Chasing Cassandra (The Ravenels 6)

“I’m sorry for what Lambert did to you,” Tom continued. “There’s nothing more repellent than a man who forces his attentions on women. The fact that he went on to malign you publicly proves he’s a liar as well as a bully. I can’t think of two more damning qualities in a man.”

Ripon’s face darkened. “He’s your better, in every way,” he snapped. “My son had a lapse in judgment, but he’s still the cream of the crop.”

Tom’s mouth twisted. “I’d say the cream of the crop has gone sour.”

Ripon turned to Devon. “Will you allow him to stand there crowing like a cock on his own dung hill?”

Devon shot Tom a vaguely exasperated glance. “Severin, could we go to the point?”

Obligingly, Tom drained his tea in two swallows and continued. “After reading that slanderous rubbish in the Chronicle, I found myself puzzled. Lord Lambert had already done enough damage with his rumormongering … why butter the bacon by writing a society column on top of it? There was no need. But if he didn’t write it, who did?” He set the empty teacup on the mantel and wandered insouciantly around the library as he spoke. “I came up with a theory: After discovering his son had hopelessly botched any chance of winning your hand, Lord Ripon decided to take advantage of the situation. He’s made no secret of his desire to marry again, and Lady Cassandra is an ideal candidate. But to obtain her, he first had to destroy her reputation so thoroughly that it left her with few practical alternatives. After having brought her sufficiently low, he would step forth and present himself as the best solution.”

Silence descended over the room. Everyone looked at the marquis, whose complexion had turned purple. “You’re mad,” he snapped. “Your theory is absolute rot, as well as an insult to my honor. You’ll never be able to prove it.”

Tom looked at St. Vincent. “I assume the editor at the Chronicle refused to divulge the writer’s identity?”

St. Vincent looked rueful. “Categorically. I’ll have to find a way to pry it out of him without bringing the entire British press to his defense.”

“Yes,” Tom mused, tapping his lower lip with a fingertip, “they tend to be so touchy about protecting their sources.”

“Trenear,” Lord Ripon said through gritted teeth, “will you kindly throw him out?”

“I’ll see myself out,” Tom said casually. He turned as if to leave, and paused as if something had just occurred to him. “Although … as your friend, Trenear, I find it disappointing that you haven’t asked about my day. It makes me feel as if you don’t care.”

Before Devon could respond, Pandora jumped in. “I will,” she volunteered eagerly. “How was your day, Mr. Severin?”

Tom sent her a brief grin. “Busy. After six tedious hours of business negotiations, I paid a call to the chief editor of the London Chronicle.”

St. Vincent lifted his brows. “After I’d already met with him?”

Trying to look repentant, Tom replied, “I know you said not to. But I had a bit of leverage you didn’t.”

“Oh?”

“I told him the paper’s owner would dismiss him and toss him out on the pavement if he didn’t name the anonymous writer.”

St. Vincent stared at him quizzically. “You bluffed?”

“No, that is what the business negotiations were about. I’m the new owner. And while the chief editor happens to be a staunch advocate for freedom of the press, he’s also a staunch supporter of not losing his job.”

“You just bought the London Chronicle,” Devon said slowly, to make certain he hadn’t misheard. “Today.”

“No one could do that in less than a day,” Ripon sneered.

Winterborne smiled slightly. “He could,” he said, with a nod toward Tom.

“I did,” Tom confirmed, picking idly at a bit of lint on his cuff. “All it took was a preliminary purchase agreement and some earnest money. It will come as no surprise to you, Ripon, that the editor named you as the anonymous author.”

“I deny it! I denounce him, and you!”

Tom pulled a piece of folded parchment from an inside coat pocket and regarded it reflectively. “The most dangerous substance on earth is wood pulp flattened into thin sheets. I’d rather face a steel blade than certain pieces of paper.” He tilted his head slightly, his steady stare fixed on the marquis. “The original column,” he said with a flutter of the parchment. “In your hand.”

In the suffocated silence that followed, Tom glanced over the page in his hand. “I have so many interesting plans for my newspaper,” he mused. “Tomorrow, for example, we’re running a special feature about how an unprincipled nobleman conspired with his spoiled whelp of a son to ruin an innocent young woman’s name, all for the sake of greed and lechery. I’ve already set my editor to work on it.” He sent the marquis a taunting glance. “At least now the mudslinging will be reciprocal.”

“I’ll sue you for libel,” Lord Ripon cried, his facial nerves twitching, and stormed out of the library.

The group sat in stunned silence for a full half minute.

After exhaling slowly, Devon approached Tom to shake his hand heartily. “Thank you, Severin.”

“It won’t reverse all the damage that’s been done,” Tom said soberly.

“It will help, by God.”

“Publicity of any kind is distasteful,” Lady Berwick said severely, glowering at Tom. “It would be better to hold your silence and refrain from printing any kind of story about Cassandra.”

Helen spoke up quietly. “Forgive me, ma’am, but I should think we want the truth to be spread as widely as the falsehoods were.”

“It will only stoke the controversy,” Lady Berwick argued.

Tom looked at Cassandra. Something in his eyes caused a twinge of heat deep at the pit of her stomach. “I’ll do whatever you say,” he said.

She could hardly think. It was difficult to wrap her mind around the fact that he was there, bigger than life, that he hadn’t forgotten about her, that he’d done all this to defend her. What did it mean? What did he want? “Publish it, please,” she faltered. “You …”

“Yes?” Tom prompted softly as she hesitated.

“You bought an entire newspaper business … for my sake?”

Tom thought for a long moment before answering. Now his voice was different than she’d ever heard it, quiet and even a little shaken. “There are no limits to what I would do for you.”

Cassandra was speechless.

As she sat there in helpless silence, she realized that for once, no one else in the family was certain what to do either. They were all dumbfounded by Tom’s statement, as well as the dawning understanding of why he was there.

As Tom beheld the row of blank faces before him, a crooked, self-mocking smile emerged. He shoved his hands in his pockets and paced a little. “I wonder,” he ventured after a pause, “if it might be possible for Lady Cassandra and I to—”

“Absolutely not,” Lady Berwick said firmly. “No more unchaperoned conversations with … gentlemen.” A deliberate pause before the last word implied her doubt as to whether it applied to him.