Scandalously Yours (Hellions of High Street 1)

At least, he prayed that would be the case.

“By the grace of God,” he growled. “If we act quickly to squelch any more newspaper stories, we may manage to scrape through this farce without anyone connecting it to the Wrexham name.”

“You—you mean you won’t at least consent to meet with her?”

“Absolutely not!”

“But—”

“Not another word! That’s the end of this matter—do you hear me, Scottie?”

John found he was not the only one capable of stinging sarcasm. “Loud and clear, sir,” came the reply.

For a moment, father and son eyed each other with mutual loathing.

“Then I suggest you sharpen your pen and get to work on composing a suitably contrite admission of your transgressions,” snapped the earl. “You will have ample time in which to hone your choice of words, seeing as you are confined to your quarters for the rest of the day.”

Prescott said nothing, but the glitter of tears was eloquent in its resentment. Kicking back his chair, he rose and fled from the room.

John fisted the offending letter into a tight wad and chucked it into the fire. To the Devil with Lady Loose Screw. He took a rather childish satisfaction in watching the flames lick up and consume the crumpled paper.

Ha! If only it were half so easy to reduce the rest of his problems to naught but ashes.

Retreating back behind the pages of the newspaper, he sought solace in the clear-headed thinking of the political essay. But the fight with his son had left him too drained, too distracted to concentrate. Fed up, John abandoned his breakfast and stalked off to his study.

Now that his initial outrage had worn off, he found himself shocked at the ferocity of his son’s reaction. And his own. Raking his hands through his hair, he stared glumly at the crossed cavalry sabers hung on the wall.

Women! Let them set pen to paper, and all hell broke loose.

Slapping a fresh sheet of foolscap upon the blotter, he, too, began to write. First a note to his sister, then one to Lady Serena, informing them of his abrupt decision to return to London several days earlier than originally planned. The newspaper essay—and his own stuttering reply to Scottie’s latest misbehavior—had roused him to action.

To have any hope of winning both the battle for military reforms and the fight to keep his son from coming to hate him, he would need better ammunition than his own roughcut thoughts. Words were a powerful weapon, and to marshal them into an effective fighting force, he would need help from an experienced general.

Cecilia, Serena, Olivia, and now this Loose Screw. Wrexham repressed a slight shiver. Their names seemed to slither across his skin, like the damn serpent from the Garden of Eden.

After being bedeviled by females, he needed to talk to a kindred spirit. It would be a breath of fresh air to seek counsel from another gentleman as savvy and wise as “The Beacon.”

“All good things must come to an end.”

Josiah Hurley stepped back from the type case to see what had provoked the mournful announcement.

“It looks as though we shall have to come up with a new farrididdle—er, that is, feature—to keep the public’s interest. It’s a pity. Circulation is bound to drop off.” His assistant chuffed a sigh. “At least we had a good run.”

“Not so fast.” After a quick glance over his clerk’s shoulder, Hurley relaxed.

“But—but you see for yourself that our anonymous author admits to a hoax and withdraws the ad.”

“You have a good deal to learn about the newspaper business, George.” Hurley picked up the second sheet of paper that had fallen from the packet. “A story does not lose its momentum until we cease giving it legs…so to speak.” Tapping an ink-stained finger to his chin, he contemplated the schoolboy scrawl. “Sometimes, when the original path seems to be fading away, you simply have to find a new slant.”

Chapter Eight

Don’t slouch. And don’t squint.” Lady Trumbull’s eyes narrowed to mere slits. “Reading and writing is such an unnatural occupation for a young lady. It is no wonder you have an odd kick to your gait.”

Olivia’s slipper grazed the delicate Chinoise curio table, nearly knocking several porcelain figurines to the floor. “Anna has enough grace for two, Mama. You need not worry that she will follow my lead.”

“Hmmph!”

A reproachful glance from her sister caused her to leave off the subtle teasing. Not that her silence would do anything to soften her mother’s scowl. It was only the sight of her middle daughter, looking resplendent in a gown of ivory sarcenet trimmed in daffodil yellow, that fashioned a look of budding triumph on the baroness’s face.