stood up and walked away. He had a manuscript to finish. And she could go to the devil.
Chapter Sixteen
Rebecca watched Nateleave and her heart sank into her gut. She knew she’d hurt him. Even before he’d walked away, she’d seen the betrayal stark on his face. But the idea that Nate—the boy who couldn’t sit still for more than two minutes—could write not just one book, but several? It was ludicrous.
For whatever reason, he felt the need to create dangers all around him. Secrets and lies, dramatics fit for…well, for any of the novels that Minerva Press published.
She frowned, an unwelcome twinge pulsing through her belly.
Nate had fabricated tales as long as she’d known him. Pirates had been his favorite subject, but she remembered a story about a great inventor who created a flying machine. He’d flown over the world, seeing great sights.
Just like in another book. This one titledMemoirs of a Flying Magician. She’d loved that one so much, she’d started it over from the beginning as soon as she’d read the last page.
She stood up and searched the shelves for a copy. She found one that was tattered and obviously well-used. Just as she remembered, the author’s name was the character’s name, Menard da Vinci, the descendant of the great inventor.
As she scanned the shelves, she saw that pennames were common. One of her favorite novels,Sense and Sensibility, was written by “a lady.” Others listed “a gentleman” or “XYZ” or“author of” an earlier work. Which meant that Nate could be the writer or he could simply be pretending.
She thumbed through the flying magician book, scanning the prose to see if it resembled Pirate Lucifer’s book. It did. The style was certainly the same, but the Nate she remembered would not have hidden his authorship. He loved crowing about his accomplishments. She remembered him bragging about the extraordinarily exquisite pig wallow he’d constructed. He’d told everyone!
And, to give him his due, it had been very well done. But it was not something most men would claim as a great accomplishment. Of course, Nate had been seventeen at the time. A boy, really, and boys bragged. Especially to girls who listened.
Setting the book back, Rebecca resolved then and there to figure out the truth of it. She couldn’t trust anyone she knew, but she had the means right here. Assuming she could credibly lie to a stranger.
Squaring her shoulders, she walked with determination into the offices of the Minerva Press. She approached the nearest secretary and gave him a winning smile.
“I should like to talk to Mr. Newman, if you please.”
The young man frowned at her. “I’m sorry, Miss—”
“You may tell him that Lady Rebecca Pendarves is here. And that I wish to speak to him regarding Lord Nathaniel Killigrew.”
The young man gaped for a moment, and she arched her brow in a way that Fletcher and her mother had perfected years ago. This was her first time trying it in public, and it turned out to be surprisingly effective.
