She huffed a little as she shrugged, now clearly more annoyed than resigned. ‘Because apparently Henry is a more palatable name on the front of a novel than Hope. In fact, apparently no name at all is better than the name Hope. Readers, I am frequently told in the most patronising and condescending of tones by the gentlemen in charge of such things, do not buy books written by girls.’
This was news to him. ‘Why ever not?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine, Lord Trouble, but I fear it is true. Can you name a female author?’ She snapped her fingers as if it were a quick test.
‘Mrs Radcliffe.’ That he could clearly surprised her.
‘And another?’ He scanned his memory for a good half a minute before he shrugged, defeated. ‘Exactly! That is the sort of prejudice I am dealing with.’
‘I am sure there are plenty of female authors out there.’ Although for the life of him he couldn’t think of any. It was hard to think straight when she was staring directly at him and looking so effortlessly seductive that his mind kept wandering. ‘Perhaps it is a case of you not finding the right publisher yet who appreciates your story.’
‘Yet one claimed theywouldappreciate them if Henry wrote them. I’d probably be in Hatchard’s now if I relented on that petty publisher’s insistence on a pseudonym.’
He had no answer for that. Unless the publishers were using that as an excuse to fob her off gently because her prose were actually awful and they didn’t want to upset her. Being capable of writing copious pages did not necessarily guarantee the quality of writing and Luke was forever tossing dull books to one side because the dry plots bored him senseless. ‘What is it about?’ Because maybe that would enlighten him to the real cause of her rejection. ‘Is it a cautionary, moral tale or does it involve knights in shining armour and damsels in distress?’
‘Because obviously all women need a man to save them?’ She rolled her eyes as she shook her head. ‘I am disappointed you are so predictable in your assumptions, Lord Trouble.’
‘It’s a moral tale then. One warning of the dangers of straying from your chosen path of righteous piety. A predictably nun-like novel from a woman made of your unblemished moral fibre.’
The bookshops seemed to be stuffed with those dreadful tomes of late. They sat side by side on the shelves with the reams of nonsensical etiquette books which laid down the strange rules everybody in society seemed to put great stock in. Abigail was a huge fan of them and had been in the midst of reading one with the ludicrous title ofThe Discerning Gentleman’s Guide for Selecting the Perfect Bridewhen he had left her. Or at least he assumed she was reading it because he kept finding it lying around everywhere. Although now, with the benefit of hindsight, he wouldn’t have put it past her to have left it lying around intentionally to encourage him to heed the stupid advice on the strategically opened pages and select her as his bride before she had had to ask. That dawning realisation made him wince at his own naivety. Because of course that is what Abigail had done.
Hope folded her arms as she stared at him. It did wonderful things to her figure. ‘You are the only man I have met who has ever compared me to a nun. For the life of me, I cannot fathom why.’
‘When one is cursed to look like trouble, one understands that looks can be deceiving. And just because you happen to look like sin itself, doesn’t necessarily mean you would act in a sinful manner.’ Although despite the exceedingly modest fichu in an already modest dress, she had kissed him back, so perhaps she wasn’t quite as prudish as he was making out. Before his mind aimlessly wandered down that seductive trail of thought, Luke gestured to the neat pile of paper. ‘Besides, I wouldn’t have to make such predictable assumptions if you simply put me out of my misery and told me what it’s about.’
‘I suppose itisa cautionary tale...’ She bristled at his obvious disappointment. ‘Though not in the traditional sense. It is about secrets and lies. Deceit and betrayal and greed. If there is a moral, it is that people cannot always be trusted and that you should always be wary of a man’s motives until you know him well enough to be sure of his character.’ He stifled a yawn to vex her and enjoyed the way her feline green eyes narrowed as she pretended to look down her nose at him as she carried on undeterred. ‘It’s set here in the capital, in the notorious rookery of St Giles, and centres around the gory and seemingly senseless murders of four women.’
‘Murder?’
‘But not just any old murders, Lord Trouble, but murders most foul. The foulest in fact. Murders so dreadful, so gruesome, so inhuman in their execution that the terrified residents of the slum believe that a hideous monster prowls their streets at night. One sent by the Devil himself to punish them.’ Those green eyes sparkled.
‘To begin with, the gory murders seem random, but it soon becomes apparent that they aren’t. There is a calculated method to my monster’s madness and my heroine has to unmask the killer before she becomes his next unwitting victim.’
‘Oh...’ Now he really was impressed. ‘That sounds...intriguing.’ And right up his alley. ‘And, if you don’t mind me saying, a tad macabre for a genteel and proper young lady such as yourself.’
‘It is exceedingly macabre.’
‘Like Walpole’sThe Castle of OtrantoorThe Mysteries of Udolphoby the aforementioned Mrs Radcliffe?’
She seemed surprised. ‘You know those books?’
‘Now who’s making predicable assumptions? I might look like a ne’er-do-well and a scoundrel—but Icanread, Hope. To be frank, there’s not much else to do in winter in my sleepy corner of Cornwall so I am pretty certain I have read everything. I readThe Monkat twelve and it scared the death out of me. Especially the bit where he’s ripped apart by eagles and dropped over a cliff and left to die in agony on the sharp rocks as the tide comes in. There are a lot of cliffs in Cornwall and I live practically on the edge of one, but I deftly avoided them all for at least a year afterwards, including the one on my own doorstep.’
Her lovely face was appalled. ‘Who on earth gave you that book at twelve?’
‘Nobody. I found it on the dusty top shelf in the local vicar’s study after he had left me there to contemplate my actions when he caught me scrumping apples from his orchard.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘So I only have myself to blame.’
‘You really are trouble if you stole from a vicar!’
‘Iborrowedfrom a vicar and put the book back after dark one night while he was sleeping.’ He couldn’t help grinning when her eyes widened. ‘We don’t tend to lock doors in Cornwall and I can assure you he was none the wiser. And I prefer the term youthful high jinks than trouble. Pinching a few apples from trees groaning from the sheer weight of their plentiful fruit is hardly in the same league as murder most foul.’
‘It’s still appalling.’ But she was amused, he could tell despite trying to pretend she wasn’t. He already knew she was nowhere near as standoffish as she wanted the world to think. ‘I am glad you had nightmares. It served you right for stealingThe Monk.’
‘Is your book as terrifying as that?’
Her mouth curved as she stared down her delightful nose at him. ‘I sincerely hope so. Worse, in fact. It’s grisly and bloodthirsty, not the least bit suitable for incorrigible twelve-year-olds or forgiving vicars. Or even irritating marquesses from the sleepy wilds of Cornwall for that matter either.’
‘Then I should definitely love to read it. Despite my lifelong fear of eagles, I do enjoy a good Gothic novel. Books should always elicit an emotional response and I haven’t read anything except my brother’s dusty ledgers in months.’ Reading, like home and the occasional raucous night in a tavern with his old friends, was simply another joy which now had to be sacrificed.
