The Art of Ruining a Rake (43 page)

“Certainly, my lord.”

Roman didn’t look up as Mr. Shaw quit the room. And yet, while staring blankly at the schematics lying atop the engineer’s desk, he didn’t miss his brother’s deep inhale the moment they were alone.

Bart leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “We had the bridge insured for one thousand pounds. Do you know of anyone who might benefit from one thousand pounds?”

There was too much insinuation for Roman not to instantly understand. The breath whooshed out of him as he realized whom his brother meant. Bart couldn’t be implying—

But he was.

Roman almost couldn’t speak for his horror. “Dare wouldn’t have done. Even he wouldn’t stoop so low.”

Bart’s silence bespoke his opinion.

Roman scrambled to understand what Bart already believed. “One thousand pounds is a meager sum. Not nearly enough to account for the price on his head. And the moneys would have been paid to me. How did he think to get his hands on a cent?”
 

But Roman knew the answer to that. He’d been the one to force Dare into the family’s business matters. His foolish brother clearly thought he could embezzle the small sum without anyone becoming the wiser.

“A paltry amount in comparison to his debts,” Bart agreed, “but no doubt one intended to be gambled into something more substantial.”

Another blow.

Roman sat back. Darius hadn’t been redeemed at all, no matter how many times he’d been forced to endure an honest day’s work.

Yet while it certainly sounded like his brother to do such a thing, Roman refused to believe it. He didn’t
want
to believe it. “There are other men we’ve entrusted with our financial information, or perhaps we have an unknown rival who paid Dare to sabotage us—”

“No one but family is in a position to embezzle funds. You keep the books yourself, you and Dare. As for a rival company, we’ve encountered no opposition. There are competitors, but none who seem dishonorable. In all the time we’ve been pursuing our licenses through the various commissions, no one has tried to stop us.”

Roman’s temples throbbed. He felt slightly nauseated. “Then we will ask him outright before we vilify him. Have you spoken to him?”

“No. Tony felt it best I speak to you first—”

“Am I to care what Tony thinks?” Roman bellowed, standing.

Bart was wise enough to keep silent.

Roman heaved a breath and tried to calm himself. Bart wasn’t responsible for Tony, even if they were twins. Yet Roman couldn’t help slicing his hand through the air in frustration. “How is it he came to know about this before me? All correspondence should be coming straight to my hand.”

Bart seemed not the least affected by Roman’s outburst. “Perhaps there is a letter on your desk you haven’t yet seen. Or the report was lost on the mail coach. Why do you persist in believing he means to undermine you?”

Roman glared at the desktop. As if he could smite the plans lying across it and destroy all evidence he’d made a mistake. He felt like a failure for his misplaced trust in the bridge, and in his youngest brother. “Tony said the bridge was a risk.”

Bart’s bark of laughter was stark. “Even he didn’t know Darius was going to burn it down.”

Roman sent his brother a black look. “Now I feel better.”

Bart looked at him with all due seriousness. “What Darius did was reckless. You couldn’t have foreseen it. But we have another problem now. What he did, or tried to do, was also unlawful.”

Bart’s reasoning was leaps and bounds ahead of Roman’s. “What are you suggesting?” Roman asked.

Bart rose. He wasn’t as tall as Roman, but they were almost eye to eye. “I was brought in as your legal counsel. In a fair and just world, Darius would be arrested and charged with attempted fraud and miscellaneous damage to property. But that would be a very difficult decision for you to make. The accused is your own brother.”

“Our brother,” Roman corrected.

“Yes, but
I
cannot be the one to press charges. Nor can Tony.”

Roman was finally beginning to understand. “You want me to have him arrested.”

“I don’t.”

“What, then?” Roman couldn’t keep the frustration from his voice.

Bart sighed. Then he did the unthinkable and looked at Roman helplessly. “I don’t
want
to have him arrested.” He shook his head. “It
should
be done. This isn’t a spat with your ex-lover. We can’t sweep it under the rug just because a public trial might cost us everything we’ve worked for; his crime is too serious. He used quicklime, which is explosive. He could have killed himself, or someone else. This isn’t as simple as what is convenient for us. He should be punished.”

Roman was silent as that tidbit of horribleness sank in. “Did Tony ask you to talk me into it?”

“Actually, he said he’d prefer we not air our laundry while he’s trying to make a name for himself in Parliament. Another family member on trial within the same year could adversely affect his popularity.”

Leave it to Tony to think of all the angles. Yet it left Roman at a crossroads. Did he punish Darius and risk Tony’s effectiveness—if not his very seat—in the House of Commons? Or did he allow Darius to escape the law’s reach, endangering anyone who might come into contact with his increasingly unpredictable brother?

Roman couldn’t keep the anguish from his voice. “What would you have me do?”

Bart rubbed his brow. When he looked up, it was with a misery that pained Roman. “If I say you do nothing, Dare is allowed to go free. If I advise you to have him arrested, he may face imprisonment, transportation, or even the bloody code.”

“The bloody code?”

“He might hang,” Bart clarified. “And I shall be forced to decide whether to help my oldest brother prosecute my youngest, or defend my youngest sibling from my oldest.”

Roman leaned against Mr. Shaw’s desk. “You could take no side.”

Bart’s wretched look bespoke the impossibility of that. “Do you suggest I go on holiday while my family is ripped apart in court?”

Roman drew a long, discouraged breath. “We can’t have Darius hanged. Is there no way to know his punishment ahead of time? Better yet, can we mete out justice ourselves?”

Bart shook his head. “We can’t imprison him against his will.”

“We can’t?” Roman cracked a smile. “I quite liked that idea.”

Bart’s gaze met Roman’s with frightening austerity. “Trouble is, Darius is too much like Father. Perhaps he
needs
a solid shaking. And there is the matter of it all being highly illegal. Arson, attempted fraud. Do we let him off simply because he is our brother?”

It was becoming increasingly clear Bart saw Dare’s crime in relentless black and white. “You
do
want me to press charges,” Roman said.

Bart’s desolation answered everything. And yet he said, “You’re the marquis. You wanted this responsibility. Now you have it. It is up to you, and only you, to decide.”

Chapter 21

“SO YOU’LL DO IT?” Lucy asked Mr. Tewseybury. “You’ll publish my novel?”

Trestin stayed her hand before she could leap out of her seat and hug the man.

She was so very fortunate Mr. Tewseybury owned a publishing company. Roman truly had been the best person to take her under his wing. How else would she have met someone in the perfect position to help her? For that matter, how would she have ever finished the book?

The solid
thunk, thunk, thunk
of the steam-powered printing press in the next room hummed through the wall. Mr. Tewseybury’s press was one of the newest machines available, he’d explained during their tour, capable of over one thousand impressions per hour. He could offer her covers in all the most popular colors and promise a neat, sewn spine on the more expensive editions.

Mr. Tewseybury smiled at her from across his desk. He rested his kid-gloved palm upon her carefully transcribed fair copy. “Was there any doubt?” he asked her. “Not because we’re friends. It’s simply good business. You’ve captured the public’s attention with Montborne’s dogged pursuit of you. A tale of lovers’ frustration penned by your own hand will fly from the shelves. I won’t be able to print enough of them, even with my new press.”

She grinned at him happily. “You flatter me, sir, but I relish it.”

Trestin drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, not at all caught up in the magic of her first book contract. “You’re not to print her name.”

Mr. Tewseybury looked surprised. “Certainly not, my lord. Nevertheless, people will know it
is
her book. Anonymous authors never stay that way long. A blessing and a curse, in this case.”

“I don’t care if they do know,” Lucy added with a touch of defiance. “I’ve written nothing wrong. A bit of fluff, maybe, but fancifulness isn’t something to be ashamed of. Neither is enjoying a healthy dose of sentimentality.”

“You could be shunned more than you already are,” Trestin pointed out, “or mobbed, depending on your novel’s reception. I am more concerned by the latter. Who will protect you when you become an overnight sensation? You could be flooded by proposals of marriage and pestered by unwanted attention. I envision rabid enthusiasts who will fail to separate fact from fiction. If I am not here, who will keep you safe? I can’t live in London forever. I don’t like the thought of you managing the response to your notoriety alone.”

She was stunned at first, but then she beamed at him. “You think I will be
celebrated
? That’s famous!”

At first, he shook his head as if she’d missed his point entirely. Then a look of pride came across his face. “Montborne told me it’s a decidedly good read. Mr. Tewseybury will ensure it’s found on every London shelf. You caused a sensation in the papers when your affair with Montborne was made known. How can
Whitefield Hall
not be popular?”

Gratitude welled in her. That her brother was saying such things—she wanted to burst into tears and hug him at the same time.

She couldn’t recall him ever having faith in her like this. He hadn’t agreed with her idea to start a school. He hadn’t sat beside her when she’d signed the lease for the little house in Bath that seemed so far away now. He hadn’t accompanied her when she’d hired on her teachers or consulted with the parents of would-be students. He hadn’t even come to see her off when she’d packed all of her belongings and left London.

She intended to publish her work whether he condoned her doing so or not. Yet having his acceptance made her feel as though she’d won all the accolades she’d ever need.

“Thank you,” she said, and spontaneously leaned over to peck his cheek.

He reddened and turned away, a pleased smile touching his lips. “You’re unlikely to be overrun by zealots,” he agreed reluctantly. “I just worry for your safety. It’s my job as your brother.”

“Thank you, Trestin. That means the world to me.” She bussed his cheek again before settling back in her seat. “My brother makes a fine point about the papers,” she said to Mr. Tewseybury. “I should like to send a copy to the
Ladies’ Companion
. Their readers know my story. They will clamor for the fictionalized version with a happy conclusion. Perhaps one of their editors would be good enough to write up a positive announcement, if we allow them an early edition.”

Mr. Tewseybury began to rifle through the papers on his desk. “I have a better idea. We should ask Mrs. Avery to publish the first volume in parts through a weekly subscription. It’s been done a few times before, and in a highly successful way. In fact, I have a blank contract that includes that option right here.” He pulled out a long sheet of parchment and handed it across his desk. “We can draw this up in your name and send it to Mrs. Avery today.”

Lucy settled the document between her and Trestin so they could both read it. He gave her a look of approval so gratifying she almost wondered why she’d shut him out of her life at all. But then, they hadn’t been in agreement before.

She studied the contract. The legal binding spelling out her rights made the whole thing feel surreal. Real and
not
real, as if it were all happening too fast.

The thought of providing a single page
gratis
caused perspiration to bead on the back of her neck. “But won’t this affect my profits? I can’t afford to lose even a ha’penny.”