“Leading indeed,” she scoffed as she stared at the scattered papers on her desk. Still, as she settled back into her chair, she couldn’t quite suppress the memory of how gracefully he’d moved, even while fleeing. Or the way his voice had dropped to that intimate whisper, making her skin prickle despite herself.
“Focus,” she commanded herself sternly, pulling a fresh sheet of paper toward her. “He is a pompous fool who is determined to be as insufferable as humanly possible,” she said, stabbing her pen into the inkwell with more force than necessary.
Elisha Lancaster looked up from her own writing, amusement dancing in her eyes. Though marriage to a duke hadn’t diminished her dedication to theMetropolitan Review, it had softened some of her sharper edges. “Which insufferable man would this be? Though given the circumstances being whispered about, I suspect Lord Hereford.”
“The very same.” Amelia attacked her paper with the pen. “A perpetual adolescent who treats life as though it’s all some grand game. I’ve never met anyone so determined to waste their privileges on pure frivolity.”
“Hmm.” Elisha’s noncommittal hum made Amelia glance up. She knew that tone.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Only that people can surprise you.” Elisha set down her pen. “Did you know that Lord Hereford personally funds three orphanages in London’s poorest districts? Not through his family’s charitable foundation but using his own private funds.”
Amelia’s pen paused mid-air. “You’re joking.”
“Not at all. Edgar mentioned it last week. Apparently, Hereford visits regularly to check on the children’s welfare. He’s particularly invested in their education and insists on qualified teachers and proper books.”
“Lord Hereford? The same man who had two widows fighting over him at a ball last Season?”
“The very same.” Elisha’s smile turned knowing. “He’s particularly concerned with the girls’ education. Says they shouldn’t have to rely on marriage as their only path to security.”
Amelia sat back, frowning. The image wouldn’t reconcile—the rakish marquess who seemed to spend every waking moment fleeing angry brothers and husbands through terraces and back alleys also spends time with orphans? “There must be some other reason.”
“Must there?” Elisha raised an eyebrow. “People can contain contradictions, you know. Look at Edgar. He may seem like the perfect duke now, but you remember what he was like before we married.”
“That’s different. The Duke of Lancaster always had substance beneath his facade. Lord Hereford is…” Amelia gestured vaguely with her pen.
“Is what? Handsome? Charming? Surprisingly well-versed in printing techniques?” Elisha teased.
“As infuriating as a goose on a mission,” Amelia said firmly, ignoring the warmth in her cheeks. “And apparently determined to drive me mad with his… his… everything.”
Elisha’s smile widened. “Everything?”
“Don’t look at me like that. I simply mean he’s impossible tocategorize. One moment he’s causing widows to fight over him at Mr. Dickens’ reading, the next he’s concerning himself with girls’ education, and now you tell me he’s some sort of secret philanthropist?”
“Oh, he’s still very much a rake,” Elisha said cheerfully. “In fact…” She glanced at the door before lowering her voice. “Edgar told me that Hereford and Patrick Adams are now in sole charge of some colorful business ventures.”
Amelia leaned forward. “Colorful how?”
“Do you recall I had suspected Edgar of distributing London’s more passionate literature?” Elisha’s eyes twinkled. “Apparently the salacious business is quite profitable.”
Amelia’s eyes widened. “You mean to say you were correct in your suspicion? Lord Hereford now publishes those scandalous novels?”
“Among other things.”
Amelia slumped back in her chair. “So, he funds orphanages with money from selling scandalous literature.”
“Life is full of delicious ironies, isn’t it?” Elisha picked up her pen again.
“Ironic for certain. Whether or not it’s delicious, I’m unsure.” Amelia stared unseeing at her editorial. Her carefully ordered worldview was being rearranged against her will. Lord Hereford—rake, critic, philanthropist, and purveyor of scandalous literature. “I don’t suppose he writes any of it himself?”
“Why? Planning to offer him a position at theReview?”
“Certainly not!” Amelia grabbed a fresh sheet of paper, determined to focus on work rather than enigmatic marquesses.
Amelia had barely dipped her pen in ink when rapid footsteps approached. Thompson, the assistant editor, burst through the door, slightly breathless.
“This just arrived for you,” he said, holding out a folded letter with his expression unusually grave. “It’s from Dr. Morrison and apparentlyurgent.”