Barbara Metzger (16 page)

The viscount was trying to rid his mouth of the taste of blood and his blood of the taste of her mouth. That’s how well he was thinking. “I am not a rake,” he declared firmly, then surprised himself by amending, “except where you are concerned.”

“Why?”

“Why except for you? Because I am not interested in marriage but, God help me, I am interested in you. And why you? The devil only knows. You’re the most wayward, troublesome female I’ve ever known. You’re too young, too impetuous, too independent. And I can’t seem to keep my hands off you.”

That could almost be a compliment. Sydney grinned. “I think you are nice too, sometimes.”

He lightly kissed the top of her nose and then smiled. “Didn’t I tell you everyone likes me? At any rate, I have business in Sussex, so I’ll be out of your hair for a while. Before I go, though, I want you to make me a promise.” He was beginning to recognize her stubborn look, so he addressed her as he would a seaman contemplating mutiny: “By your own say-so, miss, you are in my debt. Therefore
I
name the terms,
I
call the play. You will promise to stay out of trouble, period. Nothing illegal, dangerous, or scandalous. Is that understood?”

Sydney was tempted to salute and say “Aye, aye,” but she did not think he would be amused. She also did not think he would understand that she mightn’t be able to keep such an oath. She compromised with the truth: “My next idea is none of those.”

He was two blocks away before he realized she hadn’t promised at all.

* * * *

Aunt Harriet bustled over the next morning, top o’er trees at her nieces’ success. “Lord Mayne, my dears. Just think!” Sydney did, and thought how shallow the
beau monde
was, that it could admire such a man. If they only knew what a libertine he was! Then again, if they only knew what a wanton
she
was, for welcoming the liberties he took, she’d be back in Little Dedham before the cat could lick its ear.

Lady Windham, however, deemed his lordship worth her paying the Lattimores’ admission to Vauxhall, in case he was there. Naturally Sydney did not inform her aunt that the viscount was in the country; she wanted to see the fireworks. Unhappily Lord Mainwaring had stayed in town and Lady Windham invited him to make up one of the company in their box.

“I wish you would not encourage him to dangle after Winifred, Aunt Harriet,” she said. “I do not believe he is at all the thing. He may even run away to join the army or something.”

“Nonsense, his mother would never allow it. If he does put on a uniform, I’m sure she’ll see it’s a general’s.” Furthermore, Lord Scoville’s nose was out of joint at being cut out in Winnie’s affections by a green boy. He was paying
his
attention to Beatrix, so Lady Windham was not about to dampen Lord Mainwaring’s ardor. “Whatever can you be thinking of, Sydney? We wouldn’t want to do anything to offend Lord Mayne.”

Sydney almost choked on her arrack punch. Everything she did seemed to offend the man!

Lady Windham was carried away with dreams of finally getting Trixie off her hands. If she threw the young people together often enough, Scoville would see his case with Winifred was hopeless. He was bound to settle on Beatrix with her better breeding and larger dowry. It was just a matter of planning some small entertainments, picnics and such, where he wouldn’t be distracted by yet another pretty face. Nothing too extravagant, mind. And of course Sydney could help send out the invitations and plan the menus.

“What was that, Aunt Harriet? I’m sorry, I must have been wool-gathering. No, I’m afraid I won’t be able to help with your plans for an excursion to Richmond, although I would love to go if I have the time. You see, I am going to be busy with a project of my own which already has Lord Mayne’s approval. We wouldn’t want to offend him, would we?”

Chapter 16

The Pen and the Sword

Grandfather was a famous general. Everyone wanted to hear his adventures. Sydney happened to have reams and reams of closely written pages the general had penned right after his retirement and before his last seizure. She put the two together and came up with the answer to her difficulties. She’d sell the general’s memoirs and they would all become rich.

Sydney had not read past the first pages, which concerned themselves with the background history of the Mahratta Wars, geographical details and catalogs of the various artillery and troops. She recalled bedtime stories from her childhood, however, tales of elephant hunts and native uprisings, towns under siege and man-eating tigers. She had been spellbound at the time—it was a miracle she did not have nightmares to this day—and was positive others would be equally as fascinated with the general’s heroic account. Even his descriptions of the odd customs and religious practices were sure to capture the imaginations of any who read them, especially if they were like Sydney, who itched to see foreign lands.
Narratives of a Military Man
simply could not fail; it was only a matter of finding the publisher who would pay the most.

Sydney was very methodical about her quest. The general would have been proud at how she first scouted the terrain. She visited the lending library and studied all the titles in the history section. She copied down the names of a few publishers who seemed to specialize in past wars. Then she surveyed the biographical works, noting which companies produced volumes with the most elaborate embossing on the covers or the most gold leaf. She reasoned that these denoted a solvent operation. Furthermore, she firmly believed that an attractive cover had a great deal to do with a book’s sales. Combining the two lists produced Sydney’s primary targets.

Then she armed herself. She was not parading off to battle dressed like a pastel ingénue at Drury Lane. She and Annemarie designed a fashionable walking gown of forest-green cambric, with tight-fitting spenser to match. Not unintentionally, the short jacket had military-style buttons and epaulets on the shoulders. She wore a small green bonnet with gold braid trim and a wisp of net veiling which, Winifred assured her, added at least two years of maturity.

The campaign began. Sydney marched to the office of Watkins and Waters, Publishers. Her escort convoy, Wally, was two steps behind, proudly bearing the precious manuscript like a standard.

Sydney introduced herself to the clerk and told him she wished to inquire about the publication of a book. When he stopped ogling her, the flunky replied that if she made sure her name and direction were on the package, he would see that someone looked at it and returned the manuscript to her with a decision, in a month or two.

“I am sorry, sir, but you do not understand. I need a decision”—she needed a check—”long before then.”

The clerk laughed and pointed to the area behind him. Manuscripts, some bound with string, some in leather portfolios like hers, some in cloth satchels, were stacked from the floor to above her height, several rows deep, across the width of the room.

The general’s granddaughter was not to be defeated at the first skirmish. She withdrew one of her calling cards and insisted the clerk bring it to the instant attention of Mr. Watkins.

“Dead.”

“Then Mr. Waters.”

“Dead.”

“Then whoever is in charge.”

“That’d be Mr. Wynn, but he doesn’t see anybody.”

“He’ll see me. You tell him that I am General Harlan Lattimore’s granddaughter and ... and a friend of Viscount Mayne’s.”

Whether due to her glowing account of the general’s adventures or her inspired use of the viscount’s name, Mr. Wynn agreed to look at the memoirs himself.

“But we do not have a great deal of time,” she prompted him. Mr. Wynn took that to mean the general was soon to join Mr. Watkins and Mr. Waters, and he vowed to read the pages that very evening.

Sydney was able to enjoy her afternoon’s outing to the British Museum with Lord Thorpe even more, with victory in sight.

True to his word, Mr. Wynn had the package delivered to Park Lane the very next day. Unfortunately, he also sent his regrets that he was not able to offer to publish such an unfinished work. Since he understood time to be a critical factor, he could only wish her luck with the worthwhile venture.

“How dare the man call your writing unfinished!” Sydney fumed, sharing the note with her grandfather. He pounded his chair. “What did he expect from a military man anyway, Byron’s deathless prose? Well, I am sure there are other publishers with a better sense of what readers want. If they wanted poetry, they would not be buying a war memoir in the first place.”

Once more into the fray marched the troops. Hardened by her first battle, Sydney did not waste time with the clerk; she invoked Grandfather’s rank and Lord Mayne’s title. She was ushered into the senior partner’s office at once and promised a quick reading.

Within days the hefty tome was returned, this time with a polite disclaimer: although the first chapter was as intriguing as Miss Lattimore had indicated, they would need to speak with the general in person before committing themselves to the project.

If the general could speak, he’d be out there trying to sell the blasted book himself. “Impertinent snobs!” Sydney raged. The general grunted and grred.

In no time at all Sydney hated all publishers, hated the green dress, and hated those polite notes of rejection worst.

Only one publisher, the noted Mr. Murray, came in person. He asked for an interview with the general. Willy, minding the door that day, sent for Sydney.

Seeing tooled-leather volumes and pound notes dance in her head, Sydney hurried into the drawing room. “I’m so sorry,” she temporized, “but my grandfather is resting. May I offer you tea?”

While she poured she nervously eyed the ominous package on the sofa beside the publisher. “What did you think of the memoirs?” she finally asked.

“I think they have great possibilities, Miss Lattimore, although they need a great deal more work, naturally. I understand the general is something of an invalid. Do you think he is up to so much more writing?”

Sydney knew for a fact he wasn’t. He could barely hold a pen, much less dictate. She gnashed her teeth and promised to discuss Mr. Murray’s suggestions with the general. She thanked the publisher for his time—and kicked the door after he left.

As she told her friend the next morning, those publishers and editors were all just disappointed writers who thought they could do better.

Mrs. Bella Ott nodded her head sagely and agreed.

* * * *

Sydney had not seen as much of Mrs. Ott as during the candy-making days. She was out most times when Bella called, on her rounds of publishers or enjoying her new popularity. In addition, she could not feel easy with the woman after the minglemangle with the chocolate. Bella was the experienced cook; she should have noticed something was wrong with the recipe. No matter, she was a willing ear on this gray day of despond. A cold rain blew from the north, and there would be no gentlemen calling and no walks in the park. There were no more publishers for Sydney to try.

“Hogwash, dearie, you’ve just been going about it arsy-varsy. Did you offer them cash?”

“Money? Of course not. That’s not the way it works.... Is it?”

“Girly, stop acting like you were born yesterday. That’s the way everything works. New writers pay the publishers to get their books in print. You don’t think book dealers are going to gamble their precious blunt on an unknown, do you? Not those cautious chaps. Didn’t that poet fellow Byron have to scrape up enough to publish the first scribbles himself before his name became an instant seller? That’s how it goes. Subsidies, it’s called. A writer or his family or a friend of his, a patron-like, puts up the ready. I bet that Mr. Murray was sitting here sipping your tea, waiting for you to flash a golden boy or two. Instead, you give him another sticky bun.”

“I never thought. Uh, how much money do you think it would cost?”

Bella hefted the packaged memoirs. “Big book like that, I reckon thousands.”

“Thousands! But then how could we make any money?”

“You really are a green ‘un. It’s the publishers who make the money. Good thing Mrs. Alquith wrote me about you.”

“Mrs. Asquith,” Sydney corrected her absently, pondering this new dimension to her own ignorance. “We could never afford even one thousand, not after the loss on the confectionery business.”

Bella did not want to talk about the candy venture. Hell, no one wanted to, it seemed. She and her boys had tried their best to get the rumor mills grinding. Granted the boys’ best wasn’t any great shakes, but no one would listen. Viscount Mayne had his story battened down so right and tight, no whispers were going to shake it.

One of the scandal sheets even had the nerve to ask for proof that a parcel of chits had tried to drug the ton. Proof? Since when had truth ever had tuppence to do with what they published? Since one of the most powerful noblemen in the land got involved, they told her, that’s when. Slander was one thing, they said, suicide was another.

There were other roads out of London, as the saying went. Things weren’t hopeless yet, not by a long margin. She patted Sydney’s hand. “Things ain’t hopeless yet, my dear. Bella’s here.”

* * * *

Bella knew a man. Among her wide acquaintance was the nephew of Lady Peaswell. (“No, she don’t attend Almacks; she raises cats in Yarmouth.”) Bella looked after this young man the same as she looked after Mrs. Asquith’s young friends. She even cooked for him sometimes. It just so happened that this enterprising young man, of good family but needing to support himself, was just starting a printing and publishing business. All of his capital had gone for the equipment and rental for his new shop, so he was looking for material to publish—by subscription. He just might be willing to share the expenses with Sydney, and the profits, of course. It would only cost her, oh, maybe five hundred pounds, Bella thought, especially for friends. But Sydney would still see vastly more income if the book sold well than the pittance an established publisher would pay. Sydney needed a publisher and Bella’s young friend needed a best seller to get him started. So what did dear Miss Sydney think? Sydney thought she couldn’t wait to meet this enterprising, innovative young entrepreneur.